Jigsaw Man (13 page)

Steele crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in her chair. ‘So, Sam, what
can I do for you?'

‘I want to know what's going on. Is there any news?'

Steele shook her head slowly. ‘Sam, I'm really not sure I—'

‘Please. I'm feeling a lot more together now, and I need to know what's happened.
I don't want to have to read about it in dribs and drabs in the papers.' She looked
into Steele's strange yellowy-green eyes, willing her to give a little.

For a while Steele said nothing, looking at her equally intently, as though trying
to read her thoughts. The only sound in the room was the machine-gun popping and
whizzing of fireworks coming from outside. Eventually Steele sighed. ‘I can understand
where you're coming from, Sam, and I guess in your shoes I'd want the same thing.
But if I fill you in, will you be able to leave it there? I don't think so. You'll
want to be a part of what's going on and you can't be. I know it sounds harsh, particularly
after what's happened, but you've left this world behind.'

‘I know, but Claire's my sister. I promise not to get in the way. I just want to
feel in touch. Not shut out. Do you understand? It's horrible being in the dark.'

Again Steele was silent, her eyes still on Donovan.

‘Please,' Donovan said. She felt it was her last chance.

Still looking intently at Donovan, Steele put her head to one side and scratched
her lip thoughtfully. ‘If I give you some info, do you promise to leave it alone?'

‘Of course.'

‘You
must
stay out of things, you understand?'

‘Yes.'

‘You were a good detective and I wish you were still working for me now, but you
will have to keep your detecting instincts under lock and key. You're not part of
this investigation. Is that understood?'

‘Yes. Yes, I will.'

‘Alright. And this is not to go further than this room.' She waited until Donovan
nodded her assent before continuing. ‘From the little we've been able to piece together
from Claire's emails and what her phone provider has given us, she was having some
sort of an affair with this man – the man she went to meet in the hotel. It appears
that they met by chance and it all started up quite recently, only a few months ago.'

‘When exactly?'

‘The first text from her is a thank-you for lunch. It was sent on the twenty-ninth
of August.'

Donovan thought back. The date meant nothing, but she would look in her diary. She'd
been in Bristol at that time, trying to sort out digs and other things in preparation
for the academic year ahead. She had barely seen her sister, and when she had it
had been pretty rushed. She noted that Steele had left out the details of exactly
where and how Claire had met the man, and hadn't mentioned the flowers he had sent
her. Did she think it was unimportant, or had she decided to give Donovan just the
very bare bones? Probably the latter, but if she asked about it and let on that she
had spoken to Nicola, the
shutters would come down and Steele wouldn't tell her anything
more.

‘Can you trace him from the texts and emails?' she asked.

‘I was coming to that. He told her he lived in Manchester, but the address he gave
at the hotel is false, as, I'm sure, is the name Robert Herring. The phone chip he
used is untraceable. However, both the emails he sent her and the calls he made to
her, came from in and around the London area. West London, to be more precise.'

‘So, he lied. There's a surprise.' She felt a surge of anger and tears flooded her
eyes. She wiped them away quickly with her sleeve, but they kept coming.

Steele got up and went over to her desk. She opened one of the drawers, took out
a bottle of Rémy Martin and a glass and poured a large measure.

‘Here,' she said, coming back to where Donovan sat. ‘This should help.' She passed
her the glass, together with a box of tissues, then sat down again. ‘Are you sure
you want to hear this, Sam? We can save it for another time if you like.'

Donovan blew her nose forcefully and took a slug of brandy. It caught on the back
of her throat, making her cough, but the instant warmth felt good. ‘It's OK. I'll
be fine. Please go on.'

‘There's no identifiable geographic pattern, unfortunately.'

‘As though he knew someone might look for it.'

‘Maybe. That email address and phone chip were only used for contacting your sister,
nobody else.'

‘So you're suggesting he did this deliberately?'

‘It's looking that way.'

‘But why?'

‘It could be a simple explanation. He's married, or lives with someone. Whether he
meant to kill her, or just deceive her, is
another matter. It's very possible things
just got out of hand in the hotel room.'

