Die With Me (19 page)

Even in the mirror, Tartaglia could see the smile on Kennedy’s face. Like the cat with the proverbial cream, he thought. If they were having an affair, he’d go straight to Cornish. Cornish was notoriously intolerant of such things and in the current tense climate, fearful of the press getting wind of anything negative, he’d have Kennedy, and possibly Steele too, off the case in a flash. Determined to find out for sure what was going on, Tartaglia decided to follow them.

Kennedy drove along Castelnau, over the bridge and headed for Kensington, then Hyde Park and north up the Edgware Road. Although Tartaglia had no idea where either of them lived, they were going in the general direction of Hendon, probably making for Steele’s place. Keeping a safe distance behind, each time they stopped at a set of lights he could see Kennedy through the small back window, gesticulating and nodding, as if engaged in a lively conversation. Kennedy was driving conspicuously slowly, possibly worried about being stopped and breathalysed and Tartaglia was tempted to call in his licence number. But with Steele in the car, he had to leave it. After another ten minutes, they turned off Kilburn High Road, past West Hampstead tube and forked right down a series of wide, residential side streets, eventually pulling over and double-parking in front of a large, semi-detached house set back from the street behind a low wall and a hedge.

Tartaglia stopped behind a small van under some trees on the opposite side of the road and killed the engine, waiting. After a moment, Kennedy got out, walked round to Steele’s side and opened the door for her, again offering her his hand to help her out. They exchanged a few words on the pavement and pecked each other briefly on the cheek. As Steele turned to go, Kennedy seemed to catch hold of her hand again but she pulled away and walked up the path. Kennedy stood by the gate, watching as she put her key in the door and she gave him a brief wave before turning and going inside. Shortly after, lights came on at garden level and someone Tartaglia assumed was Steele drew the curtains across the large bay window at the front. Kennedy waited for a moment, staring at the front of the house, then got back in the car and started the engine, turning on the headlamps.

That appeared to be it. Tartaglia didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. It certainly didn’t look like an affair to him. From what he had seen, Kennedy was interested but Steele seemed to be treating him merely as a friend. The thought of Kennedy’s ego receiving a bruising gave him a brief flicker of satisfaction. He waited in the shadows, not wanting to start up the bike until Kennedy had gone. But five minutes later, Kennedy was still sitting there in his car, engine idling. Perhaps Steele was coming out again after all. Perhaps he had misread the situation and she was getting some things and they were going to Kennedy’s place for the night. Suddenly Kennedy’s headlamps went out again and the engine stopped running.

A few seconds later, Kennedy got out of the car and walked up to Steele’s front door, lingering by the steps for a moment as if wondering whether or not to ring the bell. Then he walked around to the front window where he stood, his head just visible over the top of the hedge, shifting from one foot to the other, as though he was trying to peer though a crack in the curtains. His movements were furtive. After a moment, he walked back to the front gate, peered up and down the street, then went back into the garden, disappearing around the side, presumably towards the back of the house.

Kennedy was peeping. Almost unable to believe what he was seeing, Tartaglia’s first instinct was to follow him and catch him red-handed. It would be a very sweet moment. But even as he thought about doing it, he stopped himself, knowing just what Kennedy would say, how he would lie through his teeth. Tartaglia could just imagine his tone of outrage: ‘I was just making sure Carolyn’s safe, that there’s nobody lurking in her back garden.’ The email she had received was ample justification for concern and Steele would believe Kennedy. Also, how on earth could Tartaglia explain his own presence there? As he wondered what to do, his mobile rang. He bent down, cradling it into his chest to dampen the noise, and saw Fiona Blake’s name flash on the screen. After a second’s hesitation, he flipped it open.

‘Mark. It’s me. Can we talk?’ Her voice sounded husky and thick.

‘When did you have in mind?’ he whispered, his eyes on Steele’s front garden, watching for any sign of movement.

‘Is there something wrong with the line? I can barely hear you. I know it’s late but what about now? Can I come and see you?’

‘I’m not at home. I’m in the middle of something.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘Maybe. I’ll call you when I finish work. Got to go.’ Seeing Kennedy re-emerging down the path, he hit the red button before she could reply.

With a last, lingering look over his shoulder in the direction of Steele’s front window, Kennedy climbed back into his car and drove off. Tartagalia waited a few more minutes to make sure that Kennedy was not going to return, and then he switched on his engine. It was definitely going to be worth keeping a closer eye on Kennedy.

Carolyn Steele kicked off her shoes, tossed her coat over the back of the sofa in the sitting room and went from room to room closing the curtains and blinds, checking that all the windows and both the front door and the French windows at the back were securely locked. It was all because of that stupid email. Irrational fears were one of the penalties of choosing to live on your own, she told herself, but she was prone to them. ‘Night fears’ was what her dad used to call them when, as a child, she’d been unable to go to sleep or would wake up crying in the middle of the night. All to do with chemicals in the brain, she’d read in some magazine. But it didn’t put a stop to them. Would the comfort of having somebody sleeping next to her drive them away? She doubted it.

