Evil in Return (3 page)

‘Police?’

‘Maybe it’s drugs,’ the woman said.

‘I’ll bet someone’s gone in the canal,’ another man said, joining them. ‘Just a mouthful of that water’s enough to kill you.’ He had a small brown and white dog in tow, which was yapping and tugging impatiently at its lead.

The woman shook her head. ‘There’s no ambulance. Gotta be something else.’

‘I reckon it’s terrorists,’ the first man said.

Alex saw further movement inside Joe’s boat. Without waiting for the woman’s reply, he went over to a young uniformed constable who was standing by the tape, guarding one of the gates that led down to the canal.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m not able to say, Sir.’ He was sweating heavily, as though he had been there for a while.

‘But something’s happened, hasn’t it? Has somebody fallen in?’

‘No. Nobody’s fallen in. That’s as much as I can tell you.’

Over the constable’s shoulder, he saw two men emerge from the front of Joe’s boat. They both had black hair and were deeply tanned. One was tall and muscular, casually dressed in what looked like leather motorbike trousers and a T-shirt, the other was shorter and slighter and wore a suit. More plainclothes police, he assumed. No sign of Joe. The two men exchanged a few words on the towpath, then parted, the taller one striding away in the direction of one of the other boats, the shorter one starting along the path towards them. He remembered what he and Joe had talked about the other night and he felt a surge of alarm. Had Joe said something after all?

He turned to the constable. ‘That boat over there. The one they’re all looking at. It belongs to a mate of mine.’ As soon as he said it, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He remembered Joe’s words:
Not the police
. . .

‘A mate of yours, Sir?’

‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’

‘What trouble would that be, Sir?’

‘How do I know?’ He shrugged then glanced down at his watch, barely aware of what it said. ‘Anyway, I’d better be off. I’m running late.’ He turned to go.

‘One minute, Sir. Wait just there.’ The plainclothes policeman was coming up the steps from the canal and the constable called over to him. ‘This gentleman says he knows Mr Logan.’

The man closed the gate behind him and came over to Alex. ‘Is that right?’ He was a few inches shorter than Alex, slim and wiry, with smooth black hair and dark eyes. His suit was well cut and his open-necked mint-green shirt was clearly chosen to set off his tan. He gave Alex a tight, thin-lipped smile. ‘So you’re a friend of Mr Logan’s?’

‘I don’t know him well,’ Alex said hastily. ‘He’s not a close friend or anything. We just have the odd bevy in the pub from time to time, that’s all.’ He made it sound casual, hoping his anxiety didn’t show. If he kept it simple, hopefully they’d let him go. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ll come to that in a minute, Sir,’ the man said, still smiling as he felt in his breast pocket and handed a business card to Alex. Below the Metropolitan Police logo was the name, D.C.

Nick Minderedes. Alex folded his arms tightly around himself, wondering what Joe had done. Had he gone to the police after all? Was that what this was all about?

‘Are you alright?’ Minderedes asked, looking at him in a way that made him feel even more uncomfortable.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It’s just you’ve got blood on your face and shirt.’

‘Oh. Oh that.’ He realised he was still clutching the bloodstained napkin. He balled it in his fist. ‘I’m fine. I’ve just had a nosebleed, that’s all. It’s the heat.’ He wiped his top lip with the back of his hand. He felt the sweat pricking his face, running down his neck and back. He must look a sight.

Still studying him, Minderedes took out a notebook and pen. ‘Perhaps you could start by giving me your name?’

‘Why do you want my name? I just want to know what’s happened, that’s all.’

‘Routine, Sir, I’m afraid.’

‘This doesn’t seem very routine. Why won’t you tell me what’s going on? Has something happened to Joe?’

‘Can you just let me have your name for the record? My governor will give me grief if I don’t do it by the book.’

Alex took a deep breath and nodded. He should never have stopped in the first place, should never have asked any stupid questions. ‘My name’s Tim. Tim Wade.’ It was the first name that came to mind, probably because he and Joe had been talking about Tim only the other day.

‘And your contact details?’

Not wanting to give Tim’s real details, Alex gave the address of an old family friend who lived nearby. It sounded plausible and it was all he could think of. It seemed to satisfy Minderedes, who noted it down without question.

‘We’ll need to get a statement from you. Someone will be in touch to make an appointment. Do you have a phone number so we can contact you?’

He reeled off a number that he hoped sounded genuine and prayed they wouldn’t try calling it until he was well gone.

‘Do you know Mr Logan’s number, by any chance?’

‘No. I never spoke to him on the phone.’

‘When did you last see Mr Logan?’

‘About a week or so ago. Why?’

