32

The familiar sweet smell of incense and candle wax greeted Tartaglia as he walked through the heavy doors of St Peter’s Italian Church on Clerkenwell Road, where they had discovered that Laura Benedetti had once worshipped. Although the large original Italian community in Clerkenwell had long since dispersed, it was still one of the main focal points for Italians living in London and he knew it well. It was where his cousin Elisa had been married and Nicoletta and her husband John, living in Islington not far away, had christened both children there a few years before.

He gazed around momentarily at the ornate nineteenth-century interior, with its rows of tall pillars and Roman arches. It was a riot of colour with painted panels depicting the saints, gold leaf and coloured marble everywhere and hundreds of candles burning in the small side chapels. He was struck again by how different it was to the Anglican churches where Gemma, Laura and Ellie had died. It occurred to him that maybe Tom had deliberately chosen places that were very different in feel to what the girls had been used to, places that would have no resonance of family, friends and their communities.

The next mass was not due to start for over an hour. Apart from a few elderly ladies scattered around the pews close to the altar, heads bowed in prayer, there was nobody to be seen. He had called Nicoletta before coming. Shouting over the background screams of his young nephew and niece, who were fighting as usual, she had given him the name of her priest, Father Ignazio, extracting in return a promise that he would come to lunch the following Sunday, whatever happened with ‘the bloody case’. Given that ‘the bloody case’ looked to be hotting up again, he bit his lip and said nothing. No point in having another row and he would worry about what excuse to make, if need be, nearer the time.

He walked out of the church and round the corner to the entrance of the parish office, which was in a small side street. An old lady showed him into a small, airless waiting room on the ground floor and told him that Father Ignazio would see him shortly. The room had a high ceiling and was painted white, with bare, dark wood floors. A massive bookcase, full of leather-bound religious works in Latin and Italian, ran the length of one wall, the only other furniture being a refectory table and a set of mahogany chairs. A large crucifix hung at one end of the room and a picture of St Vincent Pallotti, the founder of St Peter’s, with two of its Fathers, decorated the other.

After a few minutes, Father Ignazio entered the room.

‘I hear you want to see me,’ he said, gesturing for Tartaglia to sit down at the table opposite him.

His face was tanned and almost unlined. He looked not much older than Tartaglia, although his black hair was showing the first signs of grey at the temples. Tall and thin, he had a slight stoop and wore heavy-rimmed glasses with thick lenses that magnified his dark eyes. Tartaglia introduced himself, watching Father Ignazio’s face break into a broad, warm smile when he mentioned the family connection. As Father Ignazio spoke of Nicoletta and her family, whom he seemed to know well, he switched to his native Italian, talking in a heavy Neopolitan accent, which Tartaglia found difficult to follow at first.

‘Unfortunately, I’m here on police business,’ Tartaglia said, reverting to English, once Father Ignazio had finished. As Tartaglia explained what he was after and the connection with Laura Benedetti, Father Ignazio frowned and, sighing heavily, crossed himself.

‘Of course, I read about the case in the papers. You really think there’s a connection to our church somehow?’

‘Indirectly, possibly. It’s the only thing we can find that all the victims have in common.’ He gave a brief background profile of the three young girls, leaving out Marion Spear and Kelly Goodhart. There seemed no point in complicating the picture.

‘You think the murderer is a Catholic?’ Father Ignazio said, after Tartaglia had outlined the situation.

‘Probably, or at least working for some sort of Catholic organisation. As the girls lived in different parts of London, my feeling is that it isn’t at a local level.’

Father Ignazio nodded, apparently reassured by this.

‘They were all depressed, possibly suicidal, although they were coerced in that direction,’ Tartaglia continued. ‘At some point they may have sought counselling. Given that, for some reason, they may not have wanted to talk to their priests, I wondered…’

Father Ignazio nodded again. ‘Yes, I understand. They were very young. It’s natural. You’re wondering if there may be some other place where they would go.’

‘Exactly, either by phone or in person, where they could be anonymous, where there would be no chance of their family finding out.’

‘The Samaritans perhaps?’

‘We’ve looked at that. I was thinking of something specifically Catholic which the girls could find out about, possibly through their local churches or communities.’

Father Ignazio stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, there are several small organisations that I know of, all run on a voluntary basis, of course. Come with me. I think there are some leaflets that may interest you, at the front of the church.’

He got to his feet and Tartaglia followed him out into the hall and through a small door, which led directly into the church. They walked down the aisle and across to the main entrance doors where Father Ignazio stopped in front of a wooden rack filled with a variety of information pamphlets.

‘There are a quite a few here,’ he said, gathering together a handful of leaflets from the rack. He studied them carefully, then put several back before handing one to Tartaglia. ‘Maybe this is what you’re looking for. It’s the only one that really fits what you’ve told me. They’re like the Samaritans, only Catholic.’

Tartaglia looked at the leaflet. The organisation called themselves ‘CHA: the Catholic Help Association’. ‘We treat your calls in total confidence,’ the blurb said. There was no office address, only a phone number. He had never heard of the organisation but reading quickly through the blurb, it seemed genuine and, as Father Ignazio had said, very similar in vein to the Samaritans in what they were offering. He could just picture it now, the girls calling in, feeling depressed, Tom answering the phone at the other end. It all made sense. They had gone through the girls’ home phone records very carefully and had checked for any contact with well-known organisations like the Samaritans. But perhaps out of ignorance or human error they had missed the significance of any calls to ‘CHA’. It was equally possible that the girls had gone somewhere else to phone, like a friend’s house or a public call box.

‘This looks like it,’ he said, turning to Father Igazio. ‘Thank you. Do you have any idea where they’re based?’

Father Ignazio shook his head. ‘All I know is they’re in London. I’ve seen their leaflets in other churches too. I’m not sure if they have a presence elsewhere.’ He walked with Tartaglia out of the main door and down the steps to the street. ‘It’s a terrible, terrible thing to contemplate, somebody abusing such a position of trust, such a…’ Father Ignazio’s voice trailed off. He gazed down at the pavement for a moment, shaking his head slowly, and then looked back at Tartaglia with a heavy sigh. ‘Of course, there are evil people in all walks of life. No doubt you see more of them than I do.’

Tartaglia nodded. ‘I imagine so. Thank you very much for your help. I’ll let you know if we find anything.’

Father Ignazio smiled, took Tartaglia’s hand in both of his and gave it a hearty shake, clasping it warmly as he met his eye. ‘It would be nice too to see you here one day, Inspector, come along and join the rest of your family.’

Tartaglia smiled back, thinking it was probably something long overdue. ‘I promise you I will, Father. Very soon.’

After leaving the church Tartaglia called the office and found Yvette Dickenson still at her desk. No doubt, with her impending maternity leave, she was grateful for all the extra overtime, although, in his view, she should have been at home long ago, putting her feet up. He gave her the details from the pamphlet to check.

‘Call this number and find out where they’re based. Then get someone over there right away. If they’re not cooperative, tell them we’ll get a warrant. I want a list of anyone who’s worked for them over the last couple of years, in any capacity. But I’m particularly interested in anyone who’s been manning the phones. We’ll need access to their phone records. While we’re at it, we’d also better check the other churches and see if they have the same or anything similar. Then call me back.’

‘I’ve had Nicola Slade on the phone, sir. She’s rung several times to speak to Sam. She’s quite insistent.’

‘Why can’t Sam deal with it?’

There was a pause at the other end. ‘She went home a little early.’ He could tell that Dickenson was being evasive.

‘What did Nicola Slade want?’

‘She wouldn’t say. Just said she had to speak to Sam.’

‘Well, where is Sam?’

There was another pause before Dickenson spoke. ‘She’s got a date.’ There was another second’s hesitation before she added, as if in justification: ‘She’s allowed a personal life, isn’t she?’

A date? This was the first he knew of Donovan having anybody around. Last thing he’d heard was her moaning about a total absence of attractive men. ‘Of course she’s allowed a personal life, but what a time to pick. We’re in the middle of a bloody investigation.’ He wasn’t sure whether he felt angrier from a professional point of view or from a personal one. Now was hardly the time to go out on hot dates. Also, Donovan usually let slip most things about her private life, such as it was, even asking for his advice sometimes. Why hadn’t she told him about this? There had been ample opportunity.

‘It’s just tonight,’ Dickenson said a little sharply, as if trying to excuse her.

‘OK, OK. Point taken,’ he replied irritably. There was no gain in antagonising Dickenson and getting the sisterhood in the office up in arms against him for trying to stop one of their tribe from having a bit of fun. He would have words with Donovan in the morning. ‘Give me Nicola Slade’s number and I’ll ring her now.’ He took down the details and hung up. He was about to call Nicola when his mobile buzzed, Wightman at the other end.

‘Sir, we’ve got something,’ he said. ‘I’m over at the canal and we’ve found a pub where Yolanda went the night she was attacked. There’s a bloke here who recognises her picture. He says she was in here drinking with a man and it sounds like Tom.’

He paused for a moment, trying to calm himself and collect his thoughts. Things were starting to happen. He could feel it. What was that old saying about buses? You’re standing there in the cold but nothing comes along. You’re almost on the point of giving up and then suddenly three of the damned things appear. Life was often like that and investigations were no different. This was what he had been waiting for.

‘Give me the address,’ he said, trying to contain his excitement. ‘I’ll be over there right away.’

The Dog and Bone was perched on the corner of a bridge overlooking the Regent’s Canal, close to the stretch of water where Tartaglia had met Steele the other day. The bar was full, the air thick with smoke and sweat, loud music pumping through ceiling speakers above. The majority of the clientele seemed to be tourists, with a large, loud contingent of Australians or New Zealanders gathered close around the bar, although he couldn’t tell which they were from the accents. Judging by the merriment and the general look of things, they’d been in there a while and had already put away several beers.

He found Wightman perched on a stool in a corner at the far end, talking to a burly man in his mid-thirties, with a shaved head and tattoos covering every inch of what could be seen of his arms. Pint in hand, legs stretched out in front of him, he lounged against some cushions in the middle of a large velvet sofa with the air of someone who owned the place.

Tartaglia pulled up a stool from another table and sat down next to Wightman, opposite the man.

‘Mr Stansfield was here the other day,’ Wightman said, turning to Tartaglia. ‘He remembers seeing Yolanda in here with a man.’

‘That’s right,’ Stansfield said, taking a large gulp of bitter and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘They was sat right here. Where I am now. And I was standing over there where Paul and Mick are.’ Stansfield jerked his head towards a couple of men who looked like clones of himself, grouped around a cigarette machine, on the opposite side of the room.

‘Do you remember if they came in together?’ Wightman asked.

‘She was here on her own for a bit then he appeared, this poncey git.’

‘Poncey? What do you mean?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘Fancied himself, didn’t he? Right flash so-and-so, he was.’

‘Early to mid-thirties, short dark hair, medium height and build…’ Wightman read from his notes. ‘Sounds like our man, all right.’

‘Yeah? Well he spoke real proper.’

‘You spoke to him?’ Wightman asked, looking up surprised.

‘I was just getting round to telling you that when the Inspector arrived,’ Stansfield said, taking a slurp of beer. ‘They was talking for a while, him and the young girl.’

‘Was the pub full?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘Yeah, more or less.’

‘If you were standing over there with your mates, how come you noticed what they were doing?’

Stansfield jabbed his thumb at the table. ‘This ’ere’s my place, see. It’s where me and me mates sit. We’re working over the road and we’re in most nights. When I come in and see the young lady sat here, I thinks to myself, OK, not a problem. She doesn’t know. But I keeps an eye on it, see. She don’t look much of a drinker to me, she’ll be on her way soon, I thinks. But then this bloke turns up and they sit here having a right old chinwag, at least he’s doing most of the wagging. And he keeps nipping off to the bar to buy her drinks, trying to get her pissed, know what I mean? Next minute I look over and see her hop it, out that door there.’ Stansfield jerked his head in the direction of one of the exits. He raised his almost non-existent eyebrows. ‘Can’t blame her, can you, poor girl.’

‘So, she left the pub without him? On her own?’

‘Yeah, picks up her jacket and bag and legs it while he’s at the bar. I thought it was dead funny.’

‘Nobody else followed her out?’

Stansfield shook his head. ‘Then the plonker comes back and sits here waiting for her, twiddling his thumbs. Made me laugh again, it did. Well, she’s not coming back is she? So I move over here and I sits down in her place. “Someone’s sitting there” he says, all hoity toity.’ Stansfield screwed up his face and mimicked the voice. ‘Told him he needs flamin’ glasses. Nobody’s sat here, are they? Takes a minute for him to work it out and he doesn’t look best pleased when the penny drops and he sees she’s gone and buggered off.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

Stansfield thought hard for a minute, draining his pint and putting down his empty glass with a loud clunk as if making a point. He cleared his throat as if something was catching in it.

‘Another pint, Mr Stansfield?’ Wightman said, smiling.

Stansfield nodded. ‘Don’t mind if I do, particularly if you’re buying, mate. Sure is nice to take one off the old Bill for a change.’

‘So, what did he say, Mr Stansfield?’ Tartaglia asked, as Wightman got up to go to the bar.

Stansfield stretched his short muscular arms out wide along the back of the sofa as if he was settling in. ‘Well, he comes up with some cock and bull story about her being sick, or something. But it was clear as bleedin’ daylight what’d happened. She don’t fancy the poncey toad, does she?’

‘What happened next?’

‘He fucks off, he does. Out of here like greased lightning.’

‘Which way did he go?’

Stansfield shook his head. ‘Dunno. Tanya’d come over, hadn’t she? She’s my bird. I don’t remember nothing after that.’ He gave Tartaglia a wide, toothy grin, showing several large gaps.

‘We’ll need you to make a formal statement, Mr Stansfield, and we’ll also need your help putting together an e-fit of the man. It sounds like you got a very good look at him.’

‘No problem.’ The smile suddenly disappeared and Stansfield frowned. ‘You telling me this is the bird what was killed down by the canal a few days ago?’ he said. ‘The one who was sat right here?’

Tartaglia nodded.

‘Bleedin’ hell. You think this bloke I saw did it?’

‘We’re at an early stage of the investigation, Mr Stansfield.’

Stansfield gave him a knowing look and shook his head. ‘Yeah, yeah. Pull the other one. It’s got bells.’ He gave a heavy sigh, examining a food stain on his T-shirt as if he’d only just noticed it. ‘The minute I clapped eyes on him, I knew he was a wrong ’un. Poor, bleedin’ girl, that’s what I say. Poor little thing.’ He met Tartaglia’s eye. ‘I hope you string him up right and proper when you find him. Prison’s too good for his sort.’

‘I agree,’ Tartaglia said, getting to his feet. Stansfield didn’t know the half of it.