Authors: Elena Forbes
‘Try to stay awake this time.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll make a special effort.’
Outside, the light was blinding. Tartaglia put on his sunglasses and started to walk towards the cemetery office, finding relief in the cool line of shadow cast by the colonnade. Almost immediately, Donovan appeared around the corner of the chapel, marching briskly towards him. They met in the huge circle of graveyard in front of the chapel.
‘I’ve got the map you wanted,’ she said, holding up a rolled sheet of paper. As she stretched it out on one of the tombs, weighting it down with a few fragments of stone from the ground, he looked around, noting the high wall, overlooked by the back of a terrace of tall houses that marked the eastern boundary. On the western side the wall was lower; the over-ground railway was just beyond, he remembered. He looked down at the map, reminding himself of the general layout, the position of the various buildings and paths and the location of the two gates, one on the Old Brompton Road to the north and one on the Fulham Road to the south. There seemed to be no other exits.
He shielded his eyes with his hand and looked up at Donovan, catching his reflection momentarily in her Wayfarers. ‘It’s looking like a professional hit, single shot to the head, point blank range. He’s been tied up at some point and he was probably killed somewhere out here then dumped in the crypt. What time do the gates shut?’
‘Eight p.m. at this time of year.’
‘If the builders locked up around four, that gives the killer four hours when the cemetery is still open. But this place is crawling with people during the day, it’s far too risky. My gut feeling is that whatever went on, happened after hours, when it was dark. So – based on Arabella’s guesstimate for time of death – we’re talking about last night. What’s the locking up procedure?’
‘An outside security firm is responsible for opening up in the morning and securing the gates at night. It’s basically a couple of men in a van. I have the name of the company.’
‘I want a check on all personnel on duty and their routine over the last couple of weeks. What’s security like?’
‘What you’d expect. It’s a cemetery. The Parks Police patrol about two to three times a week during daylight hours, but there’s nobody at night. The guy who looks after the place lives in a flat over the north gate and says he’d hear if anyone tried to break in. There are CCTV cameras on both the Fulham Road and Brompton Road entrances, linked to a remote recorder. The memory’s good for fifteen days and I’ve sent someone for the hard drive.’
He nodded. ‘What else?’
‘The railings on either side of the gates are about twenty feet high, but people have been known to climb them. You know . . .’ She gave a meaningful shrug. ‘Beats me . . .’
‘Yes, quite. They must be desperate.’ He looked down at the map. ‘Is there any other way in?’
‘You’ve got houses all along here and here, apart from the entrance gate,’ she said, indicating the eastern and southern perimeters.
‘Couldn’t someone climb over the back wall from one of the houses?’
‘Too high. I’ve checked.’
‘What about from the railway?’
‘The tracks are right below and there’s a very big drop. There are a couple of access doors that lead down to the railway, but they’ve both been checked. They’re jammed shut and there’s no sign of either of them having being opened in donkey’s years.’
‘What about the offices and the chapel?’
‘All locked, and alarmed at night.’
While puzzling it over, he saw Tracy Jamieson half jogging, half running towards them.
‘What is it?’ he called out.
‘We’ve got something,’ she said, as she came over to them. ‘God, this heat . . . These fucking suits . . . I can’t cope.’ She fanned her face, which was now bright pink, and wiped a stray wisp of dark hair from her glistening forehead. ‘The main gates on the Fulham Road . . . they’re open every day, but the pedestrian gates on either side . . . they keep them padlocked. Always. They’re still chained, but one of the padlocks looked newer than the other . . . so we checked the keys in the office. The one the keeper has . . . for the right-hand gate . . . it doesn’t fit.’
‘So, somebody’s changed the padlock,’ Tartaglia said. Jamieson nodded. ‘At least we now know how he got in,’ he continued. ‘Although it doesn’t explain much else.’
He thought of the missing padlock from the crypt door and the chain left casually lying on the ground where it would be seen. Either the killer had been disturbed before he had a chance to replace it or, more likely, he had meant for the body to be found and had left the chain to draw attention to the crypt.
‘When was the pedestrian gate last used?’
‘Ages ago,’ she said, still drawing deep breaths. ‘Months, at least, according to the keeper.’
