Die With Me (33 page)

‘Shit! Sam’s having dinner with him now.’

He felt his heart miss a beat. ‘She’s having dinner with Adam Zaleski? How the hell… Where?’

‘I don’t know. Oh my God!’

‘Get onto Dave and Nick immediately. I need Zaleski’s address. NOW. It’s somewhere in Ealing. Should be in the file. And get a team over there with a warrant. We’ve got to find him before...’ His voice trailed off as he thought about what might happen. Thank Christ he had his bike. He could be in Ealing in twenty minutes. Fifteen if he was lucky.

Donovan watched as Zaleski unlocked the door and followed him inside, waiting while he switched on the hall lights. The interior smelt of damp and something musty but it was pleasantly warm after the cold night air. The first thing she noticed was a large oil painting of a man, wearing a beret, in military uniform, hanging in the hallway by the door. It looked like the ones she’d seen in the Polish Club.

‘That’s my grandfather,’ he said, just behind her. ‘He was quite a hero in his day.’

She turned around. ‘He doesn’t look at all like you. In fact, he looks very fierce.’

He smiled grimly. ‘He certainly was. But he’s dead now, thank God. So’s my grandmother. This was their house. It’s where I grew up.’

He took her coat and hung it up on a rack nailed high on the wall, made of dark varnished wood and what looked like some sort of small animal horns for hooks. It had a brass plaque in the middle with an inscription, which she was too far away to read.

He led her into a small sitting room at the front. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a minute with the vodka.’

She sat down on the sofa feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Her family house in Twickenham, where she had lived all her life until going to university, was similar to Zaleski’s architecturally. But the atmosphere was so completely different: noisy, chaotic and cheerful, full of animals, people coming and going, with all the resultant mess and the feel of things permanently in a state of flux. Here everything was so formal, from the hard back and curved arms of the sofa, covered in what appeared to be some sort of expensive-looking red damask, which wouldn’t last a second in her home, to the faded chintz curtains with the tight pelmet and the ornate gilt mirror hanging over the mantelpiece, way too large for the small room, as if it was meant for a much bigger house. A clock ticked quietly from a mahogany card table in the corner and, in the dim light, she felt as though she had stepped back in time, into another world that wasn’t entirely English. The house was like a museum, a place for show, not for use, and she couldn’t picture Zaleski, either as a small boy or as a man, living there.

After a few minutes, he reappeared with a small wooden tray. A bottle of vodka, with a bright yellow label, nestled in a silver ice bucket, two shot glasses beside it, already full, the sides misted from the cold liquid inside. He put down the tray on a long, low wooden stool. The seat was covered in needlework, faint shades of blue and red the predominant colours, the design some sort of crest, possibly belonging to his family. He passed her a glass and sat down beside her, resting his arm lightly on the back of the sofa behind her. She felt suddenly excited by his closeness, wondering when, if, he would kiss her.

‘
Na zdrowie
,’ he said, raising his glass and clinking hers. ‘Here’s to you, Sam Donovan.’

She smiled, managing to knock back half the glass, this time prepared for the burning sensation, actually beginning to enjoy it. She sipped the rest slowly, waiting for the wave of warmth that would follow.

‘I know I shouldn’t ask, but I was wondering how the case is going?’ he said in an off-hand manner. ‘That man you wanted me to identify, is he the one you’re after?’

He was looking at her inquiringly, waiting for her reply.

‘Yes,’ she replied, after a second’s hesitation. ‘Or, at least, we think so.’

She knew she shouldn’t have said anything but he’d never asked before and he was so nice to be with. Good-looking too. Afraid that he could read her thoughts, she tried to focus on something else. She was beginning to feel a little giddy, must try to keep a check on things, just give him the bare minimum and change the subject.

She drained the final drop of vodka and put the glass down on the tray.

‘Unfortunately, we haven’t got anything so far to put him at the crime scene. It’s all a bit disappointing.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I just didn’t recognise the man, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s fine. You can only say what you saw. It’s just that… well, we think we can link him to two of the murders.’ She found herself saying it without meaning to.

‘What about the latest one? I read in the papers about a murder down by one of the canals. Are they linked?’

‘Yes. Yes, they are.’ She took a deep breath, surprised that he’d made the connection. As far as she was aware, the press hadn’t yet. Stop there. Don’t say any more. Change the subject, but she couldn’t think of what to say next. Her mind was feeling a little hazy.

He took the small bottle of vodka from the ice bucket. ‘One more for the road?’

She hesitated, then passed him her glass. ‘Why not?’

