17

To: Carolyn.Steele@met.police.uk

From: Tom659873362@greenmail.com

Dear Carolyn,

I hope you don’t mind first names but I hate formalities, don’t you? Also, I feel I already know you, even though we haven’t yet met – I certainly look forward to that pleasure one day very soon. For the moment, though, let me congratulate you on your performance last night on Crimewatch. You looked good and you struck just the right note, I thought. Well done for keeping just a few interesting details back from the public. We wouldn’t want them knowing all our little secrets, would we? Just so you know it’s me writing this and not some cheap imitation trying to get your attention, you could have mentioned Gemma’s long, silky brown hair. I think of her every time I stroke that lovely lock. She’s very dear to me, you know. But hey, I’m a fickle sort of guy. You know that already, don’t you? I think you understand me. Perhaps to you, I’d be true. Perhaps. But we can talk about that another time – when we meet. I’m straying from the point. Getting back to the show last night, people should be praised when they do something well. You deserve to be kissed for it, by a man who knows how. I, too, deserve praise, don’t you think? I’m very good at what I do; I’m getting away with murder!

With fondest wishes

Yours (dare I say, your?)
Tom

Steele swivelled round in her chair to face Tartaglia, expressionless. ‘So, what do you make of it?’ Her tone was business-like, without any trace of emotion, as if she were asking his opinion about a run-of-the-mill communiqué.

It was early evening and she had called him into her office, taking care to shut the door behind them, which was unusual. She had never had anything private to discuss with him until now, never solicited his opinion about anything major so far and he felt surprised and a little bewildered that she had sought him out now. The email left him momentarily speechless, not sure what to say, other than the obvious platitudes. Angry on her behalf, feeling a spark of unaccustomed concern for her, he was amazed at the barefaced cheek of it. The cocky, sexual overtones were particularly revolting. He had no idea if Steele lived alone or if she had a partner. Notwithstanding the general resentment he felt for her, he was instantly worried, wondering how, as a woman, she was affected by it, whether or not she felt intimidated.

Even with all her years of experience with the Met, seeing the darker side of humanity on a daily basis, emails from a serial killer were not run of the mill. It had to touch her in some manner. She had to feel something. But she was giving nothing away, matter-of-factly treating what had happened as if it were all part of the normal workday routine. Although perhaps it was all an act for his benefit, trying to show how tough she could be.

She sat very upright, mouth taut, face a pale, blank canvas, looking at him, waiting for his response. He struggled to find the right words and failed. ‘Did you mention in Crimewatch that he calls himself Tom?’

She nodded. ‘I decided to do so, just in case either it really is his name or nickname, or might ring a bell with someone.’

‘When did you receive the email?’

‘About an hour ago. Of course it’s untraceable.’

He put his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the wall, studying her closely. But there was still no sign of emotion in her eyes. An hour ago? She had been dealing with it on her own for a full hour, without saying anything to the members of her team in the room outside? How could she keep it all to herself? She was extraordinary. Clarke would have been out of his office like a rocket, hopping mad or excited, or both, wanting to share it, wanting to get everyone’s view.

‘I’ve spoken to the lads at Newlands Park. According to them, sending emails like this is a piece of piss. All Tom has to do is drive around with a laptop in his car and tap into any unsecured network. Apparently, there are thousands and thousands of official and unofficial wi-fi hotspots all over London.’

‘What about the email address?’

‘He’s probably set up a sack-load of them especially for the purpose. There’s no way of tracing him at all.’

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are they sure?’

‘That’s what they said. Of course they’ll have a go, but they told me not to expect anything.’

She sighed, stifling a yawn, again as if they were talking about something trivial. ‘Apparently, if we knew where he was when he was online, we might be able to trace the signal back to the modem, then trace the modem back to the place where the computer was purchased. But even if the computer’s not stolen, knowing our Tom, he’s unlikely to have given his real details to the shop, don’t you think? Anyway, if he’s moving around, as they suspect, it won’t work.’

‘Have you told Cornish?’

She nodded. ‘And I’m telling you and Gary, when he gets back. But nobody else needs to know. I can’t risk another leak to the press.’