She had lived in this flat for over ten years, spending time and money getting it exactly the way she wanted. Although the ceilings were low, it had large windows front and back, almost to ground level, and was light and airy during the day. She had gone to a lot of trouble to make it comfortable and welcoming, buying a colourful rug to brighten up the dull beige carpet and putting a gas log fire in the old marble fireplace, hanging an antique mirror above. She had built cupboards on either side, with a few rows of shelving above for her books, CDs and the few things which held any sentimental value, like the photos of her nephew and niece and the Victorian sewing box, inlaid with small diamonds of ivory, which used to belong to her grandmother.

She felt more at ease here than anywhere else. Even so, dark corners could open up and take her by surprise and occasionally she was forced to sleep with the light on. Perhaps she should have allowed Patrick to come in for coffee, just tonight. But he’d been quite pushy about it in the car, which she had found annoying. He was so bloody presumptuous and sure of himself and she resented feeling as though she was being manoeuvred into a corner. Maybe it would have been good to carry on talking, but she was worried that things wouldn’t stop there. Better to seem rude than to do anything impulsive that she might regret later.

Her head was starting to throb and she grabbed a couple of Hedex from the cabinet in the bathroom and went into the galley kitchen. Searching in a cupboard for a tin of cocoa, she caught sight of a bottle of single malt whisky that an admirer had given her the Christmas before last. Designed to impress, it had a fancy label and looked expensive. She rarely drank spirits and it had stayed lurking at the back of the cupboard behind the baked beans ever since, untouched. Knowing that it was unlikely to make her feel any better, she cracked open the seal and poured herself a small measure, just for the hell of it. It tasted sharp and smoky in an unpleasant way but she was determined to drink it. Maybe if she got properly pissed she’d be able to forget about everything and sleep. She took the glass into the sitting room and sat for a moment in one of the large, deep chairs, flicking through the TV channels before switching off in disgust. As usual, there was nothing worth watching.

Gulping down the remainder of the whisky, she went into the bedroom and got undressed. She turned on the shower, stepped in and closed her eyes, letting the hot water wash over her. Patrick. Had she made a mistake in involving him in the case? Or was she silly to be so wary? Perhaps she should just stop worrying and let herself go. She had to admit that she still found him superficially attractive and the attention was flattering. It wasn’t as if she was spoilt for choice. Beneath the bravado, he had a more serious side, almost steely at times, and he was rarely boring. But something kept holding her back, although she wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

She knew little about his background, other than that he was a Catholic and had never been married. For a man the wrong side of forty, that was telling you something. Once he had said jokingly that he’d never married because he hadn’t found the right woman. But she knew it was a load of rubbish. He was so self-absorbed, she couldn’t imagine him caring deeply about anyone else, let alone ever really letting go and falling in love. Her good friend Lottie always seemed to pick men like that. She’d often watched the trajectory of Lottie’s relationships, wondering why Lottie, who in other respects was a relatively sensible person, couldn’t see what was in front of her nose. Some men were walking disasters and any woman who allowed herself to get involved with someone like that was just asking to get hurt. She was determined that it wouldn’t happen to her. Although knowing it with one’s head was one thing; physical attraction made even the sanest people do the silliest of things.

She thought back to that one drunken night they had spent together nearly a year before. The sex had been fine, at a basic functional level. But somehow she had been expecting more of a connection, more electricity. Something. The whole thing felt impersonal, disappointing and flat like a glass of champagne that had lost its fizz. It was as though she didn’t matter; she could have been anybody. It was all about him and she realised she had made a mistake to let things go so far. Kennedy seemed blithely unaware of her reaction and had asked her to go away with him the following weekend. When she had refused, he had seemed very surprised, as if nobody ever turned him down, and had pestered her to have dinner with him again. But the more he persisted, the more her instincts told her to back off and she had avoided all contact with him on the work front until the phone calls finally stopped.

One thing that puzzled her was why, after everything that had happened, he still seemed drawn to her. Was it her independence, perhaps, and the fact that she hadn’t succumbed easily to him? It was all about conquest, surely. She was unfinished business as far as he was concerned, a challenge. With all his psychological insight about others, had he any inkling of his own motivation? Had he any self-awareness at all? She doubted it. A relationship with such a man would be doomed. Every time she felt herself weaken, she must remember that and not allow sheer physical attraction and flattery to lead her astray. Even so, she felt as though she was struggling to keep her balance at the top of a slippery slope. A slope that probably had all sorts of unpleasant and potentially damaging things waiting at the bottom.

