The Jigsaw Man

by Nadine Matheson

  Jamie Hawkins-Delaney pulled back the chain on the front door and stepped back to let Henley and Ramouter in. He wasn’t what Henley had imagined when she had spoken to him on the phone. He had sounded strong, confident, matter-of-fact, but the man in front of her was broken. Not ready to take on the role of a widower. He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes which were already red raw. The blinds were not open and the flat had the unmistakable smell of someone who had closed himself off to the world and hadn’t left for several days.

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess.’ Jamie picked up the empty beer cans that were on the floor next to the leather sofa.

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,’ said Henley. ‘But perhaps it might be a good idea to open the windows. Let a bit of light and air in.’

  Jamie busied himself with the task before crumbling.

  ‘I can’t believe that he’s gone.’ He put his hands to his face and collapsed on the sofa, among the magazines and crisp packets.

  Henley picked up a carrier bag and discarded shirt from an armchair and sat down.

  ‘I am sorry about Sean.’ Henley reached for the packet of tissues inside her jacket pocket. Jamie took the tissue from Henley’s hand, gratefully. ‘How long had you and Sean been married?’

  ‘Only two years but we met about twenty-five years ago at university and were just friends at first. I always knew that I was gay, but Sean was in denial. Slept with half of the female students, a couple of the lecturers and had two children before he finally came out.’

  Henley looked at the collection of black-and-white photographs of a young boy and a girl hanging on the wall. Next to them was a wedding photo of Sean and Jamie.

  ‘They’re twins,’ said Jamie. ‘They live with their mum in Rotterdam. We were going out there to visit them for half term… I spoke to Marie, that’s their mum, but she still hasn’t told them… I can’t even get my head around what’s happened.’

  ‘I know this is hard. I promise that Detective Ramouter and I won’t take long.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Jamie reached for the bottle of whisky and poured himself a glass. ‘I don’t usually drink during the day but—’

  ‘It’s fine. Was Sean having any problems at work?’

  ‘He was a drug and alcohol worker. He worked in a rehab clinic down in Catford. He’s been working there for about eight years. He always wanted to help people. Always thought that people deserved a second chance.’

  ‘When was the last time that you saw Sean?’

  ‘I was flying out to Morocco for an assignment. I’m a photographer. I flew out last Thursday. It was a night flight, so Sean dropped me off at the airport. I remember that I texted him to say that I’d arrived. I FaceTimed him on Saturday, as that was his mum’s birthday. That was the last time that I saw him. I became worried when I didn’t hear from him. His mum hadn’t heard from him either and she checked with all of the hospitals. By the time I got home on Monday afternoon, she had already reported him missing.’

  ‘Sean’s body was found in Deptford. Can you think of any reason why he would have been in that area? Could he have gone there for work? A client, perhaps?’

  Jamie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe a client, but we didn’t have any friends down there. I mean, we’ve been to the market and we went to a show at the Albany Theatre once, but that was years ago.’

  ‘Was there anything that Sean was concerned about?’

  ‘No, honestly there was nothing. Sean loved his job. We used to argue about it because he would always work late. He would even give patients his mobile number.’ There was an edge to Jamie’s tone. Bitterness and resentment taking over the grief. ‘That was fun. Being woken up at two in the morning by some smackhead desperate for his next hit.’

  ‘Is there anything else that you can think of that may have seemed odd, out of place?’

  ‘They wouldn’t let me see his body,’ Jamie said as he stared at the floor. Henley gave Ramouter a look. Jamie was drifting away from them the more he became lost in his grief.

  ‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea. How many sugars, Jamie?’ Ramouter asked.

  ‘Oh.’ Jamie looked at Ramouter as if he’d suddenly remembered that he was in the room. ‘None. Thank you.’

  Ramouter returned with the tea a few minutes later and handed it to Jamie. ‘She couldn’t even show me a photograph of his face, just showed me his wedding ring. The policewoman who was here before you said that Sean had been… That his body had been—’

  ‘That’s right,’ Henley said.

