Die With Me (18 page)

‘Ignore him.’

‘Easier said than done.’

She watched him light a cigarette.

As the smoke coiled in her direction, she was amazed to find she had no desire to follow suit. On a moment’s impulse, she had retrieved Adam Zaleski’s card from the bin that morning, making an excuse to Tartaglia, as they left to go to the café, that she had left something behind in the meeting room. Zaleski had managed to fit her in for a quick half-hour session of hypnosis before she was due back in Barnes. Knowing Tartaglia’s views on such things, she thought it best not to mention it. Zaleski was a witness and, strictly speaking, she shouldn’t have sought him out. But she admitted to herself that she found him quite attractive. He had told her that she would only need another couple of sessions and she felt calm, almost serene, and in control. Perhaps that was what meditation was all about.

Drawing hard on his cigarette, Tartaglia leaned towards her. ‘Am I mad to think that the Marion Spear case could be related?’

She smiled, unused to seeing him so full of self-doubt. ‘Listen. From what I’ve heard today, it’s well worth pursuing. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She told him about her chat with Annie.

Tartaglia looked a little disappointed. ‘So, Angel wasn’t interested in looking at flats but was after Marion. We can’t hang him for that.’

‘But Annie practically admitted he’d been stalking her. And the fact that he went out of his way to hide his interest in Marion, is suspicious.’

He shook his head. ‘Lying doesn’t add up to murder. People lie to us all the time, even innocent ones. You know that.’

‘I still think it’s worth following up. If he’s innocent of anything other than fancying Marion, why doesn’t he come clean? Knowing we’re taking a second look is an ideal opportunity for him to set the record straight, particularly when he also knows that we’re investigating the other murders.’

She paused, studying him closely as she took a sip of her beer, noting the doubt and strain in his face. If only Clarke was still around, he would know what to do. The news from the hospital had been positive since he had come out of the coma, but it seemed that recovery was going to be slow. Nobody in the office, let alone Tartaglia, had dared yet voice the thought that Clarke might never be coming back. It was as if by not talking about it, and skirting around the subject, there was still a good chance that Clarke might, one day, stride in through the door, sweep Steele aside and take charge again with all of his old good humour and warmth. However, the likelihood was that Clarke would never be able to work again, certainly not take charge of a murder squad, with all the pressures and physical stresses the role entailed. In their hearts, they all knew it. But the moment wasn’t right to talk to Tartaglia about it, although she sensed it wasn’t far from his thoughts. Not for the first time, she felt how much he was in need of his mentor.

‘This isn’t like you, Mark,’ she said, touching his hand gently. ‘Don’t listen to Steele and Kennedy. Just think what Trevor would say if he were here. He’d tell you to follow your instincts, wouldn’t he? He always trusted your judgement and backed you up. You’ve got to remember that, keep hold of it, and trust yourself. I certainly do.’

His face creased into a tired smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t look so depressed. I may have something else. After I saw Annie, I went to see Marion Spear’s flatmate, Karen.’

‘The one who made the statement when she died?’

‘Yes. She gave me the same spiel about Marion being lonely and wanting to go back up north to be with her Mum. She said she tried many times to get her to go out with her and the gang but apparently Marion preferred to stay in and watch TV. To be honest, given what I know about Marion and having met Karen, it doesn’t surprise me. I think I’d prefer to stay in and watch
Big
Brother
too.’

‘What about Angel? Does Karen remember him?’

‘No. Doesn’t remember any particular bloke hanging around Marion. But Karen said that she was often out, staying over at her then boyfriend’s flat. However, when I pressed her, she mentioned another girl, called Nicola, who had been living in the flat temporarily. Karen said that although Nicola wasn’t there for long, she and Marion became quite chummy. Apparently they occasionally used to go out to the pub or to see a film together.’

‘There’s no mention of this Nicola woman in the file.’

‘What’s new? Nicola was only there for a month or so and she moved on before Marion died. Karen has no idea if she and Marion even stayed in touch after Nicola left. Maybe CID thought that Karen’s statement was enough to determine Marion’s state of mind or maybe they didn’t bother to find out if there’d been anybody else living in the flat.’

‘We must find her.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m onto it and I won’t say anything to Steele. Karen isn’t sure where Nicola’s gone but she’s given me the landlord’s number. Maybe Nicola left a forwarding address. I’ll check it out first thing in the morning.’