‘You’re getting a taste for it, aren’t you? That’s good,’ he laughed, topping up both glasses and passing one over to her. He clinked her glass. ‘Now, down in one this time.’

She did as she was told, although she was suddenly beginning to feel quite drunk. As she stretched forward to put her empty glass back on the tray, she missed and knocked it over. ‘Sorry.’

He righted the glass for her. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

For some reason it was affecting her far more than usual. Had she really had a lot to drink? She didn’t think so. Vodka on top of champagne. That was it. Silly thing to do. No more vodka. Perhaps she should ask him to call a taxi now. But she felt such a fool. He’d think she was no better than a schoolgirl who was unable to hold her drink. Perhaps if she waited a minute, she’d feel better, maybe ask for some coffee or water.

She could feel his fingers gently stroking her shoulder.

‘So, if you can’t find anything, what do you do?’ he said. ‘Do you just keep an eye on him?’

She nodded, concentrating on keeping her eyes open and the muscles of her face under control. He was studying her closely. Perhaps he had guessed she was drunk. She hoped he wouldn’t think badly of her. What was strange was he’d had roughly the same amount to drink. Although he was a man. Much bigger. It was all about body mass.

‘What evidence do you have on him?’ he asked.

She answered automatically. ‘That’s the problem. Well… we haven’t got much to go on.’ She could hear herself slurring.

He shook his head slowly and took off his glasses, folding them carefully, and putting them down next to him on the sofa. ‘No, I suppose you haven’t.’

Gazing down at her toes, she giggled. Somehow, even though there wasn’t anything funny, she couldn’t help herself. ‘No, we’ve got fuck all, sweet FA.’

He stared at her for a moment then said: ‘You lot haven’t got a clue, have you?’

It wasn’t just the words that penetrated, making her raise her eyes again slowly to look at him. It was the change in his voice. His tone was cold and unfamiliar and she frowned, struggling to focus. She saw a different person in front of her. A stranger. Somehow his face had transformed, morphed into something unrecognisable. What she saw frightened her.

‘A clue?’

‘Yeah. The answer was staring you in the face all the time and you haven’t got a fucking clue.’

Through the thickening fog in her mind, she realised what was happening.

‘It’s you… isn’t it?’ she said, barely able to get the words out. ‘You’re Tom.’ She tried to get up but her arms and legs wouldn’t work properly.

She felt him grip her wrists and push her down in her seat. ‘Save your energy. You’re not going anywhere.’

She knew she couldn’t fight him. She felt as though she’d been anaesthetised, no control over her body, eyelids heavy as lead. Somehow she had to stay awake. She had to. He was going to kill her. Mustn’t let him. Try and work something out. ‘How come you’re not…’

He smiled. ‘Drunk or drugged, like you? You’re feeling it now, aren’t you? We’ve both had two glasses but I’m still sober. What a riddle. To be nice, I’ll tell you the answer, as I can see you’d have problems working it out on your own and you won’t be conscious for much longer.’

His words sounded distant. Echoing. Her head lolled back heavy on his arm; she couldn’t help it. The room was spinning. She wanted to be sick. ‘Drug…’

He grabbed her face with his hand and forced her to look at him, digging his fingers into her cheeks. Although she was aware of what he was doing, it felt as though it was happening to someone else.

‘Yes, GHB, what a lovely little substance it is. Once in the system, particularly taken with alcohol, it takes no time to work. It was in your first glass. There’s some in the bottle too, for good measure. You’re so far gone, you didn’t notice that I didn’t drink mine. Look, here it is.’ He held the full glass in front of her eyes, moving it slowly from side to side like a pendulum. ‘Can you still hear me?’

‘Why?’ She mouthed the word, not even sure if any sound came out. Keep awake. Try and keep awake. ‘Why…’

He pushed her face away and she slid off the sofa onto the floor, head knocking against the stool.

‘Why? Why did I kill all those sad little girls?’ He got up and came and stood over her. His face looked so far away, distant, staring down at her from high above. ‘There is no “why”. Things just are the way they are.’

It was the last thing she heard.

Tartaglia was nearly in Ealing when he felt the vibration of his phone in his inside breast pocket. He pulled over to the side of the road, looked at the caller ID and rang Dickenson straight back.

‘The address is in South Ken, sir,’ she said, her voice high-pitched and full of alarm. ‘I called you before to tell you but you were probably on the road.’

‘South Ken?’

‘Yes. Gary and the team are over there now but there’s no sign of Zaleski. No sign of anyone, in fact. It looks like it’s some sort of office building and everyone’s gone home.’