‘Where was this?’

‘In the pub.’

‘Which pub?’

‘I can’t remember the name but it’s further along the canal. On the water. That way.’ He waved his hand vaguely in the general direction. He had had a drink there once with Joe, so it was partly true.

Minderedes made another note. ‘Did Mr Logan go there regularly, do you know?’

‘No idea, but that’s where I usually saw him.’

‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

‘No.’

Minderedes held his gaze for a moment, lips slightly parted as if he had something more to say. Alex’s heart was thumping. He wanted to fill the gap with words but he couldn’t risk blurting something out. He thought he was going to burst, then Minderedes snapped his notebook shut and slipped it away in his pocket.

‘OK, Sir. That about wraps it up. Thanks for your help. Just as a matter of routine, do you have any ID on you?’

Alex patted his pockets as if feeling for his wallet, then shook his head. He could feel it tight in the back pocket of his jeans, but hopefully the tail of his shirt covered the bulge. He didn’t know much about the law but he was sure they had no right to search him. He took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. Now, please can you tell me what’s happened? Is Joe OK?’

Minderedes puckered his lips as though he had tasted something sour. ‘No. I’m afraid your friend is not OK. He’s had an accident.’

‘An accident? What do you mean?’

‘I’m very sorry to tell you, Mr Logan is dead.’

3

Maggie Thomas’s boat was even more brightly coloured than Logan’s and was decorated like the inside of a pasha’s tent. But the windows were open wide, a vase of fresh flowers stood on the kitchen counter next to an unopened bottle of red wine, and the air was full of the smell of garlic, tomato and thyme from a pan simmering on the stove. It was a combination he was familiar with from childhood, coming as he did from a family of good Italian cooks. He sat down on a kelim-covered armchair in the sitting area and watched as she washed a bunch of parsley that she had cut from one of the many pots on the roof of her boat.

‘I understand you knew Mr Logan,’ he said gently. When she had greeted him it was clear that she had been crying. Without turning around, she nodded and started to chop the parsley. ‘Don’t know why I’m so upset, really, I didn’t know him that well. I mean, he hasn’t been here long. It’s just that it’s a bit of a shock. I really liked him, you know. It’s such a waste.’

She stopped chopping, put the knife down and turned to face him, wiping her hands quickly on a tea towel. She was striking-looking, deeply tanned, with streaky dark blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and a lovely wide, generous mouth. He wondered what she would look like if she smiled. She might easily have passed for mid-forties, except that her hands and the laugh lines around her brown eyes gave her away. For some reason, she looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

He took out a small notebook and pen from his back pocket. ‘Anything you can tell me about him would be a help. Do you know who owns the boat he was living on?’

‘Yes. It belongs to Sally Mathews. She’s a friend of mine.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Gone to LA for a few months. Got a little part in a film and she’s going to stay and see if she can pick up some more work. She let Joe have the boat until she gets back.’

‘She’s a friend of Mr Logan’s, then, or more than that?’

‘Just friends,’ she said firmly. ‘I think they were at drama school together.’

‘I’ll need her number, if you have it.’

‘Of course.’ She came and sat down opposite him in a large, comfortable-looking armchair, tucking her feet up on the seat, her toes just visible beneath the hem of her flowing, gypsy skirt. Even though she was a good decade or so older than Logan, she was still a fine looking woman and he wondered if there had been something between them. It would explain why she was so upset over the death of somebody she claimed not to know particularly well.

‘So Mr Logan’s an actor?’

‘Yes. Or at least he used to be. Like me. That’s what we had in common, why we hit it off.’

An actress. Maybe that was why she looked so familiar, although he still couldn’t place her. ‘I see. What do you mean, “used to be”?’

‘Well, from what he told me, he did a bit of theatre, some telly and radio, but nothing mainstream. He wasn’t bad looking and he had a nice voice, but there are a lot of guys like that. No USP. It’s tough if you don’t get a break. There’s bugger all you can do if nobody wants you except sit at home and twiddle your thumbs and wait for the phone to ring. Even if you’ve got the skin of a rhino, it does your head in. I was lucky, I got into location work.’

‘What’s that?’ he asked, curious to know a little more about her.

‘I run an agency for film and TV. Say a location manager on some telly programme wants a big house in Hampstead for a shoot, or a gothic country mansion, they come to me. I’ve got hundreds of great properties on my books. I started about fifteen years ago as a sideline when work was slow. Now it’s more or less all I do.’

‘What about Mr Logan? If he wasn’t getting much work as an actor, how did he keep himself busy, pay the bills?’

