Die With Me (32 page)

‘Yeah, picks up her jacket and bag and legs it while he’s at the bar. I thought it was dead funny.’

‘Nobody else followed her out?’

Stansfield shook his head. ‘Then the plonker comes back and sits here waiting for her, twiddling his thumbs. Made me laugh again, it did. Well, she’s not coming back is she? So I move over here and I sits down in her place. “Someone’s sitting there” he says, all hoity toity.’ Stansfield screwed up his face and mimicked the voice. ‘Told him he needs flamin’ glasses. Nobody’s sat here, are they? Takes a minute for him to work it out and he doesn’t look best pleased when the penny drops and he sees she’s gone and buggered off.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

Stansfield thought hard for a minute, draining his pint and putting down his empty glass with a loud clunk as if making a point. He cleared his throat as if something was catching in it.

‘Another pint, Mr Stansfield?’ Wightman said, smiling.

Stansfield nodded. ‘Don’t mind if I do, particularly if you’re buying, mate. Sure is nice to take one off the old Bill for a change.’

‘So, what did he say, Mr Stansfield?’ Tartaglia asked, as Wightman got up to go to the bar.

Stansfield stretched his short muscular arms out wide along the back of the sofa as if he was settling in. ‘Well, he comes up with some cock and bull story about her being sick, or something. But it was clear as bleedin’ daylight what’d happened. She don’t fancy the poncey toad, does she?’

‘What happened next?’

‘He fucks off, he does. Out of here like greased lightning.’

‘Which way did he go?’

Stansfield shook his head. ‘Dunno. Tanya’d come over, hadn’t she? She’s my bird. I don’t remember nothing after that.’ He gave Tartaglia a wide, toothy grin, showing several large gaps.

‘We’ll need you to make a formal statement, Mr Stansfield, and we’ll also need your help putting together an e-fit of the man. It sounds like you got a very good look at him.’

‘No problem.’ The smile suddenly disappeared and Stansfield frowned. ‘You telling me this is the bird what was killed down by the canal a few days ago?’ he said. ‘The one who was sat right here?’

Tartaglia nodded.

‘Bleedin’ hell. You think this bloke I saw did it?’

‘We’re at an early stage of the investigation, Mr Stansfield.’

Stansfield gave him a knowing look and shook his head. ‘Yeah, yeah. Pull the other one. It’s got bells.’ He gave a heavy sigh, examining a food stain on his T-shirt as if he’d only just noticed it. ‘The minute I clapped eyes on him, I knew he was a wrong ’un. Poor, bleedin’ girl, that’s what I say. Poor little thing.’ He met Tartaglia’s eye. ‘I hope you string him up right and proper when you find him. Prison’s too good for his sort.’

‘I agree,’ Tartaglia said, getting to his feet. Stansfield didn’t know the half of it.

‘Have you lived all your life in this country?’ Donovan asked.

Adam Zaleski nodded. ‘London born and bred, although I’ve never felt at all English. Never really felt I belong here, or anywhere else for that matter.’

They were sitting at a table in the window of a little French restaurant in Ealing, near where Adam Zaleski lived. They had eaten oysters, followed by turbot with hollandaise sauce, Zaleski choosing the same things as Donovan, something that she found strangely reassuring. It was nice to know they had the same taste in food, at least. She thought she had never had anything quite so delicious, but perhaps it was his company making everything seem gilded and amazingly heady. He was so easy to talk to, so relaxed and interesting. There was nothing that grated or felt awkward and he seemed genuinely interested in her, not like some men who only wanted to talk about themselves. Her course of hypnosis being finished, Zaleski had bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate and it tasted wonderful. And the incredible thing was, she didn’t crave a cigarette at all. When someone at the table behind them lit up, she felt almost sick.

The waiter appeared at the table and they ordered dessert: sorbet made with fruit and some sort of plum brandy for Donovan, Zaleski preferring the cheese.

‘Are both your parents Polish?’ she asked, taking a sip of champagne once the waiter had moved away.

‘My mother was, but she’s dead. Died when I was very young and I was brought up by her parents. Zaleski’s their name. I’ve never known my father. He dumped her when he found out she was pregnant.’

‘Oh.’ The word sounded stupid but she didn’t know what else to say.

‘She was only seventeen and they weren’t married,’ he continued, appearing not to mind.

He spoke matter-of-factly but she wondered how he really felt inside. ‘Have you never wanted to get in touch with him?’

His face hardened and he shook his head, pausing momentarily before answering. ‘I never want to see him. Ever. From what I know, he was a right sod. I’d scrub his genes away, if only I could. Apparently I look just like him, which is ironic, given how I feel about him.’

She gazed at him inquiringly, wondering if she should change the subject. But curiosity got the better of her. ‘You said your mother died?’

He nodded slowly, swirling his champagne around in the glass until little bubbles fizzed angrily around the edge.

‘She killed herself. It’s the ultimate abandonment, isn’t it? I was only three, luckily too young to remember her, although I’ve got photographs.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He sighed. ‘It’s OK. I’m old enough now to feel detached, or at least have some perspective. Most of the time I try not to think about it. I mean, what’s the point? What’s done is done. Luckily, someone was there to look after me.’