‘Check the file again. Zaleski definitely lives in Ealing.’

‘I have, sir. But this is the address he gave.’

Heart pounding, he tried to calm himself, think clearly, remember back to what Zaleski had said when he had first interviewed him. He distinctly remembered him saying he lived in Ealing, which was why he was there when Gemma Kramer had died. Think. Think. For fuck’s sake try and remember. What had Zaleski been doing? Why was he there? What had he said? He was on his way home. Yes, on his way home and he was dropping his car at a garage… no, collecting it, that was it, when…

‘I’ve got it!’ he shouted. ‘Zaleski was collecting his car from a garage. I know we checked it out to corroborate the timing. The licence number should be on file. Run it through the system and call me back immediately with Zaleski’s address.’

Tartaglia stood outside the gate of number
89
Beckford Avenue. Upstairs the house was dark but a light was on in the ground floor front room, just visible behind the curtains. For a moment, he wondered what to do. Maybe they were still out at dinner. Maybe Sam was safely at home in bed by now. But if not… Should he ring the bell, see what would happen? If Sam was in there, Zaleski might do something desperate. Surprise was his only advantage, coupled with the fact that Zaleski didn’t know that he knew.

The house was semi-detached with a tall gate at the side leading, he assumed, to the back garden. He tried the gate but it was locked. He took off his helmet, heavy jacket and gloves, dumping them out of sight under the hedge, then jumped, catching hold of the top of the frame of the gate and hauling himself up and over it, landing almost silently on the other side. Shadowed from the light coming from the street, the narrow side-passage was almost black and he could barely see in front of him. He felt his way along the brick wall of the house, no lights showing through any of the side windows, and into the back garden where visibility was a little better, a general dull light reflected from the sky above. He could just make out a small stretch of lawn, flowerbeds and a paved area by the house, a few shrubs in large tubs lined up along the edge. There were no lights on except in a room at the very top of the house and there was no sound or movement coming from inside. Watching for a moment, he saw a shadow cross the top floor window, which he hoped was Zaleski, although he had no idea whether Zaleski lived there on his own or not.

Two doors gave out onto the garden, one a pair of French windows, the other half-glazed, leading out from a small side extension. He tried the French windows first but they were locked, the curtains drawn tightly against them. The other door was also locked and, pressing his face to the glass, he peered into the dim interior, just making out a table or desk with a computer, the screensaver giving off a flickering glimmer of light. Maybe someone had left a key in the lock. If not, he wasn’t sure what he would do.

Looking round for something hard to use, he found a sturdy-looking trowel sticking out of the earth in one of the pots near the door. He took off his pullover and, wrapping it around the handle of the trowel to deaden any noise, he aimed the handle at the glass. It took several blows before the corner of the glass shattered with a muffled tinkle. He chipped away at the small hole with the edge of the trowel until it was big enough to put his hand through and, hand now wrapped in the pullover, reached inside, feeling for the key, praying that it would be there.

He felt its cold edge. Thank God. He turned the lock, opened the door and stepped gingerly through, over the glass, into the dark study. A door led into the hall and he opened it carefully, listening. Apart from the distant buzz of traffic several roads away, everything was silent. Light filtered in from the street outside through the stained glass panels which framed the front door. Beside it sat a plastic petrol can and a small suitcase. Was Zaleski going away somewhere? Was he even there? Was Sam? The house was so quiet.

Two doors led off the hall, one he presumed going into the room with the French windows on the garden side, the other, at the front, had a strip of light showing through the crack at the bottom. Perhaps they were in there, although he couldn’t hear the sound of anyone talking. As he crept towards the door, trying to deaden the sound of his boots on the tiled floor, he heard a step behind him and felt the edge of something cold and hard pressed like a finger against the back of his neck.

‘Don’t turn around. This is a gun.’

Tartaglia recognised Zaleski’s voice instantly. A light was switched on, illuminating the hall.

‘Oh, I see it’s you, Inspector,’ Zaleski said from behind. ‘What are you doing breaking into my house?’ He kept the gun pinned to Tartaglia’s neck.

‘Where’s Sam? She’s here, isn’t she?’

‘She’s upstairs powdering her nose. Why, are you doing the jealous lover bit? Is she your girlfriend?’ Zaleski prodded Tartaglia’s neck with the nose of the gun. ‘I’d have thought you’d go for something a bit more raunchy.’

‘Sam’s my friend.’

‘What, you’d risk your life for a friend?’

