Die With Me (14 page)

‘But I understand he killed four more women. They can’t all have been accidents.’

‘We don’t know what went on in his mind – the bastard won’t talk. But probably somewhere in the middle of throttling the life out of poor Jane, he discovered that killing turned him on in a whole new way. A lot of what he did to her was post mortem. Perhaps he wasn’t aware at that point if she was alive or dead.’

Donovan was silent for a moment as she finished her wine. ‘Why are you so anti Dr Kennedy? I agree he’s a prick but there are enough of those around and we all make mistakes. Also, he has had some successes.’

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘Maybe. But to Kennedy, the Barton case was just another academic puzzle. He forgot he was dealing with real people, flesh and blood, who had families, husbands, children...’ His voice tailed off for a moment before he continued. ‘It was all a game to him,’ he said bitterly. ‘His refusal to believe that he might be wrong wasted valuable time and, in my view, cost the last two victims their lives.’

‘You didn’t have to listen to him.’

‘No. But it’s difficult to filter out the noise, particularly when it’s coming from a so-called expert. It makes you doubt your own instincts. Also, what if we’d been wrong? We’d have had a job explaining to the powers-that-be why we ignored him.’

‘Everything’s easy to see with the benefit of hindsight.’

‘Of course, but Trevor and I blame ourselves. If we hadn’t paid so much attention to Kennedy, I’m sure we would have found Barton sooner. That’s why I intend to follow my nose this time. If Trevor were here, he’d back me up, I know.’

‘You really think Marion Spear could be an early victim?’

‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. But at the moment, she’s all we’ve got. We must find the early victims, the botched attempts before Tom perfected his act. Unless something lands in our lap, it’s our best chance of catching him.’

‘We’ve only been looking in London. Maybe Tom started killing somewhere else.’

‘It’s possible. But you know how difficult it’s been to search thoroughly without a central log. As it is, I’m not convinced we’ve found all the victims. But extending the search outside London is impossible. We haven’t got the resources nor is there any reason to justify doing it at the moment. Perhaps
Crimewatch
will do the job for us. We’ll soon hear if there’s been anything similar going on in other parts of the country.’

‘Do you think he’s killing them in different parts of London to make it difficult for someone to spot?’

‘The thought had occurred to me. At least now, with all the publicity, he won’t get away with it again so easily.’

She sank back in her chair and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples with her fingers, feeling suddenly out of her depth. In the short space of time she’d been on Clarke’s team, she’d had to deal with a number of murders. Although grisly and upsetting, they had usually been cases of domestic violence gone wrong, or someone with a grievance against a member of their family, friend or work colleague. Nothing she had seen so far had prepared her for something like this.

‘He’s not going to stop, is he?’ she said, softly, after a moment.

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘The clock’s ticking. Unless we can establish the connection between Laura, Ellie and Gemma, our only other means of catching him is to wait for him to do it again. If so, let’s just hope with all the media pressure, he fucks up.’

As he reached for his glass, the phone rang and he got up to answer it. Donovan realised almost immediately from Tartaglia’s tone of voice that it wasn’t Sally-Anne at the other end. After a brief exchange, he grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from the table, jotted something down, then slammed the phone into its cradle.

Stretching his arms in the air, he yawned and came back to the sofa. ‘That was the blessed Carolyn. Sounded pretty chuffed with her performance on TV.’

‘Was that all she wanted?’

‘Some bloke’s phoned in to say that he thinks he saw Gemma’s killer steaming out of the church late that afternoon. The timing checks out, so hopefully we may get a better description of the man.’

‘You’re going round to see him now?’

He shook his head. ‘Thank God, no. It’s been fixed for tomorrow morning, eight a.m. at Ealing nick. Apparently, the caller lives nearby. I’d like you to be there too.’

She nodded, grateful that it wasn’t six or seven a.m. The description of Gemma’s killer released on
Crimewatch
had been kept deliberately vague and it would be interesting to see if what the caller had seen tallied with Mrs Brooke’s statement.

‘That should tie in nicely with following up on Marion’s Mr Kipper and the local estate agent,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, smiling. ‘Meantime, I
have
to eat something. Let’s order a takeaway and watch effing Carolyn on film. Maybe she’ll be nominated for an Oscar.’

