Jigsaw Man (27 page)

The second folder contained papers relating to a body discovered in June of the
previous year on a beach on the south coast, near the Isle of Wight. It looked as
though the body had been set alight on some sort of makeshift funeral pyre, and flowers
and petals were found scattered around it on the sand. Clippings from the local paper
speculated about it being some sort of New Age funeral, or possibly having a Hindu
or Sikh
connection, and a local Hindu campaigner for legalising open-air cremations
in the UK was interviewed. But there were no witnesses to say what had happened.
The fire had taken place at the time of the Isle of Wight music festival, on a stretch
of beach often used for parties by students from nearby Southampton University. The
weather was good and although the fire had been noticed by a number of people, nobody
had paid much attention to it. Somebody remembered hearing loud music coming from
the vicinity and the pilot of a helicopter, ferrying festival-goers across the Solent,
said that he had seen a man standing by a fire on the beach, poking it with a stick.

Early the following morning, a man walking his dog along the beach had found the
body. Examination of the partially burnt remains showed that the body had been laid
out on its back, hands folded on its chest. The pyre had been constructed from a
mixture of logs and kindling, both on sale even in June at local petrol stations.
No traces of accelerant had been found at the scene. Appeals in the local media produced
nothing. The post-mortem examination revealed that the body belonged to a young woman
and that it was impossible to tell exactly how she had died, although no signs of
foul play had been found.

Tartaglia lit a cigarette, deciding that both reports warranted further investigation.
He would concentrate on the first case and pass on the second to Ramsey to follow
up in the morning.

He was just putting the papers back in their respective folders when he heard the
front door of the house slam shut. A moment later, the key turned in the lock of
his own door, and Donovan walked into the room. He was surprised to see her. The
bedroom door was closed and he had assumed she was asleep inside. He wondered where
she had been and if Chang had managed to follow her.

‘I need to talk to you, Mark,' she said breathlessly, before he had a chance to say
anything. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her short blonde hair stood in spikes.
There was an almost feverish brightness in her eyes, which was new.

‘Are you OK?'

‘No. I'm not.'

‘Come and sit down. Can I get you a drink?'

‘I've had two margaritas. It's enough, otherwise I won't be able to think straight.
I need to talk to you about Claire.'

She pulled off her jacket, threw it over a chair and sat down opposite him. ‘I bumped
into Justin – it doesn't matter where – and I managed to persuade him to tell me
some things about what happened, things that nobody else had the guts to tell me.'

‘It's not a question of guts, Sam.'

‘Yes it is, but I'm not going to argue. Look, before we talk, I want to make sure
you won't give him a hard time about it, OK?'

He gazed at her for a moment, wondering what exactly had gone on between her and
Chang and how she had managed to persuade him to talk, if indeed she had. He would
decide what to do once he found out what exactly Chang had said, but there was no
point arguing about it now with her. ‘OK. Go on.'

‘I now know the details of what happened that night. I know about the champagne,
the room service food, the Latin words that were written on her legs. I want you
to talk to me about it, tell me what you really think.'

‘This really isn't a good idea,' he said, shocked and angry that Chang had told her
so much, although she could be incredibly persistent when she wanted something and
he would have been putty in her hands.

‘He's told me everything, Mark. Everything.' She looked at him meaningfully. ‘I need
to know what
you
think. I value your opinion more than anyone's. Let's just pretend
for a moment that we're still working together and this is just a normal case we're
sitting here discussing. Like old times.'

He hesitated. He didn't know what to say. They had sat in that room on so many occasions
late into the night, talking about this case or that, bantering through all the possible
scenarios until sometimes there was a glimmer of light. They knew each other so well
he never needed to explain things in detail, she just understood, and vice versa.
It was that easy shorthand he missed, along with her intelligence and sensitivity.

‘Forget that it's Claire for a minute,' she said, her eyes locked on his. ‘That's
what I'm trying to do. Just think of it as a case and tell me what's in your head.'