Risk his life? It struck him for the first time that that was what he was doing but he felt strangely calm. ‘Yes. Yes I would.’

‘There’s no accounting for taste. I’m surprised that you care about her that much. She seems quite an ordinary little tart to me. Really nothing special.’

‘Is she OK?’ Tartaglia said levelly, refusing to give Zaleski the satisfaction of a reaction. Was the gun real or a replica? Not worth taking a punt on it, though, given what he knew of Zaleski.

‘Depends what you mean by OK. She got a bit out of control, so I had to calm her down, get her into the right state of mind. That’s what it’s all about, with women.’

‘You mean drug them so you can do what you want?’

‘Stop trying to be provocative, Inspector. It doesn’t suit you. Do you like guns? I’ll bet you’re a good shot, aren’t you?’ he said, when Tartaglia didn’t respond. ‘This one’s a Luger and it’s got a nice history to it. My grandfather took it off a dead German in the Second World War. That’s after he killed him, of course. He used to love telling me about it when I was a child. Apparently, it was quite gruesome, the killing, I mean. I don’t have the stomach for blood and gore, myself. But guns give you a real sense of power, don’t they?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Tartaglia said, firmly, wondering what the hell he was going to do, wondering also if it explained why Tom had thrown the girls to their deaths rather than killing them outright. He hadn’t wanted to get his hands dirty. He wanted to distance himself from the mess and physical foulness of death. A gun was arm’s length too…

‘Yeah, a real sense of power,’ Zaleski continued. ‘It goes like this. I’m the one with the gun, so you’re going to do what I want. You’re going to jump when I tell you to jump. Have you got that? Now open that door in front of you… push it wide open, that’s right… now, put your hands on your head, walk in slowly, and go and sit down on the sofa. Don’t try anything silly,’ he added, seeing Tartaglia hesitate in the doorway, as he wondered if he had time to slam it shut in Zaleski’s face and barricade himself in until help arrived.

‘The Luger may be an antique but it still works and I’m a bloody good shot.’

Tartaglia turned the handle and walked inside, his eyes flicking around the room, looking for a means of defence or escape. But there was none. It was a peculiar place, full of horrible old-fashioned, brown furniture and knick-knacks, a strange, dusty smell hanging in the air as if the room wasn’t often used or aired. As he turned round and sat down, he saw Zaleski for the first time, standing by the fireplace, gun in hand pointed straight at Tartaglia’s heart.

Zaleski was wearing a dark overcoat, scarf and leather gloves. He looked as if he was on his way out. The bag by the door. The petrol. What was Zaleski going to do with the petrol, if that’s what it was? He had removed his glasses and he looked different, a lot tougher and much more confident, his face hard and drawn, lines more pronounced. He was a little shorter than Tartaglia, possibly not as fast or as fit. In the normal course of events, Tartaglia wouldn’t baulk at taking him on. But there was the gun. And Sam.

Where was Sam? Why had she allowed herself to be drawn in by Zaleski? Single women with too much imagination and too much time to think about things were a danger to themselves and other people. If only she’d said something. If only. But what would he have done? Reprimand her? Tell her not to see Zaleski? It wouldn’t have worked. Sam had a mind of her own and would have told him to get lost. At least, if Zaleski was here, hopefully she was still alive. Maybe upstairs somewhere.

‘It’s a shame you’ve butted in and tried to spoil my plans like this.’ Zaleski’s manner was suddenly more urgent. ‘Just when Sam and I were getting down to business.’

‘She’s alive?’

‘Don’t waste your time worrying about her.’ Zaleski smacked his lips, studying Tartaglia, gun still pointed at his chest. ‘Now, what the fuck am I going to do with you? It’s very inconvenient, you see, your turning up like this. I’m going to be late… late for a very important date. Miss Donovan’s waiting and I don’t want to disappoint her.’

It was a pointless question but Tartaglia wanted to string things out, keep Zaleski there as long as possible. ‘You work for CHA, don’t you? That’s how you found them all, isn’t it? You’re one of their helpline volunteers.’ He noted the surprise in Zaleski’s eyes.

‘My, my. We have been a busy little bee. Well done for finding the connection. You’re more on the ball than I thought.’

‘They came to you needing help and support and you killed them. Why?’

‘Why does everyone want to know why? It’s like nature. When you’re hungry, you have to eat.’

‘That’s shit and you know it.’

‘They wanted to die with me. They were begging me, gagging for it. I just helped ease things along.’

‘You’ll be put away for life for this.’

