“What?” he barked.
“I’m going to breakfast,” she said lamely.
He indicated his muffin. “See you at the desk at nine.”
“I’ll see you down there,” she said, turning back to her room.
He slammed the door shut. She didn’t see him wince; he had a hell of a hangover and felt terrible.
Anna was at the wheel of the car, studying a highway map, when he walked across the hotel car park. He opened the boot and put his suit bag in it. He then got into the passenger seat.
“Do you know where we are going?”
“Los Angeles,” she said.
“Correct. Do you need me to direct you?”
“No, I’ve checked out the map. It’s mostly straight on the freeway, all the way there.”
“Good.”
“Well, all set then?” she asked.
He nodded wearily.
“Have a good time last night?”
He closed his eyes. “I was working, Travis. What did you think I was doing, partying with Delaware?”
“Did you eat?”
He sighed. “Yes, Mother. Now, can we get started? I’m going to lie down for a bit.”
As she drove out of the car park, he pulled the seat lever so he could lie almost prone beside her. Anna took a while to find the right turn onto the freeway and ended up doing a few circles around the city, but found she quite enjoyed driving up and down the hills. At least she was finally seeing some of the sights of San Francisco.
They stopped to fill up the car with petrol and then continued on the freeway. It was an experience she was enjoying when he woke with a start.
“We nearly there?”
“Not yet,” she said. He eased his seat into an upright position and was suddenly alert.
“I talked to a lot of the street hookers last night, Travis, not to mention a few pimps. I showed them all his photo. Didn’t get any result.”
“Should you do that? I mean, what if someone recognizes him?”
“That was the point, Travis. Tom Delaware called in a friend who works for a company that finds locations for film units.”
He was staring ahead, in concentration: “The film Alan Daniels was on mostly used the marina. The cast lived in big trailers, didn’t use hotels. But he recognized the face.”
“And?”
“He was there around the time she was last seen alive. They had been shooting for four days, then stayed on another two. By the time her body was found they’d gone to another location.”
She was still listening intently as they drove on.
“He said the crew were known to have been to the red-light district and a lot of the hookers went to where they were filming, touting for business. They had drivers and limos for the actors, but a number of hire cars to go sightseeing when they weren’t wanted on the set.”
Anna recalled that the only witness had seen a car but was unable to give any detail of the make or registration.
“So all we know for sure is that Daniels was there and he would have had the opportunity,” she said. “He may have even seen Trixie around the film set, then picked her up on the night she disappeared.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he sighed. Tom Delaware was going to check whether Alan Daniels had hired a car. None of the film crew or artists were ever questioned by the SFPD; however, it was so long ago, he doubted that they would even remember.
He fell silent. “Long way to come, for what we basically already knew.” He sighed deeply and rested his arm along the back of her seat. “You drive well, Travis,” he observed after a moment.
“Thank you. Wasn’t that the reason you wanted me along?”
He didn’t reply. She could feel the heat of his arm behind her shoulders. “I know it’s him and his victims are getting younger. Trixie was only twenty-four; Melissa just seventeen.”
“I thought you’d taken Melissa out of the equation,” she said. He withdrew his arm.
“No, I haven’t. He’s a really clever son of a bitch. First he says he destroyed his dental records, or lost them. Next we find them; it looks suspicious and he simply says he forgot where they were.”
“But he didn’t know we would get a search warrant, did he?”
He snorted. “Come on, he’s brought in for questioning about seven murders. If he’s our man, he’s going to be bloody sure we’ll want to search his place. I think he just planted them to get us off the scent.”
“It’s possible,” she said, not really believing it.
“There’s something else.” Langton leaned forward, fiddling with the air-conditioning. “The ex-cop—you know, location guy—he said he’d check out as much as he could that’d help; he also said a lot of the actors came and went although they were down to shoot for all the days. There was a bad rainstorm, so they had a day when they couldn’t film.”
“What does that give us?”
“Possibly a new way of looking at Cornwall. We’d checked out the dates and, yes, he was on the schedule for that entire week, but we didn’t check if they had a weather problem. What if Alan Daniels was not in Cornwall when Melissa Stephens was murdered?”
Anna was silent. He nudged her.
“What do you think?”
“It’s possible,” she said dubiously. “But what if he was in Cornwall for that entire time? What if he had simply forgotten where he had put his dental X-rays? What if Alan Daniels is not our killer?”
“He is.”
“But supposition and maybes could be wasting valuable time. If you take Alan Daniels out of the equation, what are you left with?”
“Thank you for that vote of confidence, Travis.”
“I’m serious. What are you left with?”
He glared. “Seven dead women, eight with Trixie, maybe ten, after we leave the States. Left to rot in cold storage, because they were part of society’s garbage.”
“That’s not quite true!”
“It fucking is true. Except Melissa, of course.”
“All of their cases were investigated.”
