“I’ve been thinking about what you want,” he continued. “It was a long time ago. Must be twenty years. I was with Vice.”
Langton nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“Hated it. That’s why I moved over to the Robbery Squad and what happens? I’m only there two years and this bloody little junkie fires off a round in my leg.”
“Bad luck.”
“I’d call it more than that; thirteen years old, the little shit! If I’d got my hands on him, I’d have been put away for murder.”
“Anthony Duffy,” Langton reminded him quietly.
“Oh, right. We had him in for questioning. You know Barry Southwood?” Green laughed. “He had to get out of Manchester. He was a devil with the hookers. He was warned over and over again. Sex mad, he was.”
Langton repeated, “Anthony Duffy.”
“Right. I’ve been racking my brains, to get the events as clear as possible.”
“And?” Langton prodded.
“We had him in for questioning, that’d be 1983. His mother, Lilian, had been brought in, beaten up badly. She was screaming the place down. Anyways, once she was calmed and cleaned up, said she wanted to make a charge of rape and assault.”
“Did you take any swabs?”
“We weren’t all that up to speed on the DNA, like we are now.”
“She pressed charges?”
“Yeah. She said this guy had tried to strangle her and she had fought him off and escaped.”
“When did she say it was her son?”
“I’m not sure. To be honest, none of us was that interested in her; she was a real pack of trouble. She would have been seen by a female officer on the rape team. She came back, saying how she wasn’t going to press charges. She wants to change her statement and when we have a go at her, she starts howling, saying it was all a mistake, it wasn’t a punter. It was her son and she didn’t want to get him in trouble.”
Langton held up his hand. “Do you think when she was attacked she didn’t know it was her son? Maybe she found that out later?”
“I don’t know. Could be. She lived in a house full of old slags, all as bad as each other. Shallcotte Street, it was; number 12. Place was a hellhole. There were so many fights and beatings, the ambulance could practically find its own way to the house without a driver.”
Langton leaned forward to change the subject. “When was the next time Anthony Duffy’s name came up?”
Green pursed his lips. He took out a small notebook with jottings in it and flicked the pages backward and forward.
“You got to remember, I was on Vice, not the Murder Squad. Oh, here we are. I don’t have the exact date, but it was maybe fifteen, twenty years ago. It was on some wasteground. There were a lot of old junked cars, fridges that had been dumped, and the council ordered the place to be cleared. That’s where they found Lilian’s body. She hadn’t even been reported missing. Murder team is called out. Been dead at least six months. I saw the morgue shots when they called me in. It was a mess: dogs and foxes had been at it. She had been strangled with a stocking, her hands tied behind her back with her bra. They called in the Vice Squad and there were the notes about the assault charge. I think Barry Southwood gave them some details. Next thing I heard was they arrested her son, Anthony Duffy.”
“Did you see him?”
“No, I didn’t. One of the girls said they couldn’t believe that a tart like Lilian could have such a good-looking boy. Seems he was well dressed, quietly spoken. He was at some college or other. Anyway, after questioning him, they released him without charges.”
“And? Anything else?”
Green shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s about it. I had a few pints after, with his arresting officer. He said the consensus was Duffy might have done it.”
“What do you mean, ‘might?’”
“Because of the way he was. It was weird, they said. He was so quiet, so unemotional.”
“Why did they release him if they had suspicions? Did he have an alibi?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Listen, she’d been dead a long time. There was no witness, no weapon. The girls who had seen her last were all screwed up. They couldn’t remember where she had been, or who she had been with. She hadn’t even been reported as missing.”
Langton looked across to Anna.
“You want to ask anything?”
She hesitated.
“Do you recall any of the names of the other girls that lived at the house?” She opened her notebook.
“You’re asking the impossible,” said Green, scratching his head.
“If I was to read out a few names, can you tell me if any are familiar?”
“Sure. But this was a long time ago. Most of them are probably in the cemetery.”
Langton gave her a brief nod.
“Teresa Booth?”
He shook his head. She continued at random through the list of victims and got the same response to Mary Murphy; he shook his head for Beryl Villiers, again for Sandra Donaldson, but when she said the name “Kathleen Keegan,” he hesitated.
“I think she was at the house. Name sounds familiar.”
“And Barbara Whittle?”
“Yeah. That sounds familiar, too.” Green could not elaborate on whether or not the two women were residents, claiming he just recognized their names. “There were all sorts, different ages, living at that place. Lot of kids, too, just running wild. Social Services wore out the path to the front door.”
The house had been demolished. This would mean another extensive search of past records. And the Keegan and Whittle families would have to be questioned again to see if they recalled either victim living at 12 Shallcotte Street.
Langton weaved his way down the aisle of the carriage, carrying two cups. He set the coffees down on the table between them. He lit a cigarette.
“How much do I owe you?” she said.
“On me. Really.”
