Die With Me (8 page)

Rosie Chapple lived not far from Gemma in a two-storey Victorian cottage set back behind a small, untidy front garden. Donovan rang the bell and, after a moment, a tall, gangly woman with wild, frizzy, greying hair answered the door. Her eyes were kohl-rimmed and she looked like a gypsy, with dangly earrings, coloured bangles and a long, flowing patchwork dress.

‘Detective Sergeant Donovan,’ Donovan said, showing her ID. ‘I phoned earlier. Is Rosie back?’

‘I’m Sarah Chapple, her mother,’ the woman said, with a jingle of bangles as she held out her hand. ‘She’s just got in. You’d better come with me.’

Donovan caught a waft of sandalwood as she followed Sarah inside, down a narrow corridor into an open-plan kitchen at the back. A pale-faced girl with a halo of black, curly hair sat at the small scrubbed pine table, shovelling rice crispies into her mouth. She looked up and gave Donovan a weary look, before continuing to eat.

The room was painted a dark rust and had a homely feel, with an old dresser on one side, every shelf heaving with china and books, the walls crammed with photographs and colourful pictures.

‘This is Rosie,’ Sarah said, patting her daughter’s hand as she sat down next to her and gestured Donovan to the scuffed wooden chair opposite. ‘I know you’ve come about Gemma’s death. How can we help?’

‘We’re trying to piece together what happened. Gemma…’

‘It was at a church, wasn’t it?’ Sarah interrupted.

‘Yes. Gemma was seen outside with a man before she died. We’re trying to find out who he is.’

Sarah looked surprised. ‘Do you mean a boyfriend?’

Donovan nodded. ‘Although he was considerably older than Gemma.’

‘Gemma never mentioned anyone,’ Sarah said, with a quick glance towards Rosie, who was noisily scraping up the last few mouthfuls of cereal and milk, apparently oblivious to what was being discussed around her.

‘It’s very important we find him,’ Donovan said, as Rosie clanked her spoon down in the empty bowl, pushed it away and stared down at the table, shoulders hunched.

‘What’s the man got to do with it?’ Sarah asked. ‘The school said Gemma had a fall. I thought it was an accident.’

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Donovan said, looking at Rosie, who was picking at a patch of candle wax stuck on the table. Was she feeling uncomfortable because of her mother being there, or because Donovan was a policewoman? Or was there another reason? ‘Do you know anything about this man?’ she said, trying to catch Rosie’s eye.

Sarah shook her head. ‘I told you, I haven’t heard anything about Gemma having a boyfriend.’

Donovan tried to contain her irritation. ‘Thank you, Mrs Chapple. But I need to ask Rosie.’ She wanted to ask Sarah Chapple to leave, but as Rosie was a minor, that was out of the question. She stared hard at Rosie, willing her to look up. ‘Did Gemma tell you about a man? I really need to know.’

Rosie sniffed and looked away, focusing on a distant point on the far wall.

‘Please, Rosie,’ Donovan said. ‘He may have had something to do with Gemma’s death.’

Sarah gasped. ‘Oh my God! Are you saying she was murdered?’

At the word ‘murdered’, Rosie looked round, and Donovan saw tears in her eyes.

‘We’re treating her death as suspicious, Mrs Chapple. Which is why I need Rosie to tell me if she knows anything.’

Sarah turned to Rosie, clamped an arm around her shoulder and leaned towards her. ‘Come on, sweetheart. If you know something, you’d better tell the sergeant. There’s no point in keeping secrets if Gemma was murdered.’

Rosie bowed her head, pulled down the sleeves of her baggy black jumper over a set of bitten fingernails, and hugged herself. ‘She didn’t talk about him much,’ she said, in a small, high-pitched voice, which Donovan could barely hear. ‘I thought he was just one of her fantasies.’

A look of horror crossed Sarah’s face. ‘Is he a paedophile? Was Gemma assaulted?’

Exasperated, Donovan glared at her. If only the woman would shut up and let her daughter speak. ‘No, Mrs Chapple. She wasn’t assaulted. Please let Rosie continue.’ She turned back to Rosie. ‘Do you have any idea where she met him?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘She never said.’

‘Please think, Rosie. There must be something else. Every little detail is important. We must find him.’

Rosie appeared confused, looking first at her mother, then back at Donovan. ‘Talked about him like he was real special, like some sort of pop star or actor or something. We all thought she was telling porkies and we teased her.’ Tears were streaming down her cheeks. ‘I feel so bad now,’ she said, burying her face in her arms.

