13

Donovan pulled up outside Tartaglia’s flat in Shepherd’s Bush and killed the engine. She had been busy all day and had hardly set foot in the office. The only time she had caught sight of Tartaglia was on his way up the stairs, coming in from the trip with Kennedy as she made her way out of the building to follow up on what had proved to be another dead end. Pausing briefly on the half-landing, he had hurriedly sketched out what happened with Kennedy and they arranged to meet after work at his flat for a late drink, when they would have time to talk uninterrupted.

Although she was not on Clarke’s team at the time of the Barton investigation, she couldn’t help agreeing with Tartaglia: Kennedy seemed very pleased with himself. Somehow, he made them all feel as though they had a celebrity in their midst and Yvette Dickenson seemed particularly impressed, asking Kennedy to sign her copy of his latest book on profiling. He lapped it up as if it were his due, flashing his mouthful of brilliant white teeth and scribbling down a dedication in huge, loopy handwriting, with Yvette gazing at him like a teenage girl, even in her state. It was sick-making. However, Kennedy seemed to be oblivious to the stir he was causing, Steele being the prime focus of his attentions. Donovan couldn’t fathom the precise nature of their relationship but had decided that it definitely went beyond the purely professional, although Steele treated Kennedy more like an old friend than a lover. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed the way Kennedy looked at her. Maybe she wasn’t interested. It was going to be worth keeping a close watch on the pair.

Lights glimmered through the crack at the top of the shutters in Tartaglia’s sitting room but there was no response when she rang the bell. When she dialled his home number from her mobile, the answer machine clicked on. Maybe he’d given up on her or nipped out for a pint of milk or a quick drink on his own. But she was sure he’d be back. He wasn’t the type to forget an arrangement. A fine drizzle had set in and she climbed back into her car and turned on the engine to keep warm, eyes scanning the road in front while she waited.

Tartaglia had seemed more than usually on edge when she had seen him earlier. No doubt the hours spent with Kennedy had had something to do with it. But she sensed there was more to it than that. The tension between him and Steele was obvious to everyone, the atmosphere unpleasant and heavy like before a storm. Although they both went out of their way to be polite, each deferring almost unnecessarily to the other, they reminded her of a pair of dogs, hackles up, skirting warily around each other, spoiling for a fight. She just hoped for Tartaglia’s sake that he would be able to keep his temper under control and not do anything stupid.

Everything was Cornish’s fault and she didn’t blame Tartaglia for a second for feeling so bitter – no one did, certainly not those in Tartaglia’s immediate team. There had been no need to bring in Steele. But Cornish hadn’t the balls to oversee things himself and to let Tartaglia carry on running things. Self-preservation was Cornish’s motto and he had made sure that Steele’s neck was on the line, not his. If she succeeded in finding the killer, he would take ultimate credit for it. If she failed, he would step back and she would be the one blamed. Donovan wondered if Steele knew this, if she had had any choice in the matter.

She waited a few more minutes and was on the point of leaving a note and driving off when she caught sight of Tartaglia briefly illuminated under a street lamp, jogging around the corner at the far end of the road. Climbing out of the car, she popped the locks and sheltered under her umbrella as she watched him slog along the pavement towards her. As he spotted her, he waved.

‘Good thing I was late,’ she said, when he came up to her, panting. Hair soaked, water running down his face, he was wearing running shorts, trainers and a white T-shirt that stuck to his skin. Bloody hell, he looked great, even like that, she thought, hoping he couldn’t read her mind.

‘Sorry,’ he said, in between deep breaths, plastering his hair back off his face with his hand and stretching his legs. ‘Thought you’d been held up, so I went out for a run. Helps clear the mind.’

She followed him up the path to the front door. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you gave up the fags?’

He turned round and grinned, still out of breath. ‘What, like you, you mean? I saw you having a quick one in the car park this morning. Thought you’d stopped?’

‘Don’t give me a hard time. I need it at the moment. Look, I’ve brought you a present.’

‘What is it?’ he said, eyeing the plastic bag in her hand as he fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

‘A tape of this evening’s appeal on Crimewatch. I went by my flat to collect it. In spite of what you said earlier, I thought you might like to see it.’