He stretched back in his seat, pressing his head back into the cushions, arms reaching
behind him and closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what to do. He felt suddenly
tired, as well as strangely touched that it still mattered to Donovan what he thought,
that she hadn't got what she needed from Chang, or anybody else, and that she wanted
to talk to him. Was he stupid to care? More importantly, could she cope with it?

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands. ‘I can deal with
it, I promise,' she said, as though reading his thoughts. ‘Like old times, Mark.
Just you and me.'

He rubbed his face wearily and gazed at her. Like Chang, he realised he had no choice
but to give in to her. ‘What is it you want to know?

‘Just tell me what you really think went on.'

He took a deep breath. ‘OK. I'm not running the case any more, so I don't know all
the details. But from what I saw, and
what I've heard since, this is what I think
happened. Claire meets this man accidentally outside her office—'

‘Accidentally?'

‘There's nothing to suggest otherwise. She certainly thought it was accidental, based
on things she said. Claire was smart. If it had been a ploy, if he'd been watching
her, and he bumped into her deliberately, I think she'd have twigged, don't you?'

‘That depends how smart he is. How good an actor.'

‘I suppose so. You think he targeted her specifically?'

She nodded.

‘As I said, we've found nothing at all to suggest it. But let's leave it to one side
and just say they met—'

‘But it all matters. If you get that bit wrong, you're then starting at the wrong
place and the rest doesn't add up.'

He sighed, wondering if she was going to pick holes in everything. ‘Look, we have
to go on the facts as we know them. He spills coffee over her and sends her flowers
to apologise. One thing leads to another and he takes her out for lunch. Then dinner.
This goes on over a few weeks. He tells her he lives in Manchester, so he sees her
when he's in town. We know that's not true; he lives in London. We assume he hides
the fact because he's probably married and can't have a normal, open relationship.
What he wants is a bit of fun on the side.' He stopped and looked at her, trying
to gauge the impact of what he was saying. He felt uncomfortable talking to her about
Claire in such a way. ‘Forgive me if it sounds impersonal . . .'

‘It's OK. As I said, just forget for a moment it's Claire. Say it like it is.'

‘So, he wants to move things to the next level, but he's worried his wife will find
out. He gets Claire to book the room at the hotel, using her credit card. She arrives
as planned, but
something goes wrong. Maybe Claire decided she didn't want to have
sex with him after all. There's an almighty struggle and he kills her.'

‘But he drugged her. Traces of Rohypnol were found in the blood samples.'

‘You know how common date rape is. Maybe before it took effect, she realised what
he was trying to do and tried to get away. The room was a mess . . .' He omitted
the word ‘bed'.

‘Go on.'

‘Well, so he kills her. Then he tidies up the room as best he can and legs it, taking
some of her things with him. Maybe in his panic, he thinks she won't be identified
if her handbag is gone.'

‘But she booked the room with her credit card.'

‘I agree he's not thinking straight. He hasn't done this before.'

She looked at him sceptically. ‘You really think that this is a one-off ? That it's
a date gone wrong?'

He frowned. ‘Yes. There's nothing to suggest otherwise. There are no similar, unsolved
killings, if that's what you're thinking.' As he spoke, he felt like a dog that had
been pulled off a trail too soon, already out of touch with the real feel and smell
of the case. He was only repeating what others had said to him and it all sounded
a little hollow.

‘What about the words on her legs? “What I am, you will be.” That would have taken
thought, and time. It's hardly the reaction of a man in a panic, who's accidentally
killed somebody he barely knew.'

‘I agree, but people get all sorts of weird ideas from the TV and the Internet. Maybe
he was trying to dress it up as a serial killer thing in order to hide what really
happened.' He could see from her expression that she didn't agree.

‘So, you think the Latin quote just randomly pops up in his head when he's in panic
mode?'