  ‘Fucking ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘He did jury service once—’

  Henley felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘About two years ago. He’s the only person I’ve known to get excited about jury service.’

  ‘Why was it ironic?’

  ‘Just… The way that Sean was… Died. His case… The trial was similar.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything else about the trial?’

  ‘There wasn’t much to tell. It ended after a week or so. I’m not sure what happened. It was so long ago.’

  Henley left her seat and sat down next to Jamie. She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him gently towards her. ‘Jamie, I know that this is hard, and you’ve probably got a hundred other things on your mind right now, but did he mention anyone else? Anyone who was on the trial with him? Do the names Zoe Darego and Daniel Kennedy mean anything to you?’

  Jamie sat up a little bit straighter and took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he finally said. ‘They don’t ring a bell. Who are they? Jamie’s clients?’

  ‘No. They’re not. I know that I’ve already asked you and I know that this is a horrible time for you—’

  ‘It’s OK. I mean, if it can help you catch whoever did this to my Sean. I just remember him being so pissed off when the judge said that they couldn’t continue—’ Jamie stopped talking as Ramouter’s phone began to ring. Henley shot him a look.

  ‘Sorry,’ Ramouter said. ‘I’ll take it outside.’

  ‘It was that Jigsaw Man,’ Jamie said suddenly. There was a slight glint of determination in his eyes.

  ‘Excuse me?’ asked Henley.

  ‘The trial that Sean was on. He couldn’t believe it. It was that Jigsaw Man.’

  ‘The trial of Peter Olivier? Sean was on the jury that convicted the Jigsaw Killer?’

  ‘That was it. Sean was so annoyed when the judge ended the trial early…’

  Henley had stopped listening. Sean Delaney had been a juror on Olivier’s trial. A trial that couldn’t continue. Olivier had flinched at Zoe’s full name. They were looking for a link between Kennedy, Delaney and Zoe. They had just found it.

  ‘There were two trials,’ said Henley as they stepped out into the communal area. ‘The first trial collapsed after a couple of weeks. Olivier flinched when I mentioned Zoe’s full name.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ramouter pushed the green exit button.

  ‘Positive. I asked him twice and there was something that triggered him.’

  ‘OK. Let’s assume that Zoe was on that first trial. How would he even know her name?’

  ‘Have you ever sat in on a Crown Court trial?’ Henley asked, pulling out her car keys and opening the door.

  ‘Never,’ Ramouter replied, getting in from the passenger side. ‘I’ve only ever given evidence in a magistrate’s court trial.’

  ‘The defendant is sitting in the dock when the jury is selected. The defendant will hear their names being called at least twice. Once when they’re actually called to sit on the panel and again when they take the jury oath.’

  ‘But we checked the jury list to see who was in court when the evidence about the symbols was heard and none of our vics are on there.’

  ‘We only checked the list for the trial where Olivier was convicted. We didn’t check the list for the trial that collapsed. We need that list and we need to speak to Chance Blaine again. He was
convicted of perverting the course of justice. His actions led to the collapse of that trial and he may have been seen with Zoe.’

  ‘Why waste time? Why don’t we just arrest him now?’

  Henley tapped the steering wheel as she thought about it. ‘Nope. He’s smug. Clever, a trained lawyer and a conniving little shit. I need some evidence before I put him in an interview room.’

  ‘OK. I’ll start working on getting that list as soon as we get back to the office.’

  Henley checked the time on the dashboard: 7.30 p.m. The last thing that she wanted to do was to go back to the office, but she didn’t want to go back to an empty house either.

  ‘No, there isn’t much point. We won’t be able to get hold of the jury list tonight. The Old Bailey jury office will be closed. Why don’t I take you home? I’m sure that your wife and little boy would like to see you home at a decent hour for once.’

  ‘They’re not here. They live in Bradford,’ Ramouter said sadly.

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that you were—’

  ‘No, no. We’re not separated or anything like that. It’s just… My wife isn’t—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘No. I should. My wife isn’t too well. She’s got early onset dementia. She was diagnosed not that long ago.’

