15

After several strong coffees and a plate of stodgy croissants, Tartaglia left Donovan to interview the owner of Grafton Estate Agents while he went to find Harry Angel, the man to whom Marion Spear had been showing a flat and the last person known to have seen her alive. The driving rain had slowed to a drizzle and the cold, wet air felt pleasantly fresh on his face after the fug of the café, helping to clear his head as he walked the few blocks to the bookshop where Angel worked.

From what he could tell from the slim case file, the local CID investigation into Marion Spear’s death had been cursory. Given the usual issues of finite resources and heavy workload, it wasn’t surprising. Harry Angel had been interviewed several times. But he had stuck to his story about leaving Marion Spear outside a flat in Carlton Road, Ealing. With no witnesses to contradict him, no apparent motive and nothing to link him to the crime scene, they had eventually given up on him.

No evidence of foul play had emerged. Marion had either fallen to her death by accident, which seemed unlikely owing to the height of the car park walls, or she had committed suicide. Although no note had been found, he could see why suicide had seemed the most plausible conclusion, with significant weight being attached to statements from both Spear’s mother and a flatmate, who said that Marion was unhappy and was finding it difficult to make friends in London. Nobody had looked beyond this fact, to consider how a lonely young woman like Marion might easily fall prey to something sinister.

Thinking of the photograph of Marion in the file, he wondered if he was right. She was attractive, in an unthreatening, girl-next-door way, young-looking for her thirty years, with shoulder-length, dark blonde hair and a wistful, sweet expression in her eyes. Perhaps he was reading too much into it, but she looked sad. She must have had admirers; someone would have taken an interest, surely. But according to the statements, Marion kept herself to herself and rarely went out. Kennedy was wrong about her not fitting the victim profile. Even if Marion Spear was a lot older than Gemma, Ellie and Laura, even if she had died in a different way, there was a common strand. They were all lonely, all isolated, all vulnerable in their different ways. Had Marion somehow caught Tom’s attention?

The bookshop where Angel worked was in the middle of the parade facing onto Ealing Green, a few doors along from the tapas bar where Tartaglia and Kennedy had lunched the day before. Sandwiched between a bright, organic food shop and a fancy French coffee bar, the bookshop seemed out of place, the front painted with several uneven layers of ancient-looking black gloss, the name ‘Soane Antiquarian Books’ written in faded gold lettering across the top.

He peered briefly through the partially misted-up window at the display of second-hand books on architecture and history of art, then tried pushing the door. It was locked and he noticed from the sign on the door that the shop wasn’t due to open for another half hour. But he could see a light on towards the back of the dim interior and somebody moving around inside. After trying the bell a few times, he gave up and rapped loudly on the door. A minute later, a tall, rangy man appeared out of the gloom. Studying Tartaglia suspiciously, he pointed at the sign, mouthing in slow motion, as if for an idiot, the words, ‘We’re closed.’ Tartaglia mouthed back the word ‘Police’, holding up his warrant card to the glass. The man hesitated, deciding what to do, then slowly unlocked the door, opening it a few inches and scanning the warrant card through the crack.

‘What do you want?’ he said.

‘Are you Harry Angel?’

The man hesitated again then nodded.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia. May I come in? I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to discuss things with you from the pavement.’

With a grudging look, Angel threw open the door and let him pass, a small bell attached to the door jingling violently.

The interior was cramped and barely warmer than outside, the dark red walls lined with shelves of hardbacks, some of them leather-bound. Some sort of strident modern opera was playing in the background and Tartaglia could smell freshly brewed coffee.

‘What’s this about?’ Angel asked, hands on hips. He was a couple of inches taller than Tartaglia, well over six foot, with large feet encased in a pair of ancient velvet slippers with a gold crest on the front. Dressed in faded jeans and a baggy dark green pullover, Angel was older than he had initially appeared, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, with a pale, bony face and a sweep of floppy, dark reddish-brown hair. Although his height was a possible stumbling point, he just about matched Zaleski’s description of the man seen running from St Sebastian’s. It was a wild leap of imagination, Tartaglia knew, with nothing whatsoever to link the two, but he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of excitement.

‘It’s about Marion Spear. I understand you were one of the last people to see her alive.’

‘Marion Spear?’ Angel looked doubtful, as if he had never heard the name before, but Tartaglia had noticed a flicker of recognition cross his face.

‘Yes, Marion Spear. She fell to her death from a car park quite close to here, shortly after she had taken you to see a flat in Carlton Road. It was barely two years ago. Surely you haven’t forgotten?’

