Evil in Return (10 page)

‘Browning’s Pool, after the poet Robert Browning.’

‘That’s right.’ He remembered now Joe telling him that. For some unknown reason, Joe had liked Browning, along with some obscure and nearly forgotten poets. It was typical of Joe, he thought. He had always gone his own way, never caring about what other people thought or following a trend.

‘Browning had a house overlooking the water,’ Maggie said. ‘It must have been a lovely spot in those days.’

‘Is it still there?’

‘No. I think it was either bombed or pulled down after the war. There’s just a blue plaque on an ugly Seventies building. Difficult to imagine how it must have all looked, particularly now with that hideous Paddington Basin development clogging up the horizon. Don’t you sometimes wish you could just go back in time and see how things used to be?’

‘It may have looked a lot better, but just imagine the smell.’

She laughed and took a sip of wine. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, gazing at the water, then she raised her glass. ‘To Joe.’

He raised his. ‘Wherever he is, poor sod.’

‘Did you know him well?’ she asked, after a few moments.

‘We met at university. We were both studying English and Drama, and we hit it off more or less from the first day. We shared a house for the last two years of our degree. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but it didn’t matter. After we left, we were doing different things, and when he started teaching he more or less moved out of London. We wouldn’t see each other for months sometimes. Then we’d meet up and it was as if no time had passed.’

‘You must have been good friends.’

‘We were.’ Avoiding her gaze, he drained his glass.

‘I’m very sorry.’

He swallowed hard. ‘Thank you. I just wish I knew what had happened. I mean, I just don’t understand what he was doing in the Brompton Cemetery or how he could have got himself shot.’ He sighed and looked up at her, not knowing what to say next.

She frowned and pursed her lips, as though undecided about something, then said, ‘There’s something I ought to tell you. I don’t think Joe was killed there, you know. From what I heard, his body was only left there after he died.’

‘How do you know that? I saw nothing in the papers.’

Still looking at him, she put down her glass. ‘The police were here yesterday and again this morning. They wouldn’t say anything of course, but I overheard one of them on his phone. He’d interviewed me yesterday and I recognised his voice.’

‘What did he look like?’ He pictured Minderedes, with his small, sharp brown eyes.

‘Tallish, well-built, dark-haired, very good-looking.’ She gave him a sideways smile.

‘Was he called Minderedes?’ he asked, doubtful that Minderedes could be described as ‘tallish’ or ‘very good-looking’, although a certain sort of strutting, macho self-confidence went a long way with women, he had learned.

‘No, he had an Italian name, although his accent was Scots. I’ve got his card somewhere downstairs. He was a nice bloke, actually, quite sympathetic, all things considered. Anyway, he was standing on the pavement up there, by the railings, right by that signpost.’ She pointed to a spot no more than a few metres away from where they were sitting. ‘The others were still on Joe’s boat so I guess he came over here to get a bit of privacy. He was talking pretty quietly, facing the canal. I had the doors and windows open as I was doing some ironing, but I don’t think he saw me. Maybe it was the direction of the wind, or maybe he didn’t care, but I managed to hear quite a bit of what he said. There was something about a press conference, and someone making a serious mistake if they didn’t release certain information immediately.’

‘What information?’

‘I’m not sure. He was arguing with the person at the other end and he said, “It’s important they know he wasn’t killed there”, or something along those lines.’

‘They?’

‘I think he meant the public, or the press. The gist was that if someone had seen something suspicious somewhere else, they wouldn’t think to report it. From the way he spoke, I’d say he was talking to a superior, but he sounded mighty fed up.’

‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Positive. He didn’t mention Joe by name, but who else could it be? And it makes sense, don’t you think? I looked at the paper again and watched the six o’clock news. They talked about Joe’s body being found in the Brompton Cemetery, but they don’t actually say he died there. The devil’s always in the detail, isn’t it? I wonder what else they’re keeping back.’

