35

Tartaglia stood outside the gate of number 89 Beckford Avenue. Upstairs the house was dark but a light was on in the ground floor front room, just visible behind the curtains. For a moment, he wondered what to do. Maybe they were still out at dinner. Maybe Sam was safely at home in bed by now. But if not… Should he ring the bell, see what would happen? If Sam was in there, Zaleski might do something desperate. Surprise was his only advantage, coupled with the fact that Zaleski didn’t know that he knew.

The house was semi-detached with a tall gate at the side leading, he assumed, to the back garden. He tried the gate but it was locked. He took off his helmet, heavy jacket and gloves, dumping them out of sight under the hedge, then jumped, catching hold of the top of the frame of the gate and hauling himself up and over it, landing almost silently on the other side. Shadowed from the light coming from the street, the narrow side-passage was almost black and he could barely see in front of him. He felt his way along the brick wall of the house, no lights showing through any of the side windows, and into the back garden where visibility was a little better, a general dull light reflected from the sky above. He could just make out a small stretch of lawn, flowerbeds and a paved area by the house, a few shrubs in large tubs lined up along the edge. There were no lights on except in a room at the very top of the house and there was no sound or movement coming from inside. Watching for a moment, he saw a shadow cross the top floor window, which he hoped was Zaleski, although he had no idea whether Zaleski lived there on his own or not.

Two doors gave out onto the garden, one a pair of French windows, the other half-glazed, leading out from a small side extension. He tried the French windows first but they were locked, the curtains drawn tightly against them. The other door was also locked and, pressing his face to the glass, he peered into the dim interior, just making out a table or desk with a computer, the screensaver giving off a flickering glimmer of light. Maybe someone had left a key in the lock. If not, he wasn’t sure what he would do.

Looking round for something hard to use, he found a sturdy-looking trowel sticking out of the earth in one of the pots near the door. He took off his pullover and, wrapping it around the handle of the trowel to deaden any noise, he aimed the handle at the glass. It took several blows before the corner of the glass shattered with a muffled tinkle. He chipped away at the small hole with the edge of the trowel until it was big enough to put his hand through and, hand now wrapped in the pullover, reached inside, feeling for the key, praying that it would be there.

He felt its cold edge. Thank God. He turned the lock, opened the door and stepped gingerly through, over the glass, into the dark study. A door led into the hall and he opened it carefully, listening. Apart from the distant buzz of traffic several roads away, everything was silent. Light filtered in from the street outside through the stained glass panels which framed the front door. Beside it sat a plastic petrol can and a small suitcase. Was Zaleski going away somewhere? Was he even there? Was Sam? The house was so quiet.

Two doors led off the hall, one he presumed going into the room with the French windows on the garden side, the other, at the front, had a strip of light showing through the crack at the bottom. Perhaps they were in there, although he couldn’t hear the sound of anyone talking. As he crept towards the door, trying to deaden the sound of his boots on the tiled floor, he heard a step behind him and felt the edge of something cold and hard pressed like a finger against the back of his neck.

‘Don’t turn around. This is a gun.’

Tartaglia recognised Zaleski’s voice instantly. A light was switched on, illuminating the hall.

‘Oh, I see it’s you, Inspector,’ Zaleski said from behind. ‘What are you doing breaking into my house?’ He kept the gun pinned to Tartaglia’s neck.

‘Where’s Sam? She’s here, isn’t she?’

‘She’s upstairs powdering her nose. Why, are you doing the jealous lover bit? Is she your girlfriend?’ Zaleski prodded Tartaglia’s neck with the nose of the gun. ‘I’d have thought you’d go for something a bit more raunchy.’

‘Sam’s my friend.’

‘What, you’d risk your life for a friend?’

Risk his life? It struck him for the first time that that was what he was doing but he felt strangely calm. ‘Yes. Yes I would.’

‘There’s no accounting for taste. I’m surprised that you care about her that much. She seems quite an ordinary little tart to me. Really nothing special.’

‘Is she OK?’ Tartaglia said levelly, refusing to give Zaleski the satisfaction of a reaction. Was the gun real or a replica? Not worth taking a punt on it, though, given what he knew of Zaleski.

‘Depends what you mean by OK. She got a bit out of control, so I had to calm her down, get her into the right state of mind. That’s what it’s all about, with women.’

