The Jigsaw Man

Henley pulled her phone out of her pocket, which had been buzzing with alerts and read the message on the screen. It was from Anthony Thomas confirming that he had run the severed arm’s fingerprints through Livescan, the police database.

‘Actually, we do,’ said Henley. ‘Meet Daniel Kennedy.’

Chapter 5

It was almost 8 p.m. by the time Ramouter had entered his flat, taken off his shoes, which still had traces of dried mud on them, and placed them on the doormat. It had been four days since he moved in. The scent of the flat wasn’t his. It still smelled of artificial air freshener and bleach. A lingering stack of unopened boxes occupied the open-plan living room and kitchen. He turned on the radio for company and took out a ready meal from the fridge, pulled off the cardboard sleeve and stabbed the taut plastic with a fork.

A few minutes later, Ramouter pushed aside the remains of the bland spaghetti carbonara and picked up his iPhone.

‘Oh, we were expecting you to call earlier. We’re just about to eat,’ said Pamela, stepping away from the camera. As always, her face was perfectly made up and not one muscle moved on her face. She was dressed in expensive yoga clothes, even though Ramouter knew for a fact that Pamela had no idea what downward-facing dog meant and probably thought savasana was a type of tea.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise how long it would take me to get back from the station. The traffic on the South Circular—’

‘Well, perhaps you could leave on time, tomorrow. Routine is important.’

Ramouter bit his tongue to stop himself from saying, ‘Murder isn’t a nine-to-five job.’

‘Where’s Michelle? I tried to FaceTime, but she didn’t pick up.’

‘She’s probably forgotten to charge her phone again but she’s upstairs. They both are. She was feeling tired. I’m going to leave in a bit to pick the boys up from football practice. I’ll bring my iPad up to her.’

Pamela found Michelle sitting on the edge of the bed. Her bedroom mirrored his living room with suitcases and boxes taking up much of the space. He chuckled to himself.

‘Michelle. Sweetheart,’ said Ramouter. ‘You OK, love? Where’s Ethan? How was his first day at school? I miss you.’

‘He’s already in bed,’ Michelle replied, steadying the iPad on the bedside table. ‘His first day at school completely knocked him out. I took loads of photographs for you.’

‘I know. Remember, you sent me the photos this morning?’ Ramouter’s heart sank as confusion spread across Michelle’s face. Early onset dementia at the age of thirty-six. A rare genetic form of Alzheimer’s, the specialist had said. Her father had died at fifty-eight, but the rest of the family had thought that maybe it would skip a couple of generations. He had received his transfer confirmation to join the SCU two weeks before Michelle’s diagnosis. They had found the flat in Forest Hill, a school for Ethan and a job interview for Michelle lined up, but the diagnosis had changed everything. Michelle’s older sister Pamela had argued that her sister needed stability and a move to an unknown city away from her family and friends would be detrimental. Ramouter couldn’t argue with that. He still had the email declining the transfer to the SCU saved in his draft folder. He had been ready to send it, but Michelle had told him no. That it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. That she didn’t want him to regret it. To resent her.

‘How was your day?’ Ramouter asked.

‘My day was OK. Pamela took me to lunch to meet some of her friends. You would hate them. How was your day?’

‘It was good. They’re a good team and I’ve been paired up with Anjelica Henley on a case. Do you remember her, the one I told you about?’

‘The Inspector?’

‘Yes, that’s right. The Inspector,’ Ramouter replied, his voice brightening.

‘What is she like?’

‘She’s erm… Tough. Smart. Don’t think that she likes being stuck with me much, but it’s early days.’

‘Hmm. Ethan wanted to stay up to tell you about school—’

Ramouter looked at Michelle through his screen and felt overwhelmed with sadness. She was distracted again. He could see it in her eyes. Staring back at him as she tried to hold on to her memories. He couldn’t look back at her. He turned the phone screen down onto the counter. He should have ignored Michelle when she told him that it was OK for him to go to London. He should have stood by his wife like a man but instead he ran at the first opportunity. He wore the guilt in his shoulders, as familiar as his work suit. He was angry with Michelle and her illness. And the guilt and embarrassment that he felt from that anger was suffocating.

