Jigsaw Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

medium height and build. He was dressed in bulky winter clothing, with a thick
scarf wound around his neck and a beanie pulled down low over his brow. The little
that was visible of his face was disguised by dark-lensed aviators and a good few
days’ worth of beard. He looked like a wannabe in the music or film business, not
at all out of place in a hotel like the Dillon. He wore gloves and was carrying a
large, black rucksack. CCTV footage showed him taking the back stairs up to the
room and later, just before eight-thirty, Claire Donovan entering the building and
going up to the second floor. The handbag she’d been carrying was still missing,
but her coat and the shoes she was wearing looked to be the same as those left in
the hotel room’s cupboard.
    Just before one in the morning, five minutes after making the call down to room service,
Herring was filmed leaving the building via the front entrance, walking down the
street in the direction of Marylebone High Street and melting into the night. By
that time, Claire Donovan was already dead. He was dressed the same as when he had
arrived at the hotel earlier, the rucksack – which must have contained Claire’s things
– slung over his shoulder. The search for the knife or blade used to cut Claire’s
legs had proved fruitless and it looked as though he’d taken that with him too. Tartaglia
had watched the footage over and over again, studying the man’s body language and
familiarising himself with what little there was to be seen. Herring moved quickly
and purposefully, head down, as though he knew he was being observed. He was calm,
even-paced, not a man in any hurry or panic, and Tartaglia was struck by how confident
he seemed for a man who had just committed murder. It was extraordinary. Why had
he made the call to room service? Why not leave it for housekeeping to find the body
the following day? Why had Claire booked the hotel room for Herring and what was
her connection to him? These, and myriad other mushrooming questions, remained unanswered.
Neither her sister, Sam, nor any of her work colleagues that they had so far spoken
to, knew anything about this man. Claire’s phone was missing and switched off, but
hopefully her laptop might reveal some important clues.
    Tartaglia had just started to doze again when the car took a sharp left and a moment
later pulled up abruptly.
    ‘We’re here, boss,’ Minderedes said as Tartaglia opened his eyes. They were outside
the small terraced house where Sam and Claire Donovan had lived, which was located
in a quiet maze of narrow streets in Hammersmith, close to the river.
    ‘I’m just nipping over to the office for some things, then I’ll be back. They called
to say they need more evidence bags. How long will you be?’
    Tartaglia rubbed his eyes vigorously and reached for the door. ‘I dunno. Maybe five
minutes, maybe five hours. Just hurry up.’ Their office in Barnes was just over Hammersmith
Bridge, on the other side of the Thames, but at that hour the traffic around Hammersmith
Broadway was particularly heavy. What should be no more than a ten-minute journey,
door-to-door, could easily turn into half an hour and Tartaglia didn’t want to find
himself stranded. He was expecting a call any minute from the pathologist’s office
to let him know what time Claire’s autopsy was scheduled that evening and he needed
to be ready to go over there at short notice. Normally, he didn’t need ferrying around.
He had his motorbike, a Ducati 998, which in his view was infinitely better than
a car. But he had dropped it off the previous day at the garage for a service and
he would have to rely on Minderedes for the next few days.
    He climbed out of the warm cocoon of the car, acknowledging Minderedes’s murmured
‘give Sam my condolences and best wishes’ with a nod. Minderedes and Donovan had
rarely seen eye to eye in the past, but it didn’t matter any more. Wrapping his jacket
tightly around him, Tartaglia looked