12
‘Mark, we’re here.’ Tartaglia felt someone gently shake his shoulder.
He half opened his eyes, looked around, and saw Donovan beside him, in the driver’s seat. He glazed blearily around him. They were pulled up in the middle of the street outside his flat, engine idling. He shook his head. ‘Jeez. Thought I was home in bed.’
‘Not yet. Good thing you didn’t try riding the Ducati. You’ve been out for the count ever since we left the car park.’
He rubbed his face vigorously, flexed his shoulders and yawned. ‘No question of it. Would’ve called a taxi if you hadn’t kindly offered.’ He stretched and yawned again, and stared out of the window for a moment. Someone was playing dance music loudly close by. It was late, but now that he was awake he needed something to eat and it would be good to have some company. ‘You know, I feel better for a quick kip,’ he said, yawning again. ‘I’m famished. What about you?’
‘I was just going to have a bowl of cereal and go straight to bed. Justin’s picking me up at six-thirty. We’re seeing the headmaster of St Thomas’s at nine.’
‘How’s it going with Justin?’
‘Fine.’
She sounded unenthusiastic and he wondered why. Chang had been fast-tracked and had joined the team at the same rank as Donovan, although she wasn’t the sort to care about such things, and from what he’d seen Chang was easy-going, not the sort to create waves.
‘He’s a smart guy,’ he said, thinking of the hassle of getting Chang transferred in and his more than impressive C.V. ‘We’re lucky to have him.’
‘Yes.’ Again the tone was flat.
‘You OK?’
‘Just tired, that’s all.’
He nodded, deciding for the moment to take what she said at face value. ‘I know it’s late, but do you want to come in? May as well cook for two as one.’
‘Aren’t you knackered?’
‘I’ll revive in a bit. I must eat something before I sleep and it would be good to talk. I’ve barely seen you all day.’
‘OK. If you’re sure.’
He smiled. ‘Positive.’
At that hour, the street was lined on both sides with cars. Eventually she found a parking space a couple of streets away and they walked back together. It was a quiet, tree-lined area, close to the busy Shepherd’s Bush Road. The houses were Edwardian and wider than usual, with neat front gardens and hedges. Some had been divided into flats, but many were still family homes. Already most of the inhabitants were in bed, but as they turned the corner and neared his house, the music grew louder again along with the babble of voices.
‘Your next-door neighbours seem to be having a party,’ she said, as they walked up the short tiled path to the front door.
‘Yes. It usually goes on all weekend.’ He fumbled in his pocket for his keys.
‘I thought you had an old lady living next door with a nasty, yappy little dog. It gave me a fright more than once.’
‘Poor thing was deaf and blind,’ he said, finally finding the right key and letting them into the small communal hall, which he shared with the upstairs flat. ‘Somebody took pity on it and put it out of its misery. Rosa’s gone to live with her daughter in Portugal and they’ve rented out the house to a group of New Zealanders for the summer. They’re in their twenties and they’re basically in London to have fun. It’s a revolving cast, but from what I can tell there’s a hard core of about fifteen of them, plus friends camping on the floor. One poor sod was even sleeping in the garden shed for a while.’
‘They’re clearly big on hospitality.’
‘Yes. Reminds me of my student days.’ He picked up a couple of letters from the floor, unlocked the door to his flat and ushered her into the sitting room. The air was stuffy from the heat of the day and he drew back the wooden shutters and opened the large sash window as wide as it would go, letting in a pleasant breeze as well as the music.
‘Doesn’t it drive you mad?’
‘What?’
‘The noise. I’d find it difficult to think or read with all that going on.’
He shrugged. ‘I just tune it out and they’re really quite nice. Anyway, I’m not here enough for it to bother me.’
‘What about the woman upstairs? I thought she was quite pernickety.’
‘She’s away at the moment, luckily.’