‘You think he was killed on the boat?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

He saw the concern in her eyes, but he didn’t know what to say. Even though she didn’t strike him as a gossip and she seemed genuinely affected by what had happened, it was difficult hearing her talk about it all. Her words had alarmed him in a way he couldn’t explain to her. If Joe hadn’t been killed in the cemetery, but had been put there deliberately, then the link between the emails and his death was stronger than he’d thought. He ought to speak to Tim again, although he knew he would tell him he was reading far too much into things.

She finished the last sip of her wine and leaned forwards, gently touching his arm. ‘Are you OK?’

He nodded.

‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.’

He sighed, barely trusting himself to speak. ‘I’m glad you did. I need to know what happened, whatever the truth.’

‘Look, do you have time for another glass?’ she asked, noticing that his was empty. ‘It’s so lovely out here.’

He stretched and inhaled the warm evening air. His head was buzzing. He felt too stirred up to make the journey home just yet and some more alcohol would be a good thing. ‘Thanks. I’d like that very much.’

Donovan climbed back wearily into the passenger seat beside Chang.

‘You’ve been a while,’ he said, starting the engine. ‘Any luck?’ He put the car into gear and they pulled away.

‘Alex used to room in the first-floor flat but he left a few months ago. I spoke to one of his former flatmates, a grumpy woman called Kate, or Katherine, as she prefers to be called. According to the woman downstairs, she and Alex were friends and possibly more than that, but Kate said she hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since he left. She tried to make out she didn’t know him very well but I’m pretty sure she’s lying.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘After I spoke to her, I went back downstairs and managed to get the landlord’s number from the woman on the ground floor. I’m hoping he’s still got Alex’s details, a bank account, or forwarding address, or something. I’d like you to follow it up.’ She thrust a piece of paper at him with the name and number, which he took and tucked away in his pocket.

‘Anything else?’

‘Short of tapping Kate’s phone, or putting a tail on her, both of which will take time to set up and neither of which Steele will authorise, I’m sure, there’s not a great deal we can do.’

They stopped at a traffic light and he glanced over at her. ‘You look tired. Fancy a drink?’

She shook her head. ‘We’d better go back to the office. I’ve got a zillion and one things to catch up on, plus I do have another lead if the landlord doesn’t come up trumps.’

‘Which is?’

‘Well, the woman on the ground floor told me our Alex is an actor, like Joe Logan. If nothing else, we ought to be able to trace him through Spotlight.’

11

Alex unlocked the door to his flat, listening for the sound of the TV in the living room above that would indicate that Paddy was home. But the flat was silent and in darkness. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had the flat to himself, thank Christ. Paddy was in the throes of a new infatuation and he hadn’t seen him for days. While Alex was still asleep, he would creep home at crack of dawn to shower and change for the office, the only evidence that he had briefly been back being a wet towel and sopping bathmat dumped on the floor in the bathroom, or a carton of milk left out on the kitchen counter in haste. Long may it last, Alex thought to himself, although from what he knew of Paddy, such things usually ran their course in a few weeks.

He went up to the small living room, turned on the light and opened the window for some air, letting out a bluebottle that was buzzing at the glass. The hum of the traffic below filled the room but it didn’t bother him. He had other things on his mind. He put his phone on to charge, switched on the TV for background noise and went into the kitchen to find something to drink. The small fridge, as usual, was empty of food or anything worth drinking; neither he nor Paddy ever bothered to shop ahead. The cupboards were equally bare and he was on the point of giving up and going to bed when he remembered a bottle of Geneva gin in the freezer that had been there since he moved in. Paddy had been given it by some Dutch client and no doubt forgotten its existence. He poured himself a tumbler full and took it back into the sitting room, where he flopped down onto the sofa in front of an episode of CSI. A forensic scientist with long blonde hair and huge tits was examining the body of a young man. The ‘vic’, as she called him, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, was flopped over a pool table, the cue still in his hands, eyes staring vacantly into the camera. Blood trickled like honey from a bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. Were bullet wounds always so tidy? Alex took a gulp of ice-cold gin, swilling the viscous liquid around his mouth and letting it coat his tongue. It slipped down his throat and he felt an instant cloud of warmth rise in his chest.