  Henley pulled the car over to the side and turned on her hazard lights. She had been too blind to the fact that something wasn’t right with Ramouter. She was pissed off that Olivier had managed to work it out before her. ‘Why didn’t you say something? Why are you here? In London.’

  ‘She was supposed to be here with me. All of us. Ethan and his annoying budgie, but it’s complicated. Families. They can be… Overbearing.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Is that what all the phone calls have been about?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. Now that I know… It’s better that I know. OK, so I take it that the only thing waiting for you at home is an episode of MasterChef and a ready meal for one.’

  Ramouter laughed. ‘Have you been round to my flat?’

  ‘I’ve got good instincts,’ Henley smiled, despite the immense sadness she felt at Ramouter’s predicament. ‘As it’s already late and we’re not going back to the SCU, I’ll treat you to a cheeky Nando’s.’

  Chapter 42

  ‘We can fool ourselves into thinking that this job isn’t hard on our families. That they can take it.’

  Henley wiped away the beads of condensation from the neck of the beer bottle. The rooftop seating area of Nando’s wasn’t busy and Ramouter and Henley sat in the far corner overlooking the Thames. The sky had already descended into a splash of purple, amber and turquoise while the lights of a growing cityscape flickered in the distance. It was as if the only job of the glass and steel of the city was to provide a distraction from the death and chaos on the streets.

  ‘The thing is, our families tell us that they can handle it and for the first few months, or even a year if you’re lucky, they can handle it but then something happens. Reality kicks in. You’re never home on time, you miss your father-in-law’s seventieth birthday party, you refuse to talk about your shit day and then some lunatic tries to kill you,’ Henley finished, then took a drink.

  ‘I know that it’s hard, but I’ve wanted this for so long. I surprised myself how much I wanted it.’ Ramouter poured the hottest peri-peri sauce onto his chicken. ‘And you know that the worse part of this job – for us, I mean – is trying to convince yourself that you’re not betraying yourself and your community.’

  Henley thought back to the red-hot arguments with family and friends over her decision to give up a lucrative job as an investment bank analyst to join the Met’s graduate recruitment programme.

  ‘My brother Simon didn’t talk to me for three months,’ said Henley. Ramouter nodded empathetically. ‘By the time he was twenty-five he had been stopped thirty-two times by the police for driving because he was black and there I was telling him that I was off to Hendon.’

  ‘My mum prays for my soul every time she goes to Temple. She said that joining the police was more shameful than my decision to marry a non-Sikh.’

  Henley relaxed a little as they ate and enjoyed the warmth of the city night. She’d been so pissed about having a trainee that she’d forgotten he was an actual human being.

  ‘I’m sorry about your wife. Haven’t you thought about going back?’ Henley was acutely aware that she sounded like Rob, asking Ramouter to choose: his job or his family.

  ‘What? And give up rooftop dining at Nando’s?’ The grin on Ramouter’s face disappeared as quickly as it came. ‘It’s what she wanted for me.’

  ‘But did you want it?’ Henley asked.

  ‘I want the job and I want my family. It just seems like I can’t have both at the moment.’

  Ramouter picked up a napkin and dabbed quickly at his eyes.

  ‘Peri-peri sauce get in your eye?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Henley knew she could get under people’s skin. She had an innate desire to see what made people tick, which buttons to push to make them falter. She wasn’t sure if she was inherently manipulative or simply had the gift of persuasion.

  ‘What about you?’ Ramouter asked while Henley scooped rice onto her fork. ‘You seemed to have managed it. You haven’t been forced to choose.’

  ‘My husband used to ask me to choose once a day. It became twice a day after Olivier hurt me and I was signed off with PTSD.’

  ‘PTSD? I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

  Henley waved the apology away. ‘There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. You’re part of the team and you’re working with me. You should know.’

  ‘Part of the team.’ Ramouter grinned. ‘But you’re good now? The PTSD, I mean.’