‘Sorry,’ Ramouter said, as he picked up the phone. ‘The reception is a bit dodgy in this flat.’

‘You need to stop,’ Michelle said.

It was these moments of lucidity that made Ramouter feel worse. His eyes filled with tears as Michelle stared back at him with intense clarity. She knew him and how to manage him.

‘We both agreed,’ she said.

‘Aye. I’m just missing you and Ethan. That’s all,’ Ramouter replied as he wiped away the tears.

‘It’s going to be OK. We’re OK,’ Michelle said firmly.

‘I know. I’ll have a word with myself.’

‘Good. Now, let me tell you about lunch with Pamela’s lunatic friends. I’m actually looking forward to the day when I don’t remember them.’

Ramouter laughed as he watched Michelle brighten up. The guilt was still there but for the next hour, as he spoke to Michelle, the weight was not so heavy.

Chapter 6

Henley knew that the collection time for the non-recyclable rubbish was around 11 a.m. She put down the shopping bags and checked her watch: 8.26 p.m. The blue wheelie bin was blocking the front gate. Her dad probably hadn’t left the house all day.

Henley dragged the wheelie bin to the side and opened the gate. The thorns on the overgrown rose bush caught on her jacket as she walked up the pathway. Weeds had forced themselves through the cracks in the paving stones.

‘What the hell?’ Henley said as the key to the front door refused to turn anti-clockwise. It was the same key that had been attached to the same blue Tesco Clubcard fob for the past five years. She pushed the key in again. It wouldn’t turn.

‘Dad, for crying out loud.’

Henley crouched down and shouted through the letterbox.

‘Dad. It’s me. Anjelica. Open the door.’

She sat back on her heels, keeping the letterbox prised open with her fingers.

‘Dad. Come on. Just… Please. I want to see if you’re OK.’

‘I’m fine. Go away.’

‘Not until you open the door. I’ve bought you some shopping.’

‘Leave it at the door.’

‘Dad. Please. Let me see you. I promise that I won’t come in.’

Henley peered through the letterbox and saw his legs approaching in their faded grey tracksuit pants. The letterbox slammed shut as the front door opened.

‘You need a haircut, Dad.’ It was the only thing that Henley could say as her stomach was twisted in knots. She hadn’t seen her dad, Elijah, in almost three weeks and his appearance was shocking. He’d lost weight. The skin around his neck was folding into itself like a rumpled handkerchief. Henley felt the shock give way to the type of fear that came when you recognised your parents were tapping on the door of mortality.

Elijah patted his hair which was now more white than grey. The number two fade devolved into a short unkempt afro.

‘Simon came around this morning.’ Henley placed her hand on top of her dad’s hand. He pulled his hand away. ‘Why didn’t you want to see him?’ she asked softly.

‘I don’t want to see any of you.’

‘Dad. You have to let us help you.’

‘I don’t need your help. I’m fine.’

‘Why did you change the lock?’

‘To stop you and your brother coming here whenever you felt like it. I’m not a child.’

‘No one said that you were. We’re just worried about you.’

‘Well, I’m fine. You’ve seen me. Now you can go.’

‘Dad… Don’t be… Can you at least let me in for a minute?’

‘I said no!’

‘Fine. Fine.’ Henley grabbed the edge of the door. ‘I won’t come in. Here, take this.’

She picked up the shopping bags and pushed them through the gap in the door. ‘I haven’t got a clue what you’ve got in your fridge. You could be living on crackers and sardines for all I know,’ she said angrily. ‘I’ve got you the basics, eggs, bread, ham, chicken and some party ring biscuits. I know that you like—’

Elijah pulled the bags towards him.

‘Fuck,’ Henley said as he slammed the door shut in her face.