‘Do you believe that?'

There was a momentary pause before Steele replied. ‘Difficult to tell at the moment.
There are a number of conflicting possibilities. Say he's married, wants a bit of
fun on the side, a bit of romance. He gets himself a throwaway phone and an email
address and tells her he lives out of London to explain why he's not always available.
According to the texts between them, they met several times and had had dinner twice
before. Your sister books the room, thinking she's in for a lovely, romantic evening,
then something goes wrong. There's an almighty fight. He ends up killing her and
then he legs it, just before one in the morning.'

‘But you must have found his DNA, surely?'

Steele shrugged. ‘It's a hotel, and the room's been occupied more or less without
a break ever since the hotel opened a few months ago. There's no sign of sexual contact,
if that's what you're getting at . . .'

Donovan frowned, trying to think it all through. What had Claire been doing there?

‘Maybe he's a client or a business contact . . .'

Even as she spoke she remembered what Nicola had told her and realised her error,
unless of course Claire had lied to Nicola. But why would she? Claire could have
explained away the flowers any number of ways. If only she could get rid of the fog
in her brain, maybe things would become clearer. She took another large sip of the
brandy, letting it warm in her mouth before swallowing. No sexual contact. What was
the point of the hotel room then?

‘That's very odd,' she said after a moment, as dispassionately as possible. Steele
looked at her and said nothing. ‘I mean,'
Donovan continued, ‘what man would lure
a woman up to a hotel room if he didn't want sex?'

‘I agree. Maybe things got out of hand very quickly and there wasn't the chance.'

‘There's another way of looking at it,' Donovan said, after a moment. ‘Maybe from
the outset he meant to kill her.'

‘OK, but if that's what he wanted, why go to so much trouble? If he wanted her dead,
there must be so many easier ways to do it. And, anyway, why would he want her dead?
He's not some ex-lover gone berserk, she barely knew him. The texts from both of
them make it all very clear. We've checked the system and there's no record of anything
similar happening anywhere else in the country, which is why I feel that, for some
reason, it all went pear-shaped up in the hotel room.'

Steele spoke in her usual quick, clipped manner. She seemed to be talking frankly,
but Donovan was sure it was an edited version. The strange, little, quirky details
were missing. They were what mattered, what made all the difference, but there was
probably no way of prising them out of her. Donovan decided to crosscheck everything
Steele was saying with Tartaglia later. Maybe she could also use what she had learned
as a lever to persuade him to be more open.

A series of loud explosions shattered the quiet and the sky through the window was
filled with another burst of multi-coloured light. She folded her arms and sat watching
the arching trails of green and red mingled with gold. Shimmering splashes of white
stars, like giant sunflowers, took their place, accompanied by more explosions. She
needed to go home, get some sleep and think it all through again in the morning.
Hopefully, the mist would lift and she'd be able to see clearly once more.

* * *

Tartaglia pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and started to unpack the contents of
Chapman's rucksack, which he'd laid out on a plastic sheet on the floor of his office.
Chang sat beside him making an inventory.

‘One pair blue denim GAP jeans size forty, one pair Primark navy tracksuit bottoms
size XXL, one pair black Adidas shorts XXL, one pair Nike trainers size forty-eight
and a half—'

‘Forty-eight and a
half
?' Chang exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell! Didn't know they made them
that big.'

‘Goes with the rest of him,' Tartaglia replied. ‘You've seen the photos. He could
have given Shrek a run for his money. One wash bag containing toothbrush, razor,
Lynx Africa body spray . . .'