She arched her dark brows in surprise. ‘Joe? Don’t you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘He wrote that book,
Indian Summer
. You must have heard of it, it won some big prize, the – what’s it called?’ She clicked her fingers in the air, then shook her head. ‘My memory’s terrible. Anyway, it’s selling like hot cakes, or so he said.’

He made a note. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t get much time to read.’

‘Me neither. I lent my copy to a friend, otherwise I’d show it you. Anyway, it was a big success. I think Joe was a bit flummoxed by it all. Before that, I think he had a job as a teacher at some posh boarding school.’

‘We’re trying to trace Mr Logan’s movements over the past few days. When did you last see him?’

‘Only yesterday. That’s why this is all so sudden. One minute he’s here, full of the joys of summer, then bang, he’s gone.’ She sighed heavily and hugged her knees.

‘What time was this?’

‘Just before five, I think.’

‘How sure are you?’

‘Positive.’

This brought forward Logan’s death to within the last twenty-four hours. He made a note, then asked, ‘Do you have any idea where he was going?’

She shook her head. ‘I was coming home and I met him on the towpath. He was on his way out and he was whistling. He seemed pretty cheerful. He had his bike with him so I assumed he wasn’t just going down to the shops.’

‘He had a bike?’

‘Yes. That’s how he got around. He didn’t have a car and he said he hated buses and the tube, they made him feel claustrophobic.’

‘Where did he keep the bike?’

‘Chained to the railings or on the roof of the boat. But it’s not there now. I checked.’

‘Can you describe it?’

‘Sorry, I’m the wrong person to ask. It was just a bike to me, nothing special about it. I can’t even remember what colour it was. Anyway, we had a brief chat. You know . . . about the weather and stuff. They say the hot spell’s going to break in a day or so, although I hope they’re wrong.’

‘Do you remember anything else?’

She frowned. ‘Well, his hair was wet, so he must have just had a shower. And he’d shaved. I noticed because he often didn’t bother for days.’

‘Do you remember what he was wearing?’

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Just that he looked nice. And smelt nice. Don’t know if it was soap or aftershave, but he’d made an effort for a change. He usually looked pretty grungy.’

‘Have you ever seen him with anyone?’

‘He was with some bloke the day before yesterday.’

‘What time?’

‘Early evening. Half-six, maybe. I was going out and they were sitting on the little deck of Sally’s boat – Joe’s boat, I should say – having a drink.’

‘What did the man look like?’

‘About Joe’s age, I suppose. Nice-looking fellow actually, with lovely dark red hair. Real auburn, if you know what I mean.’

‘What sort of height?’

‘Couldn’t tell, as he was sitting down, but he looked lean and fit and he had nice broad shoulders.’

‘Have you ever seen him before?’

‘Only once. In the Bargeman’s Rest a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Is that a pub?’

She nodded. ‘Just along the canal, heading west. It overlooks the water and it’s where we all go when the weather’s nice. Joe and the red-haired fellow were having a drink and a smoke. I was with a friend of mine and they seemed quite engrossed over something, so I didn’t stop to say hello.’

Tartaglia made a note to check the pub. ‘You don’t know the man’s name?’

‘No, but I’d say they knew each other quite well.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Body language. You can tell. They were relaxed together and they were having a really good old chinwag.’

‘You only saw the man twice.’

She shrugged. ‘Call me nosy, but I couldn’t help being curious. Joe never talked about his friends, you see, apart from Sally. It was as if the subject was off limits, which of course made me curious. Maybe you should ask Sally if she knows this bloke. Anyway, she was the one told me to keep an eye on Joe, said that he’d suffered a bit from depression in the past. He hadn’t lived in London for ages and it can be tough if you don’t know anybody, particularly if you spend all day on your own wrapped up in some fantasy world in your head. So I had him over for the odd drink, just to get him out off the boat. I even cooked him supper one evening. He brought a decent bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers. He wasn’t a cheapskate.’

‘What did you talk about?’ he asked, still wondering about the nature of her relationship with Logan.

‘This and that, nothing special, really . . . about the book, of course, and all the fuss there’s been. I think he really hated all the attention. His publisher was trying to get him to do a lot of promotional stuff but he didn’t want to do it. They couldn’t make him, could they, but they were putting a lot of pressure on him. I asked him what he was going to do next and he said he was working on another story but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it. I think he may have had writer’s block or something. Writing a bestseller must be pretty paralysing, don’t you think? I mean, what do you do for an encore?’

‘Did he ever mention his family?’

