Above Suspicion

by Lynda La Plante

“No, thank you. But I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.”

  “Help yourself.” He opened a bottle of soda and poured some into a tumbler half full of Scotch. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Anna. Anna Travis.”

  “Cheers.” He gulped at his whisky and then burped loudly. The chair buzzed over to the open window.

  “I have a return flight,” she said, following him. The floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a terrace. “I have to be at the airport by three.” She was grateful for the slight breeze from the window.

  Southwood gazed out to his empty pool.

  “Is there a reward?”

  “I’m afraid not, no,” she said matter-of-factly, sipping some water.

  Opening a flap on the side of his chair, Southwood took out a pack of cigarettes. Heaving for breath, he lit up. Anna watched his face getting redder as he sucked in the smoke.

  “You said that you had information,” she repeated.

  “Maybe. Sit down.”

  Anna sunk into a large sofa with pale pink floral cushions and gilt fringes hanging loose. She positioned herself away from the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table in front of her. Southwood had aimed his ash toward it, but missed.

  “Who’s heading up the inquiry?” he gasped.

  “DCI James Langton and the chief superintendent is Eric Thompson, Commander Jane—”

  He waved his hand impatiently. “All right, all right…never heard of them. Bloody female commanders now. I know they gotta put the friggin’ women up the ranks, ’cos it’s all discrimination nowadays, but they’re bloody useless. Never met one that knew what she was doing.”

  “How did you hear about the case?”

  He sipped his drink, clutching the glass with puffy fingers stained with nicotine.

  “I was at the dentist. Someone had left some English newspapers. I don’t usually bother with them: out of sight, out of mind. Said you got another Ripper on the loose.”

  “Yes, the media have inferred—”

  “‘The media have inferred,’” he mimicked.

  “If you do have information, I would be most grateful if we could discuss it.” She sat upright as he leaned forward to address her.

  “You telling me there isn’t a reward? With seven victims? I daresay there isn’t one for the old drippers, but this last little girl was lovely.”

  “There is no reward.”

  “Hasn’t her family put one up?”

  Anna put her glass down carefully. “No. As I said, I need to be back at the airport by three, so there really isn’t much time. Please, if you have information…”

  From outside the window there came a screech of laughter and the sound of voices and loud music. Southwood maneuvered his chair round quickly and headed back to the window.

  Sighing with frustration, Anna rose and followed him. She looked outside and was so shocked that she froze, her mouth open.

  A cameraman was filming a blonde girl, stripped naked, lying across a sun lounger, her legs spread open. A naked man’s head was buried in her crotch, another naked man masturbated by her face and a third kissed and sucked her breasts. The hunk stood to one side, yelling directions.

  As Southwood protested, Anna slammed shut the window and dragged the curtain across. “I have not come here to waste my time. If you have any information, then you’d better tell me what it is.”

  Southwood whizzed his chair away.

  “I can tell by looking at you, you’ve never had a decent fuck. Tight-arsed little bitch.”

  “And I can tell by looking at you that you’re not long for this world.”

  Southwood’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  Anna was red-faced with anger. She approached and leaned both hands on the sides of his wheelchair. “Take a look at yourself,” she said scornfully. “You were a bent officer. And now? You go one better. Ex–Vice cop renting out his crumbling wreck for porno flicks. I’ll wager that girl is underage. I could have you picked up by Spain’s Vice Squad, you sick bastard.”

  Southwood pushed her away from him. “You don’t even know the law, pen pusher. Spanish Vice Squad? That’s a fucking joke! You want to lay anything on me, you’d better go back to training school.”

  The sweat was dripping down his face as he buzzed his chair to the front door.

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” he yelled with fury.

  Moments later, Anna stood outside his villa. She knew she had blown it. Explaining why to Langton would be difficult and if Southwood did have vital information, they were unlikely to get it now.

  “That was quick,” Ron said, grinning at her. “Where next?”

  “Back to the airport,” she snapped.

  She was sweating as much as Southwood. Moira had suggested she wear something buttoned to the neck and she had foolishly chosen a cream sweater. It was damp now and clinging to her like a limpet.

  At the airport she had plenty of time on her hands. She sat in the departure lounge, figuring out what she would say to Langton. Maybe she shouldn’t admit to losing her temper; perhaps just say that the cop was a drunkard and had no information.

  At half past six, an announcement came over the loudspeaker. Due to an electrical fault, the last plane to Luton would be delayed. Twenty minutes later, passengers were informed that the flight was canceled; the next available plane to Luton would leave first thing next morning.

  Langton was in a foul mood when Moira tapped and entered his office.

  “Travis won’t be back until the morning.”

  “What?”

  “Just had a text from her. The flight was canceled. Says she’s got nothing from Southwood.”

  Langton shook his head. “Bloody knew it’d be a waste of time. Does this mean we’ll have to pay for an overnight stay? The ticket cost over a hundred pounds.”

  “They’ll sort that out. It’s the airline’s responsibility.” Moira was eager to get home.

  “Tell Lewis I want to see him,” Langton muttered before she closed the door.