Tartaglia looked at Donovan. ‘Thought you said there’s a camera on that gate?’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘Well, hopefully it should show us what happened – if it’s working.’ He had lost count of the number of times they had been let down by a vital camera being out of action, or there being no tape in an old-fashioned, non-digital recorder.
Jamieson shook her head. ‘It’s working, alright. That’s not the problem. It’s one of those fish-eye things. Pretty ancient piece of kit. Looks a bit like a smoke alarm. Anyway, it’s up on the wall of the South Lodge, about fifteen feet off the ground. Covers the whole gate and path inside.’
‘And . . . ?’ Tartaglia prompted.
‘Well, I thought it looked a bit odd. So I sent one of the lads up to check. You can barely see from below, but the lens has been totally covered. Someone’s sprayed it with black paint.’
2
Tartaglia parked the Ducati by the railings above the canal and dismounted. As he took off his helmet, he felt the warm evening breeze on his face. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, ruffled his flattened hair with his fingers and gazed momentarily down over the still water. The sun was slowly sinking over Browning’s Pool, the light washing the neo-classical villas on either side of the canal and reflecting off the windows of the little café perched on top of the next bridge. The ribbon of tree-lined water stretched out straight in front of him, disappearing into the dark hole of the Maida Hill Tunnel. He found himself thinking back to just over six months before, remembering the murdered young girl whose body had been pulled out of the water only a few steps away from where he was standing. Today was the first time he had been back to that stretch of the canal and he felt a pang of sadness, sharp as a blade. How quickly life moved on.
He chained his helmet to the motorbike and walked along the railings towards the gate that led down to the towpath. The address on Joseph Logan’s driving licence was nearly two years out of date. He had moved several times since and it had taken the whole afternoon to establish that he had been living for the past two months on a narrow-boat on the Regent’s Canal, near Little Venice. A wide area of road, pavement and towpath around the berth of Logan’s narrow-boat had been cordoned off to enable a thorough search of his living-quarters. Members of Tartaglia’s team, helped by uniformed officers from the local station, were also busy knocking on doors of other boats and of houses in the vicinity. Apart from valuable background information on Logan, the priority was to establish when he had last been seen and if he had had any visitors in the past couple of days.
Ignoring the various locals who had gathered to watch proceedings on either side of the tape and at the railings on the opposite bank, Tartaglia was signed in by the uniformed gatekeeper and made his way along the towpath to Logan’s boat. It was moored in front of a large Victorian church that faced the canal, in the middle of a line of other narrow-boats of varying sizes, styles and colours. Logan’s was about sixty feet long, painted in dull, blistered panels of black and maroon, with a series of decorative lines and swirls in faded gold encircling the name
Dragonfly
. He had never understood the appeal of narrow-boats. This stretch of the Maida Canal was probably one of the most sought-after moorings in the city, yet he would hate to live parked on a dirty, smelly strip of brown water, his windows overlooked from the streets on both sides as well as the boats moored opposite. He valued his privacy more than most things. He wondered what Logan had been doing there and what had made him move from his previous address in the country.
The entrance was at the stern, via a small deck that was cluttered with pot plants and a couple of ancient-looking folding metal chairs and a table. As Tartaglia bent down to climb in through the open doors, he saw DC Jane Downes at the bottom of the cabin steps, peering up at him short-sightedly through thick-lensed, owlish blue glasses. Short, naturally blonde hair with a heavy fringe framed her face, emphasising the roundness of her cheeks and a large nose. A full rucksack was slung over one shoulder and she cradled a heavy-looking archive box in her sturdy arms.
‘Are you done?’ he asked, lowering himself into the tiny kitchen area of the cabin.
‘Ah, it’s you, Sir. Couldn’t tell for a moment against the light. I’ve still got a bit more to pack up.’
‘Where’s Nick?’
‘With Karen, talking to some of the boat owners. I was just taking this lot to the car. Thought I’d go through it back at the office. You can barely move in here and I don’t like being watched. They think it’s a ruddy spectator sport.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the porthole. The cluster of people gathered beyond the railings on the opposite bank were clearly visible.
The internal space of the boat was not more than about seven feet wide, with inward-sloping, panelled walls that reminded him of an old-fashioned railway carriage. The kitchen was screened off from the rest of the cabin and had a quaint, country feel, with pine units and open shelving, which was filled with a colourful jumble of crockery, mugs and kilner jars. Amongst a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, he noticed the remnants of a bowl of cereal and milk that looked relatively recent.
