Die With Me (3 page)

‘White, with dark hair, wearing a dark coat or jacket. He must have been waiting in the churchyard for Gemma, as Mrs Brooke didn’t see him arrive.’

‘Did she see him leave?’

Donovan shook her head. ‘After a few minutes, the bus came along and she got on. She didn’t think anything more about it until she saw the CID boards appealing for witnesses. So far, she’s the only person to come forward.’

‘What have forensics turned up?’

‘Just the usual condoms, sweet papers and cigarette butts in the churchyard. But don’t get too excited. None of it’s recent.’

‘With the weather we’ve been having, I’m not surprised.’

‘I didn’t know cold weather was ever a deterrent,’ she said with a wry grin. ‘Anyway, I’m going to catch my death out here. Can we go inside?’

He nodded, stubbed out his cigarette and pushed open one half of the heavy panelled door, Donovan slipping under his outstretched arm.

The interior of the church was barn-like, with a high, vaulted ceiling. Light flooded in through various ornate stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colours and patterns on the walls and the black and white marble floor. The temperature was almost as cold as outside, and an unpleasant musty smell hung in the damp air, coupled with a strange sourness. Decay, he thought. Things rotting away. The smell of neglect and penny pinching. Like so many English churches, the place was redolent of the past, a past with little relevance or connection to the present, the brass work tarnished, the embroidered kneelers threadbare and disintegrating, the memorial plaques that plastered the walls commemorating people long since dead and forgotten.

Although born and brought up a Catholic in Edinburgh, his Catholicism was well lapsed and not a matter that caused him any loss of sleep. But the churches of his youth were places of warmth, much frequented and loved, an integral part of family life and the community, very different to St Sebastian’s. The last time he’d set foot inside a church had been at least a year before, when his sister, Nicoletta, had dragged him along to Sunday mass at St Peter’s, the Italian church in Clerkenwell, before one of her marathon family-and-friends lunches. The atmosphere in the church had hummed: the air thick with the smell of incense; the rows of crystal chandeliers shimmering; every surface waxed and gleaming; and the metalwork polished within an inch of its life. The pews had been packed, with everyone in their Sunday best. It was a riot of colour and richness. Afterwards, hundreds of people thronged the pavement outside, gossiping and stopping at one of the many local bars and cafés for an espresso or grappa. Looking around the drab interior of St Sebastian’s, he couldn’t imagine such a scene. It felt unused and uncared for. A sad and lonely place for a young girl to die.

He followed Donovan down the nave, stopping in front of a large dark green stain that spread messily outwards across the marble floor.

‘This is apparently where the girl fell.’

In order to pinpoint the spot where Gemma Kramer had died, the forensic team had used the chemical LMG to reveal the original blood traces. Around the outside, spatters and tracks from a mop and some sort of brush used to scrub the floor were easily visible, the wash of green fading into a pale verdigris at the edges, shot with bright blue and yellow light from one of the huge, arched windows. Tartaglia gazed up at the wide gallery that spanned the full width of the nave high above, an ornately carved balustrade running along the edge. The thought of the girl plummeting down from such a height made him shiver. Short of a miracle, no one could survive that fall.

‘What time was the body found?’ he asked, gazing up into the dark space of the gallery, the tall gilt pipes of the organ just visible at the back.

‘Just after six, when someone came to tidy up for the evening service. They have Holy Communion at seven-fifteen on a Wednesday.’

‘So nobody came in here between four and six?’

She shook her head. ‘According to Duffey, the vicar leaves the main church unlocked for prayer but it’s usually empty in the afternoon. I don’t think they get many worshippers or visitors.’

Finding it extraordinary that it was left unsecured, particularly given its apparent state of disuse, Tartaglia wondered what had brought the girl to such a place. Was it by chance? Or had she and the man known that the church was left unlocked?

‘How do we get up to the gallery?’ he said.

‘Follow me.’ She walked over to a narrow archway to one side of the pulpit. As she pulled back the heavy red velvet curtain that hung across it, a cloud of dust flew up into the air, the particles dancing in a shaft of sunshine from above. She fumbled around behind the curtain, switching on a series of lights and illuminating the staircase and gallery.

Tartaglia started up the long, steep flight of stairs, Donovan making heavy weather just behind him.

‘You know, you really should give up the fags,’ he said to her when she finally reached the top.

She smiled, still out of breath. ‘You’re hardly one to talk. Anyway, I’ve been trying the patches but I think I’ve become addicted to them too.’

‘They didn’t work for me either.’ Instinctively he felt in his pocket for his cigarettes.