Langton took out his mobile phone and began to scroll through his calls. He went to stand by the door and Anna watched him through the glass partition, talking. He made call after call, his face concentrated and unsmiling. He did have, she thought, quite a handsome face. His nose was too thin and hooked slightly, but his eyes were nice, expressive, as were his hands. The dark shadow round his chin gave it a bluish hue, both attractive and not. For a police officer, he also didn’t dress that badly, she decided. His suit was quite stylish; so were his shoes. She turned quickly to stare out of the window as he returned.
Langton drained his cold coffee and slid back in his seat.
“Good work, Travis, listing the victims. Good thinking.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned back, loosening his tie. “It’s been one step forward, two steps back. But today, I think, we paced a bit ahead. What do you think?”
She took a deep breath. “I think if he is our killer, something happened to him at that house in Shallcotte Street. The picture of him screaming at being forced to leave Mrs. Morgan’s care is tragic. The cat incident shows how scared he must have been. From four to eight years. That’s a long time for a child to be in a hellish place. That would have shaped his character, if he is our killer.”
Langton said something so quietly that she missed it.
“Excuse me?”
“I’d put money on it. It’s him.”
They remained silent for a while. When she stared at her reflection in the window, she saw her hair was standing up on end, like a kid’s.
“How’s your stomach?” he said, yawning.
“It’s fine. Thank you for asking.” She was trying to think what she could talk about. “How old is your daughter?”
“Kitty? She’s eleven; lives with my ex-wife.” He patted his pocket and took out his wallet. He sifted through receipts and crumpled banknotes before withdrawing a small photograph.
“This was taken a few years ago. She’d just lost her front teeth.”
Anna looked at the photograph
. Kitty had dark curly hair, big bright eyes and was giving a wide grin to the camera.
“She’s cute.”
“She’s a right little tomboy.”
She watched as he replaced the photograph in his wallet. Then he stared at his reflection in the window.
“You’re divorced?” she asked tentatively.
He slowly turned to face her. “Yes, I’m divorced.” He smiled and regarded her almost with amusement. “Got a boyfriend?”
“Oh…few people around, nothing serious. Well, I wouldn’t have the time right now, you know, to have a relationship. I suppose it must be even more difficult for someone like you.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know, it’s a full-time occupation, isn’t it?”
“Is that why my marriage broke up?” he asked.
Anna was unsure how to respond. “Sorry?”
He gave a soft laugh. “Travis, you are obviously pumping me for information. Truth is, I am a workaholic, but work had nothing to do with my divorce. I would put my marriage failure down to extramarital liaisons.” He was silent for a moment. Then he looked up and laughed. “Especially blondes. I’m a sucker for blondes.”
There was a glint in his eye. She couldn’t tell if he was telling her the truth or sending her up.
He leaned back. “What are you a sucker for, Travis?”
“Toasted cheese and bacon sandwiches.”
He grinned, then closed his eyes. “Your old man would be proud of you.” She felt a compulsion to cry. When she looked at him again, he seemed fast asleep. She watched his head slowly slide to one side. After a while, she too leaned back and closed her eyes.
Anna jolted awake; Langton was lightly touching her cheek.
“Just coming into the station.” He sat up and started straightening his tie.
“Oh, I must have dropped off.”
“You certainly did. I’ve been trying to wake you for five minutes.” They were in the last carriage. When he slid the door open, a large gap was revealed between the platform and the train. Langton jumped. Then to Anna’s astonishment, he turned back, grabbed her by the waist and swung her down to the platform. She was so close to him, she could smell the nicotine and coffee on his breath.
“My God, you’re heavier than you look,” he joked. After making sure she was on terra firma, he strode off at his usual pace. Anna scurried behind him. She might look like a mere slip of a thing, she reflected ruefully, but she was muscular. One of her father’s favorite jokes was to take her on his knee, feel her little legs and say they were all muscle. Then he’d moan, “HEAVY muscle. She weighs a ton.”
Her mother, Isabelle, had long, slender limbs. Her dad would tease Anna that she should have been a boy, because the next baby would take after her mother. She never did have a sibling, though. It was not a source of pain or conflict in the family. It had simply never happened.
Outside the station, they parted ways. Langton had decided to take the tube home and Anna told him she would be catching a bus. In fact, she didn’t. Once he was out of sight, she hailed a taxi. She always did this when it was late. Jack Travis had made his daughter extremely aware of the risks for young women of walking home on their own from a bus stop or tube station late at night.
His love and care for her had been like a protective cloud. As she flopped down on her pillow that night, Anna could hear her father’s voice. Sometimes, though rarely, she heard her mother’s voice. Once, at the dinner table, she had teased her husband about his “scaremongering.” “You shouldn’t scare Anna,” she said. In answer, he came over to where his wife was sitting and wrapped his arms tightly around her.
“Izzy, if you saw what I do, day in and day out, you’d understand. I have the