14

Tartaglia strode into room three at Ealing Police Station, where a youngish-looking man and Donovan were seated opposite each other at the table, engrossed in conversation.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Tartaglia said, banging the door closed with his heel.

Donovan gave Tartaglia an enquiring look but the man smiled and shrugged good-humouredly as if he had all the time in the world.

‘Not a problem,’ the man said. ‘Sergeant Donovan has been taking good care of me. I was in the middle of explaining what happened.’

‘This is Adam Zaleski,’ Donovan said. ‘He’s just been telling me about the man he saw running away from the church where Gemma Kramer died.’

Zaleski gave Donovan another easy smile and leant back in his chair, pushing his small, steel-rimmed glasses up his nose. Young, slim, with very short dark hair, wet from the rain outside, he was dressed in a sober grey suit and plain, navy tie, clearly on his way in to the office.

Tartaglia dumped his helmet and gloves on the floor in the corner and fumbled to unzip his soaking jacket. It was a relief to take it off for a while and he shook it energetically a few times to get rid of the water clinging to the surface, before hanging it on the coat rack behind the door. In spite of the waterproofs, he felt as though the freezing rain outside had penetrated right through to his skin. His cheeks smarted in the stuffy warmth of the small room, his hands still like blocks of ice.

The day had started badly. For some reason he had overslept, waking with a churning stomach and a thick head. No doubt the greasy takeaway he had shared with Donovan the previous evening was something to do with it, as well as the half bottle of Barolo he had polished off on his own after she had gone, trying to obliterate Fiona Blake from his thoughts. To make matters worse, it had been raining heavily when he left the flat this morning. Still dark outside, the roads were slick as a skidpan, and the traffic was much heavier than normal.

He hated being late; hated others being late too. It was unforgivable. But as he came back to the table, he saw from the clock by the door that it was worse than he had imagined. He should have been there nearly three-quarters of an hour ago. He sighed and shook his head, angry with himself, as he sat down next to Donovan opposite Zaleski. He felt unfocused and out of control, desperate now for a large cup of strong, black coffee, a cigarette or three and something to eat. But that would have to wait until they finished with Zaleski. Hopefully the interview wouldn’t take long.

He took out a notebook and pen from his pocket, more for formality’s sake than anything else, as he could see that Donovan had been taking copious notes. As he did so, Zaleski stood up.

‘I hope you don’t mind if I remove my jacket. It’s like the Sahara in here.’ His voice was flat and accentless, the tone a little husky, as if he was getting over a cold.

Draping the jacket carefully over the back of his chair, Zaleski sat down again and folded his hands in front of him on the table, ready for business. He looked more muscular without the jacket, a pristine white shirt taut across his chest and upper arms.

Zaleski might be dying of heat but Tartaglia was still freezing. Rubbing his hands together to get his circulation going, Tartaglia leaned across the table. ‘Please can you take me through what you’ve already told Sergeant Donovan?’

‘Sure. It’s pretty simple, really,’ Zaleski said, shrugging again, giving Tartaglia a pleasant smile. ‘I was walking along Kenilworth Avenue. Just as I was passing St Sebastian’s, this bloke comes down the steps and out of the gate. He wasn’t looking where he was going and he nearly walked straight into me.’

‘You say “nearly”. Did he touch you at all?’

Zaleski looked puzzled. ‘Touch me?’

‘If this man proves to be the person we’re looking for and he had physical contact with you, we’ll need the clothes you were wearing for forensic examination.’

Zaleski nodded. ‘Oh, I see. No, he didn’t touch me. He just glared at me for a second, almost angry, as if it was my fault. Then he turned and walked off. After a moment, I heard a car engine start up further along the road and it drove away. I didn’t see anyone else around, so I presume it was his car.’

Zaleski spoke in a quiet, considered manner as if aware of the importance of each detail. He would come across well in court, if it ever came to that.

‘Did you see the car?’

‘Only its taillights disappearing. It was too dark.’

‘You said you thought it was a car, not a van,’ Donovan said.

‘That’s right. At least it didn’t sound like a van, if you know what I mean.’

‘But you got a good look at the man?’ Donovan prompted.

Zaleski nodded. ‘I’d say so. He was very close and there’s a streetlamp right by the entrance to the church. He’s white, clean-shaven, round about my age.’

‘Which is?’

‘Thirty-six.’

Tartaglia studied Zaleski. He was usually good at judging someone’s age but Zaleski looked barely thirty.

‘What about height?’

Zaleski paused for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know. I’m about five ten. I’d say he was possibly a bit taller but I really can’t be sure. You see, it all happened so quickly.’

‘What about hair colour?’

‘Brown. Thick, I think, and longish.’

‘Brown?’

‘Well, certainly lighter than mine, although the streetlamp was one of those orange ones so it’s difficult to be precise.’

Tartaglia nodded. Although Zaleski seemed to have good recall of what had happened, orange street lighting made it almost impossible to read colours accurately. Mrs Brooke had described the man as having dark hair but then she had seen him from a distance in fading daylight. Some sort of mid-to-dark-brown was probably the best they could do for the moment.

‘You said you saw his face clearly. I don’t suppose you have any idea about eye colour?’

Zaleski considered for a moment, picking at a loose thread attached to his cuff button.

‘I’d say they were pale.’

‘Pale?’ Donovan said, checking her notes and scribbling something down.

‘Well, I think if he had dark eyes they would have stood out, even under the streetlamp. But now you ask, I’m not so sure.’