He had ended up spending several hours with Maggie. They had downed a good deal of wine and she had cooked him dinner, some sort of stew, he vaguely recalled. He also vaguely recalled thinking that she had wanted him to stay, although maybe he had imagined it. He wished now that he had paid more attention. Even though she was quite a bit older than he was, she was an attractive woman, with a nice way about her and a good sense of humour. But the moment, if it ever had been there, was lost. His mind had been on Joe. She had talked a great deal about him, about conversations they had had, about what sort of person she thought he had been, about what a waste it was that he was dead. He had let it all wash over him like a warm gust of air, only half paying attention. Somewhere in the conversation she had mentioned a journalist called Anna, whom she said Joe had been keen on. If it were true, it was strange that Joe had never mentioned Anna, but then Joe had kept a lot of things to himself. The news that Joe hadn’t been killed in the Brompton Cemetery, that his body had been dumped there later, was still sinking in. He needed to find out more, try to understand exactly what had happened.

He was sweating heavily. He knocked back some more gin and held the frosted glass to his forehead. He closed his eyes, still aware of the flickering light in the room as he pictured the water of the canal, with the moon above it, and Joe’s dark, empty boat. He felt his muscles relax, felt himself slide towards sleep. Joe’s voice burbled in his head, conversational in tone but the words indistinct, little more than the background buzz of a radio. He thought he heard the name Ashleigh. He saw the full moon rise above water, the cool, shimmering blackness beneath, so deep it appeared to have no bottom, and the girl, her hair fanning out through his fingers like silk, her bare skin bleached the colour of chalk in the strange, silver light. He heard the gurgling trill of her laughter, mocking him, enticing him, carrying high above the music. He felt the water treacle-thick between his legs as he kicked out towards her. She disappeared like an otter, bobbing up elsewhere to giggle at him. Then he remembered the touch of cold, dead flesh . . .

With a start, he opened his eyes and shuddered. He could still see her there and he shook his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of the smell and feel of her. The pressure was building in his head again, the clenching pain knotting his gut. It was all mud stirred up from the depths of a river, the stuff of nightmares. The glare of the room, with its dull, workmanlike furnishings, was reassuring. He gazed around unfocusedly, then noticed the red flashing light of Paddy’s landline phone sitting on the shelf unit, indicating voicemail messages. He had been so distracted by everything that had happened, he hadn’t thought to check. He struggled up from the sofa and went over to the handset. The small screen showed four messages. Sleepily, he tabbed through the menu and pressed play. The first two were for Paddy, nothing important, but the next made him pay attention.

‘Hi, this is a message for Alex. My name’s Anna Paget. I’m a journalist and I was interviewing your friend Joe Logan.’ The voice was husky, the tone breezy and a little flat, as though she was in a hurry and just making a routine call. ‘I’m really sorry about what’s happened. I’d so like to talk to you, if it’s at all possible. Can you give me a bell?’ She left a couple of numbers. Alex played the message a second and a third time until he got the numbers down correctly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to her about Joe, but after what Maggie had said about her maybe he might learn something.

He played the last message and heard a breathy, girlish voice that he recognised almost instantly.

‘Alex, sweetheart, are you there? It’s me. It’s Katherine.’ There was a brief pause. ‘If you’re there, Alex, pick up.’ Again another pause. ‘I guess you’re out somewhere. I’ve tried your mobile and then the restaurant, but they said you weren’t working tonight. I need to speak to you. It’s really, really urgent.’ Another pause was followed by a deep sigh. ‘Please call me, Alex. It doesn’t matter what time. I’ve had the police round here. Don’t know how they got this address but they’re looking for you for some reason. They wouldn’t say what it’s about and of course I didn’t tell them where you are, but I hope you haven’t been a naughty boy.’

12

‘Mark, we’re here.’ Tartaglia felt someone gently shake his shoulder.

He half opened his eyes, looked around, and saw Donovan beside him, in the driver’s seat. He glazed blearily around him. They were pulled up in the middle of the street outside his flat, engine idling. He shook his head. ‘Jeez. Thought I was home in bed.’