  The commander had called asking for an update. They had no DNA from the swabs and although they had the teeth impressions from the lab, even these were of no use without a suspect. Time was against them. Over four weeks had passed since Melissa’s body had been discovered. Her case was getting colder by the day and the longer the inquiry limped on, the less information they could expect to come in.

  Mike Lewis entered, looking glum. “No more phone calls. We’ve still got the lads out. We’ve finished questioning Melissa’s friends and family and none of them have a Merc. It’s drying up, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Langton said, equally depressed. He passed over the lab photographs of the dental impression. “This is all we’ve got. Bastard bit the end of her tongue off.”

  Lewis glanced at the photographs with distaste.

  Langton tapped one of them. “Henson said the sicko was probably biting down on her tongue when he raped her to stop her from crying out.”

  “Bastard,” Lewis said. “Did Anna get any information?”

  “Travis? She’s drinking sangria in a seafront bar, for all I know. Her plane’s delayed. She’s staying overnight.”

  “Shit,” Lewis said. “Wish I’d volunteered.”

  Anna decided that she would return to Southwood’s villa. She couldn’t walk away without at least trying one more time to see what he might have. She went outside the terminal to be confronted by Ron.

  “I just heard yer flight was delayed. Thought you might come out. I can take you to a nice B and B. Very cheap; pal of mine runs it.”

  “No. Take me back to the villa, please.” She sat back in his smelly taxi. She hadn’t a hope in hell of getting another cab, as all the delayed passengers were lined up waiting.

  “You know that bloke you went to see? Does he own that place?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s an ex-cop.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I spoke to a pal of mine.”


  “Did you?”

  “They make porno flicks at his place. That Corniche belongs to a right ponce of a bloke. He directs them. You with the Vice Squad, are you?”

  She closed her eyes, leaning back. “No.”

  “What you doin’ here, then?”

  She sighed. Ron looked at her via his driving mirror.

  “I am part of a murder team,” she said flatly.

  “No kiddin’? You look too young.”

  “Well, that’s as may be.” She was trying to fathom out what she was going to do when she returned to Southwood’s villa. She wondered what her father would have done in her position.

  Ron persisted. “What you want to see him for, then?”

  Anna opened her eyes, her jaw tight. “We are hunting down a serial killer. He says he has information, but he won’t give me anything unless there’s a reward.”

  “Well, you was in and out of there like a blue-arsed fly,” Ron said.

  “He threw me out!”

  “And now you’re going back?”

  “Yes, that’s right, Ron. I am going back.”

  “What you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ron did his “hands off the steering wheel” act and turned to face her. “You know what I’d do?”

  “If you don’t look where we’re going, we’ll both end up in the morgue,” Anna snapped.

  “Sorry. Got me all excited.”

  They drove for a while in silence. Then Ron turned toward her once more. “Threaten him,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Fear makes people talk, love. You gotta make him scared: if you’re shittin’ in yer pants, you talk. I know about these things. That’s why I got out of the Pool. Bizzies there are right bastards: knee in the groin, head-butt and they put it down to trippin’ up the stairs.”

  “Will you please watch the road?” She leaned forward.

  “Sorry. But you should put the pressure on him, love, if he knows about this series killer. You have a go at him!”

  “Thank you, Ron, but I doubt I’d go as far as a knee in his groin.”

  Anna was certain that asking Southwood for his help “nicely” would not produce anything. And she was not about to head-butt him either.

  The main gates to the villa were open, much to Anna’s relief. She instructed Ron to park the taxi outside the gates, not wanting Southwood tipped off that she had returned. Ron got out, eager to accompany her, but she told him to remain by the taxi and wait.

  “I gorra cosh in me glove compartment. For me own safety. You know, if I get a dodgy customer. You want it?”

  “No, thank you. Just wait.”

  In the darkness she seemed small and vulnerable. He watched her straighten her jacket and head up the drive to the house.

  She rang the intercom and before she could speak, Southwood’s gasp rang out.

  “You’re fucking late! Just leave it inside the door.”

  When the front door was buzzed open, Anna stepped inside the house. At first the hall was dark and then it was flooded by a hideous, yellowish light. She heard Southwood’s chair buzzing toward her. Then, a disembodied voice: “You gonna stay an’ have a quick snifter with me, Mario?”

  As the chair wheeled around the corner, Southwood’s face appeared, shocked. “What the fuck is this? I thought you were deliverin’ my booze.”

  Anna shook her head.

  “No such luck, Barry. It’s me again. I am not leaving until you’ve told me what you know. I’m not alone, either. I’ve got a patrol car waiting at the gates.”

  “What?”

  “I can have you arrested, tonight,” she warned.

  “Oh yeah? On what charges? Wetting me pants?”

  “On allowing your premises to be used in the making of pornographic material.”

  Southwood chuckled mirthlessly. “Bullshit. They’re consenting adults and there’s no law against making adult movies. I know, sweetheart, I was on Vice for long enough.”

  “So you admit to allowing your premises to be used for pornographic films?”

  “YES. I gotta earn a living. So if you want to pay for what I know, then we got a deal. If you’ve come to sweet-talk me, then you can piss off. There’s the door, use it.”

