Jigsaw Man (17 page)

‘Here you go,' she said after a moment, coming over with the mugs to where Donovan
was sitting and plonking herself down opposite. ‘Have you thought any more about
seeing a counsellor?'

‘I've told you, I don't see the point.'

‘I know, but it really helps a lot of people.'

‘I'm not a lot of people. I don't want to talk to anybody about what's happened.
It won't do any good.'

‘I understand. I just thought maybe—'

‘And I don't need looking after.'

Sharon peered at her over the rim of her spectacles. ‘Yes, you do, Sam. I know you
better than most and you're not looking after yourself. You look dreadful, if you
don't mind my saying. Even if you've lost your appetite, you need to force yourself
to eat, and you need to drink or you'll get dehydrated. However terrible you feel,
you've got to try and make a bit of an effort.'

Donovan bit her lip and glanced away into a far corner of the room. Sharon was right,
of course, and was just trying to be kind, but she felt sick, her stomach a tight
knot. There was so much she ought to be doing, people she should be talking to
about
Claire. Looking through Claire's iPad, she was struck by what different lives they
had led. Different friends, different taste in music, in books, in their choice of
work, and in men. What was it about Claire that had attracted the killer?

‘I know you probably don't feel like cooking,' Sharon was saying. ‘Would you like
me to drop some more food over for you later? I made a great casserole last night
and there's some left over. I could stay and heat it up.'

‘Thank you, Sharon, but I'm just
not
hungry. Really.'

‘As I said, you've got to force yourself.'

‘I'll pick something up from the shops when I go out. Or I can get a takeaway.' It
was clear from Sharon's expression that she didn't believe her, but Donovan didn't
care.

‘Is there any news about your dad?' Sharon asked, after a moment.

Donovan shook her head. Hopefully her mother would call again later. She, too, was
up all hours of the night, getting what sleep she could on a bench outside her husband's
room, unwilling to leave the hospital even for a minute in case he took a turn for
the worse.

She took a sip of tea. It was good and strong, but Sharon had put sugar in it. She
put the mug down and stared at Sharon. ‘You said you'd tell me what's going on with
the investigation,' she said. ‘You said you'd find out. Is there any news?'

‘Not at the moment.'

‘
Something
must be happening. There must be
some
progress.'

‘I can ask again, but they won't give me the sort of details you want. You know that.'

Donovan shook her head. It wasn't true. If Sharon wanted to find out, she could.
They would tell her. It wasn't just Sharon either. They were all keeping things from
her, important things, the details that mattered, the details that would help her
find
out who had killed Claire. They thought they were doing their best for her,
protecting her from the truth, but they were treating her like a child. There must
be another way to get the information she needed . . .

Eighteen

Tartaglia and Minderedes followed Ramsey's car along the main road for a short distance
to the small town of Aldford. It was nearly the lunch hour and the high street was
busy with pedestrians and cars. The road was lined on both sides with fancy-looking
teashops, antique shops and boutiques, and there was an ancient half-timbered building
half way along on one side. It was raised off the ground on tall stone pillars, and
a collection of market stalls stood in the space beneath, spilling out on either
side along the road in front. Groups of shoppers gathered around. A car pulled out
just in front of them and Ramsey motioned Minderedes to take the parking space while
he carried on driving up the street. A few minutes later they saw him walking towards
them on the opposite side of the road and they got out and crossed over to join him.

‘I'd forgotten it's market day,' he said, stopping in front of a large café that
occupied the width of two shops. They followed him inside. The room was full, buzzing
with conversation, punctuated with the cries and laughter of small children. A queue
of people stood waiting to be served in front of the counter, which was laden with
cakes, salads and sandwiches. A short, dark-haired woman stood at the end, making
coffee behind a huge espresso machine. Seeing Ramsey, she came out from behind the
counter, quickly wiping her hands on her apron, and greeted them.

Ramsey introduced Tartaglia and Minderedes.

