would have made Claire
so much more susceptible to somebody peddling a bit of old-fashioned romance. Had
the coffee incident been a set-up? If so, what was it about Claire that had made
him target her? Or was she being too cynical; had it, in fact, just been a genuine
accident, with a fatal conclusion? Whichever the case, he had to have had charm and,
knowing Claire, to have been decent-looking, to have succeeded in developing things
further.
‘Did she say what he looked like?’
‘No. But I could tell she found him very attractive, although she didn’t really speak
of him much after that.’
‘Did you say all of this to the detective you saw this morning?’
Nicola nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a clean tissue. ‘I’m sorry, but I’d best
be going now,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’d love to stay and talk all night but
Olivia’s going to be wondering if I’m ever coming home. It’s the last thing I want
to do after what’s happened, but I said I’d take her to this fireworks party. My
mum’s looking after her but she can’t cope with all the bangs.’
* * *
Tartaglia walked along the Uxbridge Road until he came to The Dog ’n’ Bone. He had
just been to see Finnigan’s ex-wife, Tasha, who seemed very pleased to learn of his
death. Parallels with Lisa English sprang easily to mind. According to Tasha, the
last time she had seen Finnigan was just after he got out of jail six months before.
He had appeared on her doorstep out of the blue asking for money, but she had sent
him away and threatened to call the police if he didn’t leave her alone. She said
she had no idea what had happened to him after that, but suggested Tartaglia talk
to an old friend of Finnigan’s, a man named Mick Chapman, who lived not far away.
She said she thought her ex had been staying with him when he came out of prison,
and that at that hour, Chapman was usually to be found in his local pub.
It was one of a dying breed of old-fashioned boozers, with patterned carpet, dark
furniture and mirrors plastering the green walls. A large, middle-aged woman stood
behind the counter, polishing glasses. Tartaglia asked for Chapman and she gestured
towards a man in a far corner of the room, seated at a table beside a couple of slot
machines. His eyes were fixed on a TV on the opposite wall, which was showing a Premier
League match, and he didn’t seem to notice Tartaglia approach.
‘Are you Mick Chapman?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘Yes,’ the man said flatly, eyes still on the screen. ‘Who wants to know?’ He was
thin and wiry, with short mousy brown hair, and wore paint-stained jeans, a red polo-neck
and an old denim jacket.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia.’ Chapman looked round and he held out his
warrant card. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Your friend Jake—’
Alarm filled his large blue eyes and he got to his feet, hands hovering at his sides.
‘Have you found him?’ He looked to be roughly the same age as Jake Finnigan, although
based on what Tartaglia had seen of Finnigan’s file, he was a good ten inches shorter
and half his weight.
‘Please sit down, Mr. Chapman,’ Tartaglia said, pulling up a chair. ‘I’m afraid Jake
Finnigan’s dead.’ He waited for the words to sink in, watching Chapman’s reaction
closely.
Chapman sank back down into his chair, but said nothing, glancing away again towards
the TV. After a moment, his face turned red and his lips puckered as though he was
about to cry, but no tears came. He gave a heavy, broken sigh and took a large gulp
of beer. ‘I knew it. I knew something were wrong,’ he muttered, then looked up at
Tartaglia. ‘What happened?’
‘He was murdered,’ Tartaglia said, still watching him. Chapman seemed unaffected
by the words, as though he had assumed from the start that it wasn’t an accident.
He had the greyish, papery skin of a heavy smoker and Tartaglia noticed his fingers
were heavily stained and twitching with nervous energy.
so much more susceptible to somebody peddling a bit of old-fashioned romance. Had
the coffee incident been a set-up? If so, what was it about Claire that had made
him target her? Or was she being too cynical; had it, in fact, just been a genuine
accident, with a fatal conclusion? Whichever the case, he had to have had charm and,
knowing Claire, to have been decent-looking, to have succeeded in developing things
further.
‘Did she say what he looked like?’
‘No. But I could tell she found him very attractive, although she didn’t really speak
of him much after that.’
‘Did you say all of this to the detective you saw this morning?’
Nicola nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a clean tissue. ‘I’m sorry, but I’d best
be going now,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’d love to stay and talk all night but
Olivia’s going to be wondering if I’m ever coming home. It’s the last thing I want
to do after what’s happened, but I said I’d take her to this fireworks party. My
mum’s looking after her but she can’t cope with all the bangs.’
* * *
Tartaglia walked along the Uxbridge Road until he came to The Dog ’n’ Bone. He had
just been to see Finnigan’s ex-wife, Tasha, who seemed very pleased to learn of his
death. Parallels with Lisa English sprang easily to mind. According to Tasha, the
last time she had seen Finnigan was just after he got out of jail six months before.
He had appeared on her doorstep out of the blue asking for money, but she had sent
him away and threatened to call the police if he didn’t leave her alone. She said
she had no idea what had happened to him after that, but suggested Tartaglia talk
to an old friend of Finnigan’s, a man named Mick Chapman, who lived not far away.
She said she thought her ex had been staying with him when he came out of prison,
and that at that hour, Chapman was usually to be found in his local pub.
It was one of a dying breed of old-fashioned boozers, with patterned carpet, dark
furniture and mirrors plastering the green walls. A large, middle-aged woman stood
behind the counter, polishing glasses. Tartaglia asked for Chapman and she gestured
towards a man in a far corner of the room, seated at a table beside a couple of slot
machines. His eyes were fixed on a TV on the opposite wall, which was showing a Premier
League match, and he didn’t seem to notice Tartaglia approach.
‘Are you Mick Chapman?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘Yes,’ the man said flatly, eyes still on the screen. ‘Who wants to know?’ He was
thin and wiry, with short mousy brown hair, and wore paint-stained jeans, a red polo-neck
and an old denim jacket.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia.’ Chapman looked round and he held out his
warrant card. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Your friend Jake—’
Alarm filled his large blue eyes and he got to his feet, hands hovering at his sides.
‘Have you found him?’ He looked to be roughly the same age as Jake Finnigan, although
based on what Tartaglia had seen of Finnigan’s file, he was a good ten inches shorter
and half his weight.
‘Please sit down, Mr. Chapman,’ Tartaglia said, pulling up a chair. ‘I’m afraid Jake
Finnigan’s dead.’ He waited for the words to sink in, watching Chapman’s reaction
closely.
Chapman sank back down into his chair, but said nothing, glancing away again towards
the TV. After a moment, his face turned red and his lips puckered as though he was
about to cry, but no tears came. He gave a heavy, broken sigh and took a large gulp
of beer. ‘I knew it. I knew something were wrong,’ he muttered, then looked up at
Tartaglia. ‘What happened?’
‘He was murdered,’ Tartaglia said, still watching him. Chapman seemed unaffected
by the words, as though he had assumed from the start that it wasn’t an accident.
He had the greyish, papery skin of a heavy smoker and Tartaglia noticed his fingers
were heavily stained and twitching with nervous energy.
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