Jigsaw Man (19 page)

‘Do you remember her name?'

‘I think it was Jane, or June, but I'm not a hundred per cent sure. I never met her
but he pointed the house out to me several times. It's one of the big detached ones,
a little way down Castelnau on the right if you're heading towards the bridge. You
can't miss it. It's got a bright-pink front door. All very sixties, he said.'

‘Apart from gardening, did he have any other hobbies or interests?'

‘He was a keen photographer. He'd often disappear off for the whole day on his bike
with his camera. He took it with him everywhere. He loved the river, and all the
wonderful old parts of London.'

‘Do you still have his photos somewhere? They might give us an idea of where he went
during the few weeks before he disappeared.'

‘They're backed up on an external drive, with his laptop. I put them in a storage
box under his bed when I had a friend to stay.'

‘I'll take them away and have them copied. I'll also need any cameras he was using,
just in case he hadn't downloaded all the files.'

‘He just had a little Pentax. My brother brought it back from a trip to Hong Kong
for Dad's sixtieth. We were trying to persuade him to embrace modern technology
and go digital. I've looked for it everywhere, but I can't find it. I guess he must've
had it with him the day he disappeared.'

There had been no mention of the missing camera in the report, as far as Tartaglia
could remember, and he wondered how many other little, seemingly unimportant details
had been overlooked. ‘Did he use the camera on his phone at all?'

‘No. He said the camera was crap. He usually had the Pentax in his pocket or his
backpack.'

‘You said his backpack's missing?'

‘Yes. I guess that's why the police thought he'd gone off on a trip somewhere, as
if he'd do that sort of thing without telling me.'

‘OK, thanks. Do the names Richard English or Jake Finnigan mean anything to you?'

She shook her head, no flicker of recognition in her eyes. ‘Should they?'

‘Possibly not. Would you mind taking a look at a couple of photos and telling me
if either of these two men looks familiar?' He held up photographs of English and
Finnigan for her to see, but again there was no reaction and she quickly shook her
head. ‘What about this image?' He showed her the E-FIT of the man who had approached
Tatyana Kuznetsova.

‘No. Sorry.'

‘Before I go, can you think of anybody who might have borne your father a grudge,
however stupid or trivial it seems? We need to follow up on absolutely everything.'

Isobel said nothing for a moment, glancing away again towards the window. ‘Of course
the police asked me that, when they interviewed me. I can honestly say, hand on heart,
that although Dad could be really irritating at times, there was no malice in him.
If somebody wanted to rip him off, he'd just shrug and walk away. Life's too short,
was his motto. I keep asking myself why anybody would want to kill him.' She leaned
forwards across the table. ‘I've got absolutely nothing to substantiate this, but
I've obviously been thinking about things
a lot since he disappeared . . .' She looked
at him a little anxiously. ‘You may think I'm being silly . . .'

‘You have a theory?' he asked, trying to make it easier for her. She seemed a sensible,
down-to-earth woman and it was clear she very much wanted to get to the bottom of
what had happened to her father. ‘Whatever you say, I won't think you're silly at
all. I promise.'

She shifted in her chair, put her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together.
‘Well, it all boils down to the sort of person Dad was. By that, I mean his character.
He was a real people watcher. Other people's lives and business and psychological
motivation fascinated him. He said it was all part of being an actor. It used to
drive my mother nuts but he just couldn't switch off. I've got a friend who's a writer
and she's exactly the same. Anyway, I'd be out with Dad somewhere, on the bus or
the Tube, or in a restaurant or on holiday, and he'd be listening in on people's
conversations and making up names and backgrounds and whole life stories for them.
They were often really funny and sometimes frighteningly accurate.'

‘You think this might have had something to do with his disappearance?'

She spread her hands. ‘Look, I don't know, but Dad really was very nosy, Inspector.
He was like a terrier; a real dab hand at rootling out a secret.'

‘You're not talking about blackmail?'

