Jigsaw Man (41 page)

They would be running a full background check on him in the morning, but Tartaglia
was sure that Simpson must have been in care at some point in the Aldford area and
had attended the annual Guy Fawkes Night celebrations. Only somebody with local knowledge
could have done what he did. However, the choice of the Sainsbury's car park location
had probably been one of practicality rather than anything else. The size of the
car park was the important factor, as well as the relative lack of security. It was
a good twenty minutes from Choumert Road, as well as from the flat that Simpson had
shared with his family when he first came out of prison. The Internet would have
given him more than enough information to make his choice, followed by a quick recce
in person. He wondered, as Melinda had suggested, whether Simpson had planned another
two fires, which would have used up the remaining body parts in the freezers. Would
he have stopped at that point? Would it have been enough? Somehow, he doubted it.

Tartaglia smelt coffee burning and saw that it had boiled over. He grabbed a cloth,
took the pot off the stove and poured out two small espresso cups. There was no milk
in the fridge, so Melinda would have to have it black. Back in the sitting room,
the Bob Dylan/Johnny Cash version of ‘Girl from the North Country' was playing. Melinda
had taken off her jacket and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the sofa in
a half-lotus position. ‘I love this song,' she said, looking a little more alert
than before.

‘Me too.' He handed her a cup and sat down opposite with his.

‘If you had to think of one song that sums you up, what would it be?'

‘I don't know.' He was not in the mood to play games.

‘I'd say it's ‘Free Bird'. You know, Lynard Skynyrd.'

He said nothing, letting the music wash over him. ‘Free Bird'. One of the great lead
guitar solos. He didn't remember all of the lyrics but he got the gist. A man who
wanted to be free, who wouldn't change. What was wrong with that? And as for her,
she was hardly one to talk about a failure to commit, if that's what she was getting
at. She was like a butterfly. But she didn't seem to be complaining.

She smiled contentedly. ‘Nice place you've got here.'

‘Thanks.'

After a moment she said, ‘You know, I've decided to call you the Jigsaw Man.'

‘What?'

‘Think about it. It's what you do for a living, piecing together stuff. Don't you
like it? I was thinking of doing a nice little profile on you.'

He sipped his coffee, too tired to respond. In her world everything, however complex
or subtle or extraordinary, had to be reduced to a song or a tag. Like ‘The Jigsaw
Killer'. It sensationalised Dave Simpson but it didn't do him justice, let alone
capture the abuse and harm that had driven him to coldblooded murder. He drained
his cup. Maybe a detective was nothing better than a robotic Jigsaw Man, a puzzle
solver, but he begged to differ. When he was feeling more awake, he might take it
up with her.

‘We make a good team, you and I,' she said, raising her cup.

He shook his head. ‘We are not a team. Don't go getting any ideas.'

‘Why not? I like to aim high. It always gets me places. Now give me the damn scoop.'

Tartaglia couldn't help laughing. ‘Of course, that's all you're really interested
in.'

She raised an eyebrow. ‘What else is there?'

He was just wondering if he should take her at her word when the doorbell rang.

‘I hope that's not another journalist,' she said sharply.

‘Unlikely.'

‘Well, tell them to go away. You're busy with me.'

Having no idea who it could be at that hour, but half grateful for the interruption,
he got up and went outside to the front door. He opened it to find Sam Donovan looking
up at him from the path.

‘Sam . . .' He fought back a yawn, generated as much by confusion as tiredness. She
hadn't been far from his thoughts all night and delighted though he was to see her
again so soon, words failed him. His first instinct was to go to her, put his arms
around her and hold her close, as he had done a few hours earlier in the small, dingy
interview room in Hammersmith Police station. Not caring who might see them, he
had hugged her tight to his chest and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her,
thinking how much she meant to him and how much he had missed her. He had so nearly
lost her. The awkwardness between them had melted away momentarily and he had thought
back again to the time, not so long ago, when Zaleski had tried, and nearly succeeded,
to kill them both. Their relationship had been simpler and easier then. If only .
. . But there was no point dwelling on the past, the missed opportunities, the mistakes,
or longing for that land of lost content. Aware again of the gulf that separated
them, he stayed where he was.

‘I know it's early,' she said. ‘But I hoped you might be awake.'

‘I've just got in.' He scanned her pale face with concern. ‘Are you OK?'

‘I'm fine. Better than I've been for a long while, in fact.

She was still dressed in the same clothes she had been wearing several hours before
in the police station and it dawned on him that she, too, hadn't been to bed yet.

‘Come in. You must be shattered. I'll make you some coffee, although I'm afraid there's
no milk.' What she would think of Melinda being in the flat was neither here nor
there, he decided. He was past feeling embarrassed about such things and he had never
held himself out to be a saint. As for Melinda, things with her would just have to
wait until later.

‘That would be nice, but there's something I need to say first.' Leaning against
the porch, she looked up at him intently. ‘I owe you an apology, Mark.'

‘An apology? What for?'

‘Before Claire died, when we last saw each other back in the summer . . . I said
some things. I just wanted to tell you I didn't really mean them.'

He remembered their conversation in the bar that night and the bitterness of her
words. They had hurt him more than he cared to admit, but with the benefit of hindsight
he knew they had also been fair. ‘Well, thank you, but it's OK. Really. I deserved
it all.'

She shook her head. ‘No. I was just angry and I was being stupid. There was a lot
going on and I wasn't myself. I've had time to think and I just wanted to say I'm
sorry. That's all.'

He shrugged. ‘You don't need to, but thanks.'

‘And thank you also for putting up with me, having me to stay . . .'

‘It's what friends are for,' he interrupted, feeling awkward. He wished he could
articulate it better. If only he didn't feel so tired. There was a lot he, too, wanted
to say, but where to start? He hadn't been a particularly good friend. There was
so much more he could have done. She had trusted him, she had tried to tell him what
she knew about Zaleski. If only he had listened to her and taken her seriously, things
might have been different . . . At least she was safe.

‘Are you coming in?' he asked, sensing there was more she wanted to say and wondering
what other of his inadequacies would be touched on.

‘Yes. I'd like to. The thing is, I've got a favour to ask. And please feel free to
say no, if it's not convenient. As you know, my house is a crime scene now and I've
been kicked out again. I could go to a hotel, but . . .'

Relief flooded him and he smiled. ‘Of course you can stay. As long as you like. But
let's go inside, it's freezing out here.' He put his arm around her.

‘Mark, are you coming?' Melinda called out in the background. ‘What's going on out
there?'

Donovan hesitated. ‘Sorry. Didn't know you had company. I'll come back later.'

He shook his head. ‘It's fine. Melinda's an old friend. I only got home ten minutes
ago and I'm happy to welcome all sorts of waifs and strays at this hour. It's great
to have you back and I really mean that. Although this time, you can take the sofa.'

She laughed as he ushered her inside and the sound warmed his heart. ‘No problem,'
she said. ‘That's the least I can do.'

Acknowledgements

A number of people have helped me in the writing of this book. Particular thanks
are due to my editor, Jane Wood, and to Katie Gordon at Quercus; to my agent, Sarah
Lutyens, and the team at Lutyens and Rubinstein; to Dave Niccol and Tracy Alexander,
both so generous with their time and tireless in answering my many questions; to
Ollie Moore of the Black Rat in Winchester, for giving me an insight into the world
of a successful chef; to Henry Worsley once again, this time for his input on the
firing of semi-automatic pistols; and to Lisanne Radice – as always, the voice of
reason. Lastly, I couldn't have written this book without the support of my friends
and family, in particular my husband George and children Clio and Louis.