about Claire,’ he cut in, although he had had the
same thoughts initially. Mr Kipper , the man who had abducted and presumably murdered
the estate agent Suzy Lamplugh nearly thirty years before, the crime still unsolved.
But the MO had been totally different. Whether or not the name was some sort of allusion
to a red herring was not something worth wasting time over for the moment. ‘However
hard it is, you need to try and stop thinking about it and let us get on with the
investigation. Anyway, as of this evening I’m off the case.’
She stared at him. ‘Off the case? Why? Because of me?’
‘No, something else. Another case I was working on just before has blown up big-time
and I have to focus on that. There won’t be time to follow both.’ He had no intention
of mentioning his own connection with the Dillon Hotel, of telling her that he had
been there at the time of Claire’s murder, and that he had seen nothing. However
irrational, the thought made him feel worse than useless.
She looked at him for a moment, as though struggling to take in what he said, then
closed her eyes and leaned back against him with a sigh, her head heavy on his shoulder.
He was surprised she had let it go so quickly, but maybe her state of mind, as well
as the medication she had been given, had dulled her usual persistence. He sat with
her, unmoving, for a while, until he realised she must have fallen asleep. Not wanting
to wake her, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, where
he laid her down on the bed. He pulled off her boots, eased the duvet over her, and
turned off the overhead lights, leaving a bedside lamp on in case she woke up and
forgot where she was. He closed the wooden shutters and watched her for a moment,
listening to her soft, rhythmical breathing, until he was sure she wasn’t going
to wake. Seeing her there, in his bed, he felt a sudden pang of regret that he had
ever lost touch with her and, for a moment, he reflected on what might have been.
Then he shut the door and went back into the sitting room. Alex Clare was singing
‘Too Close’, and as he sat down with his glass of wine to wait for his takeaway to
be delivered he listened to the lyrics and his thoughts turned again to Sam Donovan.
Their brief physical closeness had reawakened a complexity of feelings, not least
of basic physical attraction, which he usually tried to ignore. It had no place in
their friendship. Sex was easy, commitment a lot more difficult. As his sister’s
words rang in his head again, he pictured Jannicke and the brief but pleasurable
episode at the Dillon. He felt no guilt, but briefly wondered if his life would always
be that way. Perhaps he wasn’t ready yet for anything much more, or maybe the cliché
was true: maybe he just hadn’t met the right person. As for Donovan, something always
held him back from making a rash move in the heat of the moment. With expectations
so high on both sides, any relationship was doomed to failure, he was sure. What
was the point of risking a good friendship? As with the song, they were too close .
Not for the first time, he told himself to put it to the back of his mind, that it
was one of those things best left.
His eyes drifted to the files and footage from the car park body case spread out
on the coffee table in front of him and his thoughts turned again to the next day.
Until the DNA results came back, the focus had to be on Richard English. For the
moment, he was the only lead they had.
Six
The sky was grey and heavy with cloud, a cold drizzle just setting in again as Tartaglia
climbed out of Minderedes’s BMW. It was nearly eleven in the morning and they were
in Markham Square in Chelsea, where Richard English had lived. Tartaglia’s head felt
thick but he didn’t mind a bit of rain and it was good to have some fresh air and
get out of the office for a while. The briefing meeting earlier had not gone well.
His team had greeted the news that they had been taken
same thoughts initially. Mr Kipper , the man who had abducted and presumably murdered
the estate agent Suzy Lamplugh nearly thirty years before, the crime still unsolved.
But the MO had been totally different. Whether or not the name was some sort of allusion
to a red herring was not something worth wasting time over for the moment. ‘However
hard it is, you need to try and stop thinking about it and let us get on with the
investigation. Anyway, as of this evening I’m off the case.’
She stared at him. ‘Off the case? Why? Because of me?’
‘No, something else. Another case I was working on just before has blown up big-time
and I have to focus on that. There won’t be time to follow both.’ He had no intention
of mentioning his own connection with the Dillon Hotel, of telling her that he had
been there at the time of Claire’s murder, and that he had seen nothing. However
irrational, the thought made him feel worse than useless.
She looked at him for a moment, as though struggling to take in what he said, then
closed her eyes and leaned back against him with a sigh, her head heavy on his shoulder.
He was surprised she had let it go so quickly, but maybe her state of mind, as well
as the medication she had been given, had dulled her usual persistence. He sat with
her, unmoving, for a while, until he realised she must have fallen asleep. Not wanting
to wake her, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, where
he laid her down on the bed. He pulled off her boots, eased the duvet over her, and
turned off the overhead lights, leaving a bedside lamp on in case she woke up and
forgot where she was. He closed the wooden shutters and watched her for a moment,
listening to her soft, rhythmical breathing, until he was sure she wasn’t going
to wake. Seeing her there, in his bed, he felt a sudden pang of regret that he had
ever lost touch with her and, for a moment, he reflected on what might have been.
Then he shut the door and went back into the sitting room. Alex Clare was singing
‘Too Close’, and as he sat down with his glass of wine to wait for his takeaway to
be delivered he listened to the lyrics and his thoughts turned again to Sam Donovan.
Their brief physical closeness had reawakened a complexity of feelings, not least
of basic physical attraction, which he usually tried to ignore. It had no place in
their friendship. Sex was easy, commitment a lot more difficult. As his sister’s
words rang in his head again, he pictured Jannicke and the brief but pleasurable
episode at the Dillon. He felt no guilt, but briefly wondered if his life would always
be that way. Perhaps he wasn’t ready yet for anything much more, or maybe the cliché
was true: maybe he just hadn’t met the right person. As for Donovan, something always
held him back from making a rash move in the heat of the moment. With expectations
so high on both sides, any relationship was doomed to failure, he was sure. What
was the point of risking a good friendship? As with the song, they were too close .
Not for the first time, he told himself to put it to the back of his mind, that it
was one of those things best left.
His eyes drifted to the files and footage from the car park body case spread out
on the coffee table in front of him and his thoughts turned again to the next day.
Until the DNA results came back, the focus had to be on Richard English. For the
moment, he was the only lead they had.
Six
The sky was grey and heavy with cloud, a cold drizzle just setting in again as Tartaglia
climbed out of Minderedes’s BMW. It was nearly eleven in the morning and they were
in Markham Square in Chelsea, where Richard English had lived. Tartaglia’s head felt
thick but he didn’t mind a bit of rain and it was good to have some fresh air and
get out of the office for a while. The briefing meeting earlier had not gone well.
His team had greeted the news that they had been taken
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