He was about to reach for the phone when the doorbell rang.

Donovan gave him an enquiring look. ‘Expecting someone?’

‘I’m not expecting anyone.’

As surprised as Donovan, he went out of the flat and opened the front door to find a woman standing at the bottom of the steps in the middle of the path, sheltering from the rain under a large umbrella. It took him a moment to realise that it was Fiona Blake. He stared at her, not knowing what to say.

‘I was just passing and saw your light on,’ she said. There was a moment’s hesitation before she added: ‘May I come in?’

Her speech was a touch slurred. Although she said she was passing, she lived on the other side of town. Even though her face was in shadow, he could see that she was dressed up, lips shiny, just catching the light, hair sleek around her shoulders. He wondered what she was doing at that hour in his neighbourhood. Part of him would have given a great deal to invite her inside but he knew he shouldn’t. He still felt bruised after everything that had happened, remembering the photographs in her office, the ring on her finger. Anyway, with Donovan just on the other side of the wall, the choice was made for him. Thank God, temptation was put out of his way.

‘It’s not a good time,’ he said, instantly gauging from the tightening of her expression that he’d said the wrong thing. He saw her eyes focusing on his bare feet then moving to the half-drunk glass of wine in his hand. He was suddenly aware of the music drifting softly out the door behind him and realised how it all must look.

‘I can see you’re busy,’ she said frostily.

‘Work, I’m afraid.’

‘Work? Of course. You’re always working. Perhaps another time.’

She slipped her handbag over her shoulder and started to walk back down the path towards the street.

‘Fiona, wait. It’s not like that.’ He felt stupid as soon as he’d said it.

She stopped by the front gate and turned, teetering a little on her very high heels as she stared hard at him. ‘Not like what?’

‘I’ve got a colleague with me. We’re discussing the case.’ He didn’t see why he should have to explain himself to her but he found himself doing it anyway.

‘I just thought we should talk, that’s all,’ she said, clearly not believing him. ‘But as you say, it’s not a good time. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.’

‘I’d like to talk. Honestly, I would. But not now.’

She hesitated, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to another as if her shoes were uncomfortable. ‘When?’

‘I’ll call you,’ he said, hoping to placate her, although he wasn’t sure if he would.

She shook her head slowly as if she didn’t believe him and turned away without a word, walking off down the road.

Thoughts racing, feeling stupid and inept, he watched her go, listening to the clip of her heels on the wet pavement. He waited for a moment then went back inside, slamming the front door behind him, and then the door to the flat, as he tried to stifle the yearning to go after her.

Donovan was still sitting in the chair by the window, feet tucked up under her, a huge grin on her face. The walls in the house weren’t thick and she must have heard part, if not all, of what had been said.

‘Would you like me to go?’ she asked, taking a sip of wine as if she had no intention of doing any such thing. ‘I really don’t want to be in the way…’

‘You’re not,’ he said firmly, walking over to the table and topping up his glass. He felt suddenly relieved that Donovan was there and grateful for her company.

‘Was it Dr Blake?’ she asked after a moment.

He nodded.

She put down her glass, unfolded her legs and got to her feet. ‘Really, I’m very happy to leave, if you want me to. Why don’t you call her back?’

‘Not a good idea.’

She sighed, shaking her head slowly as if she understood everything. ‘Ah, Mark. Life’s never simple, is it?’

He could tell what was going through her mind: he was thinking with his dick, and she was probably right. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said firmly. ‘Now let’s order that sodding curry.’

A bitter wind gusted across Hammersmith Bridge, blowing with it a mist of icy rain. Kelly Goodhart stopped and closed her eyes for a moment listening to the sound as it whistled around the tall gothic towers, rushing through the ironwork structure high above. The air was so cold, she could barely feel her toes in her sodden boots, let alone her fingers. But none of that would matter soon. It was nearly midnight and she wouldn’t have much longer to wait.

