Jigsaw Man (8 page)

‘One last thing, when did you learn that Mr English was missing?'

‘Ian called me right away when he didn't show up at work. He wanted to know if I
had any idea where Rich was. I told him I hadn't seen Rich in weeks but I was sure
he'd turn up. Bad pennies always do, don't they?'

‘Thanks, Mrs English,' Tartaglia said, getting to his feet. ‘I think that covers
everything for now.'

Seven

Adam Zaleski paused outside the terraced house in Bedford Gardens and looked up.
It was a pretty doll's house, with Georgian-style windows and an ornate little iron
balcony across the front, on the first floor. To give Kit his due, he had taken good
care of the place, which was surprising for somebody with such slovenly personal
habits. The paint was peeling here and there and the brickwork could do with cleaning,
but it required no major work and wouldn't be too difficult to fix. Kit had chosen
a nice shade of off-white for the windows and a lovely blackish green for the front
door and the lantern beside it. The interior was a restrained homage to the eighteenth
century; subdued colours, scrubbed oak boards and an abundance of marble fireplaces.
It was all as impractical and pointless as Kit himself. Luckily lots of people liked
that sort of thing and it should show well when the time came to sell. Must be worth
several million, he thought. The pictures and furnishings would also fetch a tidy
sum at auction. It was quite a contrast to the modest, threadbare little house in
Ealing where Adam had grown up with his grandparents. Pathetic, hopeless Kit, just
a member of the lucky sperm club. He had done nothing to deserve it. But then neither
life, nor death, was fair.

The phone in Adam's pocket chimed. He took it out and looked at the text on the screen.

Hi Tom SO SO sorry but can't make tonight. new case come in and we are all on overtime
:( maybe in a couple of days? Sxx

He smiled. There was no rush, at least as far as he was concerned. He texted her
back, telling her to let him know when she was next free, then pushed open the wrought-iron
gate and walked into the small front garden. The low hedges still looked relatively
neat, but the rest needed a proper tidy up. The ancient wisteria and magnolia had
shed their leaves, making a soggy, thick carpet of brown on the paved path, which
was slippery to walk on, particularly after the rain. He would need to go and buy
a shovel and a broom to clear it all. Whoever was supposed to be looking after the
garden while Kit was away had clearly done a bunk, no doubt pocketing the money and
hoping Kit wouldn't be back until the Spring.

He went up the couple of steps to the front door, put down his shopping and fumbled
in his coat pocket for the key. There was a hole in the pocket but no key. He rummaged
around the hem until he found it, turning up some loose change and an old roll-up
in the process that must have been there since Kit had last worn the coat. As he
put the key in the lock, he heard the phone ringing inside. Leaving his shopping
on the front step, he opened the door and rushed into the sitting room. He heard
the answer machine kick in and Kit's whiney, nasal tones:

Hi, this is Kit. No point leaving a message as I'm not here and probably won't be
back until God knows when. Call back later, or never. Whatever takes your fancy.

Such a stupid message. It also sounded as though it was playing at slightly the
wrong speed. He picked up the receiver, but there was nobody at the other end. He
dialled 1471 but the number was withheld. Trying to put it out of his mind, he collected
the bags of shopping and took them downstairs to the basement kitchen. It was small
and located at the back of the
house, going out onto the garden. The layout of the
house was very odd, with a dining area up a few stairs off the kitchen extension
and a library-cum-TV room at the front, although the TV was so old and small it was
hardly worth watching. If he had been intending to stay longer, he would have had
to replace it. The ground and first floors were used as sitting rooms, the furnishings
stiff, formal and uninviting. He couldn't imagine why Kit needed them all. From what
he had gathered, Kit had never been a great one for entertaining; far too bloody
lazy. There was only one decent-sized bedroom in the whole house, which was located
all the way up the rather narrow stairs, on the top floor. The only other bedroom
was tiny and on the ground floor, clearly designed to put anybody off from staying
long. Typically, Kit had arranged it all just to suit himself.