She looked shocked. ‘Of course not. He never did anything malicious with it. He just
liked to get to the bottom of things for his own sense of satisfaction, a bit like
solving the crossword, which he also loved to do. I'm just saying that maybe, in
the course of his day-to-day stuff, he saw something he shouldn't, or found out something
bad that somebody wanted to keep quiet . . .'

‘Or saw somebody somewhere where they shouldn't have been?'

‘Exactly.'

‘But he never mentioned anything like that to you?'

She looked a little deflated by the question. ‘No. I've been over everything I remember
him saying to me in the week or so before he died, but there was nothing like that.'

‘Maybe he just didn't get the chance.'

Twenty

Just after eight-thirty that evening, Tartaglia decided to call it a day. He put
on his jacket, shouldered his rucksack and walked out of his office into the corridor.
Hannah Bird was just coming out of the ladies room. She looked different. Looking
closer, he noticed that she was wearing her hair loose for a change, and had put
on make-up. It suited her.

‘You off out somewhere?' he asked, picking up the scent of some sort of fresh, flowery
perfume.

‘Just meeting a friend for a quick drink, Sir.'

‘You look nice. Have fun.'

‘Thanks.' She gave a self-conscious smile.

‘See you in the morning.'

A drink was just what he needed, he decided, as he turned towards the main stairs.
Thinking of his conversation earlier with Isobel Smart, he decided to head for the
Sun Inn, which was just up the road. It seemed silly going there when he could drink
at home, but Donovan would be at the flat and he wanted to be on his own for a while
longer, undisturbed. Also, the general buzz of background noise in the pub somehow
made it easy to switch off.

‘You going home?' Chang asked, jogging up the stairs towards him with what looked
like a takeaway dinner in his hands.

‘Drink first,' he said, hoping Chang wouldn't try and join him. ‘Thought I'd try
the Sun Inn. Haven't been there in ages.'

Outside, he paused on the steps and lit a cigarette. The atmosphere at the briefing
meeting that evening had been
electric, with almost the entire team packed into the
small room. Minderedes had just got back from Winchester, where he'd attended the
first hour or so of the post-mortem on the Guy Fawkes remains. Based on a cursory
examination, the pathologist had confirmed that the Guy had indeed been assembled
from multiple body parts belonging to what appeared to be two adult males and a female.
Luckily, the local fire brigade had been on hand at the Guy Fawkes event and had
managed to put out the fire relatively quickly. The body parts salvaged from the
bonfire were in a better condition than those retrieved from the Sainsbury's car
park fire. Neat, regular stitches were still visible in certain places where the
flesh had been laced together with what looked like twine. As with the Sainsbury's
fire, the bones had been sawn through at the joint with a serrated blade. Samples
of the twine had been sent off for analysis, and the DNA results from the body parts
would come through the following day. They would then be compared with those from
the burnt-out car, as well as with the DNA of Richard English's son. The key question
was whether these remains were from the same bodies as before, or whether they were
looking at a new set of victims. In the meantime, they had a few hours of peace before
the media frenzy would begin.

The news that the Guy Fawkes bonfire appeared to be linked to the Sainsbury's fire
changed everything, as well as complicating the picture. What looked like two multiple
killings with a similar MO, in different police jurisdictions, was an operational
nightmare for all those involved. Steele had gone to see her superiors at Homicide
West Command at the Peel Centre in Hendon, and high-level discussions were now underway
between the Metropolitan Police and the Hampshire Constabulary to determine how a
joint
operation would be run, with a formal press briefing scheduled for first thing
the next morning. There was no standard procedure for such circumstances, and Tartaglia
wondered what the outcome would be and how it would affect him and his team. In the
meantime, it was business as usual, except that there was now an additional fly in
the ointment: Melinda Knight, a reporter he knew who worked on the crime desk of
one of the tabloids, had been trying to get hold of him urgently and had left several
messages. She hadn't left any details, but it was clear she knew more than she should.
Although curious, he had so far resisted the urge to call her back – the less he
said to anyone, the better – and she could obtain her information at the briefing
the next morning, along with everyone else.