‘Shit.’ Angel wheeled around and bounded off out of sight towards the back of the shop.

The smell of something burning suddenly filled the air. Tartaglia followed him through the ranks of shelves to a long, narrow kitchen, built in an extension overlooking a small, overgrown garden. Angel was busy mopping up what appeared to be milk from the top of an old electric cooker, an expression of distaste puckering his thin lips. The lime green units and brown lino looked vintage seventies but the room was tidy and spotlessly clean, surprisingly at odds with Angel’s scruffy appearance.

‘Come on, Mr Angel. Marion Spear. I’m sure you remember who she is.’

Angel turned and glared at him. ‘Look, of course I remember, Inspector. I just don’t know what I can add to what I told you lot last time.’ He rinsed the cloth under the tap and went back to wiping the surface of the cooker until all traces of milk had disappeared.

‘I’d like to hear it for myself, if you don’t mind.’

Angel slapped the cloth down on the worktop. ‘Why are you bothering about her now?’

‘Because we’re looking into her death again.’

Angel tossed the milk pan into the sink and filled it with water. ‘That was the last of the bloody milk,’ he said, as if Tartaglia were to blame. ‘If you want to share my coffee, it’ll have to be black.’

‘Thanks, but I can manage without,’ Tartaglia said, eyeing the small glass cafetière of muddy-looking brown liquid next to the stove. The stuff at Starbucks had been like dishwater and Angel’s looked no better. Angel reached for a mug from the plate rack above the sink and poured a full cup. Taking a large gulp, he smacked his lips, then leaned back against the sink, cradling his mug. ‘OK. What can I tell you?’

‘Let’s start with how you knew Marion Spear.’

Angel sighed deeply as if it were all a waste of time. ‘I didn’t know her, per se. She just took me around a few flats.’ He took another mouthful of coffee before adding: ‘It wasn’t my fault that she chose to top herself straight after an appointment with me.’

‘Top herself? Why do you say that?’

Angel shrugged. ‘That’s what everyone thought at the time, if I remember correctly. Although, as I told your boys in blue, she seemed perfectly normal when I left her. Quite chirpy, actually.’ Angel scratched his beaky nose. ‘You think it was an accident?’

‘It’s possible, although unlikely.’

‘Yes, it didn’t seem right to me,’ he said, emphatically. ‘I know that car park. The walls are really high. All these new safety regulations, you know what it’s like. They build walls so you can’t even bloody see over them, let alone fall over them.’ He let the sentence hang then turned to Tartaglia with a look of surprise. ‘You think her death is suspicious?’

‘Let’s say, for the moment we’re keeping an open mind.’

‘Are you re-opening the case?’

‘We’re just taking a fresh look.’

‘You’ve got new evidence?’

‘I didn’t say that, Mr Angel. I’m just checking things over, kicking the tyres, that’s all.’

Angel clearly didn’t believe him, raising his eyes to the ceiling and smiling. ‘Ah, I see where this is going. Muggins here was one of the last people to see her alive so you think I may have had something to do with it. It’s just like last time. You lot have no imagination.’

‘Naturally, I need to talk to you, which is why I’m here.’

Angel shook his head reprovingly. ‘As I said, I’ve been through those hoops before. Surely you can do better than that? I mean, what’s my motive? Or perhaps I’m just a psycho?’ He widened his eyes and bared his teeth, in a Norman Bates impersonation. ‘They couldn’t find anything on me last time, so why are you bothering?’

Although Angel seemed to think he’d been given a tough time, from what Tartaglia had seen of the file, there were many unanswered questions. Also, there hadn’t been a thorough check on Angel’s background or any real attempt to find a link between him and Marion beyond the obvious. No doubt, as the suicide theory gained credence, it hadn’t seemed necessary.

For the moment, he wanted to allay Angel’s suspicions. ‘It’s early days, Mr Angel. Before we jump to conclusions, perhaps you can tell me what you remember about Marion Spear.’

‘Look, I made a statement at the time and I’ve nothing new to add.’

‘I’ve read your statement but I’d like to hear what happened myself.’

Still grinning, as if it were all a bad joke, Angel took a large gulp of coffee then shrugged. ‘All right. From what I remember, she was a nice girl, a cheerful sort. I think she was relatively new to the job and eager to please. Not like some of the jaded old trouts in the estate agents around here who can’t be bothered to get off their fat arses. She took me to see a lot of flats but none of them was quite right.’

‘You said she seemed perfectly normal that day?’