‘Not yet. Good thing you didn’t try riding the Ducati. You’ve been out for the count ever since we left the car park.’

He rubbed his face vigorously, flexed his shoulders and yawned. ‘No question of it. Would’ve called a taxi if you hadn’t kindly offered.’ He stretched and yawned again, and stared out of the window for a moment. Someone was playing dance music loudly close by. It was late, but now that he was awake he needed something to eat and it would be good to have some company. ‘You know, I feel better for a quick kip,’ he said, yawning again. ‘I’m famished. What about you?’

‘I was just going to have a bowl of cereal and go straight to bed. Justin’s picking me up at six-thirty. We’re seeing the headmaster of St Thomas’s at nine.’

‘How’s it going with Justin?’

‘Fine.’

She sounded unenthusiastic and he wondered why. Chang had been fast-tracked and had joined the team at the same rank as Donovan, although she wasn’t the sort to care about such things, and from what he’d seen Chang was easy-going, not the sort to create waves.

‘He’s a smart guy,’ he said, thinking of the hassle of getting Chang transferred in and his more than impressive C.V. ‘We’re lucky to have him.’

‘Yes.’ Again the tone was flat.

‘You OK?’

‘Just tired, that’s all.’

He nodded, deciding for the moment to take what she said at face value. ‘I know it’s late, but do you want to come in? May as well cook for two as one.’

‘Aren’t you knackered?’

‘I’ll revive in a bit. I must eat something before I sleep and it would be good to talk. I’ve barely seen you all day.’

‘OK. If you’re sure.’

He smiled. ‘Positive.’

At that hour, the street was lined on both sides with cars. Eventually she found a parking space a couple of streets away and they walked back together. It was a quiet, tree-lined area, close to the busy Shepherd’s Bush Road. The houses were Edwardian and wider than usual, with neat front gardens and hedges. Some had been divided into flats, but many were still family homes. Already most of the inhabitants were in bed, but as they turned the corner and neared his house, the music grew louder again along with the babble of voices.

‘Your next-door neighbours seem to be having a party,’ she said, as they walked up the short tiled path to the front door.

‘Yes. It usually goes on all weekend.’ He fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

‘I thought you had an old lady living next door with a nasty, yappy little dog. It gave me a fright more than once.’

‘Poor thing was deaf and blind,’ he said, finally finding the right key and letting them into the small communal hall, which he shared with the upstairs flat. ‘Somebody took pity on it and put it out of its misery. Rosa’s gone to live with her daughter in Portugal and they’ve rented out the house to a group of New Zealanders for the summer. They’re in their twenties and they’re basically in London to have fun. It’s a revolving cast, but from what I can tell there’s a hard core of about fifteen of them, plus friends camping on the floor. One poor sod was even sleeping in the garden shed for a while.’

‘They’re clearly big on hospitality.’

‘Yes. Reminds me of my student days.’ He picked up a couple of letters from the floor, unlocked the door to his flat and ushered her into the sitting room. The air was stuffy from the heat of the day and he drew back the wooden shutters and opened the large sash window as wide as it would go, letting in a pleasant breeze as well as the music.

‘Doesn’t it drive you mad?’

‘What?’

‘The noise. I’d find it difficult to think or read with all that going on.’

He shrugged. ‘I just tune it out and they’re really quite nice. Anyway, I’m not here enough for it to bother me.’

‘What about the woman upstairs? I thought she was quite pernickety.’

‘She’s away at the moment, luckily.’

He went around the room switching on various lights. Even in the heat of summer, it was a pleasant place to come home to, with bare white walls, wood flooring and a few pieces of modern furniture, mainly Italian, which he had spent time choosing when he had bought the flat several years before. He knew that many found his home too Spartan, particularly women, Donovan included. But it was the way he liked it and luckily he just had himself to please. The only decoration was a large black and white photograph from the early nineteen sixties of a young woman walking past a sun-drenched bar in a run-down quarter of Rome, which he had bought from a photographer friend of his father’s. The woman was lovely, in a natural, unconscious sort of way, frowning into the sun as she brushed a long lock of black hair from her face, unaware that she had been caught on camera. He often wondered what had happened to her, what sort of life she had led, where she was now. She looked so young and fresh in the photograph but she must be old enough to be his mother. His family had come originally from a little village near Rome and settled in the UK at the turn of the last century. He had been born and brought up in Edinburgh, but he still considered himself Italian and he particularly liked the image because it reminded him of his roots.