He took off his glasses, dropping them on the table, and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he looked up at her and she noticed for the first time what nice eyes he had. They were hazel, neither green nor brown but somewhere in between. He reached across and took her hand, his face creasing into a smile. ‘Let’s talk about more cheerful things. Tell me about you. Where do you come from?’

Her hand felt so small in his and although the touch was lovely, she felt awkward and suddenly shy. ‘Like you, I’m a Londoner, born and bred. I was brought up in Twickenham. My parents are both teachers, although they’re now retired.’

‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’

‘One sister, Claire. She’s two years older than me. She’s a solicitor for one of the big City firms.’

‘Are you close?’

She nodded, pulling her hand gently away on the pretext of reaching for her glass of champagne. ‘We’re very different, very, very different but we get on most of the time. We share a house together.’

‘Hammersmith, you said?’

‘That’s right. It’s Claire’s house but I contribute to the mortgage.’

‘Does she look at all like you?’

Donovan laughed. ‘Not at all. Nobody would even guess we’re sisters. She’s tall, nearly five nine, with dark, curly hair. Takes after my father. And, as for me, well…’ She shrugged.

‘I think you’re lovely,’ he said, looking her in the eye and taking her hand again, stroking it gently with his fingers. ‘Really lovely. Your skin feels so smooth and soft.’

She could feel the colour rising to her cheeks but before she had time to say anything silly, the waiter appeared with her sorbet and Zaleski’s cheese.

Tartaglia was on his way out of The Dog and Bone when his phone rang. He heard a woman’s voice saying something faintly at the other end.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Is that DI Mark Tartaglia?’ the voice repeated, louder this time.

‘Hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘Can’t hear anything in here.’ He went outside, sheltering in the doorway from the rain, the phone cradled tightly against his ear.

Speaking quickly, in a breathy voice, the woman announced herself as Nicola Slade and he realised he had forgotten to call her back.

‘I spoke to the lady at your office and she said you’d be calling me,’ she continued. ‘When you didn’t, she gave me your number. I hope it’s OK.’

‘Of course it’s OK. I’m sorry. I would have got back to you sooner but I’ve just been interviewing someone.’

‘I really wouldn’t have bothered you but this is important and I can’t get hold of DS Donovan. You know the man I said I saw with Marion? The one she was keen on? Well, he was at Ealing Police Station. I didn’t realise it was him until afterwards,’ she said, almost chatty, not knowing the impact of her words. ‘I had a dream last night about Marion and… well, it only hit me late this afternoon. He looks so different now, you see. He’s changed his appearance and things.’

‘You mean the man in the line-up?’

‘No. I told you it wasn’t him. It was the bloke you were with, when I was standing at reception with DS Donovan. You and the man went outside together. Do you remember?’

As she spoke, he felt as though a wave of freezing air had blown over him and he shuddered. The answer had been lying in front of them all of the time. Everything clicked into place now. Horribly so, and they’d been so stupid. So bloody stupid. Marion Spear. Laura Benedetti. Ellie Best. Gemma Kramer. Yolanda Garcia. It all made sense. Perhaps there were others that they knew nothing about.

‘You are absolutely sure that it’s the same man, Miss Slade? It’s easy to make mistakes.’

‘He really looks different,’ she added, trying to justify why she hadn’t recognised the man before. ‘But I’m sure it’s him now. I’m positive. I wouldn’t have called you otherwise.’

When they got outside the restaurant, Zaleski took Donovan by the hand again, looking down at her smiling. ‘If you’re tired, I could take you home.’ He paused. ‘Otherwise, I’ve got some very good Polish vodka in the freezer at my place, if you fancy a nightcap.’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, with a giggle. ‘I don’t feel in the least bit tired.’

‘Good. It’s only about five minutes away.’ He kissed her lightly on the cheek and they walked hand in hand down the road.

Even the frosty night air couldn’t bring her down. She felt elated, on a high. It was as if she were playing hookey, mobile switched off, pager at home, and all the cares of the job left behind for a while. She damn well deserved some fun for a change and Adam was so nice. Tartaglia would be furious if he found out, but she didn’t care. He wasn’t her keeper.

The route took them past the parade with Angel’s bookshop. As they walked past, she glanced in through the window. The shop was in darkness, but looking up she saw lights blazing on the first floor, curtains wide open, and she saw what looked like Angel and some blonde-haired woman moving around in the room. She stopped, listening to the distant strains of opera that drifted down, wondering who the woman was and what Angel was up to.

‘You OK?’ Zaleski said.

‘Fine,’ she replied, still distracted, wondering if perhaps she should give Nicola Slade another call now and see if anything had come back to her. Maybe she should tell Zaleski that she’d skip the vodka this evening. He was sure to understand and if he was interested, he’d call her again.

‘Come on then,’ he said, pulling her gently by the hand. ‘We’ll catch our death standing around out here.’

She hesitated, not knowing what to do. Something was telling her to call Nicola Slade.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, his tone a little impatient. He followed her gaze to the window above. ‘Is that someone you know?’