‘Have you checked the fridge?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He hasn’t been gone long. All well within the sell-by date, and I found a till receipt for some food and bits and pieces in the bin, timed at six-ten in the evening the day before yesterday. The shop’s just around the corner. Dave’s gone over there now to see if they remember him. It’s a Sainsbury, so they should have CCTV.’
For a moment Tartaglia thought of the fuzzy footage recovered from the Brompton Cemetery, which he had watched only an hour before. The first part showed a dark-clad figure with a backpack, clearly male and of athletic build, his head covered by a Batman mask and balaclava. He was using bolt cutters on the padlock of the pedestrian gate. The next showed him fifteen feet up on the roof of the South Lodge, wiping out the security camera with a can of spray paint. As nobody at the cemetery ever bothered to check the footage unless specifically requested, it had gone unnoticed. How the man had got up there was unclear, but the procedure had taken a matter of minutes, captured on the remote hard drive three days before, at one thirty-four in the morning. At that time, Logan was still alive, unaware of what lay in store for him.
Tartaglia’s head brushed the gently curving ceiling as he moved past Downes into the tunnel-like sitting room. The porthole windows were closed and, in spite of the doors at the end being open, the air was stale. He could tell from the smell that Logan had been a heavy smoker. There was no sign of central heating and the only source of warmth seemed to be an old-fashioned enamel stove in the far corner. He imagined it must get pretty cold and damp in winter. For the second time that day he started to feel claustrophobic, not helped by the fact that the cabin was painted a deep pink. A couple of armchairs covered in bright patchwork throws were placed to one side, opposite a flat-screen TV. Beside them was a small bookcase, overflowing with paperbacks which revealed a healthy interest in dieting, self-help and chick-lit. A jug stuffed full of imitation red and pink roses sat on the top. The whole feel of the place was feminine and he assumed Logan must have a partner.
He turned to Downes. ‘Does anyone else live here?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s barely enough gear for one man, let alone two, and there’s certainly no sign of a woman. I checked with MISPER, but nobody’s reported him missing.’
‘So he lived alone, on somebody else’s boat, by the looks of things. Find out who owns it and what Logan was doing here. What sort of state was this place in when you got here?’
‘More or less like it is now, although there were a few empty beer bottles out on the deck, and an ashtray with a load of butts and what looks like the remains of a joint.’
‘No signs of a struggle?’
‘No, and the doors were double-locked from the outside. I’ve sent the bottles off to be printed and I’ve bagged up the rest in case we need it.’
‘How did you get in? There weren’t any keys on his body.’
‘He kept a set under one of the flowerpots out on the deck. The guy on the next boat told me where to look.’
‘Jesus. Doesn’t anybody worry about security?’
She shrugged. ‘He says Logan kept mislaying his key.’
‘So anyone could have known where it was kept. You sure nobody’s been in here?’
‘Impossible to tell. As you can see, Logan wasn’t very tidy.’
‘What’s all this?’ He pointed at a folding table under one of the portholes, which was being used as a desk. An anglepoise lamp was clamped to one side and papers spread out messily over the surface, next to an overflowing in-tray.
‘I had a quick look. It’s mainly newspaper clippings and stuff printed off the internet. I’ll come back for it once I’ve loaded this lot into the car.’
Tartaglia noticed a small printer tucked away on the floor under the table, but no sign of a phone or fax. ‘Have you found his mobile?’
‘Hasn’t turned up. There’s no landline, so he must have had one. Maybe I’ll find a bill hiding in all the papers.’
‘What about a computer?’
‘He had a laptop. It’s gone off for analysis.’
‘What’s the progress on tracing the next of kin?’
‘Nothing yet. Maybe one of the neighbours will be able to help, or something will turn up on the computer.’
‘OK. Go and find Nick, will you? I want to hear how he’s been getting on.’