He went around the room switching on various lights. Even in the heat of summer, it was a pleasant place to come home to, with bare white walls, wood flooring and a few pieces of modern furniture, mainly Italian, which he had spent time choosing when he had bought the flat several years before. He knew that many found his home too Spartan, particularly women, Donovan included. But it was the way he liked it and luckily he just had himself to please. The only decoration was a large black and white photograph from the early nineteen sixties of a young woman walking past a sun-drenched bar in a run-down quarter of Rome, which he had bought from a photographer friend of his father’s. The woman was lovely, in a natural, unconscious sort of way, frowning into the sun as she brushed a long lock of black hair from her face, unaware that she had been caught on camera. He often wondered what had happened to her, what sort of life she had led, where she was now. She looked so young and fresh in the photograph but she must be old enough to be his mother. His family had come originally from a little village near Rome and settled in the UK at the turn of the last century. He had been born and brought up in Edinburgh, but he still considered himself Italian and he particularly liked the image because it reminded him of his roots.
He took off his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair and turned to Donovan, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. ‘So, what do you fancy eating?’
‘I don’t mind. What is there?’
‘Can’t remember. You’d better come and take a look.’
She followed him down the narrow passage that led from the sitting room to the kitchen extension at the back. Like the rest of the flat, the space was modern, all stainless steel and wood, with a large, round glass table in one corner. Lights were on in the next-door garden and a large crowd of people were gathered on the other side of the dividing wall. Even with the windows shut, he could smell the smoke of a barbeque and it made him even hungrier.
He opened the freezer door and peered inside at the stack of cartons, which came from The Food Gallery, the best deli in Barnes.
‘That’s rich,’ Donovan said, peering over his shoulder. ‘You always make fun of me for my microwave dinners. Have you given up cooking?’
‘No. This is just for emergencies like tonight. What will it be? There’s Lamb Casserole, Malayan Chicken Curry, Green Thai Chicken, Lemon and Ginger Chicken, or Moussaka. Take your pick. There’s also some pesto my sister Nicoletta made last week. She gave me a couple of jars to bring back from holiday.’ He looked around at her. ‘We could have spaghetti al pesto, if you like.’
She frowned. ‘I thought you were diving with your cousin Alessandro?’
‘I was. I stayed with him in Milan then we drove down to Sicily together. But on the way home I spent a couple of nights with Nicoletta and the family. She and John have rented a house for two weeks on the coast, just south of Rome.’
She was looking at him inquiringly. ‘How was it?’
He shrugged, wondering why she was so interested. He saw a lot of his sister Nicoletta, her husband John and their two children, who lived in north London – too much he felt sometimes. He hadn’t been that keen on the idea of spending a few days of his precious holiday with them, but Nicoletta had made it clear he had no option. For the sake of peace he had gone along with it, as he usually did. He had no problem with the children, or with John, an intelligent, mild, self-effacing man, whom he genuinely liked irrespective of the family connection. But Nicoletta knew no boundaries, particularly where he, her younger, unmarried brother, was concerned. He went to their house for lunch most Sundays, which was more than enough to satisfy familial duty, he felt. Donovan had met them on a number of occasions, although he had made it clear to Nicoletta that there was nothing going on between them. ‘What a shame’, his sister had said pointedly more than once, as though she didn’t believe him and wanted to find out more, but he had refused to be drawn.
‘It was OK,’ he said. ‘She was trying to fix me up with one of her friends, as usual.’
‘And?’
He met her eye. However attractive some of Nicoletta’s friends were, it wasn’t bait worth taking. He would rather stay celibate. ‘And nothing. So, what do you want to eat?’
‘Whatever’s quickest and easiest.’
‘Spaghetti, then,’ he said, taking a small glass jar from the fridge. He peered inside, wondering what else to offer her. ‘I might even run to some rocket salad, if you’re lucky. Do you want a beer or a glass of wine? Or would you rather something soft?’
‘Wine please, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all. If you want red, help yourself to that bottle on the counter. I only opened it yesterday so it ought to be OK. Otherwise there’s some white in the fridge.’
‘Red’s fine.’
‘Pour me one while you’re at it. Wineglasses are over there.’ He gestured towards the row of shelves above the counter, which held a variety of plates, crockery and glasses. ‘I’ll put the water on.’