He gave her a withering look as they went inside. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’ He unlocked the door to his flat and held the door open for her.

‘Steele did a good job. Came across really well.’

‘I just hope it shakes out some new information,’ he said, closing the door behind them. ‘I’m going to take a shower. If the phone rings, can you answer it? It may be Sally-Anne.’

‘Any news?’

‘Sorry, I should have told you. She called earlier to say that Trevor came round a couple of hours ago.’

‘Thank God,’ she said, feeling an instant surge of relief. ‘That’s fantastic news.’

He was grinning at her. ‘And guess what, Sally-Anne played Eminem really loudly in his ear and after ten minutes he opened his eyes.’

She laughed, trying to picture the scene. ‘Typical Trevor. Did he yell at her to turn it off?’

‘Probably. It’s about the only fucking chink of light in the last twenty-four shitty hours. Sally-Anne said she’ll call back once she’s found out when I can visit.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of the sofa as he walked towards the door to the inner hall. ‘Put on some music and make yourself at home. I think there’s a bottle of decent white open in the fridge, or some red in the rack next to the sink. I won’t be long. Then maybe we can get something to eat. I’m starving.’

She put the package down on the glass and chrome coffee table, took off her coat and went into the kitchen, where she found an open bottle of Italian Gavi in the fridge. Pouring herself a glass, she took it back into the sitting room where she examined Tartaglia’s extraordinary music collection, which ranged from obscure Italian opera to hip-hop, finally selecting an old Moby CD. She slid it into the player and sat down on the comfortable leather chair by the window.

Gradually starting to unwind, she gazed around the room, searching for the slightest trace of female occupation. She hadn’t forgotten the scene in Dr Blake’s office. But there were no telltale signs. No signs of anything interesting at all. As usual, the flat was absurdly tidy, with none of the usual haphazardness, unconscious or deliberate, which she associated with other male colleagues and friends. Everything had a place and a function, from the long lines of DVDs, CDs and books grouped alphabetically on the shelves, to the neat rows of glasses, crockery, drinks and cooking ingredients in the kitchen cupboards. Compared to the overflowing, cosy house she shared with her sister, Tartaglia’s flat was clinical. No family photos, personal knick-knacks, objects of a sentimental nature brought home from a holiday or marking a particular relationship. Knowing him, it wasn’t that he couldn’t be bothered to make a home. It was a matter of deliberate choice.

Although the lack of clutter was alien to her, she liked the bare, white walls and the large black and white photograph over the fireplace. It was the only picture in the entire room. She got up, glass in hand, to take a closer look. It was simple but evocative. A young woman strolled down a sun-drenched, cobbled street, sweeping a lock of dark hair off her face. She seemed preoccupied by something, unaware of the photographer. Behind her was a high arched doorway, the name ‘Bar Toto’ hanging in large neon letters above it, some words in what looked like Latin carved deep into the stone to one side. Judging from the woman’s clothing and shoes, it had been taken sometime in the late fifties or early sixties. It reminded her of La Dolce Vita, the only Italian film she had ever seen. Apart from the fact that the picture was of somewhere in Italy, she had no idea why Tartaglia had chosen it, although the image was very striking.

As she continued to stare at it, losing herself in the scene, imagining a story behind it, the phone rang. She picked it up, hoping to hear Sally-Anne’s voice at the other end.

‘Is Mark there?’ a woman asked, in a light Scottish accent.

‘He’s taking a shower,’ she replied, instantly curious. Definitely not Fiona Blake.

There was a pause. ‘Will he be long?’

‘I don’t know. He’s just come back from a run. I’m Sam Donovan. I work with him,’ Donovan said, something in the woman’s tone compelling her to explain.

‘Ah.’ The woman sounded a little disappointed. ‘I’m Nicoletta, his sister. Could you please just let him know that I called and that we’re expecting him for lunch this Sunday. Tell him, no arguments. John and the kids want to see him and Elisa and Gianni and some friends are coming over. It’s all arranged.’

Wondering what Tartaglia’s reaction would be to such an order, Donovan put down the phone just as Tartaglia reappeared, barefoot, wearing jeans and a loose, open-necked shirt, vigorously rubbing his hair dry with a towel. Donovan relayed the message.