She gave him a withering look.

He turned away, glancing around the gallery. Apart from the organ and the rows of stalls for the choir, it was empty. He walked over to the balustrade and gripped the heavy wooden rail with his hands, trying to see if there was any give. But the whole thing felt solid as stone. It was also a good four feet high. There was no way the girl could have fallen over it by accident. He stared down at the wide green stain way below. The area was now streaked with deep red and gold light and for a moment he pictured her lying there, a small, dark form, broken on the marble paving. Whatever had happened, it was a violent and horrible death.

He turned back to Donovan. ‘Are there any signs of a struggle?’

She nodded. ‘They found several clumps of long hair near the edge of the balcony which may belong to Gemma. The hair was pulled out at the root, so they’ll be able to compare the DNA. They also found traces of candle wax and incense and what looks like red wine spilt on the floor.’

He shrugged. ‘We are in a church, after all. Are they sure it’s recent?’

‘There was choir practice on Monday night but the floor was apparently cleaned on Tuesday morning. The vicar says nobody’s been in the gallery since. Samples have gone off for analysis and we should get the results back soon.’

The combination of incense, candle wax and wine instantly conjured up the idea of a mass or some other sort of ritual. Maybe it was black magic or a form of New Age ceremony, he thought. A young girl and an older man. Even though there appeared to be no evidence of sexual assault, the presence of the GHB in Gemma’s system rang alarm bells. The drug, like Rohypnol, was becoming increasingly common in date rape cases. He wondered if the choice of a church as the location was significant in some way. Had Gemma been a willing participant in whatever had gone on, or had she been forced? Had the man dragged her or held her down by her hair for some reason? Had she struggled? Hopefully the post mortem results would reveal more. The main question now was what had become of the man?

‘If you’ve seen enough, we ought to be going,’ Donovan said, checking her watch. ‘We’ve got a meeting with the pathologist in just over half an hour, in Victoria.’

‘Who did the PM?’ he asked, as they started to walk back together towards the stairs.

‘Dr Blake.’

Tartaglia tensed, glancing quickly over at Donovan. But there wasn’t a glimmer of anything untoward in her expression. Being realistic, there was no way she could know what had been going on. No way any of them could. At least he hoped so. He sighed. Shit. Shit. Why did it have to be Fiona Blake?

The last time Tartaglia had seen Fiona Blake, she’d been lying naked next to him in his bed. That had been about a month ago and he’d barely spoken to her since.

Today she was dressed in a prim grey suit, auburn hair scraped back tightly in a bun, white blouse buttoned up tight to the collar, as if she was trying to hide any hint of femininity or softness.

‘There’s no sign of sexual assault,’ she said in her usual precise tone. ‘In fact, Gemma Kramer was a virgin.’

She stared at him across her desk as if they were total strangers and for a moment he had to remind himself of the intensity he had so recently felt. She had kept him and Donovan waiting outside in the corridor for nearly half an hour. He was sure it was deliberate and it made him feel even more awkward and nervous of seeing her in an official capacity, particularly with Donovan there too. He felt grateful that Donovan was sitting beside him now, a protective shield, her presence inhibiting any possibility of a more personal conversation.

‘I understand you found traces of GHB in her system,’ Donovan said.

‘Yes, and alcohol. There was a small amount of red wine in her stomach. Both were ingested shortly before death.’

‘GHB’s not known as Easy Lay for nothing,’ Tartaglia said. ‘Are you sure she wasn’t assaulted in some way?’

Blake gave him a piercing look. ‘As I said, Inspector, I found no evidence of any form of sexual activity.’

The use of his title felt like a slap in the face. Although why she should be feeling angry was beyond him. It had been good, better than good, if he was honest, for the short while it had lasted. It had only come to a sudden halt when he had found out accidentally from someone else that she had a long-term boyfriend called Murray, a fact that she had never bothered to mention. He remembered the last terse phone call when, ignoring the subject of Murray, as if it made no difference to anything, she’d suggested that they meet up as usual. He’d shouted at her, told her to leave him alone, to stop calling. Angry with himself as much as with her, he’d slammed the phone down before she could say anything else. Finally he had understood why she could only see him at odd hours, why they only ever met at his flat and why her mobile was invariably switched off late at night and at weekends.

‘I suppose there’s no way of telling if it was mixed with the wine and then drunk, or if they were taken separately?’

She shifted in her chair, and looked away towards the window. ‘I can see what you’re thinking, but I can’t help you. Maybe the wine was spiked, but it’s impossible to tell. People do take GHB recreationally, you know.’