She looked back at him and smiled. ‘No, not really… it’s just that, well, we’ve got so much on at the moment, I’m a bit preoccupied. Perhaps I should be getting home.’

He took both her hands in his, looking at her quite seriously, almost offended. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’

‘Of course not.’ She was being stupid. Why ruin the evening with Zaleski because of the bloody case? It was late and Nicola would probably be in bed by now.

‘Let’s go, then,’ he said, taking her firmly by the arm.

With a last lingering look up at Angel’s window, she allowed herself to be steered away. There was no point worrying about all of that stuff now. It could wait until the morning, when she got into work, hopefully not too late or hung-over. She’d give Nicola a bell then.

They crossed the main road, walking for a minute along the green.

‘That’s Pitshanger Manor,’ he said, as they passed a large eighteenth-century house, set back from the road behind wrought iron railings and a wide drive. ‘It used to belong to the architect Sir John Soane. Sadly, it’s now owned by the council and there’s nothing worth seeing.’

She nodded, the name meaning nothing to her, other than the connection with Angel’s bookshop. Angel. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? She felt suddenly tired and it occurred to her that she really ought to go home. Even if it was too late to call Nicola Slade, it might be a good idea to get some sleep. She also felt that in her state of mind, she’d be better off on her own.

She stopped walking and turned to him. ‘Look, Adam, would you mind very much if I went home?’

‘What’s troubling you?’

‘Work, that’s all. I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to switch off.’

‘You’re sure that’s all?’

She saw the disappointment in his eyes and suddenly felt guilty for having mentioned anything. Bloody work. It was always getting in the way. ‘I promise. I’ve had a lovely evening. Thank you.’

‘If you want to go home, that’s fine,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t said anything wrong, have I?’

She smiled, hoping to reassure him. ‘Not at all. Really, it’s just the case. I’m just a bit preoccupied, that’s all.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I understand. Your work’s obviously very important to you and it must be difficult to put it aside for the evening.’

Important? It was important. But she felt so silly letting it intrude like this.

‘What about just a quick one?’ he said, before she had time to reply. ‘My house really isn’t far from here and then I’ll call you a cab.’

She hesitated, seeing the anxious look on his face, and nodded. ‘OK. Just one would be lovely.’

He took her by the hand again and they walked along the side wall of what looked like a large garden attached to Pitshanger Manor, threading their way through a series of residential streets beyond, with rows of low-built Edwardian redbrick houses, some terraced, some semi-detached in neat, matching mirrored pairs.

The area was strangely deserted and the only person they saw was a stout, middle-aged woman, bundled up in a bulky anorak, out walking a small brown and white Jack Russell. As they passed her, the little dog ran up to Zaleski, running in circles around his feet, jumping and yapping as if it wanted to play. They were forced to stop.

‘Can’t you keep your dog under control?’ Zaleski shouted at the woman, who had walked on, stabbing at the dog with his foot, trying to keep it at bay. ‘It should be on a lead.’

‘Sorry,’ the woman said, rushing back to where they were standing. She picked up the wriggling dog in her arms. ‘Fred’s not usually like this.’ She sounded affronted, clearly thinking that it was Zaleski’s fault. She turned on her heel and strode away, the dog, still fighting for freedom, tucked tightly under her arm.

‘I hate dogs,’ he said, vehemently, once the woman had gone, brushing the legs of his trousers as if to remove any trace, before taking Donovan’s hand again and walking on.

‘That one’s certainly very energetic,’ she said, wanting to diffuse the tension.

It was interesting how both dogs and cats could sense people who didn’t like them. Donovan loved dogs, all animals in fact, and she found Zaleski’s reaction a little extreme and off-putting. But there was no point in getting into an argument about it. Perhaps he hadn’t been brought up with any animals.

Zaleski gave her a tight smile in reply and they walked on together in silence. Two minutes later, Zaleski stopped outside a low-built semi-detached house, that looked like all the others, and pushed open a small white wooden gate, holding it open for her. The woodwork looked as though it could do with several licks of paint but the small strip of garden was neat and tidy, bins tucked under a shelter, a high, clipped hedge at the front, separating it from the road.

‘Here we are,’ he said, leading her by the hand up the short path to the front door. ‘This is my house.’

As soon as Tartaglia had hung up on Nicola Slade, he called Dickenson’s mobile.

He could hear the sound of traffic as she answered.

‘I need you to check a name for me,’ Tartaglia said.

‘I’m just crossing Hammersmith Bridge. I’m on my way home.’

It was late and, in her condition, he couldn’t blame her. But now was not the time to be going home. ‘Is anyone else in the office?’

‘Dave and Nick just got back. They’re following up on the info you gave me. I’m sorry, I thought it was OK to go.’

‘Look, this is urgent. I think Tom is Adam Zaleski. Call them and get them to check if he works at the CHA in some capacity.’

There was a second’s silence at the other end. ‘Zaleski! You mean the witness? The hypnotist?’

‘Of course,’ he said sharply, no time to explain.