‘You mean drug them so you can do what you want?’

‘Stop trying to be provocative, Inspector. It doesn’t suit you. Do you like guns? I’ll bet you’re a good shot, aren’t you?’ he said, when Tartaglia didn’t respond. ‘This one’s a Luger and it’s got a nice history to it. My grandfather took it off a dead German in the Second World War. That’s after he killed him, of course. He used to love telling me about it when I was a child. Apparently, it was quite gruesome, the killing, I mean. I don’t have the stomach for blood and gore, myself. But guns give you a real sense of power, don’t they?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Tartaglia said, firmly, wondering what the hell he was going to do, wondering also if it explained why Tom had thrown the girls to their deaths rather than killing them outright. He hadn’t wanted to get his hands dirty. He wanted to distance himself from the mess and physical foulness of death. A gun was arm’s length too…

‘Yeah, a real sense of power,’ Zaleski continued. ‘It goes like this. I’m the one with the gun, so you’re going to do what I want. You’re going to jump when I tell you to jump. Have you got that? Now open that door in front of you… push it wide open, that’s right… now, put your hands on your head, walk in slowly, and go and sit down on the sofa. Don’t try anything silly,’ he added, seeing Tartaglia hesitate in the doorway, as he wondered if he had time to slam it shut in Zaleski’s face and barricade himself in until help arrived.

‘The Luger may be an antique but it still works and I’m a bloody good shot.’

Tartaglia turned the handle and walked inside, his eyes flicking around the room, looking for a means of defence or escape. But there was none. It was a peculiar place, full of horrible old-fashioned, brown furniture and knick-knacks, a strange, dusty smell hanging in the air as if the room wasn’t often used or aired. As he turned round and sat down, he saw Zaleski for the first time, standing by the fireplace, gun in hand pointed straight at Tartaglia’s heart.

Zaleski was wearing a dark overcoat, scarf and leather gloves. He looked as if he was on his way out. The bag by the door. The petrol. What was Zaleski going to do with the petrol, if that’s what it was? He had removed his glasses and he looked different, a lot tougher and much more confident, his face hard and drawn, lines more pronounced. He was a little shorter than Tartaglia, possibly not as fast or as fit. In the normal course of events, Tartaglia wouldn’t baulk at taking him on. But there was the gun. And Sam.

Where was Sam? Why had she allowed herself to be drawn in by Zaleski? Single women with too much imagination and too much time to think about things were a danger to themselves and other people. If only she’d said something. If only. But what would he have done? Reprimand her? Tell her not to see Zaleski? It wouldn’t have worked. Sam had a mind of her own and would have told him to get lost. At least, if Zaleski was here, hopefully she was still alive. Maybe upstairs somewhere.

‘It’s a shame you’ve butted in and tried to spoil my plans like this.’ Zaleski’s manner was suddenly more urgent. ‘Just when Sam and I were getting down to business.’

‘She’s alive?’

‘Don’t waste your time worrying about her.’ Zaleski smacked his lips, studying Tartaglia, gun still pointed at his chest. ‘Now, what the fuck am I going to do with you? It’s very inconvenient, you see, your turning up like this. I’m going to be late… late for a very important date. Miss Donovan’s waiting and I don’t want to disappoint her.’

It was a pointless question but Tartaglia wanted to string things out, keep Zaleski there as long as possible. ‘You work for CHA, don’t you? That’s how you found them all, isn’t it? You’re one of their helpline volunteers.’ He noted the surprise in Zaleski’s eyes.

‘My, my. We have been a busy little bee. Well done for finding the connection. You’re more on the ball than I thought.’

‘They came to you needing help and support and you killed them. Why?’

‘Why does everyone want to know why? It’s like nature. When you’re hungry, you have to eat.’

‘That’s shit and you know it.’

‘They wanted to die with me. They were begging me, gagging for it. I just helped ease things along.’

‘You’ll be put away for life for this.’

‘Can’t hang a bloke for being helpful. Anyway, what evidence do you have? If you bother to read the emails the girls sent me, they all wanted to die.’

‘Not Sam.’

‘Tarts like that are accidents waiting to happen. They only have themselves to blame and I’m doing her a favour.’

‘Marion Spear didn’t want to die.’