‘I'm afraid there's nowhere to sit,' Liz Hallion said with an apologetic look. ‘We'd
better go into my office. It's a bit of a mess, but it's definitely quieter than
in here.'

They followed Liz into a small room at the back of the kitchen and she explained
how she ran a cake and coffee stand at the fireworks event every year. She had been
busy setting up when she noticed a man hanging around. She thought there was something
odd about him.

‘What sort of time was this?' Tartaglia asked.

‘About four-thirty.'

‘So, it was getting dark.'

She nodded. ‘We'd just started to put up the lights for our stand, when he sort of
appeared from nowhere.'

‘This was up by the top of the football pitch, near the recreation centre,' Ramsey
explained. ‘Not down by where the bonfire was.'

‘Our stand is the first one you come to when you go through the main gate,' Liz continued.
‘Anyway, this chap just seemed to be wandering around for no reason, watching what
people were doing. Members of the public aren't allowed onto the ground until six
o'clock, so I asked him if he was looking for somebody but he didn't answer and just
walked off. I was a bit worried, as lots of young children come to the party.'

‘The Guy was already on the bonfire by this time?' Tartaglia asked Ramsey, who nodded.
Assuming it was the same man who had put the body on the bonfire, it was classic
behaviour to hang around watching and be involved in what was going on.

‘Can you describe him?' Tartaglia asked.

‘He had a beard, with a woollen hat pulled down over his head.'

‘What colour was the hat?'

‘Navy, I think, or black. He was tallish, quite a bit taller than me, at any rate.
I particularly remember his coat. It was long and a bit old-fashioned, made of dark
grey tweed. Quite an expensive one, I think, which was odd, as he was pretty dirty-looking,
like he slept rough or didn't wash very often. I thought maybe he'd picked up the
coat at a charity shop.'

‘By beard, do you mean stubble or something more than that?'

‘A good weeks' growth, I'd say.'

‘What sort of age are we talking about?'

She grimaced. ‘Difficult to say. He was so covered up and his face was grimy, but
somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, I'd guess.'

‘You didn't hear his voice?'

She shook her head. ‘As I said, when I asked him what he was doing, he didn't answer
me. He gave me a look, as if telling me to mind my own business, then just wandered
off with his hands in his pockets.'

‘Is this the man you saw?' Minderedes asked, producing from his bag a copy of the
E-FIT that Tatyana had helped put together.

Liz took the sheet and studied it for a moment, head to one side. ‘I'm trying to
picture what he'd look like clean-shaven, but I just don't know. Sorry.' She handed
the sheet back to Minderedes.

They took their leave and walked up the high street, Ramsey and Minderedes in front,
discussing football, Tartaglia lagging a little behind. He was thinking about travellers
and homeless people and beards and men possibly disguising themselves. Richard English
was far too old to be the man Liz Hallion had seen, but had he disappeared by joining
the ranks of the homeless? If so, why? It would have been a desperate measure and
it
didn't fit with the little he knew of his character, although it wasn't impossible.

At the far end, they turned right into another wide street lined on both sides with
shops. Half way along, the shops petered out and a row of small, multi-coloured Georgian
houses took their place. Ramsey stopped in front of one of them – the words The Old
Bakery written in italics above the fanlight – and knocked. A moment later the front
door opened and a woman stood on the doorstep. She greeted Ramsey and introduced
herself as Annie Nichols to Tartaglia and Minderedes.

‘Is Josh here?' Ramsey asked.

‘I sent him to school this morning but when your office rang, I called them. It's
only up the road. He'll be back any minute now. You can wait in here if you like,'
she said, ushering them into a small, comfortably furnished sitting room at the front
of the house. ‘If you need anything, I'll be in the kitchen.'

There was practically no mobile signal in the house and Minderedes and Ramsey went
out to the street to use their phones. Tartaglia sat down in a chair by the fireplace,
where a large wood-burning stove was giving off a considerable amount of heat. He
stretched out his legs, enjoying the warmth, and picked up a copy of the
Hampshire
Chronicle,
which was lying on the floor by the fire. It was dated that day and he
leafed through it quickly but there was no mention of what had happened the previous
night. No doubt the next edition would be full of it.