She removed the rubber stopper and poured two glasses, passing one to Tartaglia. ‘Anything I can do to help?’
He shook his head. ‘Go sit down and put your feet up. I’ll bring it in when it’s done.’
It wasn’t long before he had almost everything ready, carrying in forks, plates, a chunk of parmesan with a small grater, and a large bowl of dressed salad, which he put down on the coffee table in the sitting room.
‘The pasta will be ready in a few minutes. Why don’t you put on some music?’
‘Too much competition from next door. Besides, the music’s not bad, actually. They just played Dizzee Rascal.’
He gave her a pained look, before returning to the kitchen. His taste in music was relatively eclectic, but it stopped well short of commercial rap. The water was boiling hard. He stirred the spaghetti, looped out a strand and tested it. Almost done. He was pleased Donovan had decided to come in. Of late, he had felt as though some sort of an invisible barrier had sprung up between them, although he didn’t know why or what to do about it. He assumed something must be going on in her personal life, but as she didn’t appear to want to talk about it he had let it go until now. At the back of his mind, though, was another thought. ‘She’s keen on you, Marco,’ Nicoletta had once said. ‘Why don’t you . . .’ But he had stopped her. He had no desire to discuss anything personal with his sister. Whether it was Nicoletta’s overactive imagination, or Donovan actually was keen on him, he wasn’t sure. But he had little desire to find out. What would he say, when his own feelings towards her were unresolved, blown erratically here and there depending on his mood and whatever else he had going on in his life? At times he found her attractive, even to the point of thinking he should do something about it. More than once he had been sorely tempted, but something had always got in the way and the moment had been lost. Afterwards, he found himself grateful for the interruption. Whatever way he looked at it, it didn’t feel right. There was too much at stake. Occasionally, he felt a stab of what he assumed was jealousy when he thought she was seeing someone else, but he knew it wasn’t logical and felt doubly confused. Whatever lay beneath it all, it wasn’t sufficiently strong or pressing to risk what was more valuable to him than anything: her friendship. Some things were best left up in the air.
He tried the spaghetti again. Finding it perfectly al dente, he drained it, poured it into a large terracotta bowl and added the pesto, stirring it around and around until it was evenly mixed then sampled a small forkful. It was delicious, the flavour of the basil more concentrated and peppery than any the UK could ever produce. He also liked the way Nicoletta always used a hint of chilli to add depth. He added a little more pesto until it was exactly the way he wanted it, then carried the bowl into the living room and put it down with everything else on the coffee table. ‘Ah, I love basil,’ Donovan said, breathing in the pungent aroma.
‘Me too. You can just smell the sun.’
They helped themselves and sat down, Donovan on the sofa, Tartaglia opposite, pulling up a black leather chair.
‘So, what do you think so far?’ she asked, when they had both nearly finished.
He looked at her questioningly. ‘Do you really want to talk about the case?’ He had been hoping that with the benefit of some wine and food, she might be tempted to open up about whatever was niggling her.
‘Yes, if you don’t mind. I find it baffling.’
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘Well?’
He finished the last few mouthfuls and put down his plate, relaxing back into his chair. If she didn’t want to talk about herself, he knew better than to push. ‘OK. The gap in the time-line bothers me for starters. Logan just walks out into a sunny summer’s evening with his bicycle and is never seen alive again. He isn’t due to meet Anna Paget until seven-thirty, so where was he going? That’s two and a half hours unaccounted for. Who was he meeting? There was nothing in his diary. How and where did he encounter his killer?’
‘It could be something really simple. Maybe he was going to do some shopping, or stopped off at a bookshop, or had a cup of coffee or a drink, on the way to meeting Anna. I always have a book or my iPod in my bag in case I’ve time to kill.’
He shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible. His photo’s all over the papers so maybe someone will remember him.’
‘Perhaps he met the killer by chance.’
He shook his head. ‘Whatever happened, it was deliberate, even if it didn’t look that way to Logan. Don’t forget the camera in the Brompton Cemetery was disabled two days before, which was probably when the padlock on the gate was substituted. It was all carefully planned.’
‘Then maybe the killer followed him from the boat.’
