Jigsaw Man
Authors: Elena Forbes
Also by the author
Die With Me
Our Lady of Pain
Evil in Return
Elena Forbes has lived most of her life in London. Her first novel,
Die With Me
,
was shortlisted for the Crime Writers' Association John Creasey New Blood Dagger.
Jigsaw Man
is her fourth novel.
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © 2015 by Elena Forbes
The moral right of Elena Forbes to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of
this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner
and the publisher of this book.
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Quercus Editions Ltd
This edition published in 2015 by The Text Publishing Company
Cover design by W. H. Chong
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry (pbk):
Author: Forbes, Elena
Title: Jigsaw man : a Mark Tartaglia thriller / by Elena Forbes
ISBN: 9781922182616 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781925095555 (ebook)
Subjects: Tartaglia, Mark (Fictitious character).
MurderâInvestigationâFiction.
Detective and mystery stories.
Suspense fiction.
Dewey Number: 823.92
For Tracy Alexander
Contents
Her eyes were open but she was in La La Land. She lay on the bed in her underwear
like a disgusting blow-up doll, the faint rise and fall of her breasts the only sign
that she was still alive. He had kept physical contact to the absolute minimum, but
he knew all about forensic wizardry and removing her dress had been a necessary precaution.
Hopefully, the hotel room would be awash with all manner of fibres and human DNA
and any trace that he might accidentally have left would be lost amongst it all.
He put on disposable gloves and went into the bathroom where he poured the rest of
the champagne down the sink. He put the cork, wire casing and empty bottle in his
rucksack, which was standing ready by the door. He washed the glasses quickly, paying
particular attention to remove the foul smear of lipstick she had left on hers, then
dried them on the tea towel he had brought with him. He checked the photo he had
taken earlier on his phone and replaced them on the tray on top of the mini-bar,
exactly as he had found them. His clothes were ready by the door, along with the
rucksack, which he had stuffed with as many of her things as he could fit into it.
There wasn't room for her coat, but he hadn't touched it at any point and he decided
to leave it in the wardrobe where she had hung it.
Excitement welling, he paced backwards and forwards around the room, giving it a
final once-over. He would check it again before he left, but it all looked perfect,
nothing out of
place. He zipped up his wetsuit, pulled on the rubber mask and went
over to the bed. Just to make sure he wasn't going to have any trouble, he waved
his hand in front of her face and pinched her arm hard, but there was no reaction.
He turned on the TV, the volume up high enough to cover any unwanted sounds, then
carefully got onto the bed and straddled her. The wetsuit was a little on the tight
side and restrictive, but he couldn't risk taking it off. Nor did he want his skin
to touch hers. He flexed his arms and shoulders, trying to create some give, clicked
his knuckles one by one, then took some deep breaths as he steadied himself. He needed
to clear his mind of his surroundings, and focus. When he felt ready, he put his
hands around her neck, locked his thumbs tightly together, took some more slow breaths
and closed his eyes. As he started to press down, he tried to picture another time
not so long ago, another room, small and dimly lit, furnished with old-fashioned
musty things, and another woman lying beside him on the sofa. But the image was half-formed
and unstable, like a reflection in rippling water, fading into nothing around the
edges. He wanted to shout out in frustration; all he needed was to see her face.
He took another few deep breaths, but it was no good. He couldn't get into it, the
sweet spot, or the zone, as he liked to call it. The musky perfume the slag was wearing
was overpowering, putting him off his stride. Grasping her tighter, breathing only
through his mouth, he tried again.
Now he saw a man's face, soft-featured and tanned, his lips mouthing something as
his watery eyes opened in a pathetic look of surprise, followed by sudden realisation.
He felt the heat of the sun on his back, the rocking of the little boat, smelt his
own stale sweat and the salt of the sea. It wasn't where he wanted to be. He shouted
at the man
,
told him to fuck off, and squeezed harder, eyes screwed tight shut, as
he tried to
re-focus. The man's image dissolved. From the darkness other faces drifted
ghost-like into view, a washed-out collage of pale, insipid, interchangeable girls
and a devilish old woman out to spoil his fun, laughing at him, mocking his ineptitude.