‘No. No, he didn’t. He didn’t volunteer and I didn’t want to pry. He really wasn’t happy talking about himself and he didn’t much like living here, I can tell you.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, it’s a bit like living in a goldfish bowl, isn’t it?’ She gestured towards a window, which gave a clear view of another boat moored opposite on the far side of the canal as well as the towpath, public pavement and road beyond. ‘We’re all on top of one another, aren’t we? You can’t hide anything, even if you keep your curtains shut all the time. It doesn’t bother me, I’m used to it, but Joe said he hated it.’

‘Why didn’t he move somewhere else?’

‘He’d promised Sally to look after the boat until she got back and I imagine he was getting a pretty good deal on the rent. Even so, I was sure he wouldn’t last. It really wound him up, everyone trying to get to know him, making small talk every time he left the boat for a pint of milk, keeping an eye on his comings and goings. He had some pretty funny names for a few of the people along here, I can tell you. I told him it was just because he was new but he wouldn’t listen.’

Tartaglia frowned. ‘He thought someone was spying on him?’

She waved the idea away with her hand. ‘Oh no, not like that. Nothing sinister. They’re just a load of old busybodies, nothing much going on in their lives, that’s all.’

Tartaglia sympathised, but he started to wonder if Joe Logan just wanted some privacy or if there was more to it than that. It would be worth doing a full background check on all of the boat occupants.

‘Was he gay, do you think?’

She giggled and shook her head. ‘Joe? No. Although I wouldn’t say he was particularly confident with women. He was shy. Hidden depths to unlock, if you know what I mean. If I’d been ten years younger . . . well, who knows . . .’ Her eyes lit up and she gave him such a dazzling, mischievous smile, it took him by surprise. He wanted to say that her age didn’t matter, she was lovely the way she was, but he didn’t want to appear crass. He also wondered afresh if maybe there was more to her relationship with Logan than she was letting on. If so, in such a close-knit community, they would soon find out.

‘So the only person you ever saw him with was this red-haired man?’

Still smiling, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, there was the girl. I suppose you’ll want to know about her.’

‘The girl?’ Tartaglia looked at her questioningly. He had the feeling that she was teasing him, deliberately keeping the best until last. ‘You mean a girlfriend?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, I only saw her a few times. He said she was some sort of journalist and she was interviewing him for one of the Sunday papers, but they went for a walk together at least once. I watched them go, and when they came back an hour or so later they were deep in conversation, walking quite close together. At one point Joe put his arm out and touched her shoulder for a moment. It was quite tentative, but it was intimate. I’d say he was keen on her. Definitely.’

‘What about her?’

‘I’m sure she was well aware of the effect she was having.’

‘When was all this?’

She paused for a moment. ‘The first time I saw her was about six weeks ago, I think, soon after Joe arrived. The last was on Friday.’

‘You’re sure about the day?’

She nodded. ‘I’d been to the dentist and my mouth was still numb. I was walking along the towpath and as I passed Joe’s boat I looked in, just to see if he was at home. I’m not sure where he was, but she was in the kitchen doing something at the counter. She may have just been making a cup of coffee but she looked quite at home.’

‘You think there was something going on between them?’

She put her head to one side thoughtfully. ‘Difficult to tell.’

‘But you sensed a spark?’

She nodded. ‘Certainly on his side, as I said. Only thing is, I’d say she was in a different league, poor chap, although maybe the fact that he was a best-selling author was enough to take her fancy. You know how some women are, and men, poor sods, are so easily flattered.’ She gave Tartaglia a meaningful look. ‘I asked him to come round for supper this coming weekend but he said he might be going away. He didn’t say where, but I wondered if it had something to do with her. He’d never mentioned going away before.’

‘What did this girl look like? Can you describe her?’

‘Really pretty.
Naturally
pretty, and fresh, like the most gorgeous, wide-eyed, eighteen-year-old. And she knew it, by God. You could just tell.’

‘You’re saying she was in her teens?’

‘Oh no. That’s just the impression she gave, like one of those actresses who always play ingénues even though they’re a good ten years older than the part. I’d say she was quite a bit older than she looked.’

‘What sort of age are we talking?’

‘Late twenties, early thirties maybe. She’s certainly been around the block a fair few times. She was very confident, very sure of herself. She held Joe in the palm of her hand and she knew it.’

He sensed her disapproval and smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to need more of a physical description.’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry. It’s just that I find people quite fascinating, and whatever I think of her character she’s certainly something different. She’s about my height, I’d say. Five-four, maybe five-five, but more straight up and down, girlish, you know. Greyish-blue eyes, I think, although I could be wrong, and lovely long, dark brown hair, a really rich dark brown. My hair used to be that colour until it went grey and I decided it was easier to have it blonde.’