Jigsaw Man (26 page)

He hesitated. It wasn't the first time a clever journalist had turned up something
interesting ahead of the police, whether from sheer fluke or hard work, and there
was no point beating himself up about it. He didn't entirely trust her, but he decided
he wasn't ashamed of taking any help offered. All that mattered was moving the investigation
forwards. He forced a weary smile, reached over and took her hand.

Sam Donovan walked through the entrance of the Dillon Hotel into the white, panelled
lobby. According to Sharon and others she had spoken to, CCTV footage had shown Claire
arriving just before eight-thirty in the evening. The entry in her diary said:
Rob
– Dillon – 8.30pm.
She had been a few minutes early, for one of the few times in
her life. She had texted him to say that she was downstairs and he had texted
back,
saying he was on a call and asking her to come straight up to the room. The cameras
had captured her walking through the hotel to the back lifts and going straight up
to the second floor. She had clearly felt she could trust him, a man she barely knew.
With the benefit of hindsight, it had been an incredibly stupid thing to do. But
she didn't blame Claire, spurred on by some sort of romantic notion that had blinded
her to common sense. Not that long ago, she too had been just as foolish, unknowingly
putting herself in the hands of a vicious, sociopathic serial killer, a man she
barely knew, who had charmed her, whom she had blindly trusted. She had nearly died,
and it had almost cost Tartaglia his life too. All for the sake of a bit of romance.
The killer was long gone but his shadow still hung over her, the stuff of nightmares.

She walked along the corridor, following the sound of voices and music. The bar was
full of after-work drinkers. The large seating area beyond was equally full. It looked
out onto an inner courtyard, which was decorated with clipped trees in pots and illuminated
by strings of fairy lights. She found the lift outside the restaurant and pressed
the button to go up. While she waited, she wondered what Claire had been thinking
that night, when she had done the same. Had she had any doubts? Had she thought about
anything other than the man she was meeting on the second floor?

Donovan got out of the lift. Room 212 was just across the corridor, the door sealed.
A bunch of white flowers sat propped up against it. As she picked up the flowers,
tears filled her eyes. No message. She wondered if they were from one of her former
colleagues, or a friend of Claire's, or just a guest in the hotel, moved by what
had happened. Maybe they were from the hotel management, although they had a personal,
rather than corporate, feel.

The lift pinged behind her and she heard the doors open.

‘Sam?' A man's voice.

She turned and saw Justin Chang walking towards her.

‘What are you doing here?' she asked, clasping the flowers tightly to her chest.

‘I was having a drink downstairs. I saw you come in.'

She hadn't seen him in the bar, but there were so many people he could easily have
been tucked away among them. ‘So you followed me?'

‘I thought you'd come up here. I wanted to see you.'

‘Now you've seen me, you can go.' She saw the concern in his eyes as he studied her
for a moment. It was the same irritating look Tartaglia gave her whenever they spoke.
If only people would leave her alone.

‘It's not good for you to be here on your own, Sam,' Chang said. ‘Come downstairs.
Come and have a drink.'

‘I don't want to see anyone.'

‘My friend's gone. It would be good to talk and I can see you home, if you like.'

‘Home? Where's that?' Was the house she had shared with Claire still her home? She
didn't think she could ever go back there again. There were too many memories.

‘I meant Mark's flat. Come on. Staying here won't do any good.'

A door along the corridor opened and a couple came out. They started walking towards
the lift.

‘Come on, Sam, let's go downstairs. You can't do anything here.'

Short of breaking into the room to see exactly where Claire had died, Sam knew there
was nothing else to be done. She probably had seen enough and she felt like a drink.
But if she went down to the bar with Chang, would he take her to task
for not having
returned his calls? She didn't think he was that insensitive and maybe she could
persuade him to give her some more information. She carefully placed the flowers
back against the door and followed him to the lift.

They found a table in a smaller bar off the main corridor. It was much quieter than
the other rooms and the air was full of the heady smell of lilies coming from a tall
vase on the counter. While Chang was ordering their drinks, Donovan gazed out of
the French doors into the courtyard. A few lights were on in the various rooms that
overlooked it. She wondered which of the windows belonged to room 212. She imagined
Claire looking out, or drawing the curtains or the blinds, tried to picture the room,
and the faceless man known as Rob.