The front door slammed shut, he heard voices, and a moment later a scruffy, freckle-faced
boy with spiky brown hair burst into the room, followed by Ramsey and Minderedes.
He looked to be about ten or eleven and was dressed in school uniform.

‘Come and sit down, Josh,' Ramsey said. ‘This is DI Mark Tartaglia and DC Nick Minderedes.
They'd like to ask you some questions about what you saw yesterday, if that's OK.'

Josh sat down on a small stool by the stove, while Ramsey and Minderedes took the
sofa. He leaned forwards, looking at Tartaglia, then Minderedes. ‘It's a real head,
isn't it?' he said.

‘It's possible,' Ramsey answered.

‘But you think it is?' Josh asked. ‘I mean, you wouldn't stop the fireworks if it's
just a dummy?'

‘We can't take any risks,' Ramsey said. ‘We have to do things by the book, just in
case.'

‘Well, it smelt pretty funny,' Josh said. ‘And it looked like a real head. It had
teeth.'

‘Tell us about the man you saw,' Tartaglia said. ‘I hear you thought he was watching
you.'

Josh shrugged. ‘The head was right at my feet, sort of smoking, like. It looked
pretty weird but nobody else spotted it for a bit.'

‘Apart from the man,' Ramsey prompted.

‘Yeah.'

‘Tell me about him,' Tartaglia said.

‘He was looking at the head and then at me, like he knew what I was thinking, like
he wanted to see what I'd do. I thought he was pranking me.'

Was the boy reading too much into things, Tartaglia wondered. But boys of that age
were generally pretty sharp. ‘Is there anything else you remember?'

Josh shook his head.

‘How far away was this man from where you were standing?'

Josh looked across the room towards the open door. ‘About over there, where Mum's
bag is.'

Tartaglia followed his gaze out into the small hall. ‘So, quite close?'

‘Yeah.'

‘But it was dark?'

‘Not with the bonfire. I saw him, no problem.'

‘OK. What happened next?'

‘I was looking at the head, then this woman screams. Real loud it was, and she's
pointing at it and screaming, then these stupid girls start screaming, then people
start running back up the hill to the car park.'

‘What did you do?'

Josh shrugged. ‘Nothing. It didn't bother me.'

‘So you stayed put?'

‘Until the police come along and told us all to go.'

‘What about the man? What happened to him?'

‘I dunno. He wasn't there when the police come. They made us all wait and took everyone's
name and address and asked us if we'd seen something. You were there,' he said to
Ramsey, as though Ramsey knew it all and it was pointless asking him anything else.

‘If you saw the man again, would you recognise him?' Tartaglia asked.

‘Sure.'

‘What was he wearing?'

‘A coat and a beanie.'

‘What sort of coat? What colour?'

Josh looked at him blankly. ‘It was a coat. It was grey, I think.'

‘Not a jacket, or anorak?'

‘No.'

‘What about the beanie?'

‘Black, maybe.'

‘What did he look like?'

‘He had a beard . . .'

‘A proper beard, or stubble?'

‘Stubble. Don't remember his face.'

‘What sort of age was the man?'

‘I dunno.'

‘Have a guess.'

Josh scrunched up his mouth. ‘Well, he looked a bit like my friend Steve's dad. He's
nearly forty but he tells everyone he's thirty-two.'

Tartaglia smiled. Children were usually very bad at estimating adult age, as though
anything over twenty was a stretch too far to think about. However, his description
of the man he had seen tallied almost exactly with what Liz Hallion had said. ‘OK.
Take a look at this computer-generated image and tell me if the face you see looks
at all familiar.'

Minderedes pulled out the sheet and passed it to Tartaglia. As he held it up for
Josh to look at, Tartaglia watched the boy closely but there was no immediate reaction.

Josh frowned. ‘I don't think so.'