Die With Me (7 page)

‘He’s got to be someone she knows well,’ Feeney said. ‘Gemma seems so comfortable pouring out her feelings to him.’

Donovan shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. All that comes across is that she thinks he understands her better than anyone else. That’s intoxicating for any young girl and he bloody knows it. But if he is someone she knew, someone in her close circle of family or friends, or perhaps someone she knew from school or her neighbourhood, surely there would be references in the emails. But there aren’t any. He talks about her family but only in general terms. I don’t get the impression of familiarity from anything he says.’

‘Maybe he’s someone she knows but she doesn’t realise it,’ Wightman said. ‘Maybe his email identity is a cover.’

‘Then why doesn’t she recognise his voice?’ Feeney asked. ‘Surely if she knew him, he wouldn’t be able to disguise himself for long.’

Donovan was on the point of agreeing when Tartaglia wheeled around.

‘Karen,’ he said, clicking his fingers and striding back to the front of the room, a sudden urgency in his voice. ‘Can you go and get the exhibits book? He talks about this sham ceremony in the email and giving her a ring. Run through the list of personal effects and see if a ring was found on her body.’ As Feeney got up and went out of the room to find the file, he turned to Minderedes. ‘Nick, I want you and Dave to start checking the Coroners’ records for suicides of young women in London over the last couple of years.’

Minderedes looked aghast. ‘But sir…’ He stopped short when he saw Tartaglia’s expression.

Wightman coloured, raising his pale eyebrows. ‘All suicides, sir?’

‘All suicides,’ Tartaglia said emphatically.

A half-stifled groan went up from Minderedes and Wightman simultaneously. Donovan sympathised. There was no central record of suicides, each case being dealt with and recorded at a local level by the Coroner for that district. The only way of searching was to go to each office and examine the registers individually by hand. Also, as the business of the Coroner was only to establish the victim’s identity, where and when they died and the cause of death, the records were not at all comprehensive. It was going to be a Herculean task and she couldn’t see the point of it. There were no grounds so far to think Gemma’s death was anything other than a one-off.

‘Look,’ Tartaglia said, staring hard at Minderedes. ‘I know this is going to involve a lot of work and I’ll speak to Superintendent Cornish immediately and see if we can get some extra help. But we must check everything thoroughly.’

‘But why, sir?’ Minderedes said, still looking sceptical. ‘Surely you don’t think he’s done it before?’

Before Tartaglia had a chance to reply, Feeney came back into the room with the file.

‘A gold ring is listed amongst the effects,’ she said. ‘The girl was wearing it on her third finger, left hand.’

‘I want it fingerprinted immediately,’ Tartaglia said. ‘And the hallmark and manufacturer checked. According to the emails, they exchanged rings. I presume the other ring wasn’t found at the crime scene?’

Feeney studied the list of exhibits and shook her head. ‘There’s no mention of it.’

‘Then we must assume Tom has it.’ He paused, catching Donovan’s eye. ‘Along with the lock of hair he cut from Gemma’s head. Sam, you remember what Dr Blake said, don’t you?’

Puzzled, she gazed at him for a moment. ‘God, you’re right,’ she said, thinking back to what Blake had said. She had been so wrapped up in what had been going on at the time between Tartaglia and Blake that she had forgotten all about it.

Tartaglia turned to Minderedes. ‘Think about this, Nick. It appears that Tom took a ring from Gemma. It also appears, from what the pathologist told us, that he cut off a lock of her hair from the back of the head, where it would least likely be spotted. Unless you have a better idea, they sound like souvenirs to me, which has bad connotations. It’s possible he’s done this thing before and nobody’s picked it up because the death was wrongly recorded as a suicide.’

‘Which is what almost happened with Gemma,’ Donovan added, almost shouting. ‘CID had more or less closed the case.’

‘Just one thing, sir,’ Wightman said, looking down at one of the sheets. ‘In the last email, where Tom talks about the rings, he tells Gemma to leave a note for her mother. But there wasn’t one, was there?’

‘There’s definitely no mention of a note anywhere in the files, sir,’ Feeney said.

As Feeney spoke, something clicked into place and Donovan jumped to her feet. ‘I’ve got it. Now I know what Kramer was holding back. He was so bloody relieved when I said that Gemma’s death wasn’t a suicide. I bet there was a note and he’s either destroyed it or hidden it. It also explains why he wasn’t remotely curious about what I was doing there and the fact that Gemma’s death was suspicious. He thought he knew for sure what had really happened. He thought Gemma had killed herself and he didn’t want that stigma attached to his daughter.’