Again there was a flicker of surprise on Zaleski’s face. ‘Christ, Inspector. I’m really impressed. I’ll admit little Marion was a bit different but let’s not get pedantic. She was one of those foul clingy types who won’t leave a bloke alone. She made me feel claustrophobic. I had to do something.’

‘You killed her straight out. None of this fake suicide crap.’

‘Like the others she wanted to die, I can assure you. If she couldn’t have me, she wanted to end it all. That’s what she said. The whining cunt’s better off where she is.’

‘You’re sick.’

‘Enough chitchat. I haven’t got time. Stay right where you are and don’t move.’

Zaleski walked quickly over to a small table in the corner, eyes fixed on Tartaglia, unblinking. A tray with an ice bucket stood on the table and Tartaglia watched as Zaleski took a bottle of clear liquid out of the bucket and filled a shot glass to the brim. Gun still pointed at Tartaglia, he put the glass down on a stool in front of the sofa, pushing it gently towards Tartaglia with his foot.

‘Drink it,’ he said. ‘Now,’ he shouted when Tartaglia didn’t move.

What on earth was he to do? No doubt the drink was drugged. If only Zaleski would come a little closer, maybe he’d have a chance. But Zaleski had moved away again, standing with his back to the fireplace, his head reflected in the mirror behind. Play for time; that was the only thing left. Play for time. Hopefully, the team would be there soon.

Tartaglia leaned forward slowly and picked up the glass. It was cold and wet to the touch. As he held it up, he saw a trace of lipstick on the edge and wondered if it was Sam’s.

‘Fucking drink it,’ Zaleski shouted again. ‘I haven’t got time to waste watching you pussy around.’

Tartaglia put the glass to his lips and tasted the ice-cold liquid with the tip of his tongue. Some sort of vodka, with a slightly aromatic smell. GHB was tasteless. No point in speculating how much was in it.

‘Now, knock it back. In one,’ Zaleski said. ‘That’s how we Poles do it, you know.’

Should he throw it in Zaleski’s face, aim for the eyes and blind him momentarily while he lunged and took the gun? But Zaleski didn’t look away, not for a second and there was nothing to distract him with. If the gun really was loaded and in working order, Tartaglia knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. But if he didn’t do something, if he drank the vodka and passed out, what would become of Sam? Zaleski would kill her for sure. Kill both of them. Stall. Play for time. It was the only option.

‘What were the emails about, the ones to Carolyn Steele?’

‘You mean the policewoman? The one on Crimewatch?’

‘Yeah. You emailed her.’

Zaleski shook his head, looking genuinely surprised. ‘Not me. Why would I? She’s not my type.’

If it wasn’t Zaleski, then it had to be Kennedy, although whether he would ever live to make sure Kennedy got his comeuppance, was another matter. ‘Sam’s not your type either. Let her go.’

Zaleski laughed. ‘My type? That’s an interesting question. I hadn’t really thought about it before. But I don’t actually think I have a type, you know.’

‘Yeah, you do. You like them weak and vulnerable, so lonely and depressed they’ll do whatever you want. It’s a bit like the gun. Makes you feel in control, doesn’t it? More like a real man.’

Zaleski’s face hardened and he stabbed the air with the Luger. ‘Shut up about the fucking girls and drink.’

‘You’re just a coward. A fucking, spineless, dickless wimp who…’

‘Fucking shut up and drink.’ Zaleski shouted, his voice rising to a shriek.

‘If you want me to drink it, you’ll have to come and make me.’

‘Oh, tough guy, are you now? Been watching too many cop films. But we’re not in the movies. This is real life and you are going to die.’

Zaleski watched him for a moment, as if deciding what to do next, then kicked the stool away from in front of him.

‘Put the glass down and get on your knees, hands on your head.’ He pointed at the floor in front of him. Hands on head, kneeling. Execution style. Tartaglia realised he had nothing left to lose.

‘GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR,’ Zaleski screamed.

Now. Now was the moment. Head bowed, eyes locked on Zaleski’s legs, he sighed and slowly made as if to kneel down. Then he lunged, hurling himself in mid-air across the small room. Zaleski fell back, crashing hard against something behind and the gun went off. Tartaglia felt a sharp pain on the side of his head and everything went black.