Above Suspicion at-1

by Lynda La Plante

  Everyone in the room was hanging on his words. You could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘Whilst you have been schlepping around the country, I have been working on the dates.’

  Langton gestured for Jean to draw up the big diagram board. ‘These are the time gaps that have been blocked out.’

  Jean turned over the first sheet of thick white paper.

  ‘I have not included the murder of Lilian Duffy, only the other women, because of their time frame. There are big gaps between the murders, as Mike was saying. Nearly three years in the longest case.’

  Marked up were the names of the victims and beside them the dates. Langton then took the marker from Jean. Beside the time gaps, he wrote in big letters: USA; USA; USA. ‘These dates are when Alan Daniels was filming in the United States.’

  He turned to the room. ‘I don’t know in which US cities, or locations, his filming took place and at this stage I don’t want to go back to Daniels, or his shark of a brief. We’ll go to his theatrical agent. But once I know the cities he was filming in, I will be enquiring Stateside to find out if they had any victims found with our MO.’

  Anna sat back in her chair. Langton never ceased to amaze her. She had watched him quietly wipe the floor with all of them and by the end, there wasn’t a man or woman in the room who didn’t feel the same awed respect that she did.

  ‘Travis!’ Langton gestured towards his office. When Anna grabbed her notebook, she suddenly noticed the doodles covering one page. Before closing the book, she quickly ripped out the page with the rows of hearts. She was irritated to find herself acting like a schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher.

  She closed the office door. He had his back to her. ‘What do you think, Travis?’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I could also be wrong.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He turned, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

  ‘Thank you for backing me up in there.’

  ‘I think everyone has come round,’ she said.

  ‘I appreciate it.’ He looked at his watch: ‘I’m seeing the agent at half past eight. He said by then he will have the information I asked for. I’ll pick you up at your place.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Good work in Leicester and—’ He cocked his head to one side, studying her. ‘What’s going on?’

  She lowered her eyes, selfconsciously.

  ‘Is there something odd about the right shoulder of your jacket?’ She made a swiping movement with her hand. ‘It looks like a stain, or something.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just, erm, it was in the sun in the shop window. Oh, God, is it that noticeable?’

  ‘Only from a certain angle,’ he smiled. ‘Where you were sitting, you had the light from the window behind you. With your red hair, you looked like a friendly little beacon.’

  She was silent, nonplussed.

  ‘OK, that’s it for now. I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  ‘See you in the morning, sir.’

  ‘No, Travis.’ He gave an impatient sigh. ‘Tonight!’

  After Anna had left his office, she paused in the corridor outside. Well, she decided, better to be noticed as a friendly little beacon than not be noticed at all.

  Chapter Nine

  Being a neat and methodical person, Anna took the rubbish out every Monday, did her laundry every Tuesday and until now had required no cleaner for the rest, as the flat was so compact. Nevertheless, times had changed. At ten to eight when her doorbell rang, she was eating an impromptu dinner of cornflakes, having arrived home from the station half an hour before, with just enough time to change her shirt and freshen her make-up.

  As she hurried to open the door, she spilled the last dregs of milk and cornflakes down her skirt. She swore and with a tea towel wiped herself furiously. There was another sharp ring of the bell. Noticing the small fluffy bits left behind on her skirt, she chucked the tea towel aside, grabbed her bag and opened the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said breathlessly.

  She followed the uniformed driver towards the patrol car. Langton sat in the front seat, reading the Evening Standard. He addressed her without looking up.

  ‘We’re going to see a Mr Duncan Warner. He couldn’t give us an earlier appointment. He’s been making calls to the States to double check a few things, so with the time difference …’

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said, surreptitiously picking off bits of fluff from her skirt. She noticed he had shaved and changed his shirt and wondered if he kept a wardrobe in the office.

  ‘Did you get home?’ she asked. She had no idea where he actually lived.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Is it too far away?’

  He looked up from his newspaper and faced the road ahead.

  ‘As a matter of fact, it’s not far from you. Kilburn.’

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled; bit by bit she was discovering more about his private life. She wanted to ask exactly where, but restrained herself.

  They drove into the West End and entered Wardour Street. They parked outside a four-storey office building, with AI Management printed in tasteful lettering on the glass door.

  Down the staircase inside came a tall, slim girl with a short, tight black skirt and white silk blouse. She looked exactly the way Anna would like to look if she was five inches taller.

  ‘Do you want to come this way?’ she said, smiling as she let them in. ‘It’s only two floors up.’

  Anna couldn’t help noticing her incredibly white teeth. Her blonde hair was cut with a low fringe and the rest of it was caught in a slide at the back. That was how Anna would have liked her hair to look if it wasn’t short and curly and red.

  ‘I’m Mr Warner’s secretary.’ She shook Langton’s hand. ‘Jessica.’

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Travis,’ he gestured towards Anna.

  ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ Jessica asked once they were in the AI office.

  ‘No, we’re fine, thank you,’ Langton said reassuringly.

  There was an undercurrent of something in the atmosphere. Anna just wasn’t sure what it was.