As if stiff from sitting at the desk too long, she bowed her head, leaning forward in her chair, locking her fingers and stretching her arms out in front of her. Slim and lithe, with her sleek dark hair and green eyes, she reminded him of a cat. Like all cats, she was inscrutable. She did her duty as a boss but kept him at arm’s length wherever possible, as if she was wary of him.

He wasn’t expecting her to treat him the way Clarke had done – that easy, mutually rewarding relationship had been built up over several years. But he had expected something more of her. He’d heard good reports of her from people who had worked for her in the past, but as far as he could see, they were talking about a different person.

‘Now, tell me about what happened on the bridge,’ she said, tilting her chair back and putting her feet up on the bottom drawer of her desk, which was slightly open.

As he started to explain what had happened, he pictured the bridge in his mind, with the brown swelling water below, trying yet again to make sense of what had gone on. Was it really connected to the other girls? It was like trying to find your way in thick, drifting fog, he thought. Just when you managed to make out something familiar and got your bearings, another wave of fog would roll in and the landscape would become unrecognisable again. He wasn’t sure what he thought about any of it any more.

‘So, there’s nothing yet to link what happened to the killings?’ she said once he had finished.

He shook his head. ‘Not until we find the body.’

‘Why did CID call us?’

‘Some bright spark had been reading the papers and thought it wasn’t worth taking any chances. If it turns out to be Tom, they’ll deserve a medal.’

‘But we only have the witness’s word for what happened.’

‘CCTV footage from the bridge confirms what she saw. Some sort of incident definitely took place, although we have no clear visual of the man’s face. But I spoke to forensics and it seems as though they’ve retrieved some decent prints. Let’s hope that at least one will belong to him.’

Steele looked thoughtful. ‘The MO’s very different. But I suppose we must keep an open mind. Tom’s a clever sod and he’s hardly going to get away with the same routine after all the stuff in the media.’

‘But if Tom is responsible, why didn’t he refer to it in the email to you? You’d think he’d be bragging about it.’

She shrugged, her eyes flicking back to the screen. ‘The thought occurred to me, too, when I first read this shit,’ she said, distractedly. He caught a slight tensing in her face, as if it pained her to look at it. Perhaps it had affected her in some way after all. ‘But maybe he thinks we don’t yet know about what happened on the bridge.’

She had a point. In normal circumstances, the local CID would handle the investigation until it was clear that the death was suspicious. Given their heavy workload and the lack of a body, it was unlikely the bridge would have been closed down so quickly, if at all. Perhaps Tom had been counting on that.

‘But if it is him, why choose Hammersmith Bridge?’ he said. ‘Unless he wants us to find out about it?’

For a moment she said nothing, still staring at the screen, fingers steepled under her chin as if she was thinking it all through. Then she reached for the mouse, closed down the email and turned to face him. ‘I’m going to get Patrick’s opinion on it. Maybe he can shed some light on all this. Now, tell me about Ealing, this morning,’ she said briskly, as if wanting to get off the subject of Kennedy. ‘I hear the witness had some useful information.’

‘Yes. He seems to have had a good look at the man and the e-fit should come out well.’

‘I also hear you’ve been stirring things up with a man called Harry Angel. He’s made a complaint to the Borough Commander. He claims you were harassing him.’

Surprised that Angel had taken things so far, so quickly, Tartaglia shrugged. ‘He didn’t like my line of questioning.’

‘Is this to do with the Marion Spear case?’

He nodded.

‘Why are you chasing after that, when we’ve so much on our plate already?’

‘I’ve told you, I think she could be an early victim.’

‘But Marion Spear doesn’t fit the victim profile.’

It was as if Kennedy himself was talking. ‘I haven’t seen Dr Kennedy’s written report yet,’ he said, trying to contain his resentment.

‘Don’t be pedantic, Mark. You know what he thinks.’

‘Yes, and he’s jumping to the wrong conclusion.’

She tensed as if he had criticised her personally. ‘Tom goes for young girls. Marion Spear was thirty. She doesn’t fit.’

‘Maybe it’s just a coincidence that the three victims we know about were all in their teens. Maybe there are others we don’t yet know about who weren’t so young.’

‘There’s no time to speculate about what he might have done. We’ve got to stick to what we know.’

‘If he only goes for young girls, why did he write you that email?’ He was clutching at straws but somehow he had to convince her.

She coloured and her expression hardened as if somehow he had touched a nerve. ‘That’s different. The email is just a wind-up, to prove how clever he is.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘It doesn’t change the profile.’