‘Fourteen hours,’ Rob said without looking up from his laptop. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his temporary office, while the builders finished converting the shed in the back. He was a financial journalist who had taken the option to work remotely instead of depositing a redundancy cheque into his bank account. Once a week he left the house and ventured to Old Street where he graced the studios of a business channel to discuss breaking financial news. The arrangement suited Rob and Henley but he still wanted her home. Luna, part Alsatian, part Labrador, part something else, was asleep under the table. The French doors were open but the heat from the day still hung heavily in the air, mixed with the perfume of jasmine and honeysuckle that came from the garden. The seductive scents of a late summer’s night couldn’t cover up the strong odour of decay that had been with Henley since she’d seen the dismembered torso on the Watergate Steps.

‘You left the house just after seven and you’re walking in at twenty-one minutes past nine.’

‘Rob, I’ve had a really long day—’

‘You had a long day? I had to pick up Emma from nursery because she was sick.’

‘And I texted you to see how she was.’

‘She didn’t need a text. She needed her mum.’

‘Let’s not do this,’ said Henley as she put her bag on the kitchen counter and walked towards the fridge. Rob being Rob, he wasn’t selfish enough to cook for one. She pulled out the Pyrex dish covered with clingfilm. Honey and garlic grilled chicken with vegetable fried rice and broccoli. She put the dish back and closed the fridge door. She needed to shower first to remove the thin film of death coating her body and the scent of failure that trailed her since she had left her dad’s house. She wondered if Rob could tell that she was back working an investigation.

‘I went to see Dad,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ Rob’s features softened a bit. ‘How is he?’

‘Not good. He refused to let me in.’

‘This isn’t good for him. What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Henley opened the fridge door again and pulled out a bottle of wine. ‘I’ll have to talk to Si, but… I don’t know.’

‘Look, I know that things aren’t great with your dad, but you could have let me know that you were going to be late. An apology would be nice.’

‘An apology for what?’ Henley said, picking up a wine glass from the cupboard. ‘For seeing my dad?’

‘No, of course not. I only meant—’

‘Do you want me to apologise for going to work? I have to work, Rob. One of us needs to hold a stable job.’ Henley regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

‘And what? I’m just sitting here playing the house husband, looking after our child and making jam while you go to work.’

‘You know exactly what I meant. I know what you do and I… I appreciate how hard you work for us, but we keep going around in circles with this.’

‘Appreciate?’ Rob looked up at Henley for the first time since she entered the kitchen. He took off his glasses, and rubbed the small grooves on his nose where the frames had been pinching. ‘I’m not one of your colleagues. I’m your husband. I don’t want you to appreciate me. I want you to understand what I’m saying to you, what I have been saying to you.’

‘You want me to stop working. To give up my job—’

‘You know that’s not what I’m saying. I don’t want you to stop working. All I want is for you to find another job. It’s a miracle that Emma even knows what you look like.’

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. You’re acting like I’ve abandoned her. I go to work to try and do my bit to make the world safer for her.’

‘From behind a desk? How is that helping her? You’re on restricted duties. You’re not out there catching rapists and murderers with your bare hands. I sometimes wonder what the real reason is why you won’t leave.’

The legs of Rob’s chair screeched across the tiles as he stood up. Henley waited for the familiar accusation of the betrayal to be thrown in her face.

‘I don’t want to argue with you, Rob. Not about this. Not again. I know that we need to talk.’

‘That’s the thing. You always know, but have you ever taken the time to sit down and talk to me? You’re putting our lives on standstill because of what? You told me last Christmas that things were going to change but they haven’t. We’re still here. In the same place.’

Rob grabbed his lighter and rolling papers off the table. ‘I’m going to walk Luna. I’ll be back in half an hour.’

The front door slammed and Henley let out a pent-up sigh. She should tell him now. Tell him that she was back out there. No longer restricted to the desk, that Pellacia had put her back on the streets. That their lives were going to be turned upside down again. Instead, she went upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom. Emma was starfished across her bed. Henley was tempted to wake her just to hear her say ‘mummy’. Instead she kissed the top of her head. She smelled of cocoa butter and baby powder. Emma was the one thing Henley could see the good in.

