Jigsaw Man Read online

  Also by the author

  Die With Me

  Our Lady of Pain

  Evil in Return

  Elena Forbes has lived most of her life in London. Her first novel, Die With Me, was shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association John Creasey New Blood Dagger. Jigsaw Man is her fourth novel.

  textpublishing.com.au

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  Copyright © 2015 by Elena Forbes

  The moral right of Elena Forbes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Quercus Editions Ltd

  This edition published in 2015 by The Text Publishing Company

  Cover design by W. H. Chong

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry (pbk):

  Author: Forbes, Elena

  Title: Jigsaw man : a Mark Tartaglia thriller / by Elena Forbes

  ISBN: 9781922182616 (paperback)

  ISBN: 9781925095555 (ebook)

  Subjects: Tartaglia, Mark (Fictitious character).

  Murder—Investigation—Fiction.

  Detective and mystery stories.

  Suspense fiction.

  Dewey Number: 823.92

  For Tracy Alexander

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Her eyes were open but she was in La La Land. She lay on the bed in her underwear like a disgusting blow-up doll, the faint rise and fall of her breasts the only sign that she was still alive. He had kept physical contact to the absolute minimum, but he knew all about forensic wizardry and removing her dress had been a necessary precaution. Hopefully, the hotel room would be awash with all manner of fibres and human DNA and any trace that he might accidentally have left would be lost amongst it all.

  He put on disposable gloves and went into the bathroom where he poured the rest of the champagne down the sink. He put the cork, wire casing and empty bottle in his rucksack, which was standing ready by the door. He washed the glasses quickly, paying particular attention to remove the foul smear of lipstick she had left on hers, then dried them on the tea towel he had brought with him. He checked the photo he had taken earlier on his phone and replaced them on the tray on top of the mini-bar, exactly as he had found them. His clothes were ready by the door, along with the rucksack, which he had stuffed with as many of her things as he could fit into it. There wasn’t room for her coat, but he hadn’t touched it at any point and he decided to leave it in the wardrobe where she had hung it.

  Excitement welling, he paced backwards and forwards around the room, giving it a final once-over. He would check it again before he left, but it all looked perfect, nothing out of place. He zipped up his wetsuit, pulled on the rubber mask and went over to the bed. Just to make sure he wasn’t going to have any trouble, he waved his hand in front of her face and pinched her arm hard, but there was no reaction. He turned on the TV, the volume up high enough to cover any unwanted sounds, then carefully got onto the bed and straddled her. The wetsuit was a little on the tight side and restrictive, but he couldn’t risk taking it off. Nor did he want his skin to touch hers. He flexed his arms and shoulders, trying to create some give, clicked his knuckles one by one, then took some deep breaths as he steadied himself. He needed to clear his mind of his surroundings, and focus. When he felt ready, he put his hands around her neck, locked his thumbs tightly together, took some more slow breaths and closed his eyes. As he started to press down, he tried to picture another time not so long ago, another room, small and dimly lit, furnished with old-fashioned musty things, and another woman lying beside him on the sofa. But the image was half-formed and unstable, like a reflection in rippling water, fading into nothing around the edges. He wanted to shout out in frustration; all he needed was to see her face. He took another few deep breaths, but it was no good. He couldn’t get into it, the sweet spot, or the zone, as he liked to call it. The musky perfume the slag was wearing was overpowering, putting him off his stride. Grasping her tighter, breathing only through his mouth, he tried again.

  Now he saw a man’s face, soft-featured and tanned, his lips mouthing something as his watery eyes opened in a pathetic look of surprise, followed by sudden realisation. He felt the heat of the sun on his back, the rocking of the little boat, smelt his own stale sweat and the salt of the sea. It wasn’t where he wanted to be. He shouted at the man, told him to fuck off, and squeezed harder, eyes screwed tight shut, as he tried to re-focus. The man’s image dissolved. From the darkness other faces drifted ghost-like into view, a washed-out collage of pale, insipid, interchangeable girls and a devilish old woman out to spoil his fun, laughing at him, mocking his ineptitude. Lost your touch? Lost your mojo? Not up to it, are you? Never been up to it, you nasty little bastard spawn, nasty little impotent piece of shit . . . He punched her wicked face, hit it again with all his force, again and again until finally he silenced her. With a knowing look she held a bony finger to her lips, winked at him and disappeared, back down into hell where she belonged.

  But nothing appeared in her place. Fucking nothing. Breathless now, and hot with rage, he rocked backwards and forwards, squeezing harder and harder, shaking the limp neck until it felt like a wet rag in his hands, until he was sure there must be no life left. Still it wasn’t enough. The magic wasn’t working. It was fucking useless. He couldn’t conjure up the one he wanted. As he threw the body down on the bed, tears filled his eyes. He was cursed. She wouldn’t come to him.