‘Here you go,' Chang said passing her a margarita and sitting down with his. He raised
his glass, then hesitated as though not sure what to say. ‘I wanted to tell you how
sorry I am. I . . .'

‘Thanks,' she said quickly, holding up her hand before he could say anything else.
Avoiding his gaze, tears in her eyes, she took a sip of her drink, enjoying the sharp,
salty taste. ‘Why were you having a drink in this hotel?' she asked, after a moment.

‘I was curious, I guess. Didn't get much chance to look around the day we were here
. . .' He stopped and looked embarrassed, as though he'd said something wrong.

‘It's OK. You don't have to walk on eggshells. I just want everybody to treat me
as normal. It would make it a lot easier for me too. You said you were here with
a friend?'

He nodded. ‘She works around the corner.'

‘Well, I hope I didn't interrupt things.'

‘We were about to go, when I saw you.'

It sounded genuine. ‘Is there any news?' she asked, after a moment.

‘Isn't Mark telling you what's going on?'

‘I barely see him. I think he's avoiding me.'

He looked surprised. ‘Why?'

Maybe, like everyone else in the office, Chang imagined that if she and Tartaglia
were cooped up alone together for a few days in Tartaglia's flat, it would mean only
one thing. It was so far from the truth, it made her want to laugh. Although perhaps
it explained why Tartaglia was giving her a wide berth. Maybe he, too, had heard
the rumours and felt awkward. There had been a time when there might have been good
grounds for such speculation, when she would have given a lot for something to happen
between them. But it was amazing what the distance of a little time could do.

She put down her glass and looked at Chang. ‘Why? Because like everybody else, you
included, he's tip-toeing around me like I'm the bloody elephant in the room. Yes,
I feel terrible inside. Yes, I can't stop thinking about Claire and what happened
to her and it makes me sick and I don't want to eat. I can't sleep either, unless
I take pills, which make me groggy so I'm in a bit of a fog. But underneath it all,
I'm still me. I think the same, feel the same, function the same, yet everybody's
treating me like I'm some sort of lunatic who needs to be wrapped in cotton wool
so I don't damage myself or others. It's driving me mad.'

He looked shocked, maybe from the violence of her tone. ‘People just care about you,
that's all.'

‘I'm alright. Really I am. I just wish they'd stop fussing over me and leave me alone.'

He looked relieved and smiled. ‘I understand. If there's anything I can do . . .'

She could see the emotion in his eyes and realised that she had missed him. If only
life were that simple. ‘Justin, there is something you can do for me. If you value
me as a friend—'

‘Of course I do.'

‘Then trust me. I'm really OK. I need you to tell me everything you know. I'm ready.'

Thirty

Back in his flat, Tartaglia sat down on the sofa and opened the two manila folders
Melinda had given him. The first contained a series of papers relating to a fire
in a squat in Peckham, South London, which had claimed the life of one of the occupants
two years before. It had started sometime in the late evening in the back basement
of the property, in a room normally occupied by a young man known as Spike. The
forensic investigation concluded that the likely cause of the fire was a kerosene
stove used to heat the room, which had somehow fallen or been knocked over. Localised
traces of the kerosene had been found as well as the remains of a stove. Neighbours
also mentioned hearing a couple of small explosions, and by the time the fire brigade
arrived, the heat was too intense for anyone to enter the building. Remains of a
large copper still and LPG bottles were found in the basement wreckage. Three people
were treated in hospital for burns and the effects of smoke inhalation, one with
a broken leg after jumping from an upstairs window. They said that as far as they
knew, they were the only people inside the building at the time, but when the site
was examined over the next couple of days, the remains of an adult male were found
in the basement.