Tartaglia’s face creased into a broad smile. ‘Well done, Sam. Let’s pull Kramer in and see what he’s got to say.’ He turned to Feeney. ‘Call his local nick and get them to send a car to pick him up. Tell them we’ll be over shortly. Also, we’d better see if he recognises the ring, although I think we know what the answer will be.’ He looked at Donovan. ‘Do you want to come?’

With a quick glance at her watch, she shook her head and stood up. ‘I’ve got to go and see Rosie Chapple, Gemma’s school friend. I’m already late.’

Poor Kramer. She actually felt sorry for him and was glad to have an excuse not to be there. She had seen the wording in one of the emails that Tom had told Gemma to copy. Although the text was brief and quite innocuous, not laying the blame at any particular door, she thought of Kramer’s pain, what he must have felt on finding the note, believing that Gemma had killed herself. From the little she knew of Kramer, her gut instinct told her that he had taken it to protect his wife, Mary. Better for a mother to think that her daughter had died in an accident or even in suspicious circumstances than to learn that she had chosen to take her own life, abandoning those who loved her. Donovan wondered how the Kramers would cope once they learned the truth about what had happened. For a moment she pictured Kramer’s face earlier that evening as he fought back the tears and the inert shape of Gemma’s mother lying in her bed. The loss of their daughter would be something they would never get over, something they would carry with them for the rest of their life.

Kramer would have to be hauled over the coals for what he had done but really they should be thanking him. If he hadn’t appropriated the note, nobody would have bothered to request a special post mortem and there would have been no toxicology report revealing the presence of GHB in Gemma’s system. Apart from the witness, who easily might have been disregarded, there would have been nothing to arouse suspicion. Gemma Kramer’s death would have been recorded as a suicide and Tom would have been home and dry. Case closed.

Tom unlocked the faded navy-blue front door of the small terraced house and went inside. There was a chill in the air, coupled with an unpleasant, mouldy odour. But he was in a hurry and there was no time to turn on the heating and air the rooms. He switched on the lights, ran up the two short flights of stairs to his grandfather’s dressing room on the first floor and pushed open the door.

Even though his grandfather had been dead for over three years, the room still held the familiar medicinal smell mixed with stale tobacco that he’d associated with him since childhood. He went over to the tall mahogany chest of drawers, turned on the lamp and helped himself to the bottle of Trumper’s Limes, which stood on the small tray, along with the hair pomade, mouthwash and wooden-backed brushes. As he rubbed some of the cologne on his fingers and patted it on his face, his eye ran along the row of brown-tinted army photographs that hung above on the wall. The old bugger. What glory now? It amused him to use his grandfather’s aftershave, to think how angry he would be if he were still alive. Personally, Tom preferred something more modern and musky, a bit more exotic and provocative. But Limes went perfectly with the role he was playing. Tonight he was the dapper young ex-major, and old-fashioned restraint was the keyword. The woman he had met at the bridge club was taking him to the theatre, followed by dinner. It was a nice treat and she was tolerable company. But he hoped she wasn’t expecting a fuck at the end of it. If so, she’d be disappointed.

He brushed his hair until it gleamed, then exchanged his cheap cufflinks for a pair of old gold monogrammed ones from the small brown leather box on a tray that contained a variety of ancient studs and collar stiffeners. Almost done, he did up his top button and opened the small wardrobe door, selecting a sober regimental tie from the rack. The tie reeked of mothballs and he sprinkled several drops of Limes on it before knotting it carefully and washing his hands at the small basin under the window.

On his way downstairs he passed his grandmother’s room. Automatically, he paused outside the closed door, careful where he put his feet for fear of making one of the floorboards creak. It had been a while since he had lived in the house but he still felt nervous, like a small boy caught out of bed, creeping along the landing to listen to the grown-up conversation going on below. He almost expected to hear the peremptory tinkle of the little bell she used to summon him when she wanted something. But there was nothing this time, not even the tap-tap of her cane as she crept around inside the room. Even so, the silence failed to reassure him. She was still there. He had seen her many times, sometimes no more than a shadow, semi-transparent and rippling like mist in the air, sometimes more tangible so that he could see every wrinkle and age spot that marked her withered skin. She liked to surprise him, catch him unawares. But he was past being frightened of her.

For a moment, his hand lingered near the door handle. He wondered whether, if he opened it quickly, he might catch a fleeting glimpse of her inside. Maybe she would be tucked up in bed listening to the radio – the wireless, as she insisted on calling it – or sitting at her dressing-table in her voluminous nightgown, studying her reflection in the mirror as she smoothed down her long white hair with one of her silver brushes. Ghosts weren’t supposed to have a reflection, but she had one and the room still stank of her, no matter how often he cleaned and scrubbed it.