‘Can’t hang a bloke for being helpful. Anyway, what evidence do you have? If you bother to read the emails the girls sent me, they all wanted to die.’

‘Not Sam.’

‘Tarts like that are accidents waiting to happen. They only have themselves to blame and I’m doing her a favour.’

‘Marion Spear didn’t want to die.’

Again there was a flicker of surprise on Zaleski’s face. ‘Christ, Inspector. I’m really impressed. I’ll admit little Marion was a bit different but let’s not get pedantic. She was one of those foul clingy types who won’t leave a bloke alone. She made me feel claustrophobic. I had to do something.’

‘You killed her straight out. None of this fake suicide crap.’

‘Like the others she wanted to die, I can assure you. If she couldn’t have me, she wanted to end it all. That’s what she said. The whining cunt’s better off where she is.’

‘You’re sick.’

‘Enough chitchat. I haven’t got time. Stay right where you are and don’t move.’

Zaleski walked quickly over to a small table in the corner, eyes fixed on Tartaglia, unblinking. A tray with an ice bucket stood on the table and Tartaglia watched as Zaleski took a bottle of clear liquid out of the bucket and filled a shot glass to the brim. Gun still pointed at Tartaglia, he put the glass down on a stool in front of the sofa, pushing it gently towards Tartaglia with his foot.

‘Drink it,’ he said. ‘N
ow
,’ he shouted when Tartaglia didn’t move.

What on earth was he to do? No doubt the drink was drugged. If only Zaleski would come a little closer, maybe he’d have a chance. But Zaleski had moved away again, standing with his back to the fireplace, his head reflected in the mirror behind. Play for time; that was the only thing left. Play for time. Hopefully, the team would be there soon.

Tartaglia leaned forward slowly and picked up the glass. It was cold and wet to the touch. As he held it up, he saw a trace of lipstick on the edge and wondered if it was Sam’s.

‘Fucking drink it,’ Zaleski shouted again. ‘I haven’t got time to waste watching you pussy around.’

Tartaglia put the glass to his lips and tasted the ice-cold liquid with the tip of his tongue. Some sort of vodka, with a slightly aromatic smell. GHB was tasteless. No point in speculating how much was in it.

‘Now, knock it back. In one,’ Zaleski said. ‘That’s how we Poles do it, you know.’

Should he throw it in Zaleski’s face, aim for the eyes and blind him momentarily while he lunged and took the gun? But Zaleski didn’t look away, not for a second and there was nothing to distract him with. If the gun really was loaded and in working order, Tartaglia knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. But if he didn’t do something, if he drank the vodka and passed out, what would become of Sam? Zaleski would kill her for sure. Kill both of them. Stall. Play for time. It was the only option.

‘What were the emails about, the ones to Carolyn Steele?’

‘You mean the policewoman? The one on
Crimewatch
?’

‘Yeah. You emailed her.’

Zaleski shook his head, looking genuinely surprised. ‘Not me. Why would I? She’s not my type.’

If it wasn’t Zaleski, then it had to be Kennedy, although whether he would ever live to make sure Kennedy got his comeuppance, was another matter. ‘Sam’s not your type either. Let her go.’

Zaleski laughed. ‘My type? That’s an interesting question. I hadn’t really thought about it before. But I don’t actually think I have a type, you know.’

‘Yeah, you do. You like them weak and vulnerable, so lonely and depressed they’ll do whatever you want. It’s a bit like the gun. Makes you feel in control, doesn’t it? More like a real man.’

Zaleski’s face hardened and he stabbed the air with the Luger. ‘Shut up about the fucking girls and drink.’

‘You’re just a coward. A fucking, spineless, dickless wimp who…’

‘Fucking shut up and drink.’ Zaleski shouted, his voice rising to a shriek.

‘If you want me to drink it, you’ll have to come and make me.’

‘Oh, tough guy, are you now? Been watching too many cop films. But we’re not in the movies. This is real life and you are going to die.’

Zaleski watched him for a moment, as if deciding what to do next, then kicked the stool away from in front of him.

‘Put the glass down and get on your knees, hands on your head.’ He pointed at the floor in front of him. Hands on head, kneeling. Execution style. Tartaglia realised he had nothing left to lose.

‘
GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR
,’ Zaleski screamed.

Now. Now was the moment. Head bowed, eyes locked on Zaleski’s legs, he sighed and slowly made as if to kneel down. Then he lunged, hurling himself in mid-air across the small room. Zaleski fell back, crashing hard against something behind and the gun went off. Tartaglia felt a sharp pain on the side of his head and everything went black.