Die With Me (20 page)

It was late afternoon when Tartaglia took the call from DI Mike Fullerton of Hammersmith CID.

‘We know who the woman on the bridge was,’ said Fullerton. ‘Her name’s Kelly Goodhart. She’s an American lawyer living in London. She was in her early forties and lived alone in Kensington. Her boss reported her missing and when someone from her local station went over to her flat, they found a suicide note.’

‘Have you checked her emails?’

‘That’s why I’m calling you. She made an agreement to top herself with some bloke. But there’s more and it doesn’t smell right. You’d better come and take a look.’

An hour later, Tartaglia sat opposite Fullerton in his small office, just off Hammersmith Broadway, pouring over copies of Kelly Goodhart’s recent email correspondence. With a spreading gut and thinning sandy hair, Fullerton was due to retire at the end of the month and he seemed less than delighted to have such a case land in his lap.

His team had made a start by analysing the email traffic over the past three months, although there were several years’ worth that might have to be gone through if Kelly’s death turned out to be suspicious. Apart from the odd item of shopping on the net, or theatre ticket bookings, the majority of her emails were to family and friends in the US. But in the last month Kelly had exchanged over a dozen emails with someone calling himself Chris, culminating in an agreement to meet on Hammersmith Bridge to commit suicide together.

Tartaglia was struck by the difference in tone and style of Chris’s emails to the ones Tom had exchanged with the three girls. Chris’s emails to Kelly were short, almost businesslike. As they discussed the concept of suicide and arranged when and where to meet and how to go about killing themselves, they sounded like two people deciding on the best way of getting to the airport. There was no evidence of coercion on Chris’s part and at face value, Chris sounded nothing like Tom. But maybe Tom was smart enough to change his modus operandi with someone like Kelly, who was clearly intent on killing herself without anyone’s persuasion.

‘Do you have any idea how they met?’ Tartaglia asked.

Fullerton shook his head. ‘It’s not clear from what we have so far. But I assume it’s down to one of these effing suicide websites. It’s a bit like lonely hearts, putting total strangers together to top themselves. There are hundreds of the bloody things all over the world. They should all be closed down, in my opinion. They’re evil, encouraging the poor, desperate sods, telling them how to do it and the like.’

Flicking through the emails, Tartaglia nodded agreement. Chris had pasted a DIY guide to suicide from one of the websites in an email, asking Kelly which method appealed to her. A rapid series of brief, matter-of-fact emails ensued.

Do you have any preference? At least sleeping pills are easy to get hold of.

I personally don’t like the idea of hanging...

The barbecue tray in the car seems a pretty painless way to go. I suppose we would just drift off after a short while...

Perhaps we could put on some nice music, although we would have to decide what and I suspect we have different tastes. But if that idea appeals, I’m sure we could work it out…

Do you have a car? I sold mine a couple of months back…

Any ideas where we could go? I like the South Downs or maybe somewhere else by the sea. Or would you rather stay in London?

Honestly, I’m easy. Like you, I just want to get on with it.

It looked as though Hammersmith Bridge had been Kelly’s idea, for ‘sentimental reasons’, which she didn’t seem prepared to elaborate.

Fullerton took a pipe and pouch of tobacco from his jacket breast pocket. ‘It’s bloody weird, all this, don’t you think?’ he said, after adding a pinch of fresh tobacco to the bowl and lighting it. He blew several puffs of pungent smoke into the room.

The smell instantly reminded Tartaglia of his grandfather and namesake, who had smoked a pipe all his life, even on his deathbed. All the smoking paraphernalia that went with the habit, the racks, the collection of worn pipes and cleaners and the old-fashioned turned-wood jars where the pouches of tobacco were kept, was now cluttering up the mantelpiece of his father’s small study in Edinburgh. Nobody had the heart to get rid of them.

‘How’s that?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘Well, I can understand someone getting so depressed that all they want to do is kill themselves. In my view, that’s a person’s right. But it beggars belief that they’d want company, particularly with someone they’d never met.’