  ‘I’ll tell Mr Warner you are here.’

  Langton surveyed the reception area, its walls lined with film posters and client photographs. He seemed taken with a poster of a haunted house; the windows had enlarged, frightened eyes peering from behind them. The title of the film, Come Home, Emma, was slashed across the poster. He moved closer to read the small print and then turned to Anna. ‘He’s in this. Looks like a load of old tosh.’

  Anna walked over. During the day, she thought, this area would probably be a hive of activity, but at night there was something eerie about the quietness. The door to Warner’s office opened. Jessica, backing out, said: ‘I’ll see you in the morning. G’night.’ She turned, opening the door wider. ‘Would you like to go in?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Langton said. As they passed, Jessica flashed her teeth again, then she was gone.

  The office was large, dominated by a massive desk. There were scripts crammed into bookcases and piled on the floor. Lining every available space on the walls were actors’ photographs, most with messages scrawled across: ‘To darling Duncan—; ‘To the best—’, ‘To my beloved Duncan—’

  The ‘Duncan’ referred to was balding, fifty-ish and wore a pair of steel-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His attire included a silk shirt, cord trousers and old, worn carpet slippers. A pair of his shoes was placed by the side of his desk.

  ‘Come in, sit down.’ He seemed very affable. ‘Now: tea, coffee or a glass of wine?’

  ‘Nothing, thanks.’ Langton sat down, but Anna responded, smiling: ‘I’d love a glass of water, please.’

  ‘Right, water it is.’ He crossed to a fridge and opened it. ‘I am obviously very concerned.’ He took out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap and passed it to Anna. ‘And, to be honest, not quite sure what this all means.’

  ‘Thank yo
u,’ she said. They sat down on a low, black leather sofa. She positioned herself as far from Langton as possible to give him space. Warner sat in a high-backed swivel chair. Behind the desk was a black pug dog on a cushion. Its huge, watery eyes had blinked at Anna when she entered the room, but otherwise it had been so still, it could have been a stuffed animal. When Warner returned to his chair, the dog, as if offering proof it was a living creature, half turned its head before flopping down on its cushion and going to sleep.

  Feeling uncomfortable in such a low position, Langton tried leaning forward. ‘We want to protect your client as much as possible, which is why I asked to see you here. At the moment I can’t really give you details. I just wanted to let you know that in order to avoid publicity, we need to get certain information, information that will hopefully eliminate your client from our enquiries.’

  ‘Is it fraud?’

  ‘We would prefer not to disclose the reasons. As I said, we might be able to very quickly eliminate Mr Daniels from the enquiry.’

  ‘Does he know you have come to see me?’

  ‘Not unless you have told him.’

  ‘Me? Oh no, I haven’t said a word. It’s just — well, you can understand why I am concerned. Alan has just finished filming. Next week there’s a number of things we’re negotiating. How serious is this?’

  ‘It is very serious. But as I have said, it could be a misunderstanding and rather than make this public, I felt this was the best route we could take.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am sure it is. But you do understand why I am nervous about any police enquiry? I mean, is it a sexual thing?’

  ‘Partly. Yes, it is.’

  ‘Christ, it’s not little kids, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. If it was that, then, you know, I wouldn’t give a shit what happened to him. I can take just about anything, but not that.’ Warner started rubbing his head agitatedly. ‘If you knew what scrapes I’ve had to get some of the stupid buggers out of and it’s not just the men.’ He opened a cigar box, proffered it to Langton. ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘So Alan doesn’t know?’

  Langton balanced himself on the end of the sofa. ‘We have had one interview with him.’

  ‘He’s been in to see you?’

  ‘Yes, accompanied by his solicitor.’

  ‘So, this is serious. And you say it’s not fraud?’

  ‘No, it is not fraud.’

  ‘And it’s nothing to do with kids. Is it porno, that kind of thing?’

  Anna could feel Langton’s impatience. It was obvious that Warner would continue his fishing trip, until he was satisfied.

  ‘It’s a murder enquiry. Now could we please get to why I am here?’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘You said you would be able to supply me with a list of dates.’

  Warner’s face had drained of colour. ‘Is he a witness? A suspect? Or what?’

  ‘At the moment he is just helping our enquiries. You can understand now why we have not made this public’

  ‘Oh yes; right.’

  ‘If it was out in the open, it could create very unpleasant publicity.’

  ‘I understand, I understand. Then there’s the whole immigration problem.’ Warner was sweating. ‘I’ve got one star they won’t let into the States, because when he was a student he was arrested for smoking a joint.’

  Langton stood up. ‘Do you have the information for me?’

  Warner nodded. ‘I was on to LA when you arrived. I was able to check the other dates from my own records. One film was shot in San Francisco and another in Chicago. These weren’t leading roles. Alan is yet to break it big over there — ‘ he was opening his desk drawer — ‘but it’s beginning to happen. I didn’t get this typed up, though I can if you want.’

  Warner handed Langton a handwritten page of foolscap paper.

  ‘No, that’ll be fine. Thank you.’

