Evil in Return (16 page)

Going through all of Logan’s things, looking at his clothes, his books and other personal items, had added some colour to the voice that came through so clearly in his novel. She had been surprised to find how much she had been enjoying it until car-sickness kicked in on the journey back from Dorset. As well as a simple, forthright style, he had a keen sense of observation and irony, and the main characters came alive on the page. But the emotion that came through the clearest was guilt. It seemed very real. Everybody they had talked to had played down the autobiographical side of it, but having read it now, she was less sure. The modern-day part, starting with the funeral and focusing on the complex relationship between the five friends, had more than a ring of truth, as did the flashbacks to the time they were all at university together. Logan had changed the name of the university town, but it was easily recognisable as Bristol. It made her wonder how much else was true.

She took her wine back into the sitting room and sank down into an armchair.

‘I suppose you’re working?’ Claire asked.

She nodded. ‘It’s all go at the moment, although we seem to be making some progress. It turns out the murder victim was at Bristol. I wondered if you knew him. He’s a couple of years older than you but I was hoping your paths might have crossed. He read English and Drama.’

‘The name doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry. Why so interested in where he went to university?’

‘I’ve been reading his book
Indian Summer
. Part of it is set in Bristol when he was a student. It seems very real.’

‘Any good?’

‘Yes. It’s actually quite intriguing.’

‘Perhaps I should borrow it when you finish. How old was he?’

‘Thirty-eight.’

‘It’s just possible we overlapped, but the university buildings are spread out all over the place and the English and Drama departments are nowhere near the Law faculty. Unless we had friends in common, I probably wouldn’t ever have come across him.’

‘We don’t know who his friends were, that’s one of the problems. It’s something we need to find out. I’m particularly interested because of the book.’

‘You should contact the university. I’m sure there’s a website for alumni. You could try putting an ad in and see if anyone remembers him.’

20

It was nearly one in the morning by the time Alex left the restaurant. He was exhausted, barely able to stand by the end of the shift. On the plus side, the restaurant had been more or less full all evening and working flat out had helped take his mind off things. All he could think about was Joe and Paul and the few words he had exchanged with Danny earlier on. The conversation with Tim had been less than satisfying. It was all very well for Tim to tell him not to panic. Had Tim sent the emails? But if so, what was the point? Tim never did anything that wasn’t carefully thought through from start to finish and the rationale wasn’t clear. It was more likely to be Danny and he hoped Tim had been able to get hold of him. In his most paranoid moments that night – on his own in the men’s, accompanied by some vodka that he had stashed away – Alex wondered if either Tim or Danny was capable of murder, deciding to silence the rest of them after all those years. Tim stood to gain the most by getting rid of them all. No more skeletons in the cupboard to rattle at an inconvenient moment while he made his way up the greasy pole. But he’d known Tim for most of his life and the thought was so unpleasant, so unrealistic, he forced it from his mind. Whoever it was, it dawned on him that he wasn’t safe either, possibly none of them were.

Wrapped in the cocoon of his thoughts, the journey home from the restaurant on the tube passed without notice. He almost forgot to get out at Kensal Green. From the station, he cut through the backstreets and turned down Chamberlayne Road towards home. He was about to cross the road, when a car raced around the corner, causing another car to swerve, and skidded to a halt in the middle of the next block of shops. Two men jumped out. One remained by the car, while the other ran up to a door and rang a bell. The car was unmarked, but he was sure it was the police. It also looked like they had gone to Paddy’s flat, which was over a drycleaner’s, recognisable even from a distance by its striped awning. Alex stopped in the shadow of a bus shelter and watched. After banging on Paddy’s door, the man stepped back and stood looking up at the first floor window. Under the orange glow from the street lamp, his face was clearly visible and Alex recognised him. It was Minderedes. The lights upstairs were off. Either Paddy was in bed and refusing to come to the door or, more likely, he was out again for the night. The two men stood craning their heads upwards, as though they didn’t believe the flat was empty. Unless they broke down the door, they were in for a long wait. Paddy wouldn’t be back until morning.

Hunching his shoulders, hands in his pockets, he turned and walked back towards the tube, not daring to look around, any moment expecting to hear the thud of footsteps behind him. He had to find somewhere safe for the night. He didn’t trust using his phone and went back into the tube station where he found a call box in working order. Although it was late, Tim was an insomniac at the best of times, and even more so when he had a big case on the boil. Alex was sure he would still be working, poring over papers in his study.

He dialled Tim’s number, which he knew by heart, and Tim picked up immediately.