He took off his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair and turned to Donovan, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. ‘So, what do you fancy eating?’

‘I don’t mind. What is there?’

‘Can’t remember. You’d better come and take a look.’

She followed him down the narrow passage that led from the sitting room to the kitchen extension at the back. Like the rest of the flat, the space was modern, all stainless steel and wood, with a large, round glass table in one corner. Lights were on in the next-door garden and a large crowd of people were gathered on the other side of the dividing wall. Even with the windows shut, he could smell the smoke of a barbeque and it made him even hungrier.

He opened the freezer door and peered inside at the stack of cartons, which came from The Food Gallery, the best deli in Barnes.

‘That’s rich,’ Donovan said, peering over his shoulder. ‘You always make fun of me for my microwave dinners. Have you given up cooking?’

‘No. This is just for emergencies like tonight. What will it be? There’s Lamb Casserole, Malayan Chicken Curry, Green Thai Chicken, Lemon and Ginger Chicken, or Moussaka. Take your pick. There’s also some pesto my sister Nicoletta made last week. She gave me a couple of jars to bring back from holiday.’ He looked around at her. ‘We could have spaghetti al pesto, if you like.’

She frowned. ‘I thought you were diving with your cousin Alessandro?’

‘I was. I stayed with him in Milan then we drove down to Sicily together. But on the way home I spent a couple of nights with Nicoletta and the family. She and John have rented a house for two weeks on the coast, just south of Rome.’

She was looking at him inquiringly. ‘How was it?’

He shrugged, wondering why she was so interested. He saw a lot of his sister Nicoletta, her husband John and their two children, who lived in north London – too much he felt sometimes. He hadn’t been that keen on the idea of spending a few days of his precious holiday with them, but Nicoletta had made it clear he had no option. For the sake of peace he had gone along with it, as he usually did. He had no problem with the children, or with John, an intelligent, mild, self-effacing man, whom he genuinely liked irrespective of the family connection. But Nicoletta knew no boundaries, particularly where he, her younger, unmarried brother, was concerned. He went to their house for lunch most Sundays, which was more than enough to satisfy familial duty, he felt. Donovan had met them on a number of occasions, although he had made it clear to Nicoletta that there was nothing going on between them. ‘What a shame’, his sister had said pointedly more than once, as though she didn’t believe him and wanted to find out more, but he had refused to be drawn.

‘It was OK,’ he said. ‘She was trying to fix me up with one of her friends, as usual.’

‘And?’

He met her eye. However attractive some of Nicoletta’s friends were, it wasn’t bait worth taking. He would rather stay celibate. ‘And nothing. So, what do you want to eat?’

‘Whatever’s quickest and easiest.’

‘Spaghetti, then,’ he said, taking a small glass jar from the fridge. He peered inside, wondering what else to offer her. ‘I might even run to some rocket salad, if you’re lucky. Do you want a beer or a glass of wine? Or would you rather something soft?’

‘Wine please, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘No trouble at all. If you want red, help yourself to that bottle on the counter. I only opened it yesterday so it ought to be OK. Otherwise there’s some white in the fridge.’

‘Red’s fine.’

‘Pour me one while you’re at it. Wineglasses are over there.’ He gestured towards the row of shelves above the counter, which held a variety of plates, crockery and glasses. ‘I’ll put the water on.’

She removed the rubber stopper and poured two glasses, passing one to Tartaglia. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

He shook his head. ‘Go sit down and put your feet up. I’ll bring it in when it’s done.’

It wasn’t long before he had almost everything ready, carrying in forks, plates, a chunk of parmesan with a small grater, and a large bowl of dressed salad, which he put down on the coffee table in the sitting room.