He shook his head. ‘The girl was barely fourteen, and a church seems a pretty strange place to choose, if all you want to do is get high.’ As he spoke, he noticed a large, single diamond on Blake’s ring finger. It looked like an engagement ring. Perhaps conscious of his gaze, she slid her hands off the table and folded them in her lap behind the desk.

‘Would she have been aware of what was going on around her?’ Donovan asked.

Blake gave her a tight smile. ‘Like someone a little drunk.’

‘No more than that?’

‘With the right dose, the effects are placidity, sensuality and mild euphoria. Anxieties dissolve into a feeling of emotional warmth, well-being and pleasant drowsiness.’

‘You mean she would lose her inhibitions,’ Donovan said, glancing at Tartaglia for confirmation. They were obviously thinking along the same lines.

He nodded. ‘And fear.’

‘It produces a heightening of the sense of touch, increased sexual enjoyment and performance for both men and women,’ Blake continued, ignoring where they were going with this.

‘Which is why I keep coming back to a sexual motive,’ Tartaglia said, rapping his fingers lightly on the edge of the desk. ‘Picture this. Gemma was with a much older man. She met him outside the church – clearly they had arranged to meet there. They kiss, so we know he’s not a stranger, then they go inside together. The church is empty, nobody about at that time of day, and it’s more than likely they knew it would be. This all smells to me of careful preparation. They go upstairs to the gallery and sit or lie on the floor. They light candles, burn incense and drink wine, all of which they would have had to bring with them. Then the girl falls to her death and the man disappears.’

‘What do you want me to say, Inspector?’ Blake asked, her face expressionless.

She was still missing the obvious, as far as he was concerned. Pathologists were so literal, so clinical. Just deal with the bald facts, never try to interpret them, let alone use your imagination.

‘Look, we’re talking about a fourteen-year-old girl,’ he insisted, holding her gaze. ‘A virgin, according to you. This was all premeditated, not something that just happened by chance. Why go to all this trouble, unless there’s something specific you want to get out of it? The girl’s the follower in all of this, the innocent victim. And now she’s dead, with GHB in her system. Don’t tell me there was no sexual purpose.’

Blake shook her head slowly. ‘This is pure speculation. There is absolutely no physical evidence to suggest a sexual encounter.’

Exasperated with not getting the answer he wanted, he exhaled, leaning back in the chair so violently that it made a loud crack beneath him. ‘You looked for signs of a struggle? Grazing, bruising, scratches? You checked her fingernails?’

Blake looked affronted. ‘Of course. I did the PM myself but I found nothing suspicious. The details are all in my report, which you’ll have in the morning.’

She cleared her throat and folded her arms as if that was the end of the matter. For a moment he pictured her, white-skinned, full-breasted and bleary-eyed, her hair fanned out on the pillow. But that was history and he felt furious with himself again for allowing his thoughts to wander in that direction.

‘OK, going back to the GHB,’ he said, forcing himself back into the present. ‘What sort of quantities are we dealing with here?’

‘Nothing especially high, nothing more than a couple of grams. Although even a small amount of alcohol would intensify the sedative effect. Gemma would have been in quite a happy and relaxed state, but she may have had trouble staying awake.’

‘How quickly would it have taken effect?’ Donovan asked.

‘It depends on the dosage and the purity of the drug. But for someone Gemma’s size, on an empty stomach, I’d say fairly quickly, particularly with the alcohol. Probably no more than ten to fifteen minutes at most.’

‘Might she have wanted to jump off the balcony? You know, like someone on a bad trip?’

Blake shook her head. ‘GHB doesn’t make you hallucinate.’

‘Would she have been capable of climbing over the balcony on her own in that state?’

‘Remind me how high the balcony is?’

‘About four feet,’ Tartaglia said. ‘And very solid.’

Blake seemed thoughtful, running a finger over her lips for a moment before folding her hands tidily in front of her. ‘In my opinion, it’s highly unlikely. She wasn’t much over five feet tall and she would be feeling very dizzy standing up, maybe even a little nauseous because of the combined effect of the drug and the alcohol. She would increasingly have lost control over her movements. I don’t think she would have had the coordination to climb over anything that high, either aided or unaided.’

For a moment, his thoughts turned back again to the church and the dark balcony high above the nave where something very strange had gone on. What was the point of the drug if there was no sexual motive? None of it made any sense. The only certainty was that Gemma’s death had been no accident.