‘It’s Alex. We’ve got to talk.’

‘Are you drunk? Do you know what time this is?’

‘I’m not drunk and don’t pretend you were asleep.’

‘I’m working. What is it you want?’

Alex explained what had just happened. ‘Thanks to you telling me not to talk to the police, I now seem to be the chief suspect.’

‘You mustn’t speak to them.’

‘So you keep saying. I need somewhere to stay, at least for tonight, until I work out what to do.’

‘Well, you can’t stay here. Why don’t you go and find a hotel?’

‘I haven’t got any money on me, I obviously can’t go home to get some, and I don’t want to use a credit card. They might trace me.’

Tim sighed. ‘You think you’re bloody Jason Bourne now, do you?’

‘Look, they found me somehow. I just need a bit of time, that’s all, and we’ve got to talk. Did you manage to get hold of Danny?’

‘Yes. He’s coming over here tomorrow morning.’

‘Good. That’s another reason for you to put me up. It’s either that, or I hand myself in.’

‘Are you going to be OK?’ Tartaglia asked, coming back into the room.

‘I’m fine now, thanks,’ Gerachty said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Don’t know what came over me.’

He wasn’t deceived. She looked uncharacteristically shaky and washed out beneath what was left of her make-up. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, even though he could see that his concern wasn’t welcome.

‘Positive, although my head hurts. I think I must have banged it on a chair when I fell.’

They were in Browne’s office in the basement of the Westminster building, Gerachty sitting in Browne’s battered old chair sipping some brandy that the pathologist kept in her drawer for such emergencies. The post mortem on Paul Khan was still going on in a room along the corridor, but Browne had nearly finished and he had thought it safe to leave and see how Gerachty was doing.

He and Gerachty had been watching the proceedings from behind the glass wall, Gerachty sitting beside him ramrod straight, as though at a parade. They could hear Browne’s comments to her assistant over the two-way speaker system, and could make comments of their own if they chose to. Gerachty had said nothing, which he thought a little strange, and the preliminaries had just finished, when he heard a sound and saw Gerachty slip to the floor at his feet. Most people he had come across felt queasy at their first post mortem, some threw up, and some, like Gerachty, fainted. He had seen even the biggest, toughest, ex rugby-playing constable reduced to a mass of jelly on the lino with the first cut or buzz of the saw, and everyone accepted it as par for the course. But Gerachty seemed to mind more than most.

‘I guess you think I’m a right prat now,’ she said bitterly.

He shook his head, wishing that she wouldn’t be so hard on herself. ‘It happens to the best of us, honest.’

‘What, even you?’

‘Yes. Even me.’

‘You’re just saying that.’

‘The first few times, I didn’t faint, but I well and truly puked. Didn’t matter whether I’d had anything to eat or not and you can imagine the jokes that went around. Someone even stuck one of those airline sick bags to my computer with my name written on it. Trust me, it’s ten times worse if you’re a bloke.’

She gave him a hard look, as if she didn’t see the difference. ‘I really thought I was going to be OK, but the smell when we arrived . . . Jesus, it turned my stomach. Then I was sitting there trying not to think about what was going on in front of me and suddenly the room starts to swim. Next thing I know, well, you’re carrying me in here.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I didn’t . . .’

He smiled, wondering what she was worrying about. ‘You didn’t do anything. You were out cold and light as a feather, so don’t worry.’

‘Did anyone—’

‘Nobody saw what happened except me and I promise I won’t tell a soul.’

She looked relieved. ‘Thanks.’ She took a slug of brandy. ‘I suppose you know it’s my first post mortem.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s also my first homicide.’

‘I gathered that too.’

‘I was in vice before.’ She held the glass up to him. ‘Cheers. This brandy’s not at all bad, you know. It’s making me feel a whole lot better.’

‘That’s what it’s for.’ He realised, looking at the bottle sitting on Browne’s desk, that she’d had quite a bit of it since he’d left her on her own, but at least it was softening the edges nicely. ‘Arabella’s just wrapping things up now, so I can see you home, if you like.’

‘I’ll be fine. If we’re done here I’ll go and find a cab.’

‘I’ll come upstairs with you, then.’

As she got to her feet, she was still a little shaky and he supported her with his hand and picked up her bag for her. ‘Thanks. I can take it from here.’ She turned to the little mirror on the wall and smoothed down her hair. ‘Well, now I’ve no secrets any longer, I can honestly say you’re not at all as bad as I was led to believe.’ She caught his eye in the mirror, then rubbed a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

‘I’m delighted to hear it. And what exactly were you led to believe?’