The man was lying on his back on what was left of a mattress. It was first assumed
that it was Spike who had died. The body was too badly burnt to be identified in
the normal way, but according to the post mortem examination report, the body belonged
to a middle-aged man. According to one of the other
squatters, Spike was in his late
twenties or early thirties. Two of the three squatters who had been treated in hospital
had been interviewed; neither knew who the dead man was and said they had never seen
anybody other than Spike going down to the basement. They said that Spike kept himself
to himself and didn't appear to have had visitors. A copy of the coroner's report
recorded death by misadventure. What seemed to have sparked Melinda's interest was
the fact that the identity of the dead man was unknown and nobody had been able to
locate, let alone interview, Spike after the fire. It certainly didn't fit into the
usual domestic fire scenario, and she had written and underlined the words ‘foul
play' in red, along with a large question mark. What caught Tartaglia's attention
was that the long list of items retrieved from the basement included the remains
of a small leather suitcase containing assorted male clothing. It had been found
outside in the corridor, next to the front door. There was no description of the
bag and there had clearly been no identifiable name tag or address, which might have
helped to identify the unknown victim. He made a note to get somebody to find out
more details as soon as possible.

One of Melinda's assistants had been to the site but it had been boarded up and any
previous occupants were long gone. Photos of the house were attached to the file,
as well as photos of the street. The houses on either side had suffered smoke damage
and been cleared for reasons of safety, their inhabitants relocated elsewhere. But
the reporter had managed to interview two women who lived on the opposite side of
the street. Both had given witness statements at the inquest. Barbara Tier was seventy-two,
according to the cub reporter's notes. Mrs Tier, as she apparently liked to be called,
remembered the squatters and the fire very clearly. She said that she had been watching
television when she had smelled smoke,
but didn't know where it was coming from.
She then heard a loud explosion, or possibly two explosions, and went to her front
window to take a look. She saw smoke and flames coming from the house opposite. It
was mayhem in the street, people screaming and somebody trying to get out of one
of the second-floor windows. She thought that they jumped. She was about to dial
999 when she heard the sirens and, moments later, the fire brigade arrived.

Mrs Tier said that there were about ten people or so living in the house at any one
time, although they kept odd hours and it wasn't always the same crew. They called
themselves anarchists and eco-warriors; ‘a load of alkies and druggies, more like,'
she was quoted as saying, along with ‘load of bloody scroungers'. She said that they
had left rubbish lying around in the front garden and that it had attracted rats.
She said that she was happy when the house had burned down, although she was sorry
that somebody had lost their life She didn't remember seeing a middle-aged man in
the group, but there were various people coming and going at the house at all times
of the day and night and it was difficult to keep track. She remembered Spike and
said that he seemed a bit more together than the rest of them and that he was actually
polite. He had helped her bring in her shopping a few times. The description she
gave of him was ‘tall, and skinny as a broom handle, with straggly brown hair in
a pony tail'. He probably didn't get enough to eat, she added. She said he usually
had a roll-up in his mouth, or cigarette papers in his hands, and that he wore dark
glasses all the time. She never saw his eye colour.

Leonora Mitchell, a Filipina aged forty-seven, lived two doors along. ‘Likes to be
called Leonie' the note said. Leonie described the squatters as a mixed bunch, some
nice, some not so nice. She was an ex-nurse and said that she thought a couple
of
them might have had mental or alcohol-related problems. One of her sons had made
friends with a squatter called Jack, who lived on the first floor and had a dog.
He had moved down to London from Birmingham and had taken somebody else's place in
the squat when they left. Her son had been inside the house a few times with Jack
and said that the place was a bit of a tip and that everybody had heavy-duty locks
on their rooms, supposedly for security, although she didn't know what they had that
was worth taking. She knew who Spike was but hadn't spoken to him. She said that
she'd seen him on several occasions with a young woman, although she wasn't sure
if she was his girlfriend. She didn't remember a middle-aged man at the address,
but said that he may not have been staying there long enough for her to notice him.
The description she gave of Spike was similar to that given by Barbara Tier. She,
too, said that he was always wearing dark glasses. Her description of the fire itself
tallied almost exactly with Mrs Tier's, although Leonie had gone out into the street
to see if there was anything she could do. She had seen Jack and his dog standing
outside with a group of people watching the blaze. She asked him if there was anybody
still inside but he had said that he didn't think so, unless they were on the upper
floors. He said that he thought Spike had gone away for a couple of days and that
the two people who lived on the ground floor, at the back, were also out in the street.