Above Suspicion

by Lynda La Plante

  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 inquiry 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 wasteground. 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.

  Still there was the commander to keep in the loop. She had taken a very keen interest in the inquiry and wished to be kept up to date on any new developments. The evidence they had, however, was still only circumstantial, that Alan Daniels happened to be in both areas at the time of the murders. With no DNA and no witnesses, it would never make it to trial.

  On the third day, they received news from Los Angeles; their third hit. Their victim was younger: Marla Courtney, a heroin addict, aged twenty-nine. Same MO: strangled and trussed with her own underwear. The LAPD emailed photographs of the victim in situ, including close-ups of the method of strangulation. All three U.S. victims had been raped and showed signs of anal penetration. None of them displayed bite marks, or appeared to have been gagged. Still, there was not one witness, not one shred of evidence that could lead them straight to the perpetrator. None of the American victims had been linked, until now. Marla Courtney’s time of death fitted in between victims six and seven, Mary Murphy and Melissa Stephens.

  The Gold Group had decided that, given the high profile of their suspect, the inquiry team must seek approval at every stage of the investigation. Langton was almost apoplectic with rage and frustration when he was refused permission to arrest Alan Daniels. His superiors agreed it was highly “coincidental,” but there was not one shred of evidence that physically linked Daniels to the murders, nor did the fact that Daniels had been in the vicinity prove his guilt. Neither did the possibility he may have known all the U.K. victims. The commander was very apprehensive about criticism from the media, should it transpire that they were wrong about Daniels. The word “circumstantial” was bounced around harder than a cricket ball.

  The profiler, Michael Parks, was brought back in. He looked over the chart, nodding occasionally. “It’s as I expected: the killer never stopped and the victims are getting younger. Since Melissa, whose tongue was bitten, it is quite likely the murders will become more violent. He’s worked this down to a fine art. He is not going to stop, that is for sure.”

  Parks’s inability to provide further insight made Langton even more obsessive. His office door was banging continuously through the next days as the team gathered details from the U.S., requesting as much information as possible to be sent over. Langton’s new concern was that if Alan Daniels returned to the States for his next job, he might disappear. Even with his high profile, they might never find him again.

  “It isn’t fucking England. He could just keep moving from state to state over there.”

  Being constantly told they did not have any proof was frustrating the entire team now. “Let me fucking search his flat. I’ll get the proof,” Barolli muttered.

  It wasn’t until four-thirty, Thursday, that they were given the go-ahead: a search warrant had been issued.

  This was the chance Langton had been waiting for. He called in the POLSA “specialist” search teams to assist, though it seemed unlikely they would uncover any forensic evidence since none of the murders had been committed at Daniels’s flat.

  At the briefing, Langton told them they were looking for anything whatsoever that could tie into the murders. They had to be diligent.

  Langton ordered them to arrive in visible patrol cars. Barolli and Langton went ahead. Travis and Lewis followed. Lewis was constantly on his mobile to his pregnant wife, who was over nine months gone. Lewis had been in a state about it for days.

  They convened outside the Queen’s Gate house. They knew from the two officers on round-the-clock surveillance that Daniels was at home and that he had seen them arrive: one of them had seen him look out from the bay window. The foursome, plus two more from POLSA, moved up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. Without any exchange on the intercom, the front door buzzed open.

  As Langton and his detectives entered the hall, Daniels appeared at his front door, his face drawn and angry. “Well, you couldn’t make yourselves more obvious if you tried. I was expecting you to use a sledgehammer to open the door!”

  Langton presented him with a copy of the search warrant, which he read carefully before allowing them into his apartment.

  “Well, come in, I suppose,” he said flatly. “Be advised, if any damage occurs, I will sue. There are some very valuable items, so I’d advise you to be as careful as possible.”

  Daniels gestured for the police to file past him. Once they were inside the flat, he closed the front door and asked abruptly, “Where do you want to start?”

  “Wherever is convenient to you,” Langton said coolly.

  “Nowhere is convenient,” Daniels drawled sarcastically. “But I suppose you can start in the bedrooms”—he nodded toward the bank of stained-glassed windows—“and I’ll continue my work in the drawing room.”

  He turned on his heel and disappeared through the door to the drawing room.

  “Some place.” Barolli looked around in awe.

  Lewis was peering at an oil painting. Over his shoulder he said, “You could fit my flat into this room.”

  Langton exited the dining room. He turned left into a small corridor. The others were virtually at his heels as they entered a small, well-equipped kitchen. Expensive cutlery, crockery and cooking utensils were stored in shiny white cupboards, with the lighting hidden in strips behind cornicing.

  “Check this out,” he ordered Anna crisply. She went to work.

  Lewis had opened another door and was looking in. “Bloody check this bathroom out: marble, sunken bath, like a palace.”

  Barolli and Langton caught up with him and looked into the exquisite, tasteful bathroom. It was wood-paneled with elegant bowls of soap and perfumes lined up alongside rows of candles in squat silver bowls.