He stood up to go and Donovan followed suit. As he picked up his jacket, he noticed a couple of framed photographs sitting on top of the filing cabinet. One showed a broad-shouldered man with a deeply tanned face, wearing sunglasses and ski gear, grinning broadly against a snowy mountain backdrop. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with the thick, white-blond hair of a Scandinavian. The one next to it was of the same man, his face paler this time, in one of those stupid wigs and gowns barristers wore. Fucking Murray, he thought. Christ, she’d made such a fool of him.

He glanced over at her and caught her eye. He knew she had seen him looking at the photographs and he forced a smile and leaned over the desk towards her.

‘Is there anything else you think I should be aware of, Dr Blake? Something important that I may have missed or maybe forgot to ask you? Every little detail’s important. That’s where the devil is, as they say.’

She coloured, a flicker of emotion crossing her face. Surprised but gratified that he had got some sort of a reaction, he was suddenly aware of Donovan’s presence in the room and cursed himself for having said anything.

‘I understand what you’re getting at,’ Blake said quietly. ‘Everything’s in my report. But there is something that perhaps I should draw to your attention, in the light of the scene you describe; it may or may not be significant. A lock of the girl’s hair had been cut off.’

‘Lengths of hair were found at the crime scene, but according to the crime scene manager, it was pulled out at the root,’ Donovan said.

Blake shook her head. ‘This is different. I’ve no idea when it was done, although it must have happened very recently. It was sliced off right at the scalp. The section was about two inches wide and whoever did it used a sharp blade.’

‘Where was this?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘Just at the base of her neck. We only noticed it by accident when we were turning her over.’

Outside, Tartaglia turned to Donovan. ‘I’ll head straight back to Barnes and brief the team. You go and see Gemma’s parents. The man’s clearly someone she knew and we’ve got to find him.’

Before Donovan could reply, he turned on his heel and strode off towards his motorbike, which was parked further down the road.

Bristling with pent-up curiosity, Donovan unlocked her car and climbed in. Mark Tartaglia and Dr Fiona Blake. She was amazed. Tartaglia always played his cards close to his chest but she usually managed to find out eventually if he was seeing someone. She would never have guessed in a million years that he would have gone for Blake. Blake wasn’t bad looking, she had to admit grudgingly. But she was one of those irritating women who thought themselves above everyone else, just because they held a clutch of degrees. Men were unfathomable. They defied all common sense, suckers for any pretty face, never mind the person inside.

She pulled out her A–Z from the glove compartment and looked up Gemma’s parents’ address. It would take her no more than half an hour to get to Streatham, she reckoned. Switching on the ignition, she let the car idle for a minute, waiting for the heater to kick in. Her thoughts drifted back to Tartaglia and Blake. Their affair had to be recent, as she was pretty sure from conversations she had had with Tartaglia that there’d been no woman in his life a couple of months before. Of course, however much she instinctively disliked Blake, she couldn’t blame her for going for Tartaglia. He was bloody gorgeous. It was unfair that any man should be made like that, with those brooding, dark looks and that lovely generous mouth. At times, he could look so serious, so intense. But when he smiled, his whole face lit up. The only consolation was that he seemed generally unaware of the effect he had on others. Thank God he’d never realised what she thought. In the early days, she had taken great pains not to let her feelings show and now that they’d got to know each other much better, she’d stopped hankering after him. They were mates. Good mates. Not a relationship she wanted to put at risk for something she knew couldn’t last. Anyway, he was impossible, too independent and single-minded, which would make her feel insecure. Also, who in their right mind would want to have a relationship with a detective on a murder team, on call all hours, having to drop everything when a new case came along, working all day and night and weekends? No sane person would bother for long.

But what had happened between Tartaglia and Blake? There’d definitely been a row of some sort; you could have cut the atmosphere in the room with a knife. At first she’d assumed that they’d had some sort of professional spat, pathologists being bloody awkward creatures at the best of times. But then it had all got very tense just as they were leaving and it was clear that there was something else going on, something personal. Tartaglia had leant over towards Blake and said something. Although she couldn’t quite remember what it was, it had sounded pretty innocuous. But the reaction on Blake’s face was instantaneous and she looked as though she had been hit.

Trying to replay the conversation in her mind, so as to pin down the exact words, Donovan slipped Maroon 5’s
Songs About Jane
into the CD player, tabbing to her favourite song, ‘She Will Be Loved’. She let the music and lyrics wash over her for a moment. Of course Tartaglia could trust her. She wouldn’t tell anyone, if that’s what he was worried about. But she was buggered if she was going to let him think he could pull the wool over her eyes, try and pretend that there was nothing going on. Not after what she’d witnessed.