‘Shit,’ he said, lobbing the towel into the small hall, which led to the rest of the flat. ‘I’ve been with the murder squad for nearly three years and, whatever I say, Nicoletta still doesn’t get it. As far as she’s concerned, the case can get fucked. Sunday is sacrosanct and nothing stops a family get-together, not even somebody lying dead in a mortuary. I need a bloody drink.’

He went into the kitchen, returning with the bottle of wine and a large, full glass. He sank down in the middle of the sofa, exhaling loudly as he put his bare feet up heavily on the coffee table. ‘God, it’s been a bugger of a day. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll be having to take orders from that prick, Kennedy.’

He looked rougher than she had seen him for a while, with dark shadows under his eyes, almost like bruises. Judging by the thick stubble on his chin, he hadn’t shaved since early morning. Perhaps all he needed was a few good nights of sleep, although there was little chance of that in the foreseeable future. She hoped that was all that was wrong with him.

She sat down again, kicking off her shoes and leaning forward to massage her tired feet. ‘You said Kennedy wanted to stop you looking into Marion Spear’s death.’

He nodded. ‘According to the expert, she doesn’t fit his victim profile. But I don’t give a flying fuck what he thinks. I still think it’s worth pursuing.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘In here and here,’ he said, pounding his heart and stomach with his fist. ‘Something a spineless idiot like Kennedy wouldn’t have a clue about.’

She was taken aback by the strength of the emotion in his dark eyes. She had never seen him like this before and she wasn’t sure why he cared so much. Tartaglia’s instincts were usually good but the policeman who solved a case on gut feel was a cliché reserved for detective novels. Maybe he was letting his hatred of Kennedy cloud his judgment. ‘Have you found out anything more?’

‘I’ve finally tracked down Marion’s mum. She’s still living up in Leicester, where Marion came from. She gave me some stuff on Marion’s background, although most of it I already knew from the file. Apparently, Marion had come down south to work as an estate agent, first in Acton and then in Ealing. On the day she died, she had taken a client to visit a flat. After that, nobody saw her again. The flat was quite close to the car park where she fell.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s another Mr Kipper.’

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘The bloke was traced at the time and crossed off the list. But I’d still like to talk to him again and to the people in the estate agent’s. Reading through the file, the investigation seems pretty cursory to me. According to Marion’s mum, Marion didn’t know many people and had been feeling lonely living in London. When she died, she was thinking of going back home to Leicester.’

‘You really think she’s worth looking into?’

He nodded. ‘We’re grubbing around in the dark. Ellie Best’s computer was wiped clean and the only way to link her to the other deaths is the ring. Copies of the emails recovered from Laura Benedetti’s computer came in this afternoon but they tell us nothing. Surprise, surprise, they are almost identical to what we found on Gemma Kramer’s computer, although the killer called himself Sean instead of Tom. We have no clue how he got to the girls or who he is. We have fucking nada.’

‘Maybe Crimewatch will do the trick.’

He shrugged. ‘The response is usually great but with a complicated case like this it isn’t always straightforward. Take the Barton case. Loads of calls came in after Trevor appeared on TV and we spent a huge amount of time sifting through all the information and following it up. But in the end, none of it helped catch Barton.’

She started to feel a little depressed. ‘I still don’t see why you think it’s worth considering Marion Spear?’

He took a large gulp of wine, put the glass down on the table and folded his arms wearily. ‘It’s simple. Laura Benedetti wasn’t necessarily Tom’s first attempt at killing.’

‘She was the first that fits the pattern that we know of.’

‘Tom didn’t spring from nowhere as a fully-fledged psychopath. He must have killed, or tried to, before. There’s usually an escalation in what happens.’

‘But we’ve searched the records.’

‘We don’t know what we’re searching for. Take Michael Barton. He started off as a petty burglar who turned to rape.’

‘Are you saying Barton killed a woman by mistake?’

‘Although Barton’s attacks were becoming increasingly violent, when he set out that night I personally doubt he had murder in mind. He didn’t mean to strangle Jane Withers but she wouldn’t do what he wanted. Unlike the others, she kept screaming and struggling. We know from her autopsy that she fought hard. He had to subdue her and silence her, otherwise he risked being caught. In the process, he got carried away and what was supposed to be rape, turned into murder.’

