Above Suspicion (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 1)

by Lynda La Plante

  Anna interrupted. “Could you please tell me about—”

  He slapped the table again. “Don’t fucking interrupt me again! I am giving you your motive, you stupid bitch. If you want it, you have to listen. Listen to what she subjected me to. Then you’ll understand, then someone will understand, why I killed her.”

  “We have a report here from the social workers that visited—”

  “Bullshit! I’m not interested. Bunch of wankers. I went to school with bruises on my legs, but they were just the sort you get when you’re a kid and you ‘fall down the stairs.’ Broken ribs, broken arms—you get those when you’re a kid and you ‘play in the street with rowdy children.’ They did nothing! Except make my life worse. After they came round, she’d beat the living daylights out of me. I slept in an airing cupboard on a piss-stained mattress and she would lock me there for days and nights to teach me a lesson.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “There was a crack in the wooden slats I’d pick at to get some light. It was in the bathroom facing the toilet. For want of nothing else to do, I’d watch those whores washing their cunts, shaving their armpits. They’d use this rubber douche to wash out their stinking fannies, their sticky semen-filled arses. They’d wash their filthy underwear and hang their dripping tights and their sweat-stained bras on a clothesline above the bath. I’d watch them shoot up, burn their drugs, snort stuff up their noses. I’d see their so-called boyfriends fucking them against the wall, their pimps, big black bastards with shiny gleaming arses, pumping away at them and not one—not one—ever thought to unlock the cupboard and let me out.”

  “These other women—”

  Again he slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “How many times do I have to say it, Anna? She wouldn’t let me go because when I got to seven, she was able to make money out of me. Do you have any idea how she made money out of a little boy, her own son?”

  Anna had to listen to such stories of depravity and horrific sexual abuse that her mind was reeling. He described being forced to have anal sex with men, being photographed sucking men off and the confusion he experienced as a young child being sexually aroused by women sucking his penis. He was expected to perform for any sick pervert that his mother could hook into paying big money for the privilege of screwing her own son, and if he refused to cooperate he was beaten, then locked up in the dark cupboard. He was saved by a schoolteacher who was supervising the boys’ showers after a football match. His bruises and the marks to his wrists were obvious; he’d had to be tied up for anal penetration. The schoolteacher reported the abuse.

  Daniels closed his eyes, describing what it had felt like to be taken away and how, for a while, he had had respite from the abuse. But Lilian Duffy proved able to persuade Social Services that her son should be returned to her care. He joked that perhaps he had inherited his talent from his mother. “Knowing how much money she was able to make out of me, she was inspired to give an Oscar-winning performance of motherly love. They took me back to a life of hell.”

  Though he described being taken screaming from “the only real family I had ever known,” Daniels showed only cold anger toward the foster carers. He finally found sanctuary on reaching an age when his testimony could incriminate his mother. Then came the proposed school trip, which required a passport. How his mother had rubbed his nose in the fact that his father could have been any one of a hundred men. He recalled desperately searching for his mother and how he was enraged to find her up against a punter in an alley.

  “She didn’t even recognize me. The whore was pissed out of her mind.” He started to laugh. “Anyway, he left and I grabbed her by the throat and pushed her against the wall. I raped her; I tore into her; I wanted to rip her apart.”

  In the file in front of her, Anna had all the statements referring to the incident. Statements taken from ex-detective Southwood, McDowell and the officer they had interviewed in Manchester. All had different versions, different perspectives of the same attack on Lilian Duffy. Lost in the fire at the police station would have been the original statement from Lilian Duffy herself, but only now did they get the actual wretched, blow-by-blow account from her son.

  Daniels looked at his hands, rubbed at a fingernail. “The dripping bitch reported me. So, I went round to that shit hole they all lived in and I shoved her in the airing cupboard. See how she liked it! Kept her there all night, too, until she promised to withdraw the charges. Soon as I let her out, the old bitch went in and identified me. So I had to beat her up again.”