She waved him away with her hand. ‘Oh, you really don’t want to know.’

‘Yes I do.’

She smiled and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You won’t hold it against me?’

‘I promise.’

She turned to face him. ‘Well, just that you’re one cocky bastard, that you think you’re God’s gift, that you have DCI Steele in the palm of your hand, that she’s sleeping with the Chief Super and . . .’

‘Is that all? I’m surprised they didn’t tell you I’m sleeping my way to the top too.’

‘They left that bit out, but I can see it now,’ she said, walking a little unsteadily out the door into the corridor.

He followed. ‘You should know not to listen to office gossip. It’s rarely accurate.’

‘You’re right. They’re clearly badly informed and I’ll ditch my source. It’s obviously a case of very sour grapes.’ They were half way up the stairs, when she stopped on the landing and turned to look at him. ‘I’m really bitter to be losing this case, you know.’

‘It hasn’t happened yet. It’s not a done deal.’

‘No, but it will be. The writing’s on the wall. The post mortem’s the clincher, even I can see that, and it’s the most logical thing to do, if logic comes into it, which it should.’ She started slowly up the stairs again. ‘I don’t mind so much, now I’ve met you. I know you’ll do a good job.’

‘Thanks.’

Again she stopped. This time she held out her hand. ‘Truce?’

He shook it and nodded. ‘Truce. Now, let’s go and find you a cab.’

21

The next morning, Tartaglia yawned and drew back the bedroom shutters. Momentarily dazzled by the brightness, he gazed up at the sky. It was a bright, limpid blue, with not a cloud to be seen. He had only had a few hours’ sleep and his head felt thick, as though he had taken a sleeping pill. Most Saturday mornings he would go for a run, but it was already nearly seven. The morning briefing was at eight and he needed to pick up some papers before his meeting with Angela Harper. He showered, made a pot of strong coffee and heated up a little milk. When it was ready, he filled a large breakfast cup, opened the back door and went outside. All was quiet next door, which wasn’t surprising, given that the music hadn’t stopped until about three that morning. He had got home from the post mortem just after two and had fallen asleep almost straight away. He was amazed that none of the neighbours had complained. Maybe, like him, they had more important things to worry about.

The air was still cool and fresh and he sat down at the small garden table, put his bare feet up on another chair and lit a cigarette. He leant back, his face full in the sun, closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the birds. He was dozing, imagining himself by the sea again in southern Italy, sand between his toes, the water lapping at his feet, when he was jolted by a noise just over the wall in the next door garden. It sounded like someone yawning, followed by a series of heavy, drawn-out sighs, as though they were stretching. He opened his eyes and saw the face of a young woman with curly, butter-blonde hair peering through a gap in the trellis that ran along the top of the wall.

‘Hiya,’ she said sleepily, followed by another yawn. ‘Thought I could smell someone smoking. Can you spare a ciggie?’

‘Sure.’ He didn’t recognise her but that meant nothing. He got to his feet, suddenly aware of the fact that he had nothing more than a small towel around his middle. It was one of those funny things about smoking, he thought, as he handed her the Marlboros and his lighter. You could be sitting almost anywhere, enjoying a cigarette, and a total stranger would come along and think nothing of asking for one. And often, before you knew it, they were telling you their life story. He had heard from his sister that walking a dog had the same effect.

‘Good party?’ he asked, as she fumbled with the lighter, fingers trembling.

‘Not bad. Haven’t had a Red for years. Everyone smokes Lights these days.’

‘Lights have no taste.’

‘I suppose, but I get dizzy on these things, they’re so strong. At least it’ll get me going, and I sure need it.’ She finally lit one and, eyes narrowed, took a deep draught then handed him back the pack and lighter. ‘That’s better. We ran out last night and I haven’t the energy to go to the shops. I’m Christy, by the way.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m a friend of Becs and Janelle. I’m just staying for a few days.’

‘I’m Mark. I live here. You’ve got some stuff in your hair.’

Frowning, she combed her fingers through it and pulled out a collection of dried grass and leaves. She smiled. ‘I fell asleep. Most people had gone, at least the ones that were going, and I was lying on the ground looking up at the stars and listening to the music. Next thing I know it’s morning and the birds are making a right din. I’m thinking it’s all a bit bright and I should go inside, then I smell your cigarette. It was a great wake-up call. Thank goodness it’s Sunday and I don’t have to go to work.’

‘It’s Saturday.’