  Lewis left them to examine the bathroom and stopped in front of a door with stained-glass panels. After he disappeared inside, Langton heard him gasp, “You better come in here and look at this.”

  Langton and Barolli quickly joined him. The room was sumptuous: there was a grand piano, two velvet sofas and a glass-topped coffee table with art books piled upon it. But the highlight was the vaulted, stained-glass ceiling, from which different-colored lights shimmered over the white-paneled, vastly proportioned room.

  “There was nothing in the kitchen. It didn’t look as if it was used; well, the cooker didn’t,” Anna said, joining them. The three men were silent, standing in awe as she continued: “The fridge is stocked with fresh fruit and vegetables and—my God, this is so beautiful!”

  Langton murmured, “Go upstairs—start up there.”

  “Right.”

  Anna moved cautiously up the narrow, winding staircase leading to the upper floor, where there were two bedrooms: a master suite and bathroom and a guest suite. The master bedroom was almost as large as the entertaining area below. The four-poster bed was made of heavy oak, with draped panels of the palest green. The walls were also washed green and there were banks and banks of floor-to-ceiling wardrobes. Built inside one was a mirrored dressing table, perfumes and oils neatly lined up. The room was immaculate and smelled of a light perfume.

  Anna searched the clothes, their pockets, the turnups in
the trousers, the racks of handmade shoes. All the shoes had fitted heavy wood inserts to retain their perfect shape. Only the velvet, monogrammed slippers looked worn. There were three pairs: pale green, royal blue and black. She held a slipper in her hand. It was hard to believe its owner was once Anthony Duffy, the child of a beat-up prostitute called Lilian.

  She patted and checked the rows of cashmere sweaters and silk shirts. The bedside tables held books, mostly historical, no paperbacks. She lifted the green silk bedspread, to find it was lined with dark green cashmere. Alan Daniels certainly knew how to live. She noted the absence of knickknacks and memorabilia.

  When she stripped the bed, the sheets looked fresh and laundered. She found nothing in the bedroom. POLSA searched the carpet; there were no bloodstains, or stains of any kind.

  “Found anything?” Langton at the doorway had made her jump.

  “No, nothing. I was just thinking how strange it was to have no personal items around. You know, photographs…”

  “Same downstairs.”

  Langton walked to the four-poster bed. “Be nice to have a session in this,” he said softly. “Did you look under the bed, the mattress?”

  “Yes,” she said, flushing.

  “How about on top of the thing?”

  “Not yet; I was just about to do that,” she lied.

  Langton stepped up onto the bed. “Nothing.” He jumped down and opened a wardrobe. “So start up on the next floor.” He felt one of the silk shirts and murmured: “These are nice. Certainly has enough of them.”

  Anna went into the narrow corridor outside the bedroom and climbed another small, winding staircase to the top floor. This area was very different, although still sizeable. It seemed to be his library and office. The desk was stacked with scripts, documents and banks of photographs, mostly of women, with loving messages scrawled underneath. There were also numerous photographs on the walls: the suspect with other actors, on location. There was a laptop computer on the desk and drawers underneath containing files with neat headings: Tax, VAT, etc. There was an entire drawer for fan mail. She began to pore through the documents and letters. She heard footsteps on the stairs and Lewis appeared.

  “Knows everyone, doesn’t he?” He had turned a full circle in the room and now walked from one picture to the next.

  “You should read some of these fan letters; he’d never be short of female companions.”

  “This is gonna take hours, wading through all this lot.”

  Langton appeared at the top of the stairs. “Travis, we’ll take over in here. Start on the front room, where he is.”

  “Right.”

  After she left, Langton surveyed the photographs. He paused at a picture of Daniels lying on a yacht with two blondes in skimpy bikinis.

  “Some great-looking women,” he said.

  “That’s why it doesn’t make sense to me,” Lewis protested. “Why would a man who can get his hands on women like these want to shag stinking old prostitutes?”

  Langton turned on the laptop.

  “That’s why I think we’ve got the wrong bloke.” Lewis, who was searching through files, looked up. “Hang on—he said he’d lost his dental records, didn’t he?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, look what’s in here: X-ray, plus payments, et cetera.”

  “We’ll take that. Let me see.”

  Langton examined the X-ray, holding it up to the light. “Keep going; things are getting warmer.”

  Anna tapped on the closed door to the drawing room and Daniels opened it.

  “Could I come in here, please?” she said.

  “Yes, help yourself.”

  He returned ahead of her to sit on the sofa, curling his legs beneath him, picking up a script.

  “You have a beautiful house,” she said awkwardly.

  “Thank you.”

  Embarrassed, she began to sort through the magazines.

  “Was it necessary to visit my agent?”

  “Sorry?” She could feel him looking at her.

  “I said, was it necessary to visit my agent? I came to the station. Why didn’t you simply ask me what you needed to know while I was there?”

  “I don’t think we had the—” She stopped herself, the color rising in her cheeks. “You should ask DCI Langton.”