  Daniels described how she withdrew charges the next day. He gave a wide, expansive gesture. “She was frightened of me by then. The tables had turned. Payback time. I started to plan exactly how I would kill her.”

  His expression became gleeful as he continued quietly: “You see, I borrowed a mate’s car—an old Rover, it was. I waited. I watched her patrolling her patch. Stopping the punters. Ducking and diving.” He mimed rolling down a car window. “Out of her head, she was. Couldn’t even walk straight.” He put on a foreign accent: “Hello, darling. You a working girl? You wanna ride with me?”

  He rocked back in his chair. “She only got in, didn’t she? Anyways, she says, ‘Anthony, what you playing at?’ And I said, ‘I liked fucking you. I want to do it again. I’ve got moves.’ ‘Oh, you naughty boy,’ she says. She starts to undo her shirt. I says no, I want her to lay down, I want to do it properly; not up against some wall or in a back-street alley, but like I was a real man, wanting to make love. I showed her a wad of cash. Anyway, she was creaming herself.

  “I drove to this wasteground. We climb out of the car and she starts undressing fast, like she’s really wanting it. And then I say, ‘Take off your bra, Mama.’ And she undoes her bra. ‘I’m going to do it like I’ve seen you like it.’ Then I tie her hands tight, she was into that. We keep on walking, me pushing her in front. Then she lies down, legs apart. And she is all eager, saying she will do anything I want, she loves me and I tell her she’s beautiful and I take her stinking tights off.”

  Daniels put his head to one side and looked at Anna with a winsome smile. “So, here’s my mum: lying there as I ease off these tights, smiling as I wind them round her neck—once, twice—and I’m saying, ‘I know you like it this way,’ and she giggles.” Daniels held his hands apart and then he drew them together. “Well, it got tighter and tighter, didn’t it, and more and more uncomfortable. So she starts struggling. I leaned in close, closer, wanting to watch her die, and I tied them in a knot. And then I leaned up and sat astride her, watching her gasping and choking. She couldn’t stop me: her hands were tied behind her back.”

  “Did you have sexual intercourse with her?” Anna knew they had no DNA, as the victim’s body was so decomposed.

  “Oh, yeah, I fucked her. I made sure she was watching as I strangled her. But my timing was off. I hadn’t perfected it by then, you see. She died before I came.” Daniels burst out laughing. “My dick went flat as a pancake. But when I was lying on top of her, watching the light go out of her eyes, I thought how it was the perfect justice. She was my first.”

  Anna asked him to pinpoint on a map exactly where the killing had taken place. He frowned as he peered at the map, then turned it round. “Oh, right. Here we are. There’s the bus shelter just there and then a housing estate about a mile up that road.”

  He picked up one of Anna’s pencils and carefully marked the area with a cross. He passed the map and the pencil back to her. “In the nick, this slob interviewed me for hours.”

  “Was his name Southwood?” Anna interjected.

  “Yeah, that’s him. I recognized him. Well, it was family night. He’d shafted my mother, like most of Manchester. But they had nothing on me, so’s they had to let me go.”

  Anna was intrigued by the way his voice changed from his well-modulated upper-class tone to a northern accent and back again. In the accent of his early childhood, the timber of his voice was rough with a strong nasal twang. She remembered an impo
rtant question she had planned to ask him. “Did you retain any keepsake from the murder of your mother?”

  “What?”

  “On the night she was murdered, did you take anything from her?”

  Daniels nodded. “I see where you’re going. Yeah, she’d left her handbag in the car: twenty-two quid, a few skins and her makeup. I used to make myself up with her stuff. It was a turn-on, you know?”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It reminded me of watching her die.”

  “Do you still have this handbag?”

  He wagged his finger at her. “Yes, yes. I still got it.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Maybe tell you later.”

  “It is important that you tell me now.”

  “Why?”

  “It provides evidence that what you have been telling me is the truth.”

  “Don’t you believe me, Anna?” he asked, innocently batting his eyelashes.