It emanated partly from the rows of ancient clothes that hung like discarded skins in her wardrobe. But it also clung to the air she had once breathed. The cloying smell, a mixture of sweet, gardenia perfume, face powder and sour old woman, had worked itself into every corner and crevice, impregnating the very walls. It made him sick every time he went inside. He had thought about selling the house after she died, thinking that perhaps then she would leave him alone. He could do with the cash, but he knew he couldn’t rid himself of her that easily. What’s more, he didn’t want people asking questions, poking around and nosing into their things; his things. Above all, the house was his secret place.

He waited a couple more moments, listening for some sort of sound from inside the room. But there was nothing and he carried on down the stairs. The portrait of his grandfather in the hall, dressed in full military regalia, glowered at him and he gave it a mock salute. The old fucker looked as humourless as ever, with his eye-patch and moustache. Puffed up like a peacock and arrogant as always, so bloody sure of himself, with so little right to be. But that was then. Tom was the master now.

Tom. He’d have to stop thinking of himself as Tom, although he saw himself more as Tom than any of the others. He was currently Matt or George or Colin, depending on who was at the receiving end. The names were ordinary but it was easier that way. Before Tom, he’d been Alain, after watching Alain Delon in some old film. But the stupid girl couldn’t spell and kept calling him Alan, a name he loathed, reminding him of a nasty, fat-faced bully of a boy he’d once known at school. Yes, plain and simple was best. Besides, he couldn’t see himself as a Brad or Russell or Jude. It just wasn’t him and every detail was important. Any false note and they’d smell a rat.

He opened the door to the small sitting room, turned on the overhead light and went over to the small display cabinet by the French windows that housed his grandmother’s collection of snuffboxes and tea caddies. They were her little treasures and she had shared them with no one, taking them out lovingly each week and dusting them, allowing him only to look through the glass but never to touch.

He found the small silver key in its hiding place on the ledge at the back, unlocked the glass door and took out a caddy made in the shape of a pear. It was his favourite. As a child, it had particularly fascinated him, so lifelike, carved from a single piece of wood. He had liked stroking its smooth, yellow-brown curves when his grandmother had gone out to play cards. Once, when she came home early, she caught him at the cabinet and beat him hard, sending him to bed without his tea. After that, she had hidden the key but he had always found it. Didn’t matter where she put it, he was always one step ahead of the old bag. Always. He glanced at the pair of matching black urns on the mantelpiece. It was strange to think of all that energy and loathing reduced to nothing but a few handfuls of grey dust. There were times when he wanted to pour them both down the toilet. But it was better to have them there where he could see them, where he could reassure himself with the tangible evidence that they were both really dead.

He opened the lid of the caddy and took out the signet ring Gemma had given him. Made of old pink gold, it was engraved with someone’s initials, the edges smooth from years of wear. Perhaps she had bought it from an antique market stall or maybe it belonged to a relative. Not bad, he thought, given that she was only fourteen. The little bitch had had taste. He slipped it on his finger and took out the long lock of hair he had cut from her head as she lay on the floor of the gallery, semi-comatose. Stupidly, he’d overdone the dose, which had quite spoiled things, and the silly cow hadn’t been aware of anything by that point. He twined the long silky strands of brown hair around his finger and closed his eyes, catching its delicate scent and stroking it rhythmically against his cheek as he replayed in his mind what had happened.

She was surprisingly heavy, for such a slip of a girl. A real dead weight, he remembered thinking with a smile, as he lifted her up and carried her to the edge of the balcony. As he looked at her for the last time, her eyes had rolled back in their sockets and for a moment he thought she was going to be sick. At least she was past struggling. Holding her in his arms, he peered down into the dim area below. He savoured that knife-edge moment. It made him high. If only he could prolong it, make it last forever. But the rushing urgency overcame him as before and he couldn’t stop himself. With an almighty heave, he had hurled her high into the air, for a second a flapping bundle of black. He thought she gave a little gasp as she fell. Maybe she realised what was happening. But it was all over too quickly and he was left with the aching emptiness again.

He opened his eyes, twisted the hair into a coil and returned it with the ring to the caddy, locking it away in the cabinet, making sure to hide the key. If the shade of his grandmother came rummaging around for it, she’d be out of luck, he thought with satisfaction, as he walked over to the large gilt mirror that hung above the fireplace. Taking a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he wiped the fine layer of dust from the centre and studied his reflection. He flicked a speck from his shoulder, made a final adjustment to his tie and, moistening a finger with his tongue, smoothed down each of his fine brows as he checked his shining white teeth. Perfect. He was ready.