34

Donovan watched as Zaleski unlocked the door and followed him inside, waiting while he switched on the hall lights. The interior smelt of damp and something musty but it was pleasantly warm after the cold night air. The first thing she noticed was a large oil painting of a man, wearing a beret, in military uniform, hanging in the hallway by the door. It looked like the ones she’d seen in the Polish Club.

‘That’s my grandfather,’ he said, just behind her. ‘He was quite a hero in his day.’

She turned around. ‘He doesn’t look at all like you. In fact, he looks very fierce.’

He smiled grimly. ‘He certainly was. But he’s dead now, thank God. So’s my grandmother. This was their house. It’s where I grew up.’

He took her coat and hung it up on a rack nailed high on the wall, made of dark varnished wood and what looked like some sort of small animal horns for hooks. It had a brass plaque in the middle with an inscription, which she was too far away to read.

He led her into a small sitting room at the front. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a minute with the vodka.’

She sat down on the sofa feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Her family house in Twickenham, where she had lived all her life until going to university, was similar to Zaleski’s architecturally. But the atmosphere was so completely different: noisy, chaotic and cheerful, full of animals, people coming and going, with all the resultant mess and the feel of things permanently in a state of flux. Here everything was so formal, from the hard back and curved arms of the sofa, covered in what appeared to be some sort of expensive-looking red damask, which wouldn’t last a second in her home, to the faded chintz curtains with the tight pelmet and the ornate gilt mirror hanging over the mantelpiece, way too large for the small room, as if it was meant for a much bigger house. A clock ticked quietly from a mahogany card table in the corner and, in the dim light, she felt as though she had stepped back in time, into another world that wasn’t entirely English. The house was like a museum, a place for show, not for use, and she couldn’t picture Zaleski, either as a small boy or as a man, living there.

After a few minutes, he reappeared with a small wooden tray. A bottle of vodka, with a bright yellow label, nestled in a silver ice bucket, two shot glasses beside it, already full, the sides misted from the cold liquid inside. He put down the tray on a long, low wooden stool. The seat was covered in needlework, faint shades of blue and red the predominant colours, the design some sort of crest, possibly belonging to his family. He passed her a glass and sat down beside her, resting his arm lightly on the back of the sofa behind her. She felt suddenly excited by his closeness, wondering when, if, he would kiss her.

‘Na zdrowie,’ he said, raising his glass and clinking hers. ‘Here’s to you, Sam Donovan.’

She smiled, managing to knock back half the glass, this time prepared for the burning sensation, actually beginning to enjoy it. She sipped the rest slowly, waiting for the wave of warmth that would follow.

‘I know I shouldn’t ask, but I was wondering how the case is going?’ he said in an off-hand manner. ‘That man you wanted me to identify, is he the one you’re after?’

He was looking at her inquiringly, waiting for her reply.

‘Yes,’ she replied, after a second’s hesitation. ‘Or, at least, we think so.’

She knew she shouldn’t have said anything but he’d never asked before and he was so nice to be with. Good-looking too. Afraid that he could read her thoughts, she tried to focus on something else. She was beginning to feel a little giddy, must try to keep a check on things, just give him the bare minimum and change the subject.

She drained the final drop of vodka and put the glass down on the tray.

‘Unfortunately, we haven’t got anything so far to put him at the crime scene. It’s all a bit disappointing.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I just didn’t recognise the man, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s fine. You can only say what you saw. It’s just that… well, we think we can link him to two of the murders.’ She found herself saying it without meaning to.

‘What about the latest one? I read in the papers about a murder down by one of the canals. Are they linked?’

‘Yes. Yes, they are.’ She took a deep breath, surprised that he’d made the connection. As far as she was aware, the press hadn’t yet. Stop there. Don’t say any more. Change the subject, but she couldn’t think of what to say next. Her mind was feeling a little hazy.

He took the small bottle of vodka from the ice bucket. ‘One more for the road?’

She hesitated, then passed him her glass. ‘Why not?’

‘You’re getting a taste for it, aren’t you? That’s good,’ he laughed, topping up both glasses and passing one over to her. He clinked her glass. ‘Now, down in one this time.’

She did as she was told, although she was suddenly beginning to feel quite drunk. As she stretched forward to put her empty glass back on the tray, she missed and knocked it over. ‘Sorry.’

He righted the glass for her. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

For some reason it was affecting her far more than usual. Had she really had a lot to drink? She didn’t think so. Vodka on top of champagne. That was it. Silly thing to do. No more vodka. Perhaps she should ask him to call a taxi now. But she felt such a fool. He’d think she was no better than a schoolgirl who was unable to hold her drink. Perhaps if she waited a minute, she’d feel better, maybe ask for some coffee or water.