  “You could have been acting throughout this entire interview. After all, you are a very famous actor, Mr. Daniels,” she said smoothly, though her insides were churning.

  “Oh, right, I see. In my bathroom there’s a big cupboard: fitted, glass panels, made especially to my specifications. Take everything out. There’s a panel at the back that comes off. That’s where the rest of them are. You lot would never have found them without me. You already searched my place, didn’t you, and came up empty-handed? Oh, and write this down, Anna. I took out three of them and hid them at McDowell’s place.”

  Langton got up and left the room. Anna mentioned for the benefit of the tape that Detective Chief Inspector Langton had left the interview room. Daniels watched the door close.

  Anna had selected the Kathleen Keegan file and took out her photograph. “Could you please identify this woman, Mr. Daniels?”

  He gave it a cursory glance. “Kathleen Keegan. A disgusting old bitch and that is a flattering photograph. She weighed eighteen stone, the bloated old cow. An even worse piece of shit than my mother.”

  “Did you murder Kathleen Keegan?”

  He grinned back, placing arms outstretched on the table. “You bet your sweet pussy I did, Anna.”

  Outside, Langton was having a quiet confab with Lewis. He instructed Lewis to arrange for a car to stand by. He checked his watch and said they would take a break at four o’clock. Then they would take Daniels to his flat and search it with his solicitor present.

  “How is she doing?” Lewis asked.

  “She’s doing OK,” Langton said quietly. “But she’ll need a break soon.”

  When Langton returned to his seat in the interview room, Daniels winked at him and then he nodded at Anna.

  “She’s been asking how I got Kathleen to come with me. You’ve not missed much. I told Kathleen there was this rich bloke I knew, an Arab, and he wanted a woman with a belly. The bitch really believed me. And she got herself all done up. This time I had borrowed a mate’s van. He was a painter and decorator. So I took out his ladders and stuff and put a blanket in the back. She kept on patting my leg with her fat hands, saying she’d give me a good cut of what she made. Her fingers were like bananas, gripping onto me.” He gave a hard, low laugh.

  Daniels went on to describe the disgusting murder of Kathleen Keegan; he had told her to get into the rear of the van and wait for the Arab. He said she had virtually stripped off in readiness by the time he got into the back and told her to lie facedown; the Arab was on his way. “She was so strong, even with her hands tied behind her back.” Laughingly, he painted a picture of himself hauling “this beached whale” from the back of the van and how she’d bounced over the rough grass. “It was no easy trip, let me tell you; she was like a fucking lead balloon. By then, I was exhausted and I didn’t want to do me back in, like, so I just left her there.”

  “Did you have sexual intercourse with Kathleen Keegan?”

  “Once, for old times’ sake. I wanted her to watch me as I wound her tights round her fat neck. She took a long time to die, so I was knackered by the time I brought the van back to my mate’s. I gave him a tenner out of her handbag. He said to me, ‘What you been doing? You’re sweating like a pig.’ And I said to him, ‘That’s just what I’ve been doing, mate: a pig.’”

  Radcliff’s face had gone gray. He was unable to deal with his client’s monologues and the obvious relish with which he told them; the images they evoked would haunt him forever. Daniels was seldom interrupted by Anna but when it happened, he angrily warned her he would not continue his confession if she didn’t shut up and listen.

  Staying attentive without showing any sign of emotion was beginning to take its toll. Anna was finding Daniels’s need for her undivided attention stressful. Sometimes when he leaned toward her he came so close she could feel his breath on her face.

  Yet again, when shown the map of the area where Kathleen Keegan was found, he was able to pinpoint the exact location he had dumped her body. When Anna asked for details of where he was residing at the time of the murder, he was less cooperative, simply saying he had moved around and taken various jobs, but did not come to London permanently for another four years. He then told how he had started going to the theater as a teenager.

  “Do you know the Manchester Library Theatre?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said.