Sarah rubbed her shoulders and stroked her head. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. You mustn’t feel guilty about it.’ Putting her arm protectively around Rosie, she turned to Donovan. ‘Gemma was an odd girl, Sergeant. The sort who invited teasing, if you know what I mean. I teach art at the school and I’ve got three daughters, so I know what girls can be like. Gemma was good at heart but she was full of stories. It was difficult to know what to believe, sometimes. I put it down to a lack of confidence and the fact that her mum should have spent more time with her.’ She gave Rosie a little squeeze and kissed the top of her head. ‘Girls need their mums, even at this age. But Gemma’s brothers were a handful and they took up all Mary’s energy, from what I could see.’

‘I’m sorry if this is distressing for you,’ Donovan said, peering down at Rosie. ‘Nobody’s going to blame you for anything. It would just help if you could tell me what you know.’

Rosie looked up, gulped, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘She said she was going to run away with him.’

‘Did she ever mention suicide?’ Donovan asked.

Sarah put her hands to her mouth. ‘Suicide? Goodness, I thought you said her death was suspicious?’

‘Please answer the question, Rosie,’ Donovan said, ignoring Sarah. ‘Did Gemma ever talk about suicide?’

Rosie nodded. ‘Everyone thought she was just trying to get attention for herself, just trying to be different. That’s why nobody liked her.’

‘But you did?’

Rosie sniffed and nodded. ‘When she wasn’t making up stuff, she could be really nice and I felt sorry for her.’

‘Did she have any interests outside school that you know of? Any clubs or societies?’

‘She belonged to a swimming club, I think,’ she said, rubbing her eyes with her fingers and pushing her springy dark curls off her face.

‘Surely you can get all that from her parents?’ Sarah asked.

‘Gemma kept a lot hidden from them, Mrs Chapple. She met this man somehow and we must find the connection. Is there anything else you can tell me, Rosie?’

Rosie sighed and looked at her for a moment before speaking. ‘So, he is real?’ she said doubtfully, as if she was still trying to take it all in. ‘You mean she wasn’t lying about him?’

‘He’s real enough,’ Donovan said. It was almost as if the news was a relief to Rosie and she had the feeling that there was more to come. ‘Please tell me what you know.’

Rosie paused for a moment before replying. ‘She called me on Wednesday.’

Sarah gave her a sharp look. ‘What, the day she died? You didn’t tell me.’

‘My phone was out of juice and I only picked up the message yesterday. When I listened to it, they’d already told us at school that she was dead. It was really weird, hearing her voice.’

‘What did she say?’ Donovan asked.

Rosie shrugged. ‘I thought it was just another one of her silly stories. She said she was meeting this bloke Tom at a church and that they were going to be married. She said it would be the last time I’d hear from her, but that I should be happy for her.’

‘What else?’

Rosie wiped away another tear with the back of her hand. ‘She said she was late and had seen him standing by the church door, waiting for her. But he hadn’t seen her. She sounded really excited. She said she just had to call me quickly to tell me and to say goodbye.’

‘Where was she calling from?’ Donovan asked.

‘Must have been a call box,’ Rosie replied. ‘Her stupid parents wouldn’t allow her a mobile and I could hear traffic in the background.’

They would have to check the caller number on Rosie’s phone but it sounded plausible. ‘Is there anything else?’

Rosie hesitated and looked at Donovan uncertainly.

‘Go on,’ Sarah said, firmly. ‘What else did she say?’

Rosie sighed. ‘It seemed sort of weird. But she said he looked just like Tom Cruise in
Interview with the Vampire
.’

After checking in with Tartaglia and telling him about her conversation with Rosie, Donovan wearily drove the short distance home to the small house she shared with her sister, Claire, in Hammersmith. There was nothing more to be done that night and Tartaglia had told her to go home and get some sleep, ready for the next day. A big glass of wine and a hot, deep bath would sort her out, she thought, letting herself in quietly through the front door. Claire was in, her bag and keys dumped on the hall table, next to a pile of half-opened mail, her briefcase and shoes discarded at the bottom of the narrow flight of stairs. As a solicitor in one of the City law firms, she worked long hours and would have been tucked up in bed hours ago.