  She continued flicking through to the next magazine, checking for any loose note, or scrap of paper.

  He cocked his head to one side, amused by her. “What on earth are you looking for? Incriminating evidence in Architect’s Monthly?”

  “You never know,” she said, looking up with a half-smile before turning back to flip through the pages of Vogue. “Have you ever been married?”

  “Been close. I am not the easiest person to live with,” he said, stretching out his legs to lie on the sofa. “I am obsessively neat. But I suppose you’ve noticed.”

  “Yes.” She walked round to start searching the books. “I’m a bit that way myself.”

  “It probably comes from never having anything as a child that belonged to me. My clothes were always secondhand, or hand-me-downs. When you are fostered out, they often have numerous other kids that they care for and so you get their stained clothes with the holes. I grew to hate the smell of other people’s bodies: their vomit, or their piss.”

  “I don’t have that excuse. It must be in the genes or something.”

  As she continued searching, he swung his legs down and watched her.

  “I don’t think I’ve quite got that obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I must be close. I spend a fortune at the dry cleaner’s. And I’ve had the same woman cleaning for me for years: Mrs. Foster,” he said, chuckling. “She’s remarkable. She even cleans under the rim of the taps, which is a particular phobia of mine. I should give you her number, if you ever need a cleaner.”

  “What phobia is that?”

  “The one where you go into a sparkling, clean bathroom but, if you get a quick glimpse under the tap, it’s—horrifying; it’s goop.”

  He was making a joke, trying to charm her. She smiled back and moved on to examine the mantelpiece.

  She watched him in the large wood-framed mirror as he kept talking to her.

  “As a child, I could go months without a bath; sometimes the grime around my neck was as thick as the goop under the taps. I didn’t know for years that your hair should be washed. Can you credit that?”

  She moved on to the table beside the sofa. “There were a lot of women living at Shallcotte Street. Didn’t any of them help to look after you?”

  He rested his chin on his hand and looked at her. “Are your parents alive?”

  “No. Sadly they’ve both passed away.”

  “Did they love you?”

  “Fortunately.”

  He was giving her his full attention and she found it hard to look back at him. He was an exceptionally handsome man; his eyes were incredible, she thought.

  “What did they do?”

  “My father was a police officer. And my mother was an artist.”

  His gaze never faltered. “I never knew my father. In fact, I don’t believe she knew him.”

  “Have you ever tried to trace him?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Well, if you ever have children, it is always useful to know.”

  “Whoever he was, he’d only come after me now for my money.”

  “I suppose so.” Anna moved closer to the side table nearest to him. He rolled languidly onto his stomach and continued watching her.

  “Life is strange, isn’t it?”

  She was forced to kneel down quite close to him. His head leaned over hers.

  “Do you know what it would do to me if the press found out that a murder team were searching my place?”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Can you?”

  “Of course. There has been enough, over the past few years, of celebrities being arrested.”

  “And released,” he said, pullin
g back.

  “Yes, with damaged careers. We are trying to be very diplomatic in your case.”

  “It wasn’t diplomatic to go to my agent. He has a big mouth. He called me straightaway, in a state of panic. It was very unpleasant. I could feel his gossip-mongering adrenaline hit the roof. Did you notice he and that disgusting pug dog of his have very similar eyes?” he asked.

  She laughed uncomfortably.

  “It’s awful going out to dinner with him. Takes it everywhere; slides it into restaurants and it sits there, under the table, letting out small, puffy farts. Ghastly creature.”

  He was very amusing company, she thought. Anna tried to distance herself from him, walking away to search the far side of the room.

  “Are you married?” he called out flirtatiously. “Sorry, what is your name again?”

  “Anna Travis. No, I’m not.”

  “Anna,” he said appreciatively. “Anna is a lovely name.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stretched his arms above his head. “Do you want to feel under me?”

  She stifled a smile and he responded in mock surprise.

  “I mean under the cushions, obviously.”

  “Yes, obviously.” She played along, amused. “Thank you, yes. I’d better check.”

  He stood up. “Here, I’ll help you.” He started lifting the cushions for her to inspect underneath.

  Together they replaced the cushions, then followed the same procedure on the opposite sofa. “Look how neat we are. We should be married,” he joked, trying to catch her eye. He suddenly reached out and held her hand. “Anna, as you can see, I am trying to be helpful, but it is so very upsetting.”

  “I am sure it is.” She nodded sympathetically. He was closer than she felt comfortable with. She could smell his cologne. But he was holding her hand too tightly for her to move away without causing offense.

  “I did not do these terrible murders.” His eyes momentarily shone with tears. “You know that, don’t you?”

  She was at a loss as to how to respond.

  He suddenly dropped her hand and opened his arms expansively. “Would I risk losing all of this? Especially now I finally have the chance of making it big-time. If this new film comes off, it’ll mean I’ve got a chance to work in Hollywood. Mainstream success has eluded me, until now.”