He nodded. ‘She showed me a couple of new things that had just come on the books. That was it. Business as usual. First time I know something’s wrong is when one of your lot comes calling a couple of days later.’

Angel’s casual manner seemed a little forced and Tartaglia was sure he was hiding something. ‘Didn’t she mention where she was going next after seeing you? Didn’t she say anything?’

‘Why should she? I mean, I was just a client.’

‘Where did you think she was going?’

Angel gave another deep sigh, as if the whole subject bored him. ‘Search me. I assumed she was either going back to the office or to meet another client. Surely, you can check her diary.’

‘There were no further entries until late that afternoon. She should have gone straight back to the office but she didn’t.’ He studied Angel for a moment. ‘So, you had absolutely no idea where she went?’

Angel drained his mug and banged it down on the counter. ‘Of course not.’

‘Your relationship was purely professional?’

‘I’d hardly call it a relationship. The lady took me to see some flats, that’s all.’

‘You never saw her socially?’

There was a second’s hesitation. ‘We might have bumped into each other in the street. Maybe she came into the bookshop once or twice. But nothing more than that.’

Tartaglia hid the little stab of excitement he felt at hearing this. According to Angel’s original statement, Marion Spear had never set foot in the bookshop. They had only ever met at the estate agents where she worked or at a flat that she was showing him. Angel had been adamant on that point but he wasn’t going to remind him. ‘Was she interested in second-hand books on architecture?’ he asked, casually.

‘Amazing though it may seem, Inspector, a lot of people are. Anyway, we stock a wide variety of books.’

‘But I’m talking about Marion Spear. Why would she come in here?’

‘I seem to remember she liked reading.’

‘You discussed books together?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So, she came in to buy a book?’

‘Probably. It’s what people do.’

‘Or was it to see you, for some reason?’

Angel’s expression hardened and he folded his arms defensively. ‘Look, I really don’t remember. Maybe she didn’t come here.’

Tartaglia was sure he was lying. ‘But you just said that she did.’

‘I said that she might have done. I just don’t remember her doing so. Clear?’ Angel’s voice went up a tone.

‘It’s curious. You remember some things so very clearly, and other things, not at all.’ Angel puckered his lips but said nothing. Reminding himself that even if Angel had lied, it wasn’t evidence of anything, he decided to leave it for the moment. ‘Do you have a computer, Mr Angel?’

Angel looked surprised. ‘Yes, why?’

‘Is it here or at home?’

‘This is my home. I live upstairs.’

‘Where’s your computer?’

‘Down in the basement, where we pack up all the books we send out. We do a lot of business over the net.’

‘May I see it?’

Angel stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Be my guest. Although, I can’t see why it’s of any interest.’

Angel seemed almost relieved, which was puzzling. Maybe it was an act or maybe the subject of the computer didn’t bother him.

He followed Angel down a narrow flight of stairs to a low-ceilinged, windowless room that ran the full length of the shop. While the ground floor had the air of an old-fashioned library, the basement operation was modern and streamlined. Boxes full of books were neatly stacked and labelled in rows on the floor, with a shelving unit along one wall housing business stationery and thick rolls of bubble wrap and brown paper. Three cheap, pine trestle tables were lined up against the other wall for the actual packing. Judging by the number of books waiting to be wrapped and sent, the internet was an important source of business and the operation looked efficient. A new-looking Apple Mac sat on a small table in a corner, its screen dead. Short of asking Angel to turn it on and let him scan the hard drive, there was little Tartaglia could do without a warrant and there wasn’t sufficient grounds for that yet. Angel still seemed curiously relaxed. Maybe he had another computer elsewhere.

‘Very impressive,’ Tartaglia said, turning away and gazing at a tower of full jiffy bags and neatly wrapped parcels waiting to be posted out, the top one addressed to somewhere in Canada. ‘You send books all over the world?’

Angel nodded. ‘Thanks to the internet. We wouldn’t be able to survive without it.’

‘You keep saying “we”. Do you have a business partner?’

Angel shook his head. ‘Force of habit. The business used to belong to my grandfather and we worked together. But he’s dead now.’

‘So, you take care of this entirely on your own?’ There had been no mention of anyone else in the file but, judging by the scale of the operation, he felt sure that Angel had help of some kind. Angel hesitated. ‘If you don’t want to tell me,’ Tartaglia continued, ‘I can find out.’

Angel looked annoyed. ‘Look, I’ve nothing to hide. A woman comes in to help a couple of days a week. That’s all.’

