Die With Me (34 page)

‘Well, you two’ve certainly been having a lively time without me,’ Clarke said light-heartedly from his horizontal position in the hospital bed.

‘Yeah, life was getting dull without you so we thought we’d liven things up a bit,’ Tartaglia replied.

It was Sunday morning, two weeks later, and Tartaglia and Donovan had dropped in to see Clarke on their way to Nicoletta’s for lunch. He was looking a lot better than the last time Tartaglia had seen him, over two weeks before. The colour had come back to his face and he seemed to have more energy and interest in life, even though he was still barely able to move his head. Tartaglia had borrowed two rickety chairs from another ward and he and Donovan sat by Clarke’s bedside, Tartaglia recounting everything that had happened, Donovan listening quietly, head bowed, barely adding anything to the flow.

‘It’s nice you can both make light of it,’ Donovan said, sharply. ‘Particularly you, Mark. I’m surprised at you.’

‘Sorry,’ Tartaglia said, reaching over and patting her hand gently. He could kick himself for being so insensitive. She gave him a tight, grudging smile and stared back at the floor, her fingers tightly clenched in her lap.

Make light of what had happened? What else could they do? It had been a complete balls-up from start to finish. He… they… were both lucky to be alive. And Zaleski had got away, no trace anywhere. When the team arrived at Zaleski’s house in Ealing, they found the house on fire, filled with smoke and petrol fumes, flames licking the front door. If they had got there even fifteen minutes later, it would have been too late for Tartaglia and Donovan.

Discovering Tartaglia’s motorbike parked outside and his jacket and helmet by the hedge in the front garden, Gary Jones had insisted on going in, refusing to wait for the fire brigade to come. He and Nick Minderedes had kicked in the front door, jackets wrapped around their faces, and had found Tartaglia and Donovan lying together side by side on the floor in the front living room, seemingly lifeless.

Still comatose, Tartaglia and Donovan had been taken to hospital. Apart from smoke inhalation and a deep gash to the side of Tartaglia’s head, which had been caused by the ricochet of the bullet when Zaleski’s gun had gone off, there was no serious, lasting physical damage to either of them. Although, when Donovan came round six hours later, she complained of the worst hangover of her life. They were both kept in for a couple of days for observation and then released.

But that wasn’t the end of it. He found himself replaying in his mind over and over again what had happened, picturing Zaleski standing there, smiling, gun pointed at his chest, remembering Zaleski’s words so clearly. ‘It’s like nature. If you’re hungry, you have to eat.’ It was probably the best explanation they would ever get, if they needed one. If only the bullet hadn’t grazed his head, he would have had Zaleski, no question about it. He would have overpowered him, smashed his face in and held him there until help came. But there was no point in torturing himself about what might have been. Things hadn’t happened that way. If nothing else, attacking Zaleski had bought them a little time and saved his and Donovan’s life. It was probably the best rugby tackle he’d ever made, although that was small consolation for the fact that Zaleski had got away.

For Donovan, too, the nightmare was still going on. It was as though a dark cloud had enveloped her, letting in no light or air. She had turned down all offers of professional counselling for the moment and seemed to have retreated inside herself, uncharacteristically subdued. Under pressure from Claire and her colleagues, she had taken a week off work but had insisted on coming back after only three days, even though everybody could see she wasn’t ready. But it was worse being at home, she said, particularly when there was nothing physically wrong with her. In a quiet moment she had confided in Tartaglia how she dreaded being on her own, dreaded going to sleep, fearful of the dreams that she knew would come. Although it was painful watching her go through the bare motions of life, coming to work, going home, lost in her own world, he understood why she preferred to keep going. Illogically, she blamed herself for everything that had happened, even for Zaleski’s getting away, and nothing that he, or anyone else, could say made it any better. All he could do was to try and keep her occupied, keep her mind off things and hope that, in time, she would heal.

At least the idea of seeing Clarke had brought some light to her face. Nor did she mind coming along with Tartaglia to Nicoletta’s, as protection from whatever Machiavellian matchmaking scheme Nicoletta had up her sleeve. The idea actually seemed to amuse her and she seemed curious to meet Nicoletta. For the first time since the night at Zaleski’s, she seemed to have made an effort with her appearance, putting on some make-up, dressed in a tight black polo-neck, short skirt, feet encased in impossibly high, purple suede wedge shoes that were held on by what appeared to be little more than a couple of straps. He’d never seen her in a skirt before and realised she had good legs. He wanted to tell her how nice she looked but something so trivial and superficial was probably the last thing she needed to hear.

‘So, there’s no trace of Zaleski,’ Clarke said with a grunt.

‘No,’ Tartaglia replied. ‘His name was on the passenger list of an Air France flight to Paris that night but he could be anywhere by now.’ He glanced over at Donovan. She was still staring fixedly at the floor, mind far away.