‘The pasta will be ready in a few minutes. Why don’t you put on some music?’

‘Too much competition from next door. Besides, the music’s not bad, actually. They just played Dizzee Rascal.’

He gave her a pained look, before returning to the kitchen. His taste in music was relatively eclectic, but it stopped well short of commercial rap. The water was boiling hard. He stirred the spaghetti, looped out a strand and tested it. Almost done. He was pleased Donovan had decided to come in. Of late, he had felt as though some sort of an invisible barrier had sprung up between them, although he didn’t know why or what to do about it. He assumed something must be going on in her personal life, but as she didn’t appear to want to talk about it he had let it go until now. At the back of his mind, though, was another thought. ‘She’s keen on you, Marco,’ Nicoletta had once said. ‘Why don’t you . . .’ But he had stopped her. He had no desire to discuss anything personal with his sister. Whether it was Nicoletta’s overactive imagination, or Donovan actually was keen on him, he wasn’t sure. But he had little desire to find out. What would he say, when his own feelings towards her were unresolved, blown erratically here and there depending on his mood and whatever else he had going on in his life? At times he found her attractive, even to the point of thinking he should do something about it. More than once he had been sorely tempted, but something had always got in the way and the moment had been lost. Afterwards, he found himself grateful for the interruption. Whatever way he looked at it, it didn’t feel right. There was too much at stake. Occasionally, he felt a stab of what he assumed was jealousy when he thought she was seeing someone else, but he knew it wasn’t logical and felt doubly confused. Whatever lay beneath it all, it wasn’t sufficiently strong or pressing to risk what was more valuable to him than anything: her friendship. Some things were best left up in the air.

He tried the spaghetti again. Finding it perfectly
al dente
, he drained it, poured it into a large terracotta bowl and added the pesto, stirring it around and around until it was evenly mixed then sampled a small forkful. It was delicious, the flavour of the basil more concentrated and peppery than any the UK could ever produce. He also liked the way Nicoletta always used a hint of chilli to add depth. He added a little more pesto until it was exactly the way he wanted it, then carried the bowl into the living room and put it down with everything else on the coffee table. ‘Ah, I love basil,’ Donovan said, breathing in the pungent aroma.

‘Me too. You can just smell the sun.’

They helped themselves and sat down, Donovan on the sofa, Tartaglia opposite, pulling up a black leather chair.

‘So, what do you think so far?’ she asked, when they had both nearly finished.

He looked at her questioningly. ‘Do you really want to talk about the case?’ He had been hoping that with the benefit of some wine and food, she might be tempted to open up about whatever was niggling her.

‘Yes, if you don’t mind. I find it baffling.’

‘You’re not the only one.’

‘Well?’

He finished the last few mouthfuls and put down his plate, relaxing back into his chair. If she didn’t want to talk about herself, he knew better than to push. ‘OK. The gap in the time-line bothers me for starters. Logan just walks out into a sunny summer’s evening with his bicycle and is never seen alive again. He isn’t due to meet Anna Paget until seven-thirty, so where was he going? That’s two and a half hours unaccounted for. Who was he meeting? There was nothing in his diary. How and where did he encounter his killer?’

‘It could be something really simple. Maybe he was going to do some shopping, or stopped off at a bookshop, or had a cup of coffee or a drink, on the way to meeting Anna. I always have a book or my iPod in my bag in case I’ve time to kill.’

He shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible. His photo’s all over the papers so maybe someone will remember him.’

‘Perhaps he met the killer by chance.’

He shook his head. ‘Whatever happened, it was deliberate, even if it didn’t look that way to Logan. Don’t forget the camera in the Brompton Cemetery was disabled two days before, which was probably when the padlock on the gate was substituted. It was all carefully planned.’

‘Then maybe the killer followed him from the boat.’

‘That’s more likely, but we know Logan left the boat of his own accord. So, how and where was he abducted, if that’s what happened? Or did he go willingly? Was it someone he knew? We’ve got to trace his movements somehow and fill in that gap.’