He put on the kettle to make a cup of tea. He had just started to unpack the bags
into the fridge – deciding that he would have tomato soup and salad for lunch and
the shepherd's pie for dinner that night – when the phone started to ring again.
He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not to answer it, then grabbed the
receiver off the wall.

‘Kit's phone.' There was no response. ‘Hello?' He thought he could hear somebody
breathing at the other end. ‘Is there anyone there?' The caller hung up. Again he
tried 1471 but again the number was withheld. It was probably the same person. Hearing
a strange voice, the caller had decided to hang up. That was all there was to it.
Or maybe it was just a wrong number . . . A woman had called a couple of days before,
asking to be put through to accounts and had been very apologetic when he had explained
that the number was for a private house, not a company. But the phone had rung quite
a lot over the past couple of weeks since he'd been staying here. Sometimes the caller
put the phone down immediately he answered; other
times there was the same pause
before the call was disconnected. Once he thought he heard the faint sound of voices
in the background, but it could have been the TV or a radio. A couple of times a
man had asked for Kit, and had sounded annoyed when he said Kit was still away. Maybe
he should just unplug the phone. That way, he wouldn't have to answer any questions
about Kit's whereabouts.

Eight

The offices of English, Armstrong & Partners were in an eighteenth-century terraced
house just off St. James's Square in the West End. It was an area teeming with gentlemen's
clubs, fine-art dealers and hedge fund managers, where rental costs commanded a small
fortune. Based on location alone, the business appeared to be successful. Minderedes
had called ahead and when he and Tartaglia arrived, they were told that Ian Armstrong
was finishing up a conference call and would be down shortly. They were shown into
a large, thickly carpeted meeting room at the front of the building on the ground
floor that reminded Tartaglia of an expensive dentist's waiting room.

‘Black or white?' Minderedes asked, helping himself to coffee from the selection
of hot and cold drinks on the side table.

‘Black,' Tartaglia said, picking up a glossy brochure from a display rack by the
door. The name ‘Stoneleigh Park Hotel' was printed across a picture of a neo-classical
Georgian mansion. Inside was a series of interior shots and a blurb about the place's
history, its Michelin-starred restaurant and its spa. He had read about Stoneleigh
Park somewhere, he thought, not that he had the time or reason to go to a place like
that. Or maybe his sister, Nicoletta, had told him about it.

Minderedes brought two cups of coffee over to the table. ‘You really think Lisa English
is somehow involved in her husband's disappearance?' he asked.

‘Anything's possible.' They had been through the various scenarios in the car together
but nothing stood out. ‘On paper, she has the most to gain financially.'

As Minderedes sat down, his phone started to ring. ‘It's English's first wife,' he
said, looking at the screen. ‘I left a message for her. Shall I take it here?'

‘No. You'd better go outside. Armstrong should be down any minute and I don't want
him knowing what's going on. Tell her we need a DNA swab asap from her son. And while
you're at it, call the office and see if we've had any more luck with the DNA samples
from the mortuary. I'll come and find you when I'm done.'

A moment later, he heard the front door slam and saw Minderedes streak past the window,
one hand futilely attempting to shield his hair from the rain, his mobile phone
cradled in the other, as he ran in the direction of the car. Tartaglia looked around
the high-ceilinged room, then got up from the table and went over to study the numerous
framed business awards hanging on one of the walls. Some related to hotels, others
to various property funds.

He had just finished his coffee and was debating whether to help himself to a refill
when the door opened and a small, slim, grey-haired man walked in. He was conventionally
dressed in a dark suit and white shirt, with a plain blue silk tie, and wore polished
black lace-up shoes. Mr Nuts and Bolts was how Lisa English had described him; to
Tartaglia he looked like an accountant, albeit a well-heeled one.

He held out his hand, with a flash of gold cufflink at the sleeve. ‘I'm Ian Armstrong.
I hear you've found Richard's wallet – and that there's a body. Can you tell me what
happened?'