He sighed with frustration. ‘OK. For argument’s sake, let’s take the three girls. I agree their age is a common factor. But there’s another one, which the profile ignores: personality type. They were all loners, all apparently depressed. All three had a history of being bullied at school and it was so bad that Ellie Best was on anti-depressants. With that background, they were all vulnerable and open to the idea of suicide. We know Marion Spear was depressed and lonely too. Yes, she’s older, but maybe her age is irrelevant or maybe he was less fussy before.’

‘We’re overloaded as it is, not even counting what’s just happened on the bridge. We haven’t got the resources to chase up every long shot.’

‘How else are we going to find him? Unless any new leads come in from Crimewatch, we’ve got nowhere with the three girls. He’s covered his tracks too well and we can’t find the link. If Marion Spear is an early victim, maybe he made mistakes.’

‘But you’ve got nothing, have you? Nothing concrete.’

‘Not yet. But I want to keep trying. I have a hunch.’ The minute the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake.

She shook her head. ‘That’s not enough. Look, Mark. If you insist on following this up, it will have to be in your own time.’

He was about to reply that he would do just that when there was a knock and the door swung open to reveal Kennedy.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘With the bridge closed off, I had to go all around the houses via Putney to get here. Hope I’m not interrupting.’

‘Of course not, Patrick,’ Steele said, getting to her feet. ‘Mark and I had just finished.’

After the talk with Steele, Tartaglia had retreated to his office to try and finish the day’s paperwork. But he was soon forced to give up. It was useless. The heating was working overtime for a change and the room was like an oven. He couldn’t concentrate, as he thought about their conversation. To make matters worse, Gary Jones had just got back from following up a fruitless set of calls that had come in from Crimewatch. Several new ‘witnesses’ had come forward, claiming to have seen Gemma with Tom, not just at the church in Ealing but at various locations dotted all over the city. Some of them were cranks and time-wasters, some just wishful-thinkers, wanting to appear helpful. But none of the reports held water even at the most basic of levels. In addition, half of London, with a teenage daughter who used the internet, now seemed convinced that they might have come across Tom in a chat room somewhere. However loony some of the callers appeared, each call had to be properly investigated. But so far there were no genuine fresh leads. At least none of the calls had thrown up any evidence that Tom had been active outside the London area.

Sweating, feet up on the desk, shoes off, Jones was on the phone to what sounded like his brother, letting off steam at top volume about some rugby match or other. Built like a prop-forward gone to seed, with a thinning thatch of short fair hair, Jones dominated the cramped space with his sheer physical presence. Tartaglia felt hemmed in, almost claustrophobic, and he couldn’t hear himself think over the rich, booming voice. He got up from his desk and started to change into waterproofs, thinking of going to see Clarke on his way home, although he had no idea yet about whether Clarke would be fit to see him. As he picked up his keys and helmet, Donovan appeared in the doorway.

‘I’ve just got in. Fancy a drink? It’s on me, this time.’

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a corner of The Bull’s Head, each with a pint of Young’s Special, trying to ignore the buzz of speculation around them about what had happened on the bridge the night before.

‘Fucking Rasputin. I’ll bet he’s giving her more than just professional advice.’ Tartaglia gave Donovan a meaningful look and took a large swig of bitter.

‘Ignore him.’

‘Easier said than done.’

She watched him light a cigarette.

As the smoke coiled in her direction, she was amazed to find she had no desire to follow suit. On a moment’s impulse, she had retrieved Adam Zaleski’s card from the bin that morning, making an excuse to Tartaglia, as they left to go to the café, that she had left something behind in the meeting room. Zaleski had managed to fit her in for a quick half-hour session of hypnosis before she was due back in Barnes. Knowing Tartaglia’s views on such things, she thought it best not to mention it. Zaleski was a witness and, strictly speaking, she shouldn’t have sought him out. But she admitted to herself that she found him quite attractive. He had told her that she would only need another couple of sessions and she felt calm, almost serene, and in control. Perhaps that was what meditation was all about.

Drawing hard on his cigarette, Tartaglia leaned towards her. ‘Am I mad to think that the Marion Spear case could be related?’

She smiled, unused to seeing him so full of self-doubt. ‘Listen. From what I’ve heard today, it’s well worth pursuing. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She told him about her chat with Annie.