‘But I understand he killed four more women. They can’t all have been accidents.’

‘We don’t know what went on in his mind – the bastard won’t talk. But probably somewhere in the middle of throttling the life out of poor Jane, he discovered that killing turned him on in a whole new way. A lot of what he did to her was post mortem. Perhaps he wasn’t aware at that point if she was alive or dead.’

Donovan was silent for a moment as she finished her wine. ‘Why are you so anti Dr Kennedy? I agree he’s a prick but there are enough of those around and we all make mistakes. Also, he has had some successes.’

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘Maybe. But to Kennedy, the Barton case was just another academic puzzle. He forgot he was dealing with real people, flesh and blood, who had families, husbands, children...’ His voice tailed off for a moment before he continued. ‘It was all a game to him,’ he said bitterly. ‘His refusal to believe that he might be wrong wasted valuable time and, in my view, cost the last two victims their lives.’

‘You didn’t have to listen to him.’

‘No. But it’s difficult to filter out the noise, particularly when it’s coming from a so-called expert. It makes you doubt your own instincts. Also, what if we’d been wrong? We’d have had a job explaining to the powers-that-be why we ignored him.’

‘Everything’s easy to see with the benefit of hindsight.’

‘Of course, but Trevor and I blame ourselves. If we hadn’t paid so much attention to Kennedy, I’m sure we would have found Barton sooner. That’s why I intend to follow my nose this time. If Trevor were here, he’d back me up, I know.’

‘You really think Marion Spear could be an early victim?’

‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. But at the moment, she’s all we’ve got. We must find the early victims, the botched attempts before Tom perfected his act. Unless something lands in our lap, it’s our best chance of catching him.’

‘We’ve only been looking in London. Maybe Tom started killing somewhere else.’

‘It’s possible. But you know how difficult it’s been to search thoroughly without a central log. As it is, I’m not convinced we’ve found all the victims. But extending the search outside London is impossible. We haven’t got the resources nor is there any reason to justify doing it at the moment. Perhaps Crimewatch will do the job for us. We’ll soon hear if there’s been anything similar going on in other parts of the country.’

‘Do you think he’s killing them in different parts of London to make it difficult for someone to spot?’

‘The thought had occurred to me. At least now, with all the publicity, he won’t get away with it again so easily.’

She sank back in her chair and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples with her fingers, feeling suddenly out of her depth. In the short space of time she’d been on Clarke’s team, she’d had to deal with a number of murders. Although grisly and upsetting, they had usually been cases of domestic violence gone wrong, or someone with a grievance against a member of their family, friend or work colleague. Nothing she had seen so far had prepared her for something like this.

‘He’s not going to stop, is he?’ she said, softly, after a moment.

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘The clock’s ticking. Unless we can establish the connection between Laura, Ellie and Gemma, our only other means of catching him is to wait for him to do it again. If so, let’s just hope with all the media pressure, he fucks up.’

As he reached for his glass, the phone rang and he got up to answer it. Donovan realised almost immediately from Tartaglia’s tone of voice that it wasn’t Sally-Anne at the other end. After a brief exchange, he grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from the table, jotted something down, then slammed the phone into its cradle.

Stretching his arms in the air, he yawned and came back to the sofa. ‘That was the blessed Carolyn. Sounded pretty chuffed with her performance on TV.’

‘Was that all she wanted?’

‘Some bloke’s phoned in to say that he thinks he saw Gemma’s killer steaming out of the church late that afternoon. The timing checks out, so hopefully we may get a better description of the man.’

‘You’re going round to see him now?’

He shook his head. ‘Thank God, no. It’s been fixed for tomorrow morning, eight a.m. at Ealing nick. Apparently, the caller lives nearby. I’d like you to be there too.’

She nodded, grateful that it wasn’t six or seven a.m. The description of Gemma’s killer released on Crimewatch had been kept deliberately vague and it would be interesting to see if what the caller had seen tallied with Mrs Brooke’s statement.

‘That should tie in nicely with following up on Marion’s Mr Kipper and the local estate agent,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, smiling. ‘Meantime, I have to eat something. Let’s order a takeaway and watch effing Carolyn on film. Maybe she’ll be nominated for an Oscar.’