‘What you're asking is, did he plan it all carefully right from the beginning? Did
he set out meaning to kill her? If so, then maybe it wasn't a chance meeting outside
her office, maybe he deliberately targeted her for some reason.'

‘Don't you think it's possible he
chose
her, Mark? That right from the beginning,
he knew what he was doing and why?'

‘That's what you really think?' He shrugged. ‘Maybe he saw her in the street, or
coming out of her office. Maybe he likes tall, willowy brunettes, with blue eyes.'

‘I mean he intended to kill her right from the start.'

‘OK. But why? Maybe he didn't want sex with her at all, maybe he just wanted to know
what it's like to kill a woman. But that's a lot less credible as a theory. You know
what the studies say . . .'

She shook her head. Tears stood in her eyes and he realised he had gone too far.
‘You're wrong,' she said. ‘He chose Claire because of who she was, not what she looked
like. And killing her isn't the end game. It's just part of his plan. Everything
was carefully planned, down to the very last detail . . .'

He looked at her shocked. Grief was making her paranoid. ‘Hang on. There are no grounds
to say that.'

‘Yes there are. You remember what she had to eat?'

He shook his head. ‘Not precisely. He ordered room service. The room service trolley
was sitting by the door, food untouched.'

‘It would be untouched. She was already dead by then. Ask yourself this: you're in
a hotel room with a woman you've just murdered. Why bother to order room service?
What's the point?'

He shrugged. ‘To get somebody up to the room. He wanted her found.'

‘He could have ordered a cup of coffee, if that's all he wanted, and it would have
come a hell of a lot quicker.' She sat back in her chair and shook her head angrily.
‘What he ordered was important, in its own right.'

He frowned, trying to picture what he had seen on the trolley, not understanding
at all what she was getting at.

‘Because it's a message,' she continued. ‘Just like the words he wrote on her leg.'

‘A message to who?'

‘Ah. That's the key question.' She looked at him strangely and bit her lip before
saying, ‘It's all about the details, Mark. Every single tiny detail is significant.
Isn't that what you used to say? It's why you're usually so bloody good at what you
do. But this time, you're missing an important piece of the puzzle.'

‘What are you talking about?'

She sighed impatiently. ‘The message wasn't meant for you, but from where I am, it's
all suddenly pretty clear. The champagne – Justin said it was Krug – the oysters,
the turbot, with hollandaise. Don't you remember?'

He gazed at her blankly. It meant nothing to him. Her eyes were rimmed with red and
she looked almost unhinged. He realised it was a mistake to have allowed the conversation
to go so far. ‘I'm sorry, I don't. Anyway . . .'

‘Never mind,' she muttered, shaking her head. ‘Maybe I never mentioned it. Doesn't
matter. Do you believe in justice, Mark?'

‘What do you mean by justice?'

‘What do you think should happen to a man like this? A man who viciously and deliberately
takes away someone's life, as though it were just a game, depriving them of a future
and destroying the lives of those around them?'

‘You know what I think, Sam. The system isn't perfect but—'

‘No. It's
far
from perfect. In fact, it stinks. He's done this before, Mark, and
he's got away with it.' Tears ran down her face as she held his gaze. ‘You're just
not looking at things straight.'

He spread his hand in desperation. ‘Then tell me your theory. Explain what it is
I'm missing. I want to help.'

She shook her head again. ‘There's no point. You won't do what's needed. And to be
fair to you, you can't.'

She stood up, picked up her jacket and handbag and walked out of the room towards
the bedroom. He heard the door close.

He sat for a moment, stunned. However unreasonable she was being, he knew he had
failed her, yet he had no idea how to put it right. He lit a cigarette and sat waiting
for her to return, but she didn't. Grief affected people in many different ways and
the anger she was feeling was only normal, although the paranoia was more worrying.
None of what she had said made sense. There was no point in blaming poor Chang for
revealing the details. If it hadn't been him, she would have found somebody else
to tell her.