Evil in Return Read Free Page B

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