He was about to reach for the phone when the doorbell rang.

Donovan gave him an enquiring look. ‘Expecting someone?’

‘I’m not expecting anyone.’

As surprised as Donovan, he went out of the flat and opened the front door to find a woman standing at the bottom of the steps in the middle of the path, sheltering from the rain under a large umbrella. It took him a moment to realise that it was Fiona Blake. He stared at her, not knowing what to say.

‘I was just passing and saw your light on,’ she said. There was a moment’s hesitation before she added: ‘May I come in?’

Her speech was a touch slurred. Although she said she was passing, she lived on the other side of town. Even though her face was in shadow, he could see that she was dressed up, lips shiny, just catching the light, hair sleek around her shoulders. He wondered what she was doing at that hour in his neighbourhood. Part of him would have given a great deal to invite her inside but he knew he shouldn’t. He still felt bruised after everything that had happened, remembering the photographs in her office, the ring on her finger. Anyway, with Donovan just on the other side of the wall, the choice was made for him. Thank God, temptation was put out of his way.

‘It’s not a good time,’ he said, instantly gauging from the tightening of her expression that he’d said the wrong thing. He saw her eyes focusing on his bare feet then moving to the half-drunk glass of wine in his hand. He was suddenly aware of the music drifting softly out the door behind him and realised how it all must look.

‘I can see you’re busy,’ she said frostily.

‘Work, I’m afraid.’

‘Work? Of course. You’re always working. Perhaps another time.’

She slipped her handbag over her shoulder and started to walk back down the path towards the street.

‘Fiona, wait. It’s not like that.’ He felt stupid as soon as he’d said it.

She stopped by the front gate and turned, teetering a little on her very high heels as she stared hard at him. ‘Not like what?’

‘I’ve got a colleague with me. We’re discussing the case.’ He didn’t see why he should have to explain himself to her but he found himself doing it anyway.

‘I just thought we should talk, that’s all,’ she said, clearly not believing him. ‘But as you say, it’s not a good time. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.’

‘I’d like to talk. Honestly, I would. But not now.’

She hesitated, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to another as if her shoes were uncomfortable. ‘When?’

‘I’ll call you,’ he said, hoping to placate her, although he wasn’t sure if he would.

She shook her head slowly as if she didn’t believe him and turned away without a word, walking off down the road.

Thoughts racing, feeling stupid and inept, he watched her go, listening to the clip of her heels on the wet pavement. He waited for a moment then went back inside, slamming the front door behind him, and then the door to the flat, as he tried to stifle the yearning to go after her.

Donovan was still sitting in the chair by the window, feet tucked up under her, a huge grin on her face. The walls in the house weren’t thick and she must have heard part, if not all, of what had been said.

‘Would you like me to go?’ she asked, taking a sip of wine as if she had no intention of doing any such thing. ‘I really don’t want to be in the way…’

‘You’re not,’ he said firmly, walking over to the table and topping up his glass. He felt suddenly relieved that Donovan was there and grateful for her company.

‘Was it Dr Blake?’ she asked after a moment.

He nodded.

She put down her glass, unfolded her legs and got to her feet. ‘Really, I’m very happy to leave, if you want me to. Why don’t you call her back?’

‘Not a good idea.’

She sighed, shaking her head slowly as if she understood everything. ‘Ah, Mark. Life’s never simple, is it?’

He could tell what was going through her mind: he was thinking with his dick, and she was probably right. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said firmly. ‘Now let’s order that sodding curry.’

A bitter wind gusted across Hammersmith Bridge, blowing with it a mist of icy rain. Kelly Goodhart stopped and closed her eyes for a moment listening to the sound as it whistled around the tall gothic towers, rushing through the ironwork structure high above. The air was so cold, she could barely feel her toes in her sodden boots, let alone her fingers. But none of that would matter soon. It was nearly midnight and she wouldn’t have much longer to wait.