‘Once the fire was put out, we searched the house in Ealing, as well as another small flat which we discovered he was renting nearby,’ he continued. ‘We also searched his office in South Ken. But we found nothing. Whatever computer he used to send the emails was gone and there were no trophies, no locks of hair or rings or anything to directly link him to any of the girls’ murders, other than the fact that he did voluntary part-time work as a counsellor for CHA. Although it’s clearly how he came across them, we’ve been through the girls’ phone records again and there’s no direct evidence that any of the girls called or even spoke to him there. We assume they must have used a public phone, or someone else’s phone, to call. Kelly Goodhart is the only one who we know called the helpline and as she used her office line, it took us a while to trace.’

‘So, you’ve got nothing on him?’ Clarke said, sighing heavily.

‘We’re just scratching the tip of the iceberg. There are probably other girls we don’t know about and I suspect he probably killed his grandparents too. But there’s no proof. I’m afraid that attempted murder of two police officers is the best we can do.’

Before Clarke could say anything else, a well-built, middle-aged nurse bustled into the room and came over to the bed.

‘Won’t be a minute, will we, Mr Clarke?’ she said, briskly drawing the curtains around Clarke, without any further explanation. She had a thick Irish brogue and something about her manner and general physique, as well as the unforgiving glint in her eyes, instantly reminded Tartaglia of a nun who had once taught him his catechism, rapping his knuckles with a ruler every time he made a mistake.

‘Time for my morning ablutions,’ Clarke groaned from behind the screen of green. ‘It’s the high spot of my day.’

Donovan excused herself to find the ladies and Tartaglia waited patiently by the side of Clarke’s bed, listening to all sorts of strange rustling and slapping sounds, accompanied by further groans and sighs from Clarke.

‘Have you made your peace with your new DCI?’ Clarke asked, after a few moments.

‘Sort of,’ Tartaglia replied, thinking back to the previous Friday when Cornish had paid a flying visit to Barnes and announced to the assembled team that Steele would be taking over permanently from Clarke. It came as no surprise to anybody but it was clear from the hushed silence that greeted the announcement that few were pleased. ‘Thinking of what you said, I took her some flowers when I heard the news. I thought it might help build a bridge or two.’

‘There you go, you’re learning, mate. They love flowers.’

‘She had the decency to thank me for them and she didn’t gloat. I don’t know what I was expecting but at least she was polite. I said I hoped we could put everything behind us and she said she did, too, in that clipped tone of voice she uses when she’s not interested and wants to hurry you along.’

‘So, that’s that, then. Everything in the garden’s rosy.’

‘Funny you should mention roses. When I went into her office later to talk to her about something else, they were stuffed in the bin, still in their wrapping. Cost me a fortune, they did.’

Clarke gave a wheezing laugh from behind the curtain. ‘There’s bloody women for you. Ungrateful cows, the lot of them. The nicer you are, the worse they behave. At least you made the effort.’

‘I guess she’s still upset about the emails and everything that happened with Kennedy. Even though she wouldn’t press charges for the peeping, he’s looking at a jail sentence for sending the hoax emails.’

‘She’s a strange one.’

‘Yeah, she knew I’d seen what she’d done with the flowers but she said nothing. When I went into her office the next morning, there were the flowers sitting in a vase on her desk as if nothing had happened.’

‘You see? I told you Carolyn’s got a sensitive side to her.’

‘Possibly,’ Tartaglia said, nodding slowly. He hadn’t realised quite how badly everything had affected her, how personally she took it. He was never very good at working out what went on in women’s minds and he found Steele’s impenetrable. Not for the first time he wondered if maybe he had misunderstood her all along and that maybe he was more than half to blame for all the problems that had gone on between them. ‘I think the cleaners took pity on my poor roses and fished them out and Steele hadn’t the guts to throw them away again.’

‘No, Mark. My money’s on Carolyn having second thoughts. Like all women, she’s just bloody complicated and tricky and she knows how to yank your chain. Ouch,’ he shouted suddenly. ‘That hurts. Can’t you be more bleeding careful, Nurse Mary?’

Outside, it was a dazzling winter day, the sky a piercing blue with barely a cloud, the air cold, a slight breeze ruffling the bare branches of the trees. Tartaglia got out of Donovan’s car along the street from Nicoletta’s house in Islington and stood on the pavement waiting for her, warming his face in the weak sunshine. She was busy scrabbling around in the back of the car trying to pick up the contents of her handbag, which had fallen off the seat onto the floor when she took a corner too fast.

His phone rang. Thinking it might be Nicoletta, wondering where they were, he took it out of his pocket and saw from the caller ID that it was Fiona Blake. He let it ring, waiting for voicemail to pick up. Donovan was now busy checking her face in the mirror, applying some lipstick or something. Wary, wondering what Blake wanted, he dialled
121
and listened to her message.

‘Mark, it’s Fiona. I probably shouldn’t call. Just wanted you to know I’ve broken up with Murray.’ The tone was hesitant, voice soft. After a long pause she added: ‘Maybe we could meet for a drink. Give me a call. If you want to, that is. I hope you do.’

The last time he’d seen her or spoken to her was in the forensic tent beside the canal, standing beside Yolanda’s body. Assuming that it really was all over between them, he had come round to thinking that it was probably better that way. She was no good for him, not what he needed, whatever that was. But knowing it didn’t make it any better. Hearing her message reawakened the longing and, not for the first time, he felt powerless to stop himself doing what he knew he shouldn’t. Inevitably he would call her.