“Bullshit. If I hadn’t gone back into the dead files, that’s where the poor bitches would still be rotting. Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. Eleven women dead before they got him.”
Anna was trying not to argue. At the same time, she wasn’t just going to accept everything he said verbatim. “They had the Ripper in five times. And still they couldn’t catch him. He was a dead ringer for the Identikit pictures the witnesses provided. But they released him, because they were concentrating on a tape recording that had been sent in.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter. “And the man on the tape didn’t have a Yorkshire accent. In other words, all that wasted time on a piece of evidence sent in by some sicko, who had nothing to do with the killer.”
“So you think I am wasting my time?” he snapped.
“Maybe you are wasting time with Daniels. That’s all I am saying.”
Signs to Los Angeles started appearing overhead. Anna asked Langton to check the map to find out which slip road they should take off the freeway. He looked over the map for a while, then, sheepishly, turned it the right way round.
“Just take the next one. We’ll find our way from there.”
She took a deep breath.
He leaned back and said quietly, “Oh shit, shit. Maybe I have lost my way.”
“No, we’ll be OK,” she said through clenched teeth. “It says ‘Sunset.’”
“I didn’t mean that way, Travis. What if you’re right and I am chasing up my own arse?” He gave her a sidelong smile. “Christ, you’re like your old man. Do you know that, Travis?”
He could not have given her a better compliment.
When he added, “And just as objectionable,” she started to laugh and so did he, defusing their previous tension. Then he concentrated on the map and started to direct her toward their hotel.
Chapter Eleven
It was even hotter in LA: up in the eighties. Though the Beverly Terrace Hotel was
smaller than the one in San Francisco, it had the advantage of an outdoor pool. Their meeting was scheduled with the LA Police Department for two-thirty, so there was time to unpack, shower, or just relax. Anna decided on a swim and went down to the pool.
She was on her tenth length before she caught sight of Langton. She swam to the steps.
“Do you want me?” she asked.
“Finish your swim.”
“No, it’s all right.”
She shook the drops of water from her hair.
“It’s just, I managed to get an email through to the station,” he said. “You know, asking for an update.”
She was climbing heavily up the steps from the pool, her swimsuit clinging to her damply. He held on to her elbow as she was clambering out.
“Barolli’s getting on to the London company to check out Daniels’s schedule. Whether they gave him any time off during the week of seventh February; say, enough time for a return trip between Cornwall and London.”
She turned toward a sun lounger as he handed her a towel.
“Thanks. What about the dentist who did his work over here?”
“I’m getting in touch with him. The dental lab is emailing him the details. We’ve eventually got to get over to Orange County. That’s where the victim from here was found. So we may have to make contact with their department.”
“Right.”
“I think I’ll follow your example and have a quick dip,” he said, not moving.
“Did you pack your trunks?” she asked.
“Nope, but I’m OK in my jockey shorts.”
He got up and wandered into a changing cubicle. She collected her belongings and finished drying off, waiting for him to come out, as he’d left his jacket and his wallet.
He appeared with a towel round his shoulders and his clothes in a bundle under his arm.
“You look remarkably fit, considering,” she said, rubbing her hair dry.
“Considering what?”
“Well, you smoke too much, and drink, and—do you exercise at all?”
“Do I exercise?” he said mockingly.
“Yes.”
“Used to, few years back.”
“Oh, really?” She feigned ignorance. When she asked if he’d ever played tennis, he shook his head.
“Used to have a racing bike. You ever use that track, not far from where you live? I’d get there sometimes late at night, haul the bike over the fence and ride round in the darkness. Used to clear my head. Not done that for a while, though.”
“Your head that clear now, is it?” she joked.
He cocked his head to one side. “Always fishing, aren’t you, Travis? Well, my head is clear and it’ll be a lot clearer after I’ve had a swim.”
He tossed his clothes onto her sun lounger.
“When you’ve finished, could you take my clothes up to your room? I forgot the credit card thingy and my wallet’s in the jacket.”
He dumped the towel and, after a rather poor dive at the deep end, started to swim a slow crawl. She watched him for a couple of lengths, then picked up his clothes and walked back inside the hotel.
She had just finished drying her hair when he knocked on her door.
“Any developments from the station?” She handed him his clothes.
“Nope. See you later. Say twenty minutes, down at reception.” With that, he left.
His wardrobe was consistently surprising her. By the time she got to the reception area, he had miraculously appeared in a crisp white shirt and light suit. He was wearing dark shades.
They drove to the main, massive LAPD building and after fifteen minutes there got back in the car and drove to Orange County, where they had been informed the police station would be likely to have more details.
The second victim, Marla Courtney, aged twenty-nine, had a long record of prostitution in Los Angeles. She was also a crack addict. Her murder had taken place between the times of their last two victims back home. So, like Trixie’s, Marla’s case was cold.