Somebody passed behind her carrying drinks to one of the tables and Donovan caught the words ‘fucking marvellous’ and ‘about bloody time’ accompanied by a round of raucous cheers and applause. Listening for a moment, she gathered that the bridge had reopened.

‘That’s a relief,’ she said, turning back to Tartaglia. ‘I thought it was going to take me several hours to get home.’

Tartaglia downed the remainder of his pint. ‘Going back to Angel, what about last Wednesday afternoon? Do any of his neighbours remember what he was up to?’

She shook her head. ‘I checked with several of the shops on either side of him and nobody noticed whether he was in or out. However, they told me that he tends to keep odd hours. Reading between the lines, they think he’s a bit eccentric. I’ve left my card in case somebody remembers something.’

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Angel’s a bloody long shot but we’ve got to keep checking. Maybe Nicola will remember him, if only you can find her. At the moment, she’s our best bet.’

‘Our only bet, you mean.’

‘Well, he’s playing with you, isn’t he?’ Kennedy said, helping himself to the mound of gnocchi alla gorgonzola which Steele had left almost untouched on her plate. ‘Cat and mouse. Showing you who’s in control, who’s boss. Thinks he’s so bloody clever. He’s deliberately belittling you, of course, treating you as a sex object. But then he sees all women as objects. Some just suit his purposes better than others.’ He scooped up another large forkful of gnocchi.

Steele watched him silently, amazed that he kept so svelte, given how much he seemed to eat. She had no appetite, the words in the email still swimming around in her mind. They had been to Hammersmith Bridge for a cursory look and she had waited patiently for nearly half an hour in the warmth of Kennedy’s car while he paced up and down, talking into a dictaphone as he examined every detail of the bridge and the immediate surrounding area. When he was done, he had confirmed that it was far too early to make any pronouncements as to whether what had happened might possibly fit the pattern. On the one hand, the MO had changed. On the other, he agreed that the proximity to the murder team’s office was striking, almost like a direct challenge. Hungry and irritated at being kept waiting for so long for so little result, she bit back the desire to tell him that Tartaglia had already arrived at the same conclusions.

Kennedy seemed to be taking it all blithely in his stride, back in the car talking nineteen to the dozen, in a state of professional elation about the email. She found it impossible to be so detached. She felt shaken, somehow dirtied by having received it and she wanted to punch fucking Tom, get him on the ground and take a pair of heavy boots to his head. How dare he. How fucking dare he. She knew she was an obvious target but it still got to her, eating away at her in every quiet moment. The thought that he knew, or had somehow guessed, that she lived on her own was particularly unnerving.

Kennedy stretched his arm across the table and patted her hand. ‘Carolyn, you’re not upset, are you?’ Wary of giving him any encouragement, she slid her hand away and reached for her glass, taking a sip of wine to hide her confusion.

‘You mustn’t let it get to you,’ he continued, thick-skinned as ever, ignoring the small rejection.

‘I’m not,’ she said firmly.

‘It’s what he wants. He’s trying to get under your skin. He has a very high opinion of himself and it’s a game to him, nothing more. You’ve got to try and remember that.’

She took another sip of wine. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.’

Was there any point in keeping up the pretence? Part of her wanted to tell him how she really felt, get it off her chest. Maybe she’d feel better. But if she opened up, she knew he would use it to his advantage, draw closer to her, and it would be impossible to push him away again. She had to keep a distance between them. The easiest policy was to let him talk, not interrupt the flow, and try and let it wash over her, as if none of it mattered.

He gave her his usual warm smile. ‘You know, it might have been better if you’d got one of the blokes to do
Crimewatch
. On the other hand, maybe it’s good to get a dialogue going.’

‘Dialogue? Is that what you call it? I hardly have the right of reply, do I? The bastard’s untraceable.’

‘Of course. He’s calling the shots and that’s how he likes it,’ he said, eyeing her kindly, if a little questioningly, as he drained his glass. He grabbed the half-empty bottle, poured himself some more wine and topped up hers at the same time. ‘He conforms perfectly to type, you know. Organised, with a grandiose sense of self-worth, as well as being manipulative and devious. He’s incapable of feeling empathy, guilt or remorse. Other people are only objects to serve his purpose. Although labels aren’t really helpful to you, he’s your classic charismatic psychopath.’

‘Charismatic? You’re joking.’