She shrugged. ‘Same thing.’

‘Well, sadly I have to work and I’d better be getting on.’

‘Is that coffee?’ she asked, as he picked up his half drunk cup, which was probably cold.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have any more? My head’s really killing me. I was thinking of making some but there’s no milk – someone drank it all last night – and no coffee either, come to that.’

She looked so helpless and wrecked he decided to take pity on her. ‘OK. You’re welcome to what’s left, although it’s probably cold.’

‘No worries. Anything’s better than nothing.’

He went into the kitchen and poured out what was left of the coffee and milk into another large cup. When he took it outside, she was leaning limply on the wall with her face turned to the sun, eyes screwed shut.

‘Here you go.’

‘Ah thanks. You’re a star.’

As she took the cup, he heard his mobile ringing in the kitchen. ‘Just leave it on the wall when you’re done,’ he said.

‘Thanks again,’ she called out behind him as he sprinted inside. He picked up on the last ring just before it went through to voicemail and heard Gerachty’s voice.

‘Are you in the office?’ As usual, she got straight to the point, not bothering with a greeting. She sounded surprisingly bright and brisk.

‘No, but I’m on my way.’

‘It’s funny. I had you down as a morning person. Early bird catches the worm and all that.’

‘Usually I am. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.’

‘Glad to hear it, because I’ve got a present for you and you’ll need your full faculties. I’m emailing it over to you now. It’s going to make your day.’ He could hear the triumph in her voice. She hung up before he could ask her what it was and he shook his head, amused. Even after what she had said last night, she couldn’t help notching up a point.

There was next to no traffic at that hour and the ride from his flat to the office in Barnes took less than ten minutes. They shared the low-built Seventies block with a branch of the Flying Squad and a child protection unit. Parking spaces in the small car park at the back of the building were usually at a premium and hotly contested, but on a Saturday it was more than half empty. The only people working were those with a pressing case, on overtime. He parked the Ducati by the wall and jogged up the stairs to the first floor. Most of the team were already in, ready for the briefing in the main office at eight, but first he wanted to read what Gerachty had sent. He sat down at his computer, logged on and clicked open the email:

Hi there hot shot, our guys found this on Paul Khan’s computer. We thought it was spam at first. Not at all sure what it means but it’s along the same lines as the one you gave me. The email address is the same too. Nice stuff, eh? They must be crazy, although you knew that already. BTW, we’ve just sent the scans of the phone records over to your constable. Let me know if you get a hit. No doubt we’ll speak soon. Looks like I’ll be handing this one over to you, if you’re fool enough to want it. Kate.

From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Catch up
Date: 15 July 2010 19:07:54 GMT
To: [email protected]

gilded oars. Magdalen Coll. Oxford 1912. He raises the candle high so she can see. The coat of arms and faded letters shine in the guttering light, proclaiming the names of the dead and long-forgotten. To impress, He recites: ‘When the white flame in us is gone, and we that lost the world’s delight stiffen in darkness, left alone to crumble in our separate night. When your swift hair is quiet in death, and through the lips corruption thrust has stilled the labour of my breath. When we are dust. When we are dust.’ She doesn’t hear him. Stupidly, transfixed she imagines the glory of another age. The would-be poet pours another glass of wine and spreads his jacket on the damp wooden floor. The smell of decay rises up like incense in the

Like the previous email, it made little sense and began and ended in mid-sentence. He wondered what the point was, and read the lines over several times. But, apart from the obvious mention of oars and what seemed to be a boathouse and the link to where Paul Khan’s body had been found, nothing else struck him. He gathered together the necessary papers for his meeting with Harper and left for the eight o’clock briefing.

Since he had last seen Angela Harper she had moved from Wimbledon to a small house in Putney. It was only ten minutes on foot from the office, across the Common, and he set off in good time, enjoying the walk. The large expanse of dry, open grassland was punctuated with areas of dense woodland and scrub. Avoiding the roads, he chose a path that cut through the middle, which was surprisingly busy at that time of day, being a popular route for joggers and dog-walkers. The grass on either side was long and had turned brown from the lack of rain. It was only a little after nine, but the sun was already strong and he could feel the sweat prickle the back of his neck.