Marla had last been seen, by a waitress, coming out of the House of Blues on Sunset, in a very drunken state. No one else had come forward to say that they had seen her after that. Langton was given the waitress’s cell-phone number and called her, but her answering service was on, so he hung up.
Her body was found in a known crack area of Orange County. She was, as with their other victims, lying facedown, hands tied, and strangled by her own tights. Anna and Langton spent the rest of the morning driving to the Orange County Police Department and checking the files and mortuary pictures of the dead woman. At four o’clock they left the department to head back to their hotel. They drove up Sunset past the House of Blues and on to the CBS television studios on Beverly Boulevard.
The black receptionist had to use a pencil to dial the internal phone number. She had the longest false nails Anna had ever seen: they curved over like talons. Her hair was braided in a mass of plaits, with colored beads that clanked together every time she moved her head.
“I gotta Detective James Langton and I gotta Anna Travis in reception.” She listened, then addressed them. “You go up to the fourteenth and someone will getchas.”
“Thank you,” Anna said.
They emerged from the lift into a large reception area on the fourteenth floor. A thin young man with round glasses and a face full of pimples approached them. He put his hand out to Anna: “Detective Langton?”
“No.”
“That’s Detective Sergeant Travis,” Langton said tersely. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Langton.”
They followed the young man as he weaved along narrow corridors between rows of desks. Finally they reached a line of offices. By now the sound of phones ringing and actors’ voices on videotape had created an extraordinary wall of sound.
They paused outside the last office as the pimple-faced youth stammered out their names. The person inside the office kept on talking. As they waited, they couldn’t avoid hearing his side of the telephone conversation.
“She wants how much? An hour? You must be joking! No way we could run to that, unless we shoot it in Romania. I am sure she is, but I am going to have to get back to you. Yes, yes, I know she’s just adopted a boy. We’ll arrange to take a nanny, half her fucking household if that’s what she wants, but we cannot agree to that price. Right, right.”
They glimpsed a hand gesturing for them to enter the office. As Anna and Langton stepped in from the corridor, Mike Mullins finished his call.
“Love you, too, babe. Get back to me. Fine, thanks.”
He replaced the phone and stood up.
The room was crammed from floor to ceiling with tapes and scripts and on the side of a very large oak desk was an enormous orchid arrangement. Mike Mullins was short, with a suntan, hair plugs and gleaming white teeth. He was wearing a floral shirt that flopped over his stomach and pale blue jeans. “Right. Now, have you been offered a water, latte, juice or anything?”
“We’re fine,” Langton said.
“Sit down, please.”
They sat side by side on a soft, brown leather couch. Mullins passed a script to the hovering assistant.
“I want four copies of each and white-page them.”
Mullins then eased back round his desk. “I am sorry. I can’t remember why you are here?”
“You made a TV film last year. It was called Out of the System,” Langton answered.
“Oh Christ, yes.”
“It starred an actor called Alan Daniels.”
“Did it?” Mullins said, clasping his hands. “I can’t honestly remember. I must have blanked it from my mind.” His forehead puckered. “Yes, I think he was in it. British, right?”
“Yes, he is.”
Mullins swivelled to face his computer, where he tapped away at the keyboard, muttering to himself the whole time. He then peered closer at the screen. “Of course. I know who it is. Yes. Alan Daniels, but he wasn’t the lead. Yes, I remember him. I couldn’t afford him now.”
>
“Do you have a record of the locations where you would have used him?”
Mullins pursed his lips and then did some clicking on his keyboard. “I’ve got the entire budget here.”
“And the dates Daniels was working?”
Mullins kept clicking his mouse, then finally shook his head. “I know the dates for the entire filming schedule because it’s in the budget. Just not artist by artist, but we filmed over six weeks: start date September twentieth, through to the beginning of November. We were LA based, so I don’t have the location lists.”
He turned, frowning, from his computer screen. “He’s not suing me, is he?”
“No. Could he have been in LA for that entire period of time?”
“Yes, yes, I think so. I’ll get the cast and crew list up for you.”
They waited as he fumbled around. He did a print-off sheet, which he glanced at. “Alan Daniels stayed at the Château Marmont, just off Sunset; I can’t give you the list, as it has private home addresses, et cetera.”
Langton stood. “Thank you; appreciate your time.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“I’m sorry, but we are just making inquiries.”
“About what?”
Langton shook his hand. “Just a routine inquiry. Thank you again.”
Disappointed, Mullins followed them to the door. When it swung open, his startled, stammering assistant jumped from the desk outside.
“He played a detective, I remember that. Blond, very good-looking, isn’t he?”
Anna thanked him for seeing them. Langton had already disappeared.
The Château Marmont was situated off Sunset, on Marmont Drive. It was almost six o’clock when they drove in and gave the keys to the valet parking attendant. Anna was tongue-tied, overawed by the sprawling hotel and its private bungalows. She wondered if they would see any film stars crossing the lobby.
Above Suspicion (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 1) Page 20