The Jigsaw Man

by Nadine Matheson

  ‘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.’

  Chapter 8

  Daniel Kennedy. Thirty-six years old. In a relationship. Lived in London. From London. The profile photograph on his Facebook page showed a smiling man standing on top of a quad bike with all his limbs intact. His criminal record from the Police National Computer showed a man with two aliases and four convictions: possession of Class A & B drugs, robbery when he was sixteen and most recently, GBH.

  ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ Ramouter flicked over the pages of the report. He had toned down the back-to-school look of yesterday. Polished shoes swapped for black trainers. Suit jacket, but no tie.

  ‘What makes you wonder?’ Henley swerved to avoid a cyclist who appeared out of nowhere.

  ‘Who Kennedy must have pissed off to end up in pieces on the bank of the Thames. He got an eighteen-month sentence for GBH. Came out of prison in 2018, completed his licence period three months ago and then found himself on bail for an affray and ABH.’

  Henley had asked herself the same thing when she had lain awake in bed, Rob snoring next to her with the sweet, intoxicating scent of cannabis still on his breath.

  She pulled the car into the driveway of a three-floor Victorian house. The grass and bushes were overgrown, and the row of green wheelie bins were overflowing. Two residents sat on the low wall, smoking their cigarettes and eyeing up Henley as she parked between a white transit van and red Mini.

  ‘It doesn’t look like a bail hostel,’ Ramouter said, checking that his warrant card was visibly around his neck.

  ‘What were you expecting?’ Henley cut the engine and took another look at the two men on the wall before opening the car door.

  Ramouter shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s not the tidiest but I thought it would be… grittier.’

  ‘Disappointed that the residents aren’t shooting up in the front garden?’

  ‘No… but…’

  Henley leaned over the roof of her car. ‘You have been to a bail hostel before?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ Ramouter had the decency to look a bit embarrassed. ‘First time for everything, eh?’

  ‘Hmm. Don’t embarrass me,’ Henley warned, walking towards the reinforced front door.

  ‘Sentinel have been here twice looking for him.’ Beryl took a long drag from her e-cigarette leaving behind her neon pink lipstick on the vape as Henley and Ramouter signed their names in the visitors’ book. ‘To be honest, I was shocked to see them at all. You can just about rely on them to come here and put the tag on in the first place. So, what’s he done? I never did like him. Not that I really like any of them.’

  ‘When was the last time that you saw Mr Kennedy?’ Henley asked, ignoring Beryl’s question.

  Beryl closed the book and placed it under the counter. She disappeared and returned with a bunch of keys in her hand. ‘Let’s see. I don’t work weekends and Mondays. I was off sick on Friday, so the last time I was here was Thursday and I only do the day shift, 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. and I don’t recall seeing him then. I think the last time I saw Kennedy was maybe Tuesday.’

  ‘How long was he here before Sentinel came and fitted the tag?’

  ‘He was here for at least two weeks before they came. Bloody stairs, he was on the third floor.’ Beryl tutted. She walked up the stairs with Henley and Ramouter close behind.

  ‘Was he keeping to his curfew before they came?’

  ‘Actually, he was. Pretty much kept his head down. He was sharing for the first week, but his roommate had a fight with the crackhead in room nine and got remanded. So, he had his own room.’ Beryl selected a key from the bunch and opened the door.

  ‘Before you go,’ Henley asked, ‘did Daniel have any visitors?’

  ‘No visitors are allowed but that’s not to say that he didn’t have any. We’ve got CCTV. The recordings get deleted every thirty days, but you can check that if you like.’

  Ramouter put a hand to his nose as he stepped inside. The room smelt of rotting food and stale clothes. There were two single beds on opposite sides of the room with a small wardrobe next to each. Henley opened the window as wide as it could go. The table was littered with empty takeaway boxes, beer cans and half a bottle of cheap whisky. A bottle of soured milk was on the windowsill. Tiny black flies buzzed around an orange net bag of mouldering clementines.

  Henley donned the pair of latex gloves she kept in her pocket. She bent down and picked up a carrier bag. It was filled with junk mail, a court form confirming his bail conditions, his next appointment with his GP and letters from his solicitors.

  ‘This is disgusting,’ Ramouter said as he walked around the room. ‘How can anyone live like this? Whatever happened, it didn’t happen here, but it smells like he hasn’t been here for at least a week.’

  ‘I’ll need you to speak to the other residents,’ said Henley. ‘Explain to them that we’re not asking them to grass, all we want to know is when they last saw him and if they spoke to him. Then we can take a look at the CCTV. The footage from outside the house may be more useful.’

  ‘No problem. So, we’re done here.’

  ‘It looks like—’ Henley paused as something caught her eye near the foot of the bed. She pushed aside a pair of boxer shorts and picked up an iPhone.

  ‘That looks new,’ said Ramouter. ‘Why would he leave a brand-new phone behi
nd?’

  ‘Have you got any evidence bags?’

  Ramouter checked his pocket and shook his head. ‘Nowt. Sorry. I must have left them in the car.’

  Henley peeled off the glove from her left hand, wrapped it around the iPhone and handed it to Ramouter before reaching again under the bed. Her fingers touched something hard and cracked. She knew without seeing it what it was. She stood up and showed Ramouter a small, circular box attached to a strap. There was a visible crack on the black plastic.

  ‘He cut off his tag?’ Ramouter said as Henley turned it over in her gloved hand.

  ‘Looks like he stepped on it too. He leaves his phone and removes his tag. What the hell was he up to?’

  Ramouter took the broken tag from Henley as her own phone began to ring. Stanford’s mobile number flashed on the screen.

  ‘You need to get down to Ladywell Fields,’ Stanford said without giving Henley a chance to say hello.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I think we’ve found our girl.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘One of the ladies from the boot camp found them. She’s over there.’

  Stanford pointed to a black woman who was talking to a police officer. Her shoulders were visibly shaking. A taller white woman standing next to her put her arms around her.

  ‘Needless to say, she’s a mess.’ Stanford, who had the stature of a rugby player, folded his broad arms. ‘Sick bastard. Now that we’ve got two of them… I was thinking about the last time we had a case like this.’

  ‘I can’t lie and say that it hasn’t crossed my mind, but chopping up bodies and dumping them is not that unusual so let’s not go there just yet,’ Henley replied as she looked around.

  It had been years since she’d been to Ladywell Fields. The boot camp had taken place next to a tennis court, within view of Lewisham Hospital. The police had cordoned off the area, the grass parched from the summer heat. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘Aisha runs a women-only boot camp session here every Wednesday at 11.30 a.m.’