The last time she had stood there, almost on that very spot, had been with Michael. They had been for a long walk along the towpath, stopping on the bridge to watch the sun set. Afterwards, they had gone to The Dove in Hammersmith for a couple of drinks before returning home for supper. It was Sunday evening, late autumn and unusually warm for that time of year. They had sat out on the little terrace at the back overlooking the river, watching the rowing boats plough up and down, gazing contentedly at the darkening outline and playing fields of St Paul’s school opposite, where Michael had studied as a boy.

Hearing the perennial drone of an aeroplane somewhere above, she opened her eyes and leaned back against the wrought iron balustrade, peering across the water. She could just make out the pub amongst the stretch of old houses on the opposite shore, its lights still shining even at that hour. The memory of happier times brought tears to her eyes, which mingled with the rain. It all seemed so distant now.

Not wanting to think about it any more, she turned away into the wind and looked down-river, holding tight onto the wooden handrail as she gazed at the glittering modern office buildings and warehouse conversions further along, silhouetted against the cloudy night sky. The river ran high up against the wall, the sodium lights along the bank reflecting in the rippling black water, which looked deceptively calm from a distance. The river curved sharply away to the right, towards Fulham and Chelsea and the next string of bridges, which were hidden from view. The opposite bank was dark and it was almost impossible to make out where the river ended and land began, the only light glinting through the thick, swaying trees coming from the terrace of houses that backed onto the towpath.

The line of old-fashioned lamps along the bridge cast intermittent pools of pinkish-yellow light on the churning water immediately below, the current moving furiously along, carrying with it all manner of detritus. Gazing down, she spotted a small, uprooted tree or branch, reaching up like a bony outstretched hand, momentarily caught in an arc of light before being swept away beneath the bridge. It was as if it was beckoning to her and she felt the invisible pull of the water, inviting her, drawing her down towards it. Thank God the darkness that had enveloped her for so long would soon be over.

She heard the rattle of wheels on the bridge as a car sped towards her, the headlamps momentarily blinding, and she turned away, retreating into the shadow of one of the huge buttresses, stuffing her hands in her pockets for warmth. At that hour there was hardly any traffic and it was only the fourth car she had counted in the past ten minutes, along with a single pedestrian, an elderly man out walking a Labrador, who was so bundled up in hat and coat against the weather that he didn’t even look at her as he went past.

Finding it impossible to stand still, as much from nerves as the cold, she started to walk back across the bridge, listening to the hollow thud of her footsteps on the path. She went over her checklist again in her mind: the note and money for her cleaner, ready on the kitchen table along with the keys to her car and the letter for her brother, containing details of her bank accounts and other assets, her will with its short list of bequests and the instructions for her burial. So many loose ends that needed to be carefully tied up. But everything was in order, she reassured herself. She had forgotten nothing.

Drowning was supposed to be a pleasant way to go, according to what she had read. As your lungs filled with water, you experienced a high, a feeling of euphoria and floatiness. On a night like this, if you didn’t drown instantly, you would die of hypothermia, the effects of which weren’t very different. She wasn’t a good swimmer so she would probably drown, although she had no strong feelings either way. All that mattered was that it happened tonight.

She looked at her watch. It was now just past midnight. He said he would be coming by tube and she stopped and scanned the length of the bridge towards Hammersmith, eyes straining to catch any movement. But there was none. He was only a few minutes late but every minute counted and already she started to feel anxious. When they had spoken that morning, he had given her his word that he would be there, that he wouldn’t fail her. She rubbed her wedding ring with her thumb, turning it round and round her finger in her pocket as she worried about what she would do if he didn’t come. She knew she couldn’t go through with it on her own but the thought of living another day was unbearable. Surely he wouldn’t let her down.

Trying to calm herself, she started to walk again, stamping hard on the path to keep warm. She was almost on the other side when her eyes caught a movement in the distance and she noticed the small, dark, bobbing shape of someone coming along the pavement below towards her, just before the foot of the bridge. Hesitant, she stopped again and squinted into the distance, her breath catching in her throat. It looked like a man. It could be him. As he slowly approached, she struggled to make out his features in the orange streetlight but she was sure she recognised the tall, broad-shouldered outline and the long, loping gait that was so distinctive. Tears in her eyes, she exhaled sharply, gasping from sheer relief, and hugging herself tightly. She had been foolish to worry. He had come as he had promised and with a surge of elation, she watched him draw near.