They sat down at the table and Tartaglia outlined the basic details of
the car park fire.

‘Are these his keys?' He passed Armstrong the clear plastic bag.

Armstrong peered at them, before passing them back. ‘Those are definitely Richard's,
I recognise the fob. So it looks like it's him in this car?' He spoke quietly, with
an indeterminate northern twang.

‘We're waiting for DNA confirmation.'

‘But you're from a murder squad, so we're talking foul play?'

‘It looks that way.'

Armstrong examined his well-manicured nails, and nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose
it's inevitable. I mean, I knew something must've happened to him, but where's he
been all this time? That's what I'd like to know.'

‘So would we, Mr Armstrong,' Tartaglia replied, studying Armstrong closely. His face
gave little away but his reaction seemed genuine enough. ‘Could you tell me a bit
more about your business and Mr English's role in it?'

Armstrong leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘Richard
and I have known each other for over forty years. We built this business up more
or less from scratch and we have a number of interests. I deal mainly with the property
side of things, while Richard was more involved with the hotels.'

‘Stoneleigh Park's one of yours, then?' Tartaglia asked, gesturing towards the brochure.

‘Yes. It's our flagship.'

‘Is the business in good financial shape?'

Armstrong gave a faint smile, like a woman who'd been paid a compliment. ‘I'd say
so. We turned in a pre-tax profit last financial year of just under twenty million.'

‘You and Richard English own the business?'

‘We have some outside backers but we control the voting rights.'

‘Is there any reason you can think of why Mr English might have wanted to disappear?
Anything going on in his business he might have wanted to get away from?'

‘No.' Armstrong's tone was emphatic. ‘Naturally,' he continued, ‘I went through
all likely scenarios in my mind when he went missing, but there's no reason at all
I can think of.'

‘His wife seems to think it's a possible explanation.'

Armstrong rolled his eyes. ‘I wouldn't go listening to Lisa, Inspector. She watches
too much telly. Anyway, Richard's not the sort of man to run away from trouble.'

Tartaglia was surprised that Armstrong dismissed the idea so casually. If he had
been secretly helping English in some way, either financially or in concealing his
whereabouts, it would be traceable. But that didn't concern the murder investigation
for now.

‘Did Mr English have any enemies?' he asked.

Armstrong sighed. ‘This is business, Inspector. You can't make an omelette without
breaking eggs, as they say.'

‘Enough for somebody to want to kill him?'

Armstrong shook his head. ‘I don't see it. Everything we do is above board. We've
never been on the wrong side of the law. We haven't had to.'

Again, this was something they would check more thoroughly in due course, if there
was a stronger reason to do so. ‘You reported Mr English as missing only a couple
of hours after he failed to turn up to a meeting. You were pretty quick to raise
the alarm.'

‘It was a very important meeting with one of our major investors. Richard was supposed
to lead it. When he didn't show and didn't call, I knew something was wrong.'

‘It says in the report that he hadn't been in the office for a few days.'

‘That's right. He'd been dealing with an issue at one of our hotels up in Scotland,
but he was on the plane down to London that morning. His PA spoke to him just after
he landed. He told her he was getting the Heathrow Express to Paddington and was
going to stop by his flat to change his clothes before coming into the office. That's
the last we heard of him. The missing person investigation was pretty unsatisfactory,
so I hired a PI. He's an ex-copper and he went through everything, looked at all
the angles, but he also drew a complete blank.'

‘Who's the PI?' Tartaglia asked.

‘A man called McCann. He came highly recommended.'

‘Mike McCann?'

‘I don't remember his Christian name but you can talk to him if you like.'

‘Thank you. Is it possible Lisa helped Mr English to disappear?'

Armstrong frowned. ‘Absolutely not.'

‘Why is that such an odd idea?'

‘Because it is. I knew everything that went on with Richard.
Everything
. We had no
secrets. Besides, they weren't speaking.'