Many of his colleagues viewed profiling as an arcane science, with profilers either held in awe or ridiculed, depending on their successes or failures. His own take on it was different. He was sceptical about profiling in general terms: it depended entirely on the quality of the individual. ‘Rubbish in’ equalled ‘rubbish out’ and profilers were not all born equal. As in every profession, there was a huge range of ability as well as experience and, in his view, only a small number were genuinely talented. In many ways, it was as much an art as a science and the truly gifted had a special insight or instinctive understanding that probably couldn’t be taught. Harper was one of those few. He had worked with her before, both in an official and unofficial capacity, and each time she had managed to add a perspective that had been both different and invaluable. On top of everything, he liked her. While the basics of psychological profiling were not rocket science and any experienced detective could reach the same general conclusions, none of them could get under the skin of the mentally warped in the way that someone with Harper’s background was used to doing.

By the time he arrived on her doorstep, his shirt was sticking to his back.

‘Come in, Mark,’ she said, giving him a quick peck on each cheek. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on. Do you fancy a cup of tea?’ She had a pleasant northern accent, although she had lived in London for years. She was dressed in jeans and a loose, sleeveless blue linen shirt. Judging from the pair of dirty rubber and canvas gloves in her hand, she had been gardening. Since he last saw her, she had cut her prematurely grey hair short, like a boy’s. He decided that it suited her broad, strong-boned face, as did the slick of dark red lipstick, which she usually wore at all times of the day or night.

‘A glass of water, please, with ice, if it’s not too much trouble,’ he replied, following her into the small, book-lined sitting room at the front. He had never understood the attraction of a cup of tea when it was so hot, but maybe that was his Italian blood coming out. ‘I needed the walk, but it’s boiling out there.’ He wiped his brow with his hand and sat down on the sofa next to a large tabby cat, which was tightly curled up asleep on one of the cushions.

‘Move Tigger if you want. He’s the best hot water bottle when it’s cold, but not what you need on a day like this.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m fine with cats and I don’t think he’d like being disturbed.’

‘You look very brown. Have you been away somewhere nice?’

‘Sicily. It was over forty degrees, but at least I was in the water most of the time. You’ve caught the sun too.’

‘Sadly, just in the back garden, I haven’t had time to go away. I’ll be back in a minute.’

He was just thinking that the room was a carbon copy of the one in her previous house, even down to the bright yellow paint and earthenware pots, which Harper liked to make in her spare time, when she reappeared with a mug of strong tea for herself and water for him.

‘So what can I do for you this time?’ she asked, sitting down in a large armchair opposite him and putting her sandalled feet up on a stool.

He explained about the two murders and showed her copies of the emails, photographs of Logan and Khan’s bodies as they had been found at the dumpsites, and the summary of the post mortem report on Logan. He then ran through the key points that had come out of Khan’s post mortem the night before. When he had finished, she drained her mug and put it down on the floor by her chair.

‘I agree with you, it’s not at all clear-cut, although it’s far too early to come to any meaningful conclusions. However, I may be able to give you something that helps. Do you mind if I run through my thoughts out loud for a moment?’

‘Please.’

‘Chip in when you feel like it.’ She stretched back and put her hands behind her head. ‘Let’s start with the first murder, as we know more about it. What’s the crime telling us? The first thing is that the victim, Joe Logan, wasn’t picked at random, he was selected. When was the CCTV camera at the cemetery knocked out?’

‘A couple of days beforehand.’

‘OK. The location was chosen in advance and I think it’s very likely he’ll have made some dummy runs. Have you checked the footage?’

‘Yes, but the chip only has enough memory for fifteen days, then it re-writes. Apart from when he lets himself in and sprays the camera, there’s nothing suspicious.’

‘It’s possible the killer knew how long the chip lasted and it’s worth checking to see if anyone working there remembers someone asking about it. If not, I don’t see him waiting fifteen days or more between the recce and taking out the camera. It’s too long.’

‘You mean, too risky?’

‘Yes. This sort of person likes everything to run like a well-oiled machine. Too much can happen in fifteen days. To my mind, it will be more like two or three at most. I’d suggest you go back and look at the tape again. He’ll probably have gone there in daylight, so as not to draw attention to himself. This guy is good at what he does. He may look quite innocent to one of your people watching the film.’

He nodded. Things were often missed and they would check again, although unless the killer had done anything outwardly suspicious, it would be difficult to spot him among the many people who used the cemetery. It would be more useful once they had a possible suspect.

‘Next point, in no particular order, Joe Logan and Paul Khan were tortured. But this is not somebody playing out their sadistic little fantasies, like the last individual you came to see me about. Here the torture is just a means to an end. The victims have something the killer wants. Going on what you’ve told me about Logan and Khan’s backgrounds, I’m assuming it’s more in the line of information, rather than something of physical value, like money or drugs.’