Tartaglia looked a little disappointed. ‘So, Angel wasn’t interested in looking at flats but was after Marion. We can’t hang him for that.’

‘But Annie practically admitted he’d been stalking her. And the fact that he went out of his way to hide his interest in Marion, is suspicious.’

He shook his head. ‘Lying doesn’t add up to murder. People lie to us all the time, even innocent ones. You know that.’

‘I still think it’s worth following up. If he’s innocent of anything other than fancying Marion, why doesn’t he come clean? Knowing we’re taking a second look is an ideal opportunity for him to set the record straight, particularly when he also knows that we’re investigating the other murders.’

She paused, studying him closely as she took a sip of her beer, noting the doubt and strain in his face. If only Clarke was still around, he would know what to do. The news from the hospital had been positive since he had come out of the coma, but it seemed that recovery was going to be slow. Nobody in the office, let alone Tartaglia, had dared yet voice the thought that Clarke might never be coming back. It was as if by not talking about it, and skirting around the subject, there was still a good chance that Clarke might, one day, stride in through the door, sweep Steele aside and take charge again with all of his old good humour and warmth. However, the likelihood was that Clarke would never be able to work again, certainly not take charge of a murder squad, with all the pressures and physical stresses the role entailed. In their hearts, they all knew it. But the moment wasn’t right to talk to Tartaglia about it, although she sensed it wasn’t far from his thoughts. Not for the first time, she felt how much he was in need of his mentor.

‘This isn’t like you, Mark,’ she said, touching his hand gently. ‘Don’t listen to Steele and Kennedy. Just think what Trevor would say if he were here. He’d tell you to follow your instincts, wouldn’t he? He always trusted your judgement and backed you up. You’ve got to remember that, keep hold of it, and trust yourself. I certainly do.’

His face creased into a tired smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t look so depressed. I may have something else. After I saw Annie, I went to see Marion Spear’s flatmate, Karen.’

‘The one who made the statement when she died?’

‘Yes. She gave me the same spiel about Marion being lonely and wanting to go back up north to be with her Mum. She said she tried many times to get her to go out with her and the gang but apparently Marion preferred to stay in and watch TV. To be honest, given what I know about Marion and having met Karen, it doesn’t surprise me. I think I’d prefer to stay in and watch Big Brother too.’

‘What about Angel? Does Karen remember him?’

‘No. Doesn’t remember any particular bloke hanging around Marion. But Karen said that she was often out, staying over at her then boyfriend’s flat. However, when I pressed her, she mentioned another girl, called Nicola, who had been living in the flat temporarily. Karen said that although Nicola wasn’t there for long, she and Marion became quite chummy. Apparently they occasionally used to go out to the pub or to see a film together.’

‘There’s no mention of this Nicola woman in the file.’

‘What’s new? Nicola was only there for a month or so and she moved on before Marion died. Karen has no idea if she and Marion even stayed in touch after Nicola left. Maybe CID thought that Karen’s statement was enough to determine Marion’s state of mind or maybe they didn’t bother to find out if there’d been anybody else living in the flat.’

‘We must find her.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m onto it and I won’t say anything to Steele. Karen isn’t sure where Nicola’s gone but she’s given me the landlord’s number. Maybe Nicola left a forwarding address. I’ll check it out first thing in the morning.’

Somebody passed behind her carrying drinks to one of the tables and Donovan caught the words ‘fucking marvellous’ and ‘about bloody time’ accompanied by a round of raucous cheers and applause. Listening for a moment, she gathered that the bridge had reopened.

‘That’s a relief,’ she said, turning back to Tartaglia. ‘I thought it was going to take me several hours to get home.’

Tartaglia downed the remainder of his pint. ‘Going back to Angel, what about last Wednesday afternoon? Do any of his neighbours remember what he was up to?’

She shook her head. ‘I checked with several of the shops on either side of him and nobody noticed whether he was in or out. However, they told me that he tends to keep odd hours. Reading between the lines, they think he’s a bit eccentric. I’ve left my card in case somebody remembers something.’

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Angel’s a bloody long shot but we’ve got to keep checking. Maybe Nicola will remember him, if only you can find her. At the moment, she’s our best bet.’

‘Our only bet, you mean.’