‘Perhaps they’re worried that they’ll bottle out if they try on their own. Perhaps they want moral support.’

‘That’s a bit weedy, don’t you think? Imagine this,’ Fullerton poked the air with the chewed tip of his pipe. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever been on a blind date but it can be bloody awkward. You turn up at the place as arranged, then along comes the other person and they’re not at all how they described themselves. You feel let down and maybe you take an instant dislike to them too. What do you do then? Tell them it’s all a big mistake and go home?’

‘Worse still, what if the other person turns out not to be interested in killing themselves but just wants to watch you die?’

Fullerton, who was trying to relight his pipe, stopped, holding it in mid-air. ‘That’s sick, that is,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust.

‘I agree. But that’s what we could be dealing with here,’ Tartaglia said, studying Kelly’s most recent emails to Chris, written a couple of days before the incident on the bridge. He read out a few of the sentences.

Can I really trust you? How do I know that you are who you say you are, and that you’re not lying to me? Forgive me for being blunt. I don’t want to put you off if you’re genuine.

I told you what happened before and you can understand why I’m wary. There are some very strange people out there. I just pray you’re not one of them.

Is Chris your real name? Or are you Tony, trying to fool me again? Please call me and put my mind at rest. I really want to do this and I don’t want to wait much longer.

‘Chris, Tony, it’s all a bit confusing, isn’t it?’ Fullerton said.

‘Our guy uses many different names. It’s too early to tell what’s going on. I’m going to need to see some more of her emails.’

Fullerton sighed, and made a chuffing sound as he sucked on the pipe and puffed out some plumes of smoke. ‘I was afraid you were going to say that. How much do you want?’

‘Say, for the last year to start with. When do you think you can get it done?’

‘We’ll deal with it straight away, but we’re short-staffed at the moment and I’ve only got a couple of people available. Can you spare us anyone?’

‘We’re very stretched too but I’ll talk to DCI Steele and see if we can find someone to send over here. At least there’s now a stronger case for our involvement,’ Tartaglia said, looking at his watch. He would have to call Steele right away. He was due at the hospital in half an hour to see Trevor and there was no time to go back to Barnes. After that, he had reluctantly arranged to meet Fiona Blake for a drink. ‘Any news from forensics?’

Fullerton shook his head. ‘I’ll give them another call to chase them. They know it’s top priority but then so is everything these days.’

Tartaglia stood up and Fullerton followed suit, walking him to the door.

‘What’s Kelly Goodhart’s background?’

‘I spoke to her boss,’ Fullerton said. ‘He was the one who reported her missing. He sounded pretty upset, although he said he wasn’t entirely surprised. According to him, Kelly had been depressed for quite a while and he thought she’d been receiving counselling. You see, she married another lawyer in her office. They went out to Sri Lanka for their honeymoon and got caught up in the Boxing Day tsunami. The husband was killed and his body was never found. Apparently, she couldn’t get over it.’

It had taken Donovan most of the day to locate Nicola Slade. She had moved several times in the previous two years and was now settled in a flat-share on the ground floor of a wide terraced house in Cricklewood. She had just come in after finishing for the day at the local primary school, where she worked as a supply teacher. Plump and nearly as short as Donovan, she had thin, shoulder-length mid-brown hair and glasses, and looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She was dressed in a baggy purple jumper and a flared grey corduroy skirt that just skimmed the top of her thick-soled boots.

She offered Donovan tea and ginger biscuits and they sat down together in the shabby sitting room that overlooked the concrete patch of front garden, Donovan choosing the sofa, Nicola a large floor cushion, where she sat cross-legged, skirt draped over her lap like a rug. Festooned with a forest of pot plants in macramé containers, the room was gloomy, the only light coming from a single bulb hanging in the centre of the ceiling hidden by a Japanese paper lantern.

Nicola’s manner was brisk and efficient once Donovan had explained the situation. ‘Of course I remember Marion,’ she said, offering Donovan the plate of biscuits before helping herself to one and taking a large bite. ‘We were cooped up together in that tiny flat for weeks, neither of us knowing anyone in London. It’s lucky we hit it off.’