As he crossed the nearly empty car park, he checked his watch. The post-mortem would
be over by now and he wondered if there was any further news. He called Ramsey's
mobile and found him at home, sounding a little shell-shocked from the events of
the day.

‘It's definitely a series, then,' Ramsey said gloomily. The Winchester area was hardly
a hotbed of violent crime and at most he probably saw a handful of suspicious deaths
in the course of a year. Serial killings, with the attendant media circus, were clearly
a new experience for him and it sounded as though he didn't relish what lay ahead.

‘Looks that way,' Tartaglia replied. ‘Parts of the London body belong to two men
who were reported missing in the last year. So far, it's the only common link. I've
emailed you over the E-FIT I showed you this morning. It's quite possible your man's
beard is a disguise and someone might recognise him without it. We'll also try re-jigging
the E-FIT to see if adding a beard makes any difference. You might want to try both
versions. Once we get them over to you, flood the place. Shops, cafés, pubs, B&Bs
. . . Somebody somewhere will have seen him, plus he must have local knowledge, to
do what he did with that Guy and get away with it.'

Tartaglia heard the clatter of plates in the background and a woman shouting Ramsey's
Christian name. He ended the call and went out through the main gate into the street.

An old white TR6 was parked on a double line just beyond the entrance. As he walked
past the vehicle, he was aware of somebody getting out. He heard the clunk of the
door, followed by the click of heels on wet pavement just behind him.

‘Hey, Mark. What kept you so long?'

He recognised the husky voice and turned to face Melinda Knight. ‘How'd you know
I was here?'

‘You're not at home, so . . .'

‘Are you spying on me?'

She tapped her small nose. ‘Just an informed guess. Can I have a quick word?'

Short and pretty, with a deceptively girlish face and a mane of crimson-red hair,
she was dressed in an ancient-looking fur coat thrown over skin-tight black leather
leggings, and ridiculously high-heeled ankle boots. It wasn't a look that suited
most people, but she wore it well.

‘It's never quick with you and I'm busy.' He turned and started walking towards the
green.

‘Come on, Mark,' she called out behind him. ‘Give me a break. I've been trying to
reach you all afternoon.'

He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt into the gutter and turned around again.
‘I'm not exactly keen to talk to you, Melinda. Last time we spoke – off the record,
you said – you got me into hot water.'

‘That wasn't me, Mark,' she said, catching up. ‘You know
what it's like. My editor
insisted on putting that stupid quote in. I don't burn my contacts. It's one of my
golden rules.'

‘But it came from you. I guess you must have told him in your sleep.'

She waved the remark away, saying, ‘That was over ages ago. I'm single again, if
it's of any interest.' She gave him a meaningful look, but he knew not to read anything
into it or to react.

‘It's not,' he said firmly. They had almost gone to bed together on a couple of occasions,
but something had got in the way each time. It was unfinished business that would
probably remain that way, if he were at all sensible. ‘I'm only interested in going
home. Alone.'

‘Oh come on, a few moments'll do. I won't spill any beans you don't want me to spill.'

‘There are no beans to spill and I've got nothing to say.'

He turned away and started heading towards the Sun Inn, although he knew that wouldn't
be the end of it.

‘Please, Mark. I think you'll find it's
important
.'

He kept walking. She clearly knew something; more than she should, no doubt. But
how much more and about what aspect of his case, was the question. No doubt he would
soon find out.

‘I know you were in Aldford today, Mark,' she called out. He heard the swift tap-tap
of her heels behind him. ‘Don't you want to talk to me about it?

Not wanting to react and too tired to feel really surprised by anything, he hunched
his shoulders against the non-existent wind and kept walking, wondering how she knew.
If someone had talked, was there more? He needed to find out, but Melinda usually
played her cards close to her chest and was a master at reading body language. Rumour
had it that she had played poker professionally in her twenties and had once won
a huge sum of money, which she'd used to buy her house. Whether it was true or not,
he'd learned not to trust her, nor to trust himself with her. The trick would be
to find out what she knew without giving anything in return. In his current state,
he didn't rate his odds.