Henley sat on the edge of the bed and fell back, letting the towel fall loose around her. She’d showered but she didn’t feel clean. The investigation had already crawled into her pores. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers across her body until she came to the familiar ridge of thickened, rippled skin. Two inches of scar tissue on the right. The second scar, three inches above, was slightly flatter. The knife had narrowly missed her liver and if it had been any lower, she would have lost the baby that she didn’t know she was carrying. Two and a half years later she could still feel the hot steel piercing her skin. Henley squeezed her eyes tighter. She could see Daniel Kennedy’s dismembered body in front of her. She took a deep breath. She had kicked up a fuss about being made the senior investigating officer on a murder investigation, but she couldn’t ignore the electric thrill that had run through her. Death was her adrenalin and it scared her.

Walking along that riverbank, examining the corpse, she felt a renewed sense of purpose, but the tendons in her hand tightened and her fingers started to tremble, her body was telling her that something wasn’t right. She shook her head to quiet her inner voice. The voice was slightly louder than a whisper, but it was insistent: A storm is coming, and you’re not ready.

Chapter 7

The rules of the High Security Unit at Belmarsh prison didn’t apply to him. The doors to the prison cells accommodating the Category A prisoners, deemed too dangerous to associate with the rest of the prison population, were not opened until 8 a.m. Peter Olivier, prisoner number A0743TP, had been out of his cell since 6.30 a.m. He had brushed his teeth and taken a shower alone, before changing into a brand-new navy Nike tracksuit and a black pair of Air Force 1 trainers. He had worn the regulation prison-issued maroon tracksuit only once in the two and a half years he had been a prisoner. The first care package containing clothes, toiletries and books had arrived forty-eight hours after he had been escorted in as a remand prisoner.

He could have watched the breakfast news on the small television in the corner of his room, but he preferred not to have his morning routine disturbed by the 38-year-old drug trafficker in the cell next door who couldn’t handle prison life and screamed and banged his head against the wall every morning. Olivier had left his cell and was sitting alone in the recreation room opposite the forty-six-inch television screen.

‘It was coffee you were after?’

A prison officer was holding a steaming mug. Olivier smiled, his pale skin crinkling around piercing blue eyes. This officer was new. Olivier could smell the cotton fresh spray starch emanating from his shirt.

‘Coffee is absolutely perfect. Thank you very much, sorry – I didn’t catch your name.’

‘It’s Paul.’

‘Ah, that’s it. Paul. Just wait there, will you?’

The officer stood still as Olivier leaned back, blew the steam off the cup and took a sip.

‘Hmm, it’s a little bit heavy with the hazelnut syrup, but it will do. You couldn’t do me a favour and pass the control? It’s far too early in the morning for that Piers twat.’

Olivier grinned as the officer handed him the remote control.

‘Now, what is going on here?’ Olivier said to himself as he switched the channel to BBC One where the local news had begun. The reporter was standing on Greenwich Pier.

‘Investigating officers have now confirmed that the body of a young man found on the riverbank yesterday morning just a few metres behind me, has been formally identified as Daniel Kennedy. It has been confirmed by the senior investigating officer that this is a murder investigation; however, she did not confirm local rumours that the body of Daniel Kennedy had been found dismembered.’

‘That’s an awful way to go,’ said the prison officer, who hadn’t moved. ‘How could someone cut him—’ Paul stopped as Olivier turned slowly to face him and smiled.

‘You are a very funny man, Paul. I doubt that it’s a rumour, though.’ Olivier approached the TV as a photograph of Daniel Kennedy appeared. He cocked his head to the side and tapped the screen three times.

‘Why do you look familiar, son?’ he asked.

‘A press conference with investigating officers has been scheduled for this afternoon. In the meantime, Detective Inspector Anjelica Henley has appealed for any witnesses to contact the Serial Crime Unit. The contact details should be appearing on the screen.’

‘Paul, did I hear that correctly? Did that reporter say “Henley”?’

‘Henley, Henman. I’m not too sure.’

‘I’m pretty sure that she said Henley.’ Olivier picked up the control and turned off the TV. ‘And my girl is now an inspector.’

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