Jigsaw Man Read Free

thumb of his older sister, the woman of
the world who thought she had all the answers. He had held the phone away from his
ear – he had heard it all before – but even from a foot away, the gist was clear.
He caught the word ‘commitment’ several times. Or maybe it was ‘commitment-phobe’.
What could he say? ‘Marco? Marco? Are you there ? Listen to me, will you?’ He had
been on the point of replying, telling her to get lost, when he had heard a movement
behind him. Someone was in his office. Swinging around, he had found Nick Minderedes
standing right behind him, mouth puckered as he fought back a grin. It wasn’t clear
how long he had been standing there, but he must have heard enough.
    Tartaglia looked at Minderedes, whose eyes were still focussed ahead on the road.
He could have no idea what was going through Tartaglia’s mind. Nicoletta’s words
echoed again: ‘You’re not thirty any more . . .’ He felt a stab of unaccustomed
guilt then felt like slapping her. What was he supposed to do? Live like a monk?
He didn’t need to justify himself to anyone but he had the feeling he was still going
to pay for it.

Three
    The Dillon Hotel occupied a stretch of large early Victorian terraced houses set
back behind railings, close to Manchester Square, not far from Marylebone High Street.
The area immediately outside had been cordoned off and Tartaglia and Minderedes
were forced to park a little further down the street and walk back. As they checked
in with a uniformed officer, a short, heavy-set man with thinning salt and pepper
hair detached himself from a group standing by the main entrance. He was wearing
a baggy grey suit that had seen better days and had the tired, puffy eyes of somebody
who had been up all night. He greeted them, introducing himself as DI Johnson from
Marylebone CID.
    ‘I hear it’s one of the guests, a woman. Is that right?’ Tartaglia asked, as they
walked with Johnson up the wide stone steps and in through the open front door. He
hoped there was no trace in his voice of the irrational anxiety he felt, again telling
himself that it couldn’t be Jannicke.
    ‘Yes, the victim’s female,’ Johnson replied, leading them past the white, panelled
reception area and down the main corridor, ‘but we’re not sure who she is, or if
she was staying in the hotel. She was strangled up in one of the rooms on the second
floor.’
    ‘What time was this?’
    ‘Let’s go in here and I’ll fill you in,’ Johnson said, looking around as though worried
somebody might overhear, even though there was nobody within earshot. They followed
him into a book-lined snug, with a small bar in one corner. Tartaglia hadn’t noticed
it the previous evening, although the leafy courtyard where he had met Jannicke while
having a smoke the night before was just beyond the tall pair of French doors. Johnson
appeared to be using the room as a makeshift office. Two small tables had been pushed
together, with a cordless phone, papers, and several half-drunk cups of black coffee
spread out on the surface.
    ‘So what exactly happened?’ Tartaglia said, growing increasingly impatient.
    Johnson shrugged. ‘Some sort of romantic tryst gone wrong, possibly, although she
could easily be a pro. The room’s booked in a man’s name, Robert Herring. She was
lying on the bed, not wearing much. The man called room service from the room and
ordered a bottle of champagne and some food. When it was brought up, they found her.’
    ‘Yes, but what time?’
    Johnson picked up a piece of paper and peered at some notes. ‘The call came from
the room and was logged on the in-house dining system, as they call it, at twelve-fifty-one
a.m. About half an hour later a waiter goes up to the room and knocks on the door.’
    ‘So, around one-twenty-five?’
    ‘Thereabouts.’
    Tartaglia stared at him for a moment, hoping his relief was well hidden. At one-twenty-five
he had still been in Jannicke’s room and she had certainly been