Café Montmartre was new and gleaming with fresh paint, fixtures and fittings. An attempt had been made to recreate the feel of the genuine French article. But with its lilac walls, dinky gilt mirrors and brass lights, it was a cheap parody, totally lacking in any kind of atmosphere. They had got all sorts of other details wrong too, Tom thought, spreading a large dollop of marmalade on his croissant. For starters, the French didn’t eat marmalade, from what he could remember. Instead they made something unpleasantly sweet and gloopy out of oranges that had none of the tangy bitterness and bite of a decent English marmalade. At least this one came in its own small pot, safe from contamination by someone else’s buttery knife or, worse still, toast crumbs. Grudgingly, he was forced to admit that it didn’t taste too bad, although it couldn’t hold a candle to his grandmother’s. She cut her peel nice and thick and sometimes put brandy in it. Hers was the best he had ever tasted, made with Seville oranges when they came into season once a year just before Christmas. He remembered the pleasure of being allowed to lick the pan and spoon, if he had been good. Luckily, the old bat had made a new batch just before he’d throttled the life out of her and he had enough to last him a long while.

He took a bite of croissant. The butter was salted, of course, unlike real French butter, but although a bit chewy, the croissant was acceptable. Which was more than could be said for the coffee, which he’d had to send back twice. The waitress looked pretty pissed off, failing totally to understand what he was talking about and, when he’d insisted on hot milk, instead of cold, she seemed to think he was being difficult. From what he could tell, she was Russian or from some unsophisticated, Central European shit-hole. It wasn’t surprising she hadn’t a clue. But her attitude left a lot to be desired. She wouldn’t be getting a tip from him and if she had the gall to try and add service to his bill, he’d strike it off.

Something about her, smilingly oblivious each time she spoke to the way she murdered the English language, made him think of Yolanda. She was another of these stupid cunts who came over here and made no proper effort to get to grips with the native tongue. They were just there for a good time; slags, all of them. All thanks to the EU and the stupid British taxpayer. But in a way, that played nicely into his hands. The papers had tried to spoil things for him and the old routine wouldn’t work any longer. But it was time for a change anyway and it would be fun to try something new. There was little Yolanda, totally unaware of what was going on in the big world around her, just ripe for the picking. He was amazed that anybody had employed her to look after their kids. Didn’t parents have more care these days? Or were they so engrossed in their own work and lives that they didn’t give a stuff? His talents were wasted on her but he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. She was asking for it, stupid little bitch.

He glanced at the headlines in the café’s newspaper, skim-reading the first few pages, then laid it down beside him on the red leatherette bench. There was nothing in it about him today, which was a little disappointing. Perhaps it was a deliberate ploy to try and make him feel unimportant. He didn’t like the moniker they had given him. ‘The Bridegroom’. It sounded rather limp, unless perhaps they were thinking of Death as a bridegroom. It certainly didn’t have the same oomph as ‘The Yorkshire Ripper’ or ‘The Night Stalker’. But maybe they’d come up with something more imaginative once they got to appreciate his talents a little better. So far, they didn’t know the half of it.

The waitress slapped what looked like a cappuccino down in front of him. He took a sip through the nasty sprinkling of cocoa on the surface and pushed it away. It was an empty gesture, as the slag was already busy with another customer, taking down his order and giving him a cheap, flirty smile. Watching her, hating her, with her greasy, pudding-face and bleach-streaked hair, he felt on edge. Nasty, low-cut T-shirt and tight, short denim skirt which revealed an unappetising amount of shapeless leg – piano legs, as his grandmother would have called them. Nothing left to the imagination.

Seeing her stirred him up, rekindling the familiar desire. He closed his eyes and pictured taking her somewhere quiet, slamming her up against a wall, pressing hard against her, her hands forced behind her back, his hand tight like a clamp over her mouth and nose. He was so much stronger. He could see the panic in her eyes, kicking, thrashing, trying to bite him, her face turning pink and then purple as she struggled to breathe. Like a butterfly stuck with a pin, he would hold her there for as long as it took, waiting for her to finally weaken and go limp. That exquisite moment as the light was snuffed out. Then the look of surprise permanently frozen on her face as he slowly removed his hand. Just like that old witch, his grandmother. How he treasured that memory.

He’d been to confession that morning, the first time in weeks, and he’d seen her in one of the pews dressed in her black widows’ weeds, like so many of the foul old women who infested the place as if they had nothing better to do with their day. She didn’t look at him – as if she didn’t care that he was there or what he might tell the priest. He ignored her in return, walking to the front to wait his turn by the confessional without giving her the satisfaction of looking back. When he came out later, she was gone. But back at the house, he found her sitting in her favourite red velvet armchair by the fireplace, arrogantly oblivious to the fact that the grate was empty and cold. Her image flickered, translucent like a candle flame and she turned her sour, yellow face slowly towards him, malice in her eyes as she mouthed something. Bastard. That was the word, he was sure. He’d gone out of the room and slammed the door on her. She could just fuck off. Bastard. The little bastard. That was what she had always called him. How he hated her. He would squeeze the life out of her again and again, if only he could.

The longing was back much sooner than before, aching, gnawing at him, pulsing like a heartbeat. The hunger, the deep gut-twisting desire. It was getting stronger. There was only one way to deal with it. He would have to change the setting, alter the script a little, but it was good to improvise and he was sure it would be just as satisfying. As he sketched out in his mind a scenario for little Yolanda, the policewoman’s face rose inexplicably in his mind.