  Two

  Banging. More banging. Louder. Someone shouting his name. Mark Tartaglia opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed, in the dark. Unsure where he was, he stretched out his arm and felt the cool, smooth space beside him. He reached out further. Nobody there. Light filtered through the open crack under a door and, as his eyes gradually adjusted, he made out familiar shapes. He was at home. He peered at the luminous face of his watch. Just before six o’clock. About half an hour before he needed to get up. The room was cold, yet he was sweating. His head throbbed and he took several long, deep breaths, trying to fix in his mind the sequence of events the nigh
t before, images unravelling like jerky little clips of film. The bar-crawl with his cousin Gianni to celebrate Gianni’s decree absolute; beer and vodka chasers, and ending up in some fancy new boutique hotel in the West End. Dim lighting, loud music, lots of people. More of a nightclub than a hotel bar. More drinks. Something unmemorable to eat. A foursome of giggling, very young women, stragglers from an office Halloween party, who had joined them without much persuasion. More to drink; champagne this time. Later, a woman with long, dark hair, on her own, who had met his gaze several times from across the bar. Early forties, tanned and slim. Not a pro; he clocked that immediately from her body language. He’d seen her again in the courtyard at the back when he’d gone out for a smoke and they’d exchanged a few words over a cigarette until her phone rang. Then the slip of paper with her room number that she had discreetly dropped in his lap on her way out of the bar. If you’re looking for something different . . . The accompanying smile that spoke more than words. He’d been drunk, but not so drunk as to not know what he was doing when he’d made his excuses to Gianni, saying he was tired, and knocked on her door fifteen minutes or so later.

  He stretched out into a star shape, enjoying the chill of the sheets in the furthest corners, and closed his eyes as he ran through the sequence of events again in his mind. He barely remembered the taxi ride home, or letting himself into his flat. Her name was Annika, no, Jannicke. From Oslo. Over in London for a few days on business. The pale circle on her ring finger said she was married.

  The banging started again. He wasn’t dreaming. A man was shouting his name and he opened his eyes. The noise seemed to be coming from the front of his flat. As he eased himself into a sitting position in bed and reached for the light switch, he caught a fleeting scent of a woman’s perfume. Slowly he got to his feet, head aching, mouth sour and dry as dust. He had no idea what he had done with his clothes. Unsteadily, he grabbed a towel he found lying over a chair, wrapped it around himself, and stumbled into the sitting room. The lights were on, the shutters gaping open. A man was standing in the front garden, peering through the window. The man waved at him. Silhouetted against the acid-orange glare from the street lamp, it was difficult to see his face clearly and it took Tartaglia a few moments before he recognised Nick Minderedes, a detective constable in his team. They’d been on call for the past five days, the next murder investigation team in line for any case of suspicious death that came into the Homicide West jurisdiction. A diet of early nights was the prescription, just in case, and a clear, sober head. Sod’s law that something had happened on the one night he had been out getting lashed.

  Tartaglia let himself out of his flat and opened the front door.

  Minderedes stood on the doorstep, dressed even at that hour in a sharply-cut suit and tie, his face shaved, his short black hair still wet and spiky from the shower. He looked alert, as though he had been awake for hours. It was ironic that he was usually the one burning the candle at both ends.

  ‘Sorry for the noise, boss. Didn’t want to rouse the whole street but you weren’t answering.’ As he spoke, a window was slammed shut immediately above them.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Suspicious death in the West End. I need to take you over there now.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have phoned first?’

  Minderedes’s brown eyes narrowed. ‘I tried. Many times. Some cabbie with an attitude finally picked up. Said you’d left it on the back seat of his cab a few hours ago. Said it’d been ringing non-stop ever since.’ His eyebrows raised a fraction as he spoke.

  Tartaglia gave him a blank stare. Fuck. The phone must have fallen out of his jacket pocket on the way home, but it was none of Minderedes’s business where he had been or what he had been doing.

  ‘I told him to drop it over to the office later,’ Minderedes continued, still looking at him inquiringly. ‘Meantime, we need to get going.’

  Tartaglia stifled a yawn. ‘OK, give me ten. You want to come in and wait?’

  Minderedes shook his head. ‘I’ll be outside in the car. I’ll call the DI from the local station and let him know we’re on our way.’