‘It’s a clinical sub-group. He has the ability to be engaging, charming, slick and verbally facile, as we’ve seen in his emails to the girls, as well as this one to you. He also needs excitement, likes taking risks and living dangerously, which is why he emailed you. He’s upped the temperature and thinks he’s invincible.’

She took a gulp of wine and smacked the glass down hard on the table. ‘He’s bloody evil, that’s what he is.’

‘Maybe, but the more risks he takes, the more chance we have of catching him.’ He put on a pair of halfmoon reading glasses and unfolded the copy of the email, studying it again carefully. She had never seen him in glasses before and he looked different, suddenly older and more scholarly. She found it strangely endearing, as if it made him more approachable and human.

‘It’s interesting how he’s changed his style,’ he said, still scanning the page. ‘He was much more flowery when he was writing to the girls. But with you, of course, he’s pitching to a different audience. He’s quite a chameleon, don’t you think?’

‘What the hell does it matter?’

Wishing that she could be as logical and dispassionate, she stared down at the table, trying to clear her mind and press down on the anger she felt. But it was impossible. She didn’t usually drink much and her head was spinning, thoughts whirling uncontrollably, unable to obliterate the email from her mind. She felt out of control and feared that she might burst into tears at any minute.

Misinterpreting what she was thinking, he added: ‘You’re not his type. So I shouldn’t worry.’

She looked up at him, not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘Yes. He likes young flesh, doesn’t he?’

‘It’s not just that. Of course, you’re very attractive. But you’re far too strong and together for him. He picks weak victims because underneath it all, in spite of his bravura, he’s not up to a real challenge. He can manipulate these poor little girls and do what he wants with them, although he despises them all the more for it. In sending you that email, he’s trying to make you one of them. But he can’t. He knows you’re not like that. It’s interesting that his seeing you on the TV is the trigger for the email. He probably hates strong women even more than weak ones. Probably had a domineering, bullying mother at home, bossing him, controlling him, smothering him, forcing him to escape into the fantasy world in his head. It was the only place where he was in control, where he could be himself and play out his games without interference.’

‘Lots of people were fucked up as children. But they don’t turn into murderers.’

He smiled serenely, ignoring her. ‘I’ll put my money on his being an only child, or the youngest child, with a big gap between him and the next sibling. I also expect he was a real weed and bullied at school. But I’ll give you chapter and verse on all of that when I finish my report.’

She folded her arms, leaning back in her chair until she felt the edge touch the wall behind her. ‘I don’t give a stuff about what happened in his childhood. All that matters is that he’s evil.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Whatever the reality, the simple fact is that he’s angry. He’s been made to feel inadequate all his life and, as I think I told you, I’m pretty sure he’s impotent. That only adds to the anger and violence he feels inside. In killing, he’s taking back the power. It’s all about control. You may think his background is only of academic interest to people like me, but he’s targeting you specifically because you’re a woman. A man in charge of the case wouldn’t have got the same reaction, I’m positive. Like it or not, you may have to deal with him in the near future, so you need to bear in mind his psychology.’

She looked at him aghast. ‘Deal with him? What do you mean?’

He looked surprised. ‘He’s going to contact you again, of course. Maybe he’ll try and get you to respond.’ Perhaps sensing her revulsion, he added: ‘I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think he actually wants to see you face to face. It’s just a little fantasy of his, all part of the game, kidding himself that he has the ability to form a relationship with you, if he so chooses.’

‘It’s a fucking sick fantasy,’ she said, as the waiter took away the plates and left them with dessert menus.

Kennedy gave his a cursory look and slapped it down on the table. ‘Panna cotta for me. What about you?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing, thanks. I’m just not hungry.’

He took off his glasses and tucked them away in his breast pocket. A moment passed before he said: ‘You are going to tell your whole team what’s happened, aren’t you?’

‘Only Mark and Gary. I don’t think it’s a good idea for the rest of them to know.’

‘What are you worried about? The email’s an important piece of the puzzle.’

‘What if the press get to hear of it?’

‘I still think it’s a risk worth taking. Why don’t you break the news at the morning meeting tomorrow and I’ll come and give them a profile update?’ Sensing her hesitation, he added: ‘You’re ashamed of the way he’s written to you, aren’t you? You find all the personal stuff an affront.’

‘Damn right I do,’ she said bitterly, suddenly finding it a relief that Kennedy seemed to understand.

‘But it’s not about you, it’s about him. Put yourself in his shoes. By treating you like all the others he’s actually de-personalising you.’

‘Well, it doesn’t come across that way.’