The list went on, a collection of unremarkable personal items and clothes, most well-worn
and in need of a good wash, no items of any value other than a very scratched iPod.
The side pockets yielded little of interest until he found a pocket inside another
pocket, which was zipped shut and held together with a small combination padlock.
They broke it open and found Finnigan's passport (expired) inside, along with just
over two thousand pounds in cash, a very sharp knife with a retractable blade and
a bundle of letters rolled up and held together with a rubber band. Tartaglia unfurled
them and began quickly skimming through the contents of the various envelopes. A
couple of letters and postcards were signed by Chapman, with a few from one of Finnigan's
children, as well as a birthday card and a bunch of letters from his mother, sent
from an address in Nottingham. Reading the letters, a mother's blind, unwavering
love came through loud and clear: in spite of everything, Finnigan had been her blue-eyed
boy. They would have to organise someone from the local force to go and see her as
soon as possible in order to break the news of her son's death.

In amongst the pile, he found a letter from a woman called Tatyana. Written on cheap
lined paper, the sort found in any local newsagent, the English was poor and the
handwriting childlike. It revealed nothing about how they had met, but she talked
about having been to see Finnigan in prison and ‘liking very much' what she saw.
The gist of it was that she couldn't wait for him to get out and that she was going
to send him some ‘very special pictures' of herself. He hadn't come across any photos
in the bag, so either Finnigan had got rid of them or carried them with him, possibly
in his wallet. It seemed very likely that she was the woman he had gone to meet.
There was no address on the letterhead, just a date a few weeks before Finnigan was
released from jail. The date corresponded to the postmark on the envelope, which
showed that the letter had been posted in South West London.

‘Call the prison. She will have had to produce ID and a proof of address to see him.
I'll carry on here until you're done.'

While Chang went off to make the call in the next-door office, Tartaglia finished
unpacking the rest of Finnigan's possessions. When he was sure there was nothing
else of any interest, he began folding up the clothes and putting them back carefully
in the bag with the other items. Finnigan's mother would probably want her son's
things. He was just finishing the last few entries on the inventory when Steele poked
her head around the door.

‘Busy?'

‘Yes. Justin's gone to make a call. With any luck, we may have found one of the last
people to see Jake Finnigan alive.'

‘OK. I'll get someone else to run Sam back to your flat, then.'

‘Sam?'

‘Yes, she's in my office. She wanted to know a bit more about what happened to Claire.
I could see she wasn't going to give
up on it so I gave her the basics. I just left
out the material details. In case she asks you when you see her later, I'll fill
you in before you leave.'

As she disappeared from view, Chang came back into the room. ‘She's called Tatyana
Kuznetsova and she lives in Kilburn. I've got the address. Do you want to go over
there now?'

‘No. I've got things to do. Call the local station, see if you can get an interview
room, then you and Nick bring her in. I want to make this formal. When you're there
with her, call me.'

Fourteen

Katy Perry's ‘Firework' blared from loudspeakers as the last straggling tail of the
procession pushed through the gateway at the top of the sports fields. Dressed for
the cold, most still carried lighted torches and sparklers from the walk down the
high street. They mingled with the rest of the crowd, already collected in huddled
groups around the various food vans. Josh scanned their faces for Alfie and Ben,
but there was no sign of them. Their mum was always running late. He just hoped they'd
get there in time for the fireworks.

The voice of the announcer cut through the music.

‘We'll be lighting the bonfire any minute now. Make sure you stand well back behind
the tape. Fireworks start in half an hour.'

The crowd swarmed across the pitch and down the adjoining field towards the dark
row of trees. Josh ran forwards, trainers slipping in the mud as he threaded his
way as quickly as he could to where the giant tepee of wood stood at the bottom of
the slope, near the stream. He eventually managed to push his way through to a place
at the front by the rope, next to a group of teenage girls eating hotdogs. The smell
of fried onions and ketchup made him feel hungry and he wondered what he'd be having
for his tea. His breath made a cloud on the icy air and he hugged himself, tucking
his hands under his armpits as he stamped his feet, trying to get some warmth into
his toes. He gazed up at the bonfire. It was way bigger than last year's, made up
of all sorts of things, from what
he could see in the dim torchlight: planks, branches,
pieces of furniture, and the gaps at the base stuffed with twigs and scrunched up
newspaper. Looking up, he could just make out the bulky shape of the Guy, sitting
like a king on top of it all, in an old red armchair.