For the moment, he switched off his phone and turned to Donovan, who was climbing out of the car, bag in hand. She locked the doors and he walked her to the small wrought iron gate of Nicoletta’s house.

‘I apologise in advance for the mess,’ he said, holding the gate open.

‘What on earth for?’

‘You’ll see. Carlo and Anna are three and five and the house is usually in chaos. Nicoletta doesn’t seem to care and my brother-in-law, John, just turns a blind eye. Anything for the sake of peace, as far as he’s concerned.’

‘You know me,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m used to a bit of chaos on the home front.’

‘Oh yes, I was forgetting. But you won’t have seen anything like this. Just watch where you sit. There’s bound to be something sticky or sharp on the seat.’

Just before he pressed the bell, she touched his arm lightly, and he turned to her.

‘You know, you’re asking a lot,’ she said.

‘Look, we don’t have to go, if you don’t want to. I can easily tell Nicoletta that you feel ill or something. After everything that’s happened, she’ll understand.’

She shook her head, her expression serious. ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m happy to come with you to the lunch. It’s good to keep my mind off things and it’s kind of you to ask me. It’s just… well… I’ve never had to
play
at being somebody’s girlfriend before.’

He looked at her and smiled. ‘Thanks. I appreciate the effort. But then it’s not everyone who gets to save your life. I must be special to you.’ There he was making light of things again but it was what came naturally.

She shrugged, as if none of it mattered and he looped an arm around her, pulling her into him and giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. ‘I’m very fond of you, Sam. I hope you know that.’

She looked up at him and smiled back for the first time in a while. ‘Yes, I do and it means a lot.’

‘Thought I’d lost you there for a moment.’

‘You very nearly did.’

He bent down and kissed the top of her head. ‘Are you ready? Are you sure you’re OK with this?’ She nodded and he took her by the hand. ‘Right, let’s go.’

Adam Zaleski climbed out of the small plane onto the tarmac and was greeted by a wave of searing heat and humidity. Even through his dark glasses, the sky was an electric blue, not a cloud to be seen. Bag in hand, he waved goodbye to the pilot and followed behind the two other passengers towards the airport buildings at the end of the short, dusty runway. They were no better than a collection of shabby, prefabricated huts, a herd of strange-looking, scrawny cattle plucking at the scrub in front, everything reassuringly far removed from the Western world. Even the air smelt different. He felt like skipping for joy, jumping up and down for the sheer fucking fun of it. He was free. Totally free. He had got away with everything.

He had picked up an English paper along the way and read about how Donovan and Tartaglia had been rescued in the nick of time. It was the only thing that grated and it made him angry just to think about it. He should have poured the petrol over their fucking bodies. But no point in crying over spilt milk. He was long gone and the photograph of him, printed in the paper, was a dud. Nobody would recognise him as he was now, tanned, with short, dyed blonde hair and a light beard. If anything, he looked a bit like David Beckham, although his eyes were the wrong colour. Anyway, he was now well out of reach of English newspapers.

Sam Donovan’s small face swam into his thoughts again, all lipsticked, rouged and perfumed, ready for death and cradled in his arms as he carried her back downstairs before dumping her beside the other policeman. He had dressed her in one of his grandmother’s favourite silk numbers but she was such a scrawny little thing, it kept gaping open and he’d had to tie the belt around her twice to make her decent. Sam. The dirty stain on an otherwise glorious chapter. He thought of her as she was before, sitting on the sofa beside him, eyes half closed, mumbling, struggling to keep her mind together, failing dismally. ‘Why?’ she had asked. Why? Why? Why? The question still hung in the air, nagging at him, screaming at him just like his fucking grandmother. Even though he hadn’t actually seen her for a while, her voice was still there, whining and wailing in his ear like a fucking banshee. He’d thought about it a lot since, tried to come up with an answer to silence the witch once and for all, make the old whore go back to her grave along with all the rest of them. Why does anybody do anything? Why? Because they want to. That’s why, stupid cow, stupid fucking bitch.
Because they can
. It’s that fucking simple.

Little Sam. The one who had wriggled away. The only one. He didn’t care about the other stupid wanker of a policeman. He was nothing. But Sam mattered, she mattered all right and the thought was eating away at him until he had no peace. He’d been greedy to go for her, plain greedy and he deserved a ticking off, a firm, hard rap over the knuckles. He should have called it quits after Yolanda. But along came the little whore, gagging for it, offering herself to him on a plate, poor fucking, pathetic tart. It would have been churlish to refuse, although it had cost him dear. At least they had nothing on him to link him to any of the others. No forensic trail. Sweet fuck all, in fact. Still, it was a pity she had lived to tell the tale. She was unfinished business. He couldn’t rid himself of her, her face, her voice, her smell. That awful smell of gardenias from his grandmother’s old scent bottle. Sam was taunting him, laughing at him. The one that got away. But not for long. As he crossed the short stretch of tarmac, he promised himself that he’d find her again. One day soon. Then he’d make the little bitch rue the day she first tasted Polish vodka.