‘I understand why you feel that but…’

‘Don’t give me all that psychologist crap, Patrick. You have no idea what it feels like.’

He nodded sympathetically, as though he was dealing with a fractious child, which made her feel even angrier. ‘Naturally, you’re upset…’ he said, looking concerned.

‘Upset? Of course I’m bloody upset. But this is all just a job to you, isn’t it?’

The room suddenly felt very hot. She stood up, wanting to dash to the ladies to get away from his gaze, splash some water on her face. But he caught hold of her hands and forced her back down in her chair.

‘Please listen to me, Carolyn. Of course the case fascinates me. I’d be an out and out liar to say otherwise. But I only took it on because you asked me to. I’m not you, I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling but I can imagine. Bloody furious, I expect. Absolutely livid. You also feel vulnerable, don’t you? And that’s not a comfortable feeling for someone like you, is it?’

Embarrassed by the warmth in his eyes, she tugged her hands away and folded her arms tightly across her chest again. ‘I don’t need analysing, thanks.’

‘It doesn’t help that you feel isolated within your own team. I can see what’s happening with Tartaglia. He’s an arrogant, headstrong sod and he hates the fact that you’ve been brought in over his head. I’ll bet he’s trying to undermine you at every possible opportunity, maybe even turn the whole team against you. It’s all that latin machismo stuff coursing in his veins. Probably doesn’t like taking orders from a woman. You need support at a time like this, not gang warfare.’ He paused, rubbing his lips thoughtfully with a finger before adding: ‘I don’t know how it works, but maybe if you have a word with Cornish, you can get him taken off the case or even transferred elsewhere. There must be some disciplinary issue you could get him on.’

She shook her head, not wishing to discuss the situation any further. It pained her to think about it. Like it or not, what Kennedy said about Tartaglia rang uncomfortably true and she felt threatened. But she knew she would get no sympathy from Cornish. Attitude and arrogance were not hanging offences and Tartaglia had a good stock of credit with the people who mattered up in Hendon. If she couldn’t handle him, it would only reflect badly on her. With no solution to the case in sight, she was already on rocky ground.

She felt a headache coming on and closed her eyes, putting her hands to her face and massaging her temples and the bridge of her nose with her fingers, trying to fight back the tears. He was right about everything, of course. Too bloody right for comfort and she hated him seeing her that way. She must seem so pathetic and weak. The fact that he appeared to understand her, that he saw what was inside so clearly, made her feel ten times more vulnerable, drawing her towards him in spite of herself. There was nobody else she could talk to who understood and he seemed genuinely to care about her. But she wondered why he did, why he bothered. She felt all the old wariness surfacing again, suspicious of his motives for wanting to get close, questioning what it was that really interested him. Could she trust him?

‘Going back to the email, you feel despoiled by it, don’t you?’ he said.

She nodded slowly, not able to meet his eye, focusing on the flickering flame of the candle in front of them.

‘But that’s exactly what Tom wants,’ he continued. ‘He wants to get to you, pollute your thoughts and dreams, play mind games with you. If you let him, he will be winning. Take a deep breath, clear your head and try and think straight.’

He reached over and took her hand again in his. His grasp felt cool and strong, his fingers gently stroking her skin. It felt so reassuring and this time she didn’t pull away immediately, although she still found it impossible to look him in the eye.

‘I’m with you on this, Carolyn. Trust me. I’ll look after you and together we’ll nail the bastard, I promise.’

Tartaglia said goodbye to Donovan and headed out to his motorbike, which was parked outside the pub by the embankment. A light wind was blowing and the night air was cold and damp, the sky almost cloudless with the moon rising just above the river. He put on his helmet and drove off down the High Street.

Nearing the intersection with Castelnau, he spotted what looked like Kennedy’s Morgan, parked on a double yellow line on the wrong side of the road, in front of the parade of shops just before the crossroads. As he slowed to check, he saw Kennedy and Steele come out of one of the restaurants. They were walking close together, almost arm in arm, and appeared to be deep in conversation. He passed them and pulled up just around the corner, watching behind in his mirror. Kennedy escorted Steele over to the passenger side and unlocked the door, giving her his hand to help her into the low seat. Kennedy said something to her then, before closing the door, he tucked the trailing folds of her coat around her. The gesture struck Tartaglia as intimate and inappropriate. Fearing that his worst suspicions were being confirmed, he watched Kennedy walk around to the other side and climb in.