  Tartaglia closed the front door and retreated back inside. The heating was just kicking in, taking the chill off the air, the pipes were making a distant tapping sound as they warmed up. He went into the kitchen, put a pot of strong coffee on the stove and poured out a large glass of water, which he knocked back in one, along with a couple of Hedex. In the bathroom, he turned on the shower. Waiting while the water warmed up, he stood at the basin and splashed some cold water on his face, then ran his fingers through his hair and over the thick black stubble on his chin, studying himself in the mirror. Not good. Not good at all. He stuck out his tongue and grimaced in disgust. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises and his skin looked sallow in the bathroom light, his summer tan having all but faded. Not much he could do about that, but if nothing else, even if it cost him an extra few minutes, he would have to shave. There’d be no chance to do so later on and it made all the difference. Somehow he had to minimise the obvious signs of a night of next to no sleep. At least he generally kept himself in good physical shape, even to his critical eye. Give or take a couple of pounds, he weighed the same as he had done ten years before and outwardly looked much the same. But some things were deceptive. Ten years on, he knew he was a different man, although he had no desire to examine or define what had changed. He put his hand under the shower, checked the temperature and stepped in, closing his eyes again and letting the water run over him.

  Fifteen minutes later he was dressed and ready to go. It was still dark outside, the pavement slick from overnight rain and the air sharp with cold. Apart from the odd light on here and there, there was little sign of anyone stirring. Minderedes was waiting for him a few doors down, the shiny black BMW pulled up across someone’s drive. Tartaglia slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. Capital Breakfast burbled through the speakers. Minderedes helped himself to a stick of gum and put the car into gear.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Tartaglia asked, stretching out his legs as they sped off down the narrow street towards Shepherd’s Bush Road.

  ‘Some posh new hotel called the Dillon. That’s all I know.’

  Tartaglia frowned, wondering if he had heard correctly and glanced over at Minderedes. ‘The Dillon, you say.’

  ‘That’s right. It’s in the West End. Just off Marylebone High Street. We should be there in fifteen, if we’re lucky.’

  Tartaglia said nothing. The Dillon was where he had been only a few hours before. Thinking it must be some sort of a joke, he glanced again at Minderedes, but his expression was deadpan as he concentrated on the road in front, driving at his usual breakneck speed. Minderedes was generally a bad poker player, so maybe it was for real after all.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked flatly after a moment, having watched the DC carefully out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Woman found dead in one of the rooms in the early hours.’

  ‘What, a guest?’

  ‘I don’t know. Steele’s been trying to get hold of you. Do you want to use my phone?’

  ‘In a minute.’ Tartaglia slid down a little in his seat, folded his arms and studied the empty road ahead as they accelerated past Olympia. Before he spoke to his boss, DCI Carolyn Steele, he needed to get things clearer in his mind. He believed in coincidence about as much as he believed in the tooth fairy. Things happened for a reason, particularly in his line of work. Like a conjuror’s trick, the apparently inexplicable usually had a simple explanation, if only you knew where to look. But he found it strange that he should be going back to the same hotel only a few hours later to investigate a murder. Still not quite believing it, refusing to give in to alcohol-fuelled paranoia, he told himself that it couldn’t be anything to do with Jannicke. What were the chances? She wasn’t the only woman in the hotel, by any stretch. There must be a good forty or so rooms and at least as many guests, plus staff. No point jumping to conclu
sions.

  A wave of nausea hit him and he closed his eyes for a moment, massaging his temples and the bridge of his nose, as he tried to work out what to do. No doubt he had been captured on camera somewhere in the hotel. He hated having to explain himself to anybody, but there was no way around it. He would have to come clean, and as soon as possible. He pictured the inevitable awkward conversation with Steele, a woman whose private life, if she had one, never impinged on her work. Hopefully, she would accept a basic explanation of what he had been doing there and that’s as far as it would go, from the work point of view. Other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, he had done nothing against the rules. Why, then, did he feel as though he had?

  From nowhere, a conversation from the previous afternoon with his sister, Nicoletta, bubbled to the surface. He had been sitting at his desk in the office going through some paperwork when she called. He could still hear the sound of her voice, heavy with recrimination, reminding him that he was supposed to be going over to her house for dinner that evening. He had no recollection of it but she insisted that a definite arrangement had been made. His niece and nephew were dying to see him. She had asked some other friends too. Done all the shopping and cooking. He had to admit that she sounded convincing. Maybe he had forgotten. It wouldn’t have been the first time. He had been in court for most of the past week, giving evidence in a murder trial. It hadn’t been going well and it was preoccupying him. He had tried to tell her that he had made other arrangements, but she wouldn’t listen. Finally, when forced, he had explained that he was seeing their cousin Gianni and couldn’t let him down, and she had let rip. His being at work had made no difference.