‘But you didn’t know she was dead?’

Nicola shook her head. ‘My fault as usual. I’m hopeless at keeping in touch. We saw each other a couple of times after I left Ealing but I’d moved down to Dulwich to be close to what I thought was a permanent job and it was quite a trek meeting up. You know what it’s like, I’m sure. It’s very easy to lose touch in this city, even with people you like. After that, we exchanged the odd phone call and Christmas cards, but that was about it. I feel guilty now, knowing she’s dead.’ Nicola shivered and pulled her knees tightly into her chest, hugging them and taking a sip of tea. ‘Perhaps I should have made more of an effort to see her,’ she added, after a moment.

‘If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think it would have made any difference to what happened.’

‘You said at first everyone thought she had committed suicide.’

‘Yes. We’re still not sure what happened.’

‘Well, she would never have killed herself. That much I know.’

‘Really? Both Karen and Marion’s mother made statements saying that she was very depressed.’

Nicola shook her head dismissively. ‘You would be, too, if you had to live with that dreadful Karen. As for Marion’s mother, I don’t think she knew if it was morning or night half the time. She was a real basket case, from what I could gather. I had to speak to her on the phone many times when Marion was out and I was very pleased she wasn’t my mum.’

‘You’re saying Marion wasn’t depressed?’

‘Look, everyone’s lonely when they first come to London. Or at least most people are,’ she said, nibbling the last chunk of her biscuit. ‘What I’m saying is that it wouldn’t matter how depressed Marion was, she wouldn’t kill herself. Marion was into religion, big time. Went to the Catholic church around the corner at least twice a week. Along with sex before marriage, contraception and abortion, suicide’s a mortal sin, according to them, isn’t it?’

Donovan shrugged. She’d been brought up by atheist parents and had nothing more than a vague idea about Catholicism.

‘Shame priests don’t take the same view about paedophilia,’ Nicola continued, helping herself to another biscuit and dunking it deep in her tea. ‘They’re such bloody hypocrites.’

Donovan finished her mug and put it down on the floor, there being no other obvious place. ‘When did you last hear from Marion?’

‘God. It’s ages ago, I suppose. Well over two years. I’ve moved around a lot and changed my mobile a zillion times too. She probably had no idea where I’d gone. Even my mum has a job keeping up with me.’

‘Going back to Ealing, did you and Marion go out a lot together?’

‘Occasionally we went to the pub round the corner for a drink or to see a film. But usually we stayed in and watched the telly or read a book. Neither of us had much money, you see. Karen was rarely in, thank God, and we had great fun cooking, although Marion did most of the work. We’d watch one of those chef programmes like
Ready Steady Cook
and try out some of the recipes. Unlike me, Marion was a right little domestic goddess when she put her mind to it.’

‘Do you remember Marion having any boyfriends?’

‘Well, no one who turned up at the breakfast table, if that’s what you mean. Although I doubt whether Marion would be on for that. But there was definitely the odd admirer. Marion was a pretty girl. Whenever we went out together, there was always some bloke coming over, trying to chat her up. I think some of her clients tried it on, but that’s just an impression.’

‘Was there anybody in particular?’ Donovan said, wondering if she meant Angel.

Nicola thought hard. ‘There was some bloke but it was all a bit strange. He made a real fuss over her, gave her some flowers and chocolates. She said he was really charming and different from the others.’

‘Different?’ Donovan gave her a questioning look.

Nicola grinned. ‘Wasn’t trying to get into her knickers on the first date.’

‘When was this?’

‘Just before I moved out.’

‘This was a client?’

‘Could be. But I’m not sure. Although how else was she likely to meet anyone?’

Donovan made a note. She didn’t want to give Nicola the impression that they already had a suspect within their sights. For the sake of being thorough, it would also be worth checking with Grafton’s to see who else, apart from Angel, they had on their books at the time.

‘She went out with this man?’ Donovan asked.

‘At least twice, if not more. Of course, she was flattered by all the attention but I remember her saying he was out of her league.’