Donovan went into the kitchen and checked the answer machine but there were no messages and no note either from Claire to say that anyone had called. Disappointed, although not surprised, she dropped her keys onto the table and poured herself a glass of white wine from an open bottle in the fridge. It wasn’t very nice but it was all there was and at least it was cold. She and Claire never had time to do any shopping. Resisting the urge to light a cigarette, she took her wine upstairs and tiptoed past Claire’s bedroom door into the bathroom where she turned on the taps and helped herself to a large dollop of Claire’s Body Shop Orange Blossom Bath Essence. She undressed quickly and sank back into the bath, feet up on either side of the taps, letting the rising water wash over her shoulders and neck as she sipped her wine.

Logic told her that she shouldn’t expect to hear from Richard again. Newly promoted to DI, Richard had recently joined one of the murder teams in south London and was working all hours. It had got to the point where they rarely ever saw each other. He had half-suggested she put in for a transfer to somewhere closer to where he worked. But why should she move? She hadn’t known him that long and she was enjoying working on Clarke’s team. There had never been much of a sparkle about Richard. A small part of her hoped he might get over his pride or inertia and call her. But what then? She needed something different. Someone different. More than anything she wanted some fun for a change and perhaps some excitement.

It was past midnight by the time Tartaglia got home – a ground floor flat in a terraced house off Shepherd’s Bush Road. He pushed his motorbike up the short tiled path that led from the street to the front door, parking it out of sight behind the high hedge, by the dustbins. He’d bought the flat with some money left to him by his grandfather a few years before. The place had been a tip, with wiring, plumbing and fixtures dating back to the seventies. It had taken him, his cousin Gianni, and a couple of the lads from Gianni’s building firm several weekends to transform it, painting the walls white, sanding the floorboards and putting in a modern kitchen and bathroom. The flat was the first place he had ever owned and it would take a lot to get him to move again.

As he put his key in the lock, Henry, the Siamese cat belonging to his upstairs neighbour Jenny, twisted around his legs, meowing to be brought in. Judging by the dark windows and drawn curtains on the floor above, Jenny had gone to bed. As he opened the front door and let himself into his flat, Henry slipped through his legs, weaving his way into the sitting room. He wasn’t keen on cats, generally; their hair made him sneeze. But Henry had become a frequent visitor, thick-skinned to all efforts to exclude him, and Tartaglia had grown fond of him, often leaving the kitchen window at the side of the house ajar so that Henry could come and go.

He went into the sitting room, switched on the light and drew the shutters across the window, blocking out the orange glare of the streetlamp just outside. He flung his jacket onto the sofa and checked the answer machine. Apart from a bleep where somebody had hung up, there were two messages, one from Sally-Anne saying that there was no change in Clarke’s condition and one from his sister, Nicoletta, asking him over for Sunday lunch. She said there was someone she wanted him to meet, no doubt another of her hopeless, single female friends. For once, he was relieved to be working all weekend, with an excuse that even Nicoletta would be forced to accept.

He knew he should try and get some sleep. There was the briefing at seven that morning and it was going to be another long day. But he felt wired, thoughts buzzing in his head. He undid his tie and top button and went into the kitchen for a drink. What was it with women? Not content just to get married themselves, once they’d done that, they spent their whole time matchmaking everybody else. Nicoletta seemed obsessed with getting him hitched and his cousin Elisa, Gianni’s sister, was almost as bad. They kept reminding him that he was only a few years away from being forty, a point they viewed as some sort of a watershed, although it meant nothing to him. Why couldn’t they understand that he was happy as he was and leave him alone?

Happy? Well, not unhappy, he thought, opening the bottle of Sicilian Nero d’Avola that Gianni had given him for his birthday, and pouring himself a large glass. Seeing Fiona Blake that morning had caused all sorts of uncomfortable feelings to surface. Why was he attracted to complicated women, women he couldn’t quite pin down? Why was he never interested in nice, straightforward women like Donovan?

The wine was a deep, black purple and smelled heady and full of spice. He took a large draught, letting it swill around his mouth, enjoying the pungent flavour. Christ, it was good, he thought, taking another long swig. Gianni really knew a thing or two about wine. Perhaps he had been a bit hard on Fiona but he’d been angry. Screw Murray. Even though it was late, he felt like calling her. Maybe he’d apologise for what had happened earlier. It would be nice to hear her voice. Then he remembered the ring on her finger. No point. She had made her choice and he had to put her out of his mind.