‘Of course, you only saw him briefly,’ Tartaglia said, aware that he’d pushed Zaleski too far. Sometimes, in a misguided effort to be helpful, witnesses remembered things that they hadn’t actually seen. Zaleski seemed eager to please and he realised he would have to tread more carefully.

‘Do you happen to remember what he was wearing?’

Zaleski grimaced. ‘It’s funny, but I really only remember his face, the way he looked at me. That’s what sticks in my mind. The rest is a bit of a blur, although I think he was dressed in a coat, the way you had him in the reconstruction, with his hands in the pockets. I haven’t a clue about the trousers or shoes. It all happened so quickly, you see. One minute he’s there, the next he’s gone.’

Although Zaleski seemed to feel that he should have remembered things more clearly, they were making progress. Mrs Brooke hadn’t been able to see the man’s features from where she was standing, whereas Zaleski had seen him up close, albeit for only a few seconds.

‘That’s perfectly understandable. Do you think you saw him well enough to help us put together an e-fit?’

‘I could certainly try.’

‘Assuming the car you heard was his, which way did he go?’

‘South.’

Donovan checked her notes. ‘You said, towards Popes Lane.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What time was this?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘Definitely after five. Maybe about five-fifteen. I was on my way over to pick up my car from the garage. It was there for a service and an MOT. They shut at half past and I was in a bit of a rush to get there in time, as I needed it that evening. I’ve given Sergeant Donovan the details, if you want to check it out. They may be able to remember exactly what time I arrived.’

They would check as a matter of course but the time fitted perfectly. Without doubt, Zaleski had seen Tom. Hopefully, he would be able to pick him out of a line-up if they ever found him.

‘Why didn’t you come forward sooner?’ Donovan asked. ‘Didn’t you see the witness appeal boards? They were dotted all around the streets close to the church.’

Zaleski shook his head. ‘I don’t normally go that way. I live right on the other side of Ealing and I work in South Ken. I only found out about what had happened when I watched Crimewatch last night.’

Tartaglia closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Zaleski?’

‘I’m a hypnotist.’

‘Stage shows, you mean?’ Tartaglia barely stifled his surprise. There was nothing showy or theatrical about Zaleski, qualities he imagined were par for the course for a hypnotist, which, in his view, was tantamount to being a fairground conjurer. If anything, Zaleski looked like a drone accountant or lawyer in one of the big City firms.

Zaleski grinned, clearly having come across such a reaction before. ‘Nothing glamorous like that. I’m not Paul McKenna. I just have a small practice. Perhaps I should be more ambitious, but I enjoy what I do and it pays the bills, so my bank manager’s happy.’

Tartaglia struggled to imagine how anybody could earn a living from such a profession. ‘What sort of things do you do?’

‘My main area of interest is in treating people with phobias and addictions. Claustrophobia, fear of flying, things like that. Most of the people who come to see me simply want to lose weight or stop smoking.’ He glanced at Donovan and smiled as if they shared some secret. ‘That’s my bread and butter. Luckily, there’s a lot of demand and I usually get good results. It normally only takes a few sessions.’

‘It’s that easy?’ Tartaglia said sceptically, acutely aware of the half-empty packet of cigarettes in his pocket and suddenly craving a smoke again.

‘It certainly works for some people,’ Donovan said, a little defensively, he thought, as she tucked away her notebook and pen in her bag. ‘A friend of mine’s company paid for all the smokers in the office to be hypnotised in order to get them to give up. She used to smoke twenty a day and she hasn’t touched one since.’

Tartaglia looked back at Zaleski, still unconvinced. ‘You really could make me give up smoking or drinking?’

Zaleski was smiling. ‘You’d have to want to give up. Real-life hypnosis is nothing like you see in films. I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. I can’t take control of your mind.’

‘Then how does it work?’

‘Through suggestion. I just help you along the path you’ve already chosen.’ Zaleski reached behind into his jacket pocket for his wallet, plucked out a business card and handed it to Tartaglia. ‘Why don’t you try it some time?’

‘Maybe. If ever I find there’s something I can’t deal with myself. In the meantime, I think we’ve covered everything for now.’ He stood up, Zaleski and Donovan following suit. ‘I’ll get someone from my team to contact you later this morning about the e-fit. We’ll also need you to make a formal statement. Nowadays, we have to record these things both on video and audio.’

He walked Zaleski to the door and pointed him in the direction of the front desk and the way out. Once he was out of sight, Tartaglia crumpled up Zaleski’s business card and aimed it at the bin in the corner. Annoyingly, it landed just short.

‘You’re just like my father,’ Donovan said, walking over and scooping it up to drop it in the bin. ‘He never picks up anything.’

From what he remembered, Donovan’s father was an overweight, grey-bearded former English teacher in his early sixties. Only a few years older than Donovan, Tartaglia felt stung by the remark. ‘I can’t believe I’m anything like your father.’ He unhooked his jacket from the rack, where it had been dripping onto the lino, creating a small pool, and gave it a vigorous shake to get rid of the last few drops of water. ‘And you’re hardly Miss Tidy. Your house looked like a gypsy encampment last time I saw it.’

‘Well, I do try, but Claire totally defeats me. Don’t worry. You’re not really like Dad,’ she said, patting his arm and smiling as if she knew what he had been thinking.

He walked to the door and held it open for her impatiently. ‘There’s a Starbucks on the High Street just down the road from the estate agents where Marion Spear worked. If we get a move on, we’ve time for a quick breakfast before the estate agent opens.’