  Southwood turned his chair and headed back toward the lounge. Anna stood watching him and, after a moment, followed. The lights, obviously on some kind of timer device, went out.

  Southwood was sitting at the open French windows, lighting a cigarette. In the compartment of his chair was a half-filled bottle of Scotch. She watched him steer his chair out of the room onto the patio, as if to make sure she had left the house. She walked silently to the windows and could hear his chesty cough.

  She stood partly hidden by the curtains as he moved the chair toward a makeshift ramp down the stone steps of the veranda. She edged further forward, just making out the dark shape of Ron’s taxi waiting at the gates.

  As he crossed the patio near the pool, Southwood fumbled for the bottle at the side of his chair. He was so busy trying to open the bottle while at the same time looking toward the gates that his chair veered dangerously close to the side of the swimming pool. When it bumped over a ridge, the worn parapet lifted. She watched silently as he tried to move the chair backward, the bottle smashing to the stone and then breaking.

  “Shit,” he growled, still fumbling with the controls.

  “Need some assistance, Barry?” she asked softly.

  Southwood craned his neck to see her, squinting in the darkness. The chair whirred and buzzed, each motion moving it closer to the edge of the pool.

  “Pull me back, will ya? Me batteries need recharging,” he snarled.

  Anna moved closer, but remained directly behind him.

  Again he swiveled round to try and see her more clearly, but every motion he made now inched the chair closer to the pool.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, what’re you doing?” His voice rose in panic.

  Anna remained silent as he sweated and tried again to get the chair out of the rut.

  “All right. All right. I have information. You get it, if you pull the bloody chair back. Did you hear what I said? PULL THE CHAIR BACK!”

  “I will. But you’d better start talking.”

  “What?”

  “I think you heard me.”

  “I’m gonna fall into the fucking pool,” he shouted.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll hold on to the back of the chair, just to make sure you don’t fall. So the sooner you tell me what you know, the better.”

  Southwood gripped the arms of his chair. “It’s maybe worth shit. For Chrissakes help me out here. I can’t fucking swim, never mind bloody walk.”

  Anna now positioned herself directly behind the chair, as the big man sweated in fear.

  “OK, OK, this is what I’ve got. Just hold on to the chair. Don’t let me get any closer to the edge.”

  Southwood began, sotto voce, alternating between rasping coughs and puffs on his cigarette. Twenty years ago, before he moved to London, he was a DC attached to Vice with Greater Manchester Police. A well-known prostitute called Lilian Duffy had been found dead, strangled with her own stocking. Her hands had been tied behind her back with her bra. Duffy had been raped. She was forty-five.

  Anna listened. She didn’t respond when Southwood asked if it was ringing any bells.

  Southwood continued with his account. Duffy had been arrested numerous times before by the Vice Squad. She had served a short prison sentence for prostitution. Southwood described her as a real hardened whore: a “dripper,” he said. On their files there was an assault charge filed by Duffy a year or so previously. She claimed to have been raped by a man who had picked her up and then tried to strangle her.

  The Vice Squad responded only halfheartedly. Duffy, after all, was a known alcoholic and drug abuser. But she had provided a very good description of her assailant and they began to run it through records. Suddenly, she withdrew
the charges, which had pissed everyone off because of the time already invested. When she was arrested for prostitution again, a female Vice Squad officer had tried to find out why she had withdrawn her charges. Duffy had stunned everyone by claiming “personal reasons”: the assailant attacker was her own son.

  Anthony Duffy, seventeen years of age, was subsequently arrested. He denied attacking his mother. A year later, Lilian Duffy’s body was found in a wooded area, strangled, with her hands tied behind her back. The murder team, now provided with the Vice Squad’s reports, brought in Anthony Duffy for questioning. There were no DNA specialists twenty years ago and with no witness and the body in a badly decomposed condition, they had not pressed charges. Anthony Duffy had been released from custody, though the feeling in the office was that he was guilty.

  Southwood waited for Anna to respond. As he turned, she could see the sweat dripping down his forehead.

  “That’s it. That’s bloody it!” he gasped.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what, for Chrissakes?”

  “Why did you feel that Anthony Duffy was the killer?”

  Southwood wiped his face with the cuff of his shirt.

  “Just a gut feeling. He was a real odd kid, very calm. He had been brought up in foster homes, but around fifteen he traced his mother. She was living with this Jamaican pimp. Had a whole string of girls living in a shit hole in Swinton, on the outskirts of Manchester.”

  “So, was he well brought up? Had he been abused?”

  Southwood was shaking. “Nah. Good education…very intelligent. Come on, now, wheel me back inside. I gotta have a drink.”

  Anna had to really jerk the chair hard to free it from the rut. Southwood yelped with fear, sure she was going to tip him into the pool, but she managed to ease the chair round. He fumbled with the controls, but the battery was now very low. She had to push him back up the ramp. He weighed at least twenty stone, but at last she got him back into his drawing room.

  Anna went behind the bar and poured him a glass of water. He almost snatched the glass from her and gulped it down.

  “Gimme some of that vodka. I’m out of Scotch. That’s why I let you in. I thought you was Mario, the guy that delivers for me. And can you plug in the battery recharger? It’s by the coffee table.”