The last time she had stood there, almost on that very spot, had been with Michael. They had been for a long walk along the towpath, stopping on the bridge to watch the sun set. Afterwards, they had gone to The Dove in Hammersmith for a couple of drinks before returning home for supper. It was Sunday evening, late autumn and unusually warm for that time of year. They had sat out on the little terrace at the back overlooking the river, watching the rowing boats plough up and down, gazing contentedly at the darkening outline and playing fields of St Paul’s school opposite, where Michael had studied as a boy.

Hearing the perennial drone of an aeroplane somewhere above, she opened her eyes and leaned back against the wrought iron balustrade, peering across the water. She could just make out the pub amongst the stretch of old houses on the opposite shore, its lights still shining even at that hour. The memory of happier times brought tears to her eyes, which mingled with the rain. It all seemed so distant now.

Not wanting to think about it any more, she turned away into the wind and looked down-river, holding tight onto the wooden handrail as she gazed at the glittering modern office buildings and warehouse conversions further along, silhouetted against the cloudy night sky. The river ran high up against the wall, the sodium lights along the bank reflecting in the rippling black water, which looked deceptively calm from a distance. The river curved sharply away to the right, towards Fulham and Chelsea and the next string of bridges, which were hidden from view. The opposite bank was dark and it was almost impossible to make out where the river ended and land began, the only light glinting through the thick, swaying trees coming from the terrace of houses that backed onto the towpath.

The line of old-fashioned lamps along the bridge cast intermittent pools of pinkish-yellow light on the churning water immediately below, the current moving furiously along, carrying with it all manner of detritus. Gazing down, she spotted a small, uprooted tree or branch, reaching up like a bony outstretched hand, momentarily caught in an arc of light before being swept away beneath the bridge. It was as if it was beckoning to her and she felt the invisible pull of the water, inviting her, drawing her down towards it. Thank God the darkness that had enveloped her for so long would soon be over.

She heard the rattle of wheels on the bridge as a car sped towards her, the headlamps momentarily blinding, and she turned away, retreating into the shadow of one of the huge buttresses, stuffing her hands in her pockets for warmth. At that hour there was hardly any traffic and it was only the fourth car she had counted in the past ten minutes, along with a single pedestrian, an elderly man out walking a Labrador, who was so bundled up in hat and coat against the weather that he didn’t even look at her as he went past.

Finding it impossible to stand still, as much from nerves as the cold, she started to walk back across the bridge, listening to the hollow thud of her footsteps on the path. She went over her checklist again in her mind: the note and money for her cleaner, ready on the kitchen table along with the keys to her car and the letter for her brother, containing details of her bank accounts and other assets, her will with its short list of bequests and the instructions for her burial. So many loose ends that needed to be carefully tied up. But everything was in order, she reassured herself. She had forgotten nothing.

Drowning was supposed to be a pleasant way to go, according to what she had read. As your lungs filled with water, you experienced a high, a feeling of euphoria and floatiness. On a night like this, if you didn’t drown instantly, you would die of hypothermia, the effects of which weren’t very different. She wasn’t a good swimmer so she would probably drown, although she had no strong feelings either way. All that mattered was that it happened tonight.

She looked at her watch. It was now just past midnight. He said he would be coming by tube and she stopped and scanned the length of the bridge towards Hammersmith, eyes straining to catch any movement. But there was none. He was only a few minutes late but every minute counted and already she started to feel anxious. When they had spoken that morning, he had given her his word that he would be there, that he wouldn’t fail her. She rubbed her wedding ring with her thumb, turning it round and round her finger in her pocket as she worried about what she would do if he didn’t come. She knew she couldn’t go through with it on her own but the thought of living another day was unbearable. Surely he wouldn’t let her down.

Trying to calm herself, she started to walk again, stamping hard on the path to keep warm. She was almost on the other side when her eyes caught a movement in the distance and she noticed the small, dark, bobbing shape of someone coming along the pavement below towards her, just before the foot of the bridge. Hesitant, she stopped again and squinted into the distance, her breath catching in her throat. It looked like a man. It could be him. As he slowly approached, she struggled to make out his features in the orange streetlight but she was sure she recognised the tall, broad-shouldered outline and the long, loping gait that was so distinctive. Tears in her eyes, she exhaled sharply, gasping from sheer relief, and hugging herself tightly. She had been foolish to worry. He had come as he had promised and with a surge of elation, she watched him draw near.