  “I got a job there as a cleaner. I could watch rehearsals and see the show for free every night if I wanted. That’s when I knew I’d found what I wanted to do with my life.” Daniels described taking drama lessons and landing bit parts.

  “The director took me aside. ‘Anthony,’ he said to me, ‘you’ve got real talent. You should take this up as a profession.’”

  He leaned back expansively. “I done better than most of the actors that were there. I changed my name for starters. There was another actor called Duffy and I hated the name anyway. So I became Alan Daniels and I went to London. Got an Equity card by then, from all the work I’d done at the theater, so I started looking for an agent and stuff like that.”

  Anna sneaked a glance at the clock before taking out the picture of the next victim, Teresa Booth. She laid the photo down. “Do you know this woman, Mr. Daniels?”

  “Oh, am I boring you? Don’t you want to hear about my television roles? How I got to be famous?”

  “Could you please answer the question, Mr. Daniels.”

  He sighed with irritation. “That’s Teresa Booth and you’re all mixed up: I killed her before.”

  He leaned over and jabbed a photograph. “After Teresa, I done Sandra Donaldson. And she had it coming to her!”

  “Did you murder Sandra Donaldson?”

  “Yes, I did. She was a pain in the arse, always drugged up. She had the nerve to come to the stage door one night and she says to me, ‘Tony, I need some dough. Can you help me out?’” Daniels yawned, rubbing his head, then rested his chin in his hands, his elbows propped up on the table. “She had this PVC mac on, white high-heeled shoes, and her face looked like a clown’s.”

  “This was in London?”

  “Yes. She was constantly being picked up in Manchester for prostitution so she’d started to travel to London at weekends. I was working at the Player’s Theatre, doing stagehand stuff to earn a living, some bits of TV, nothing very exciting yet. She must have seen me going into the theater. I don’t know how else she’d have found me.”

  Daniels described how he had cajoled Sandra to come with him, saying he knew a client who would pay her top money. He shook his head. “These tarts are so stupid. This one in particular didn’t have much between the ears.”

  He marked a cross on the map to show the area of the park where he had met her and described in detail where he had taken her from there. “I done her with the tights and the bra, just like the others.” He told them how he had dumped the body.

  “The silly bitch had almost thirty quid on her. So I had that and I got a taxi back to my digs. Next day, I got a call from my agent and he’s got this big auditi
on, for a television series.”

  Langton stood up. “I believe we should break now.”

  “Oh, the man speaks,” Daniels said sarcastically.

  “We can continue this interview in the morning.”

  As Anna was washing her face, Moira came into the ladies and said that she was wanted in the incident room. Daniels had refused to return to the Queen’s Gate house unless accompanied by Anna.

  “Now?” She felt totally drained.

  “They want to search his place before they reconvene.”

  “Oh, OK. Moira, can you tell them I’ll be right out. I just need a moment.”

  Moira touched her shoulder. “This must be pretty awful. Anna, if you ever need to talk things through, I’m always available.”

  “Thank you,” Anna said gratefully.

  “Keep going, darlin’.” Moira gave her a quick hug. “We’re all behind you. One hundred percent.”

  Once Moira had left, Anna had an overwhelming feeling of wanting to scream.

  Daniels, handcuffed, sat beside Anna in the back of the patrol car. There had been a gathering of press outside the police station when they left and Anna could see more of them waiting in the street outside his house.

  “Shit,” Langton said. Daniels’s head was lolling forward. “Do you want a blanket to cover your face, Mr. Daniels?”

  “What?” He woke up abruptly.

  “The press are out in force. We can cover your head.”

  Daniels followed Langton’s gaze through the window. “No thanks.” He did an impression of Gloria Swanson, throwing his hair back. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. de Mille.”

  As Daniels was led up the front steps of his house, the uniformed officers kept the press back. Even with his hands cuffed in front of him, he was smiling and probably would have posed for photographs had Langton not ushered him inside. The flash of cameras was blinding and Anna was reminded by the yells and shouts of their night at the ballet.