Lost your touch? Lost your mojo? Not up to it, are you? Never been up to it, you
nasty little bastard spawn, nasty little impotent piece of shit . . .
He punched
her wicked face, hit it again with all his force, again and again until finally he
silenced her. With a knowing look she held a bony finger to her lips, winked at him
and disappeared, back down into hell where she belonged.
But nothing appeared in her place. Fucking nothing. Breathless now, and hot with
rage, he rocked backwards and forwards, squeezing harder and harder, shaking the
limp neck until it felt like a wet rag in his hands, until he was sure there must
be no life left. Still it wasn't enough. The magic wasn't working. It was fucking
useless. He couldn't conjure up the one he wanted. As he threw the body down on the
bed, tears filled his eyes. He was cursed. She wouldn't come to him.
Banging. More banging. Louder. Someone shouting his name. Mark Tartaglia opened his
eyes. He was lying on a bed, in the dark. Unsure where he was, he stretched out his
arm and felt the cool, smooth space beside him. He reached out further. Nobody there.
Light filtered through the open crack under a door and, as his eyes gradually adjusted,
he made out familiar shapes. He was at home. He peered at the luminous face of his
watch. Just before six o'clock. About half an hour before he needed to get up. The
room was cold, yet he was sweating. His head throbbed and he took several long, deep
breaths, trying to fix in his mind the sequence of events the night before, images
unravelling like jerky little clips of film. The bar-crawl with his cousin Gianni
to celebrate Gianni's decree absolute; beer and vodka chasers, and ending up in some
fancy new boutique hotel in the West End. Dim lighting, loud music, lots of people.
More of a nightclub than a hotel bar. More drinks. Something unmemorable to eat.
A foursome of giggling, very young women, stragglers from an office Halloween party,
who had joined them without much persuasion. More to drink; champagne this time.
Later, a woman with long, dark hair, on her own, who had met his gaze several times
from across the bar. Early forties, tanned and slim. Not a pro; he clocked that immediately
from her body language. He'd seen her again in the courtyard at the back when he'd
gone out for a smoke and they'd exchanged a few words over a cigarette until her
phone rang. Then the slip of paper with her room number that she
had discreetly dropped
in his lap on her way out of the bar.
If you're looking for something different
.
. . The accompanying smile that spoke more than words. He'd been drunk, but not so
drunk as to not know what he was doing when he'd made his excuses to Gianni, saying
he was tired, and knocked on her door fifteen minutes or so later.
He stretched out into a star shape, enjoying the chill of the sheets in the furthest
corners, and closed his eyes as he ran through the sequence of events again in his
mind. He barely remembered the taxi ride home, or letting himself into his flat.
Her name was Annika, no, Jannicke. From Oslo. Over in London for a few days on business.
The pale circle on her ring finger said she was married.
The banging started again. He wasn't dreaming. A man was shouting his name and he
opened his eyes. The noise seemed to be coming from the front of his flat. As he
eased himself into a sitting position in bed and reached for the light switch, he
caught a fleeting scent of a woman's perfume. Slowly he got to his feet, head aching,
mouth sour and dry as dust. He had no idea what he had done with his clothes. Unsteadily,
he grabbed a towel he found lying over a chair, wrapped it around himself, and stumbled
into the sitting room. The lights were on, the shutters gaping open. A man was standing
in the front garden, peering through the window. The man waved at him. Silhouetted
against the acid-orange glare from the street lamp, it was difficult to see his face
clearly and it took Tartaglia a few moments before he recognised Nick Minderedes,
a detective constable in his team. They'd been on call for the past five days, the
next murder investigation team in line for any case of suspicious death that came
into the Homicide West jurisdiction. A diet of early nights was the prescription,
just in case, and a clear,
sober head. Sod's law that something had happened on the
one night he had been out getting lashed.