She could feel his fingers gently stroking her shoulder.

‘So, if you can’t find anything, what do you do?’ he said. ‘Do you just keep an eye on him?’

She nodded, concentrating on keeping her eyes open and the muscles of her face under control. He was studying her closely. Perhaps he had guessed she was drunk. She hoped he wouldn’t think badly of her. What was strange was he’d had roughly the same amount to drink. Although he was a man. Much bigger. It was all about body mass.

‘What evidence do you have on him?’ he asked.

She answered automatically. ‘That’s the problem. Well… we haven’t got much to go on.’ She could hear herself slurring.

He shook his head slowly and took off his glasses, folding them carefully, and putting them down next to him on the sofa. ‘No, I suppose you haven’t.’

Gazing down at her toes, she giggled. Somehow, even though there wasn’t anything funny, she couldn’t help herself. ‘No, we’ve got fuck all, sweet FA.’

He stared at her for a moment then said: ‘You lot haven’t got a clue, have you?’

It wasn’t just the words that penetrated, making her raise her eyes again slowly to look at him. It was the change in his voice. His tone was cold and unfamiliar and she frowned, struggling to focus. She saw a different person in front of her. A stranger. Somehow his face had transformed, morphed into something unrecognisable. What she saw frightened her.

‘A clue?’

‘Yeah. The answer was staring you in the face all the time and you haven’t got a fucking clue.’

Through the thickening fog in her mind, she realised what was happening.

‘It’s you… isn’t it?’ she said, barely able to get the words out. ‘You’re Tom.’ She tried to get up but her arms and legs wouldn’t work properly.

She felt him grip her wrists and push her down in her seat. ‘Save your energy. You’re not going anywhere.’

She knew she couldn’t fight him. She felt as though she’d been anaesthetised, no control over her body, eyelids heavy as lead. Somehow she had to stay awake. She had to. He was going to kill her. Mustn’t let him. Try and work something out. ‘How come you’re not…’

He smiled. ‘Drunk or drugged, like you? You’re feeling it now, aren’t you? We’ve both had two glasses but I’m still sober. What a riddle. To be nice, I’ll tell you the answer, as I can see you’d have problems working it out on your own and you won’t be conscious for much longer.’

His words sounded distant. Echoing. Her head lolled back heavy on his arm; she couldn’t help it. The room was spinning. She wanted to be sick. ‘Drug…’

He grabbed her face with his hand and forced her to look at him, digging his fingers into her cheeks. Although she was aware of what he was doing, it felt as though it was happening to someone else.

‘Yes, GHB, what a lovely little substance it is. Once in the system, particularly taken with alcohol, it takes no time to work. It was in your first glass. There’s some in the bottle too, for good measure. You’re so far gone, you didn’t notice that I didn’t drink mine. Look, here it is.’ He held the full glass in front of her eyes, moving it slowly from side to side like a pendulum. ‘Can you still hear me?’

‘Why?’ She mouthed the word, not even sure if any sound came out. Keep awake. Try and keep awake. ‘Why…’

He pushed her face away and she slid off the sofa onto the floor, head knocking against the stool.

‘Why? Why did I kill all those sad little girls?’ He got up and came and stood over her. His face looked so far away, distant, staring down at her from high above. ‘There is no “why”. Things just are the way they are.’

It was the last thing she heard.

Tartaglia was nearly in Ealing when he felt the vibration of his phone in his inside breast pocket. He pulled over to the side of the road, looked at the caller ID and rang Dickenson straight back.

‘The address is in South Ken, sir,’ she said, her voice high-pitched and full of alarm. ‘I called you before to tell you but you were probably on the road.’

‘South Ken?’

‘Yes. Gary and the team are over there now but there’s no sign of Zaleski. No sign of anyone, in fact. It looks like it’s some sort of office building and everyone’s gone home.’

‘Check the file again. Zaleski definitely lives in Ealing.’

‘I have, sir. But this is the address he gave.’

Heart pounding, he tried to calm himself, think clearly, remember back to what Zaleski had said when he had first interviewed him. He distinctly remembered him saying he lived in Ealing, which was why he was there when Gemma Kramer had died. Think. Think. For fuck’s sake try and remember. What had Zaleski been doing? Why was he there? What had he said? He was on his way home. Yes, on his way home and he was dropping his car at a garage… no, collecting it, that was it, when…

‘I’ve got it!’ he shouted. ‘Zaleski was collecting his car from a garage. I know we checked it out to corroborate the timing. The licence number should be on file. Run it through the system and call me back immediately with Zaleski’s address.’