  Henley looked up as a couple of Chinook helicopters flew overhead, back to the army base nearby, carrying away her reply.

  ‘It’s managed.’

  Chapter 43

  Henley had had another fretful night and had woken up alone at 4 a.m. covered in sweat and entangled in her bedsheets. She had given up trying to get back to sleep and had arrived at the SCU at 6 a.m.

  ‘Sean Delaney was a juror in Olivier’s first murder trial,’ Ramouter said triumphantly, slamming his hands on his desk, causing Henley to jump. ‘Daniel Kennedy and Zoe Darego were also jurors on that trial.’

  ‘Is that the full jury list?’ Henley took a sip of coffee, relying on the caffeine to jolt some life into her.

  ‘This is the list for the first trial. The first jury was selected on 25 September 2017.’ Ramouter handed over the sheet of paper which contained the twelve names. ‘But the jury was discharged in week two because—’

  ‘One of the jurors discovered some information about Olivier, then told the others about it.’ It was starting to come back to Henley, the cause of the brief hiatus in the trial before the rollercoaster of the ‘Jigsaw Killer Murder Trial’ was back on course. ‘Do we know which juror blabbed?’

  ‘It was jurors,’ replied Ramouter. ‘Alessandro Naylor, juror five, and Dominic Pine, juror eleven. I tracked down the prosecutor first thing this morning and from what he can remember Naylor and Pine had somehow found out that Olivier’s first victim, Sergeant Adrian Flynn, had been accused of raping him when he was nineteen. How come you don’t remember this?’

  Henley glanced at the clock and then at the dark circles under Ramouter’s eyes and decided to forgive him for the attitude and irritation in his voice. She was partly to blame for his late night.

  ‘My only involvement in the trial was to give evidence as one of the investigating officers and as a… as a victim.’ She felt a flush of shame. ‘The first jury was discharged before I gave evidence. I wasn’t even in court. I was technically on maternity leave. They told us that the jury had been discharged but it’s not uncommon for a trial to collapse because of some kind of jury problem or a legal i
ssue that none of us understood. The trial started a few days later with a new jury. I think that they had me in the witness box in week three for two days.’

  Henley could remember it clearly. Sitting in the witness box in court nine at the Old Bailey when she was almost eight months pregnant with Emma. The prosecutor had asked her if she wanted special measures. To give her evidence over video-link, or from behind a curtain, shielded from Olivier. She could remember declining and being adamant that she wasn’t vulnerable or intimidated and having to squeeze herself into the witness box. Emma had kicked constantly as though she was protesting at being in a courtroom.

  ‘Four days later, I gave birth prematurely to my daughter. I didn’t give Olivier or the case another thought until the verdicts came in,’ said Henley.

  ‘Hmm. OK, well, Naylor and Pine were both done for contempt, were found guilty in December 2017 and both got a six-month prison sentence.’

  ‘I’m not even going to ask where they got the information about Olivier from?’

  Ramouter smiled. ‘Joseph McGrath, now known as our favourite estate agent, Chance Blaine. But look again at the juror list. This is where things get even more interesting. Think again about our victims and look at the numbers.’

  Henley examined the list. ‘Uzomamaka Darego. That’s our Zoe, juror three. Daniel Kennedy is four and Sean Delaney is eight. Fuck. Eight, three and four. That’s what Olivier said. He repeated those numbers the last time we saw him.’

  Henley felt sick with the realisation that Olivier was one step ahead of them. That he had worked out the connection between the victims before she had.

  ‘But these victims have got nothing to do with Olivier,’ said Ramouter. ‘They didn’t convict him. That was the second jury. If this was an act of revenge our victims would most likely be from the second jury. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘As much as it pains me to say it, I think that Olivier was telling us the truth. I don’t think he orchestrated these murders.’ Henley walked over to the whiteboard where there were photographs of Daniel Kennedy, Zoe Darego and Sean Delaney. On the far side of the board was an e-fit, a computer-generated image of the head that was left on Henley’s doorstep.