‘That’s more likely, but we know Logan left the boat of his own accord. So, how and where was he abducted, if that’s what happened? Or did he go willingly? Was it someone he knew? We’ve got to trace his movements somehow and fill in that gap.’
She finished her spaghetti and helped herself to some salad. ‘Someone must have seen something,’ she said, pushing the bowl towards Tartaglia.
‘I’m sure they did, but Clive Cornish, or whoever was responsible in the press office, decided not to make it clear at the press briefing that Logan wasn’t killed at the Brompton Cemetery. The impression left is that he was yet another bad-luck victim of gun crime, so the public switch off. They don’t make any connection to something they may have seen.’
‘We can’t give all the details at this stage.’
‘No, but we should have made it clear that he was killed somewhere else. Apart from the usual loonies inspired by a near full moon and the gothic location, no decent witnesses have come forward saying they saw anything suspicious.’
‘Why wasn’t it spelled out?’
‘According to Carolyn – and, as usual, I’m not sure where she stands on this – the powers that be took the view that if we let on that Logan was only dumped in the cemetery later, the killer might cover his tracks.’
‘You disagree?’
‘I thought it was a price worth paying. At the moment, we have no idea where to start looking. It’s possible they’ll release the information tomorrow, but we’ve wasted twenty-four hours. No doubt the killer’s gone to ground. In the meantime, things are no clearer than at the start.’
‘Come on. We’ve made some progress.’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing that narrows the field in any material way. We still have no clue why Logan was killed or who might have done it. We’ve spoken to everyone along that stretch of the canal, bar two people who are away. Nobody saw anything and nobody remembered him at the pub, The Bargeman’s Rest, either.’
She finished eating and put down her plate, stretching back against the cushions. ‘That’s London for you. It must be a popular place at this time of year, with lots of tourists coming and going.’
He nodded. ‘And it seems Logan didn’t get out much. The cell site analysis of his calls shows that he spent most of the week before he died in and around his boat. He made or received a total of twenty odd calls that week, of which half are personal. Yet so far nothing interesting has emerged. Apart from Maggie Thomas, the only people Logan saw were the mysterious Alex Fleming and Anna Paget.’
He got to his feet and began to clear away their empty plates. She got up to help him and followed him into the kitchen.
‘Why don’t you leave it for the morning?’ she said, as he started to load the plates and glasses into the dishwasher.
‘I’d rather get it over and done with. I can’t relax with it hanging over me.’
‘Can I do anything?’
He shook his head and started washing the pan and bowls in the sink. ‘This won’t take long.’
She leaned back against the cupboards, watching him. ‘Maybe Superintendent Cornish was right,’ she said after a moment. ‘Maybe we have a nutter on the loose.’
He laughed. ‘Clive Cornish right? That would be a first.’
He saw a glimmer of a smile, the first that evening. Cornish was worth something, after all. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Maybe not. Perhaps the killer’s someone local, maybe one of the neighbours.’
He gave her a quizzical look.
‘Say there’s someone from Logan’s past, who hates him,’ she continued. ‘Logan then turns up living on the same canal, or nearby, and they decide to bump him off.’
‘That’s the stuff of cheap fiction,’ he said, stacking the pans and bowls on the drainer and drying his hands on a tea towel. ‘You know I don’t believe in coincidences. If there was a connection between Logan and any of his neighbours, it will eventually come out. Whoever did this would know that.’
She said nothing and he could tell she disagreed. He gave the counter a quick wipe, then turned back to her. ‘Coffee or tea?’
‘Tea, please,’ she said, distractedly. ‘Anything herbal if you have it.’
‘Fresh mint?’
‘Please.’
He switched on the kettle, unlocked the kitchen door and went out into the back garden, returning within a minute with a bunch of leaves. The smell of mint was strong as he tore the stems and put them into a large white teapot.