He left her to carry the box upstairs and went into the bedroom in the prow. Painted a sunny yellow, it was tiny and functional; somewhere to sleep, not a place where you would want to spend much time. A small double bed was built along one side under a window, a pair of crumpled black jeans dumped on the floor beside it, along with underpants, a T-shirt and an old leather jacket. It looked as though Logan had barely bothered to undress before climbing into bed. The duvet was rucked up and the pillows were stacked against the wall as though Logan had been reading. A half-drunk mug of something cold and grey sat on the floor, next to a well-thumbed paperback copy of Richard Dawkins’
The God Delusion
and an ashtray containing the butts of several roll-ups. Either Logan had been interrupted or he couldn’t be bothered to clear up. Some drawers under the bed contained a small, untidy collection of casual clothing and underwear, all of which would fit easily into a single suitcase. There was nothing new, nothing expensive or flashy. Underneath the tangle of clothes he unearthed a handful of relatively tame porn magazines. Assuming they belonged to Logan, it seemed that he was straight.
Tartaglia picked up the jeans, then the jacket, and felt in the pockets. He pulled out a tissue and a battered Old Holborn tin with a flower painted in silver paint on the front and the initials JAL. It contained tobacco, papers, a zip lighter and a small lump of cannabis resin. He left it all on the bed for Downes and went over to a cupboard in the corner. Inside was a small shower cubicle and WC. The shell-framed mirror above the basin was cracked and it all looked in need of a good clean.
One toothbrush, one disposable razor, shaving gel, shampoo, soap and a bottle of inexpensive aftershave, barely used. Nothing else. The small medicine cupboard was bare, apart from some paracetamol and a pack of Rennies. The way someone lived, their things, the choices they made, said a lot about their character. From what he could tell so far, Logan really was living out of a suitcase.
As he turned to leave, he saw the thin, dark-haired form of DC Nick Minderedes in the doorway. ‘You looking for me?’
‘Yes. Any joy with the neighbours?’
‘Most of them are still out at work. The ones we’ve spoken to say they barely exchanged more than a few words with Mr Logan. They say he kept himself to himself and wasn’t very friendly.’
‘Well, try harder. I don’t care what they think of him. You can’t move in a place like this without someone seeing what you’re up to, whether you like it or not. Somebody, somewhere along here, must know something.’
‘There’s one that sounds promising. The woman in the boat two along, down towards the tunnel, says she knew him, not that she’d tell me much. She wants to speak to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t you deal with it?’ he said, checking his watch. It was nearly seven-thirty. He ought to be making tracks for the post mortem, where Sam Donovan was holding the fort.
‘Says she will only speak to the man in charge. She saw you arrive and asked one of the uniforms who you were. I tried to tell her I’d do just as well, but she was having none of it. As I said, she seems to know Logan quite well. Calls him Joe and she’s quite upset.’
*
As Alex Fleming turned the corner, he heard the hoot of horns and saw blue flashing lights down by the canal. He crossed the road, stopped on the bridge and peered over the high railings, trying to see what was going on. A police car was parked at right angles in the middle of the road alongside the water, with another pulled up further along. Part of the road appeared to be blocked off and a couple of uniformed officers were redirecting the oncoming traffic away down a side street. The walk from the tube had taken no more than a few minutes, but he was hot and out of breath. His shirt was sticking to his back and his head throbbed. He felt the sudden familiar pressure in his sinuses, followed almost instantly by a warm trickle of blood over his lip. It ran down his throat and he tilted his head forwards, staring down through the railings at the canal below and pinching the bridge of his nose hard, as he rummaged in his pockets for something to staunch the flow. He found an old scrunched-up paper napkin and held it tight to his nose, as he tried to see what was going on down below. A few people were gathered by the railings, looking down over the water. They seemed to be watching something and he wondered if somebody had fallen in. Joe’s boat was almost immediately below where they were standing and the area around it appeared to be taped off. Squinting hard, he thought he saw signs of movement inside. He wondered if it was Joe, if he was OK.
The bleeding stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun. He crossed the bridge and walked quickly along the pavement until he came to the line of police tape where the people stood.
‘What’s going on?’ Alex asked a young woman with long brown hair, who had also just joined the group. She was pushing a buggy with a small child asleep inside and was talking to a middle-aged man.
‘No idea,’ she said, distractedly. ‘Just got here myself. It’s a ruddy nuisance, whatever it is. They won’t let us through and
they’re saying we’re going to have to go all the way round.’
‘Do you have any idea?’ he asked the man next to her.
‘Not sure, but they’re taking stuff off that boat. See that woman over there?’ He pointed to a dumpy blonde-haired woman in baggy blue trousers, who was loading a box into the boot of a nearby car. ‘I think she’s police.’