  When they returned to their car and driver, Anna looked up at the lit window on the second floor. She tapped Langton’s arm. ‘He’s on the phone. I bet any money he’s repeating it all to someone else.’

  ‘Probably his boyfriend,’ Langton said lightly, getting into the car. Langton gave the driver instructions to drop Anna home first. Then, as they drove off, he silently checked the dates against a list in his own notebook. After a while, he snapped the notebook closed triumphantly.

  ‘The gaps between the murders all coincide with periods of time Alan Daniels was filming in the States.’

  ‘How long was he there for, each time?’

  ‘It varies. Sometimes five weeks, other times just two and there was one long stretch of six months.’

  Langton passed Anna his notebook and the sheet of paper from Warner. She started looking over them.

  ‘I’ll get on to the US tonight and start the ball rolling,’ he said, staring out the window. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Might have to take a trip myself

  ‘To the States?’

  ‘No, Travis, the moon!’

  She handed him the notebook, which he replaced in his pocket. When his mobile phone rang, he checked the caller ID before he answered it. ‘Hi. Should be with you in about three-quarters of an hour.’ He listened, then said quietly, ‘That sounds good. Or we can go and get something to eat at the Italian.’

  Anna had wondered if she should offer to cook him something. Now, she pressed back into her seat, looking out of the window, as he continued what was obviously an intimate conversation. He laughed softly before switching off the phone.

  . ‘You want the newspaper?’ he asked without looking back at her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He extended the paper backwards over his shoulder.

  They didn’t speak again for the rest of the journey. Langton went to sleep. When the car stopped to drop her off at her home, he briefly woke to grunt goodnight. It was almost a quarter to ten. She wondered who was waiting to have dinner with him. Whoever it was, she did a good job ironing his shirts.

  Anna’s flat had only one bedroom with an en-suite bathroom, a large living room and a small kitchen. The carpets throughout were a soft oatmeal colour. There was plenty of cupboard space, which made her happy. It was a very orderly apartment, reflecting little of who Anna was, perhaps because she was still unsure of that herself.

  This was the first time she had bought her own place instead of renting. After her father died, she could not bear to live in the old garden flat in Warrington Crescent, Maida Vale. But Anna had not moved too far from her old home and that had a comfort value. She knew the local newsagent, the post office and the small community knew her. She liked that.

  In the shower, Anna chided herself for trying to find out more about Langton’s private life, especially since he had demonstrated no interest in hers. Why should he? She was just his DS, with a crap haircut and an irregular suit. She had just stepped out of the shower and was towelling herself dry when her phone rang. She jumped and quickly checked the time. She wondered who would be calling her at this hour.

  ‘Travis?’ his familiar voice drawled.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We got a hit: body found in San Francisco with the same MO. They’ll be sending in details tomorrow. Thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s—’

  But he had already hung up. She looked down at the receiver still in her hand. Well, she thought, at least he wasn’t having a candlelit dinner with his girlfriend in some groovy Italian restaurant. She flopped on to her bed happily. She gave her goodnight glance to her father’s photograph. ‘Sorry, Dad. I just fancy him rotten!’

  When she closed her eyes to sleep, her father’s words came back to her. ‘If you ever become a copper, sweetheart, best not to get married. You’ll never find a man as understanding as your mother.’ He was standing with his arms wrapped around her mother. He had been working on a case and they had not seen him for days. Her mother never seemed upset by his lengthy
disappearing acts, or jealous of his work. She would simply use the time to write her journal, or to paint.

  Isabelle had just laughed at him, saying she hoped he wasn’t advising their daughter to turn gay, since that was the only way she’d get a partner with a skirt.

  Her parents’ banter had fascinated her as a child. Theirs was a strong relationship, built on a foundation of trust that now, as an adult, she wondered whether she would ever find. They were obviously in love, yet neither seemed dependent on the other. Her mother was very self-sufficient and took Jack’s absences in her stride, certainly more than young Anna did.

  Anna wondered if she would ever acquire that same independence in a relationship. So far she had hardly been able to maintain a relationship at all. She was her father’s daughter, married to the job. Until DCI Langton had slammed the door open and walked into her life.

  The next morning the incident room was abuzz with the news from San Francisco that a body killed using the same MO had been found in a very decomposed state, strangled with her own tights and with her hands knotted behind her back by her underwear. Her name was Thelma Delray and she was a prostitute, aged twenty-four.

  The approximate time period of the American murder fitted within the lengthy gap between two of the English victims. There had been no witness, or DNA and without a suspect the case had been left open on file.

  The fact that they knew their suspect was in San Francisco at the same time was not enough to warrant his arrest. However, Langton ordered one of the enquiry team to obtain a magistrate’s warrant to search Alan Daniels’s premises. The following evening they received an email from Chicago.

  There was another victim, this one slotted in the time gap between the murders of Barbara Whittle and Beryl Villiers, when Alan Daniels was in the same area. The buzz was getting stronger; this was too much to be coincidence. The woman was found on waste ground. Same MO. She was a well-known prostitute, Sadie Zadine. Her body had not been discovered for six months. The pattern of the murder, the type of victim, was virtually identical.