‘Maybe it’s simple,’ she said. ‘Maybe Logan just rubbed someone up the wrong way.’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t honestly believe that either. Logan had only been living there a couple of months, that’s all, and this isn’t about some petty little quarrel. Whoever did it beat him up, put a bullet in his head at point blank range and cut off his dick. Either they were making an example of him or they hated his guts. They then went to a great deal of trouble as well as personal risk to dump him in the cemetery. It was planned and premeditated down to the last detail. We were meant to find him in that crypt, although what it’s all about escapes me.’
The kettle pinged and he filled the teapot. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said, glancing over at her. ‘People do terrible things for the most trivial of reasons. Maybe Logan really did piss off one of his neighbours, who just happens to be a violent psychopath. The background checks will show if any of them have form of any sort. If there’s a connection to Logan in some way we’ll find it, but the way I see it, there has to be a bigger reason for it all than a chance meeting or a neighbourly spat.’ He took two mugs from the shelf and poured out the tea, passing her hers.
‘What’s your gut telling you, then?’ she said.
Cradling his mug in his hand, he leaned back against the wall, facing her. Although it was late and she said she was tired, her eyes were bright and she had a good colour in her cheeks. ‘If you want to know, I’m stumped. Logan was a one-time actor and teacher turned best-selling novelist, not some dirty little pusher or gangland heavy. Did the two worlds collide somehow? That’s the big question.’
‘Maybe he had a secret life.’
‘If he was mixing with the wrong people, we’ll soon know. But nothing’s turned up. So far, he’s squeaky clean. The missing second book’s another mystery, although it seems to be common knowledge that Logan kept a key to the boat underneath a flowerpot on the front deck. It would have been child’s play for someone to get inside, find his laptop and delete the file. The password was written on a yellow sticky above the table where he worked.’
‘It would have been simpler just to take the laptop.’
‘Maybe they didn’t want to draw attention to what they were doing.’
‘They could have made it look like a break-in.’
He sighed, tired of talking about the case. ‘You’re right. It’s yet another thing that doesn’t add up. I just hope that if someone tampered with Logan’s laptop, we’ll be able to recover whatever was there before. But if he was killed because of something he knew, something he was going to put in his next novel, what the hell was it? He wasn’t an investigative journalist who stumbled on something big. Even the way he was killed and dumped doesn’t add up. To give Carolyn her due, she described the whole thing as a cut and shunt and that’s exactly what it is. None of it makes sense. You know what we need more than anything?’
‘What’s that?’
‘A bit of luck.’
‘If anyone’s lucky, it’s you. Have you thought of talking to a profiler?’
‘It’s too early. You know how difficult they are to get hold of, how much red tape there is. Anyway, there’s not enough to go on to warrant it, plus I’m sure Carolyn wouldn’t sanction it, let alone our blessed superintendent. He thinks profilers are akin to psychics or witch-doctors.’
‘I meant off the record, just for a chat. Who’s the one you spoke to a few months ago . . . about the Watson case . . . you know . . . what was her name?’ She clicked her fingers, trying to remember.
‘Angela Harper?’
‘I think so. She spoke to you off the record, didn’t she? She was pretty user-friendly, I seem to remember.’
He frowned. He wasn’t thinking straight. ‘You’re right, as always, Sam. Why the hell didn’t I think of it? I know Angela will tell me it’s too early, but if nothing else it may help me get my thoughts in order. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.’ Unable to stop himself, he yawned.
She put her mug down on the counter. ‘I’m keeping you up. I’d better go.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, I really must go. You’re making me tired just to look at you.’
He picked up a hint of reluctance, as though perhaps she wanted him to persuade her to stay. Not sure what to do, he followed her to the front door and opened it for her, wondering if maybe, after all, she wanted to talk. Or was it something more? If only he didn’t feel so tired . . .
As she turned to go, he caught her gently by the arm. ‘Sam?’
‘Yes?’
He couldn’t tell anything from her tone. Silhouetted against the light from the street, her face was in shadow and he couldn’t read her expression either. He decided to let it go. ‘Shall I walk you to your car?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Good luck tomorrow, then.’
‘Thanks. I’ll call you.’
He watched her walk down the path. A minute or so later, he heard her start the engine and she drove away. As he closed the door and went back into his flat, part of him wished he wasn’t going to bed on his own.