‘Could you give me her details?’

‘What’s she got to do with Marion Spear?’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Tartaglia said, curious that Angel seemed reluctant to give it to him.

Angel sighed. ‘She’s called Annie Klein. She’s only been helping me out in the last few months. Surely you don’t need to bother her?’

‘Probably not, but I’d like her details all the same.’

Angel scribbled something down on a piece of paper and thrust it at Tartaglia. ‘Is there anything else or can we go back upstairs? I should be opening up soon and I haven’t even had my breakfast.’

‘Thank you. I’ve seen enough for now.’

Tartaglia led the way back upstairs. At the top, he turned to face Angel. ‘Just a couple more things. Could you tell me what you were doing between four and six last Wednesday afternoon?’

‘Why on earth do you want to know about that?’

‘Please answer the question, Mr Angel.’

It took a moment for Angel to answer as if he were debating in his mind whether he needed to. ‘I was here, of course.’

‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

‘Now what’s this about?’

‘Please answer the question, Mr Angel.’

‘Nobody was here apart from me. Annie doesn’t usually work Wednesdays.’

‘What about customers coming into the shop? Might someone have seen you here during that time?’

‘Weekday afternoons are usually quiet but I really can’t remember.’

‘Perhaps you can check your records.’

‘Look, what’s all this got to do with Marion Spear?’

‘Absolutely nothing at the moment.’ He let the words sink in before adding: ‘But we’re investigating a murder which took place at St Sebastian’s, just around the corner from here.’

It took a second for the significance of the words to penetrate. Angel’s eyes widened. ‘What, that young girl? You think...’ He put his hands on his hips and stared at Tartaglia, his face turning red, his expression a mixture of anger and indignation. He was either a good actor or the reaction was genuine. ‘Now look here, Inspector. I’ve tried to be helpful and I’ve answered all your questions. But if you start trying to join up the dots and make a cat look like a horse, I’m going to have to call a lawyer.’

‘Calm down, Mr Angel. You’re a local. It’s just a routine question. I’m sure you’ll be able to prove that you were here at that time.’

Before Angel could reply, the sound of someone knocking loudly on the shop front door made Tartaglia turn around. Donovan was standing on the step, nose pressed to the glass.

‘Can’t she bloody see we’re closed,’ Angel muttered, looking round in the direction of the door.

‘That’s my Sergeant. One last question; do you have a car, Mr Angel?’

Angel turned back and glared at him, arms still folded. ‘A van. Before you get any ideas, I use it for book-buying trips.’

Tartaglia smiled. ‘What sort of ideas would those be?’

Angel said nothing, biting his lip.

‘What sort of a van?’

‘A VW camper. Now, if that’s all, I’ve got work to do.’

‘Thank you, Mr Angel,’ Tartaglia said, unlocking the door and opening it wide, letting a gust of freezing, damp air blow inside. ‘I’ll get someone to call you later about last Wednesday. Perhaps you can give them the licence number of the van at the same time. Just for the record.’

Without waiting for a response, Tartaglia went out, slamming the door behind him, the little bell jangling furiously. Aware that Angel was watching from the window, he and Donovan walked down the street until they were out of sight, sheltering under a shop awning from the rain while he gave her the gist of his conversation with Angel.

‘I want you to go and see this woman right away.’ He handed Donovan the paper with Annie Klein’s details and explained what Angel had said. ‘When you’ve done that, can you check with the shops on either side of Angel’s. See if they remember him going out at all last Wednesday afternoon.’

‘Will do.’

‘There’s also Marion’s ex-flatmate, Karen Thomas. She works somewhere near here.’ He passed her another slip of paper. ‘Did you get anything interesting from Angela Grafton?’

She was about to reply when her mobile rang. Answering it, she listened for a moment before speaking. ‘Yes, he’s here. I’ll tell him. Right away, I understand.’ She snapped her phone shut and turned to Tartaglia looking excited. ‘That was Steele. She’s been trying to get hold of you but you’re not answering your pager and your mobile’s apparently switched off.’

‘Damn.’ In his hurry to get out the door that morning, he’d left his pager in his other jacket pocket and he had forgotten to turn on his phone after the interview with Zaleski. ‘What does she want?’

‘A woman was seen struggling with a man late last night on Hammersmith Bridge. The woman fell in and the man ran away. They can’t find her body but she’s probably dead. Local CID called us right away and Yvette’s been briefed. She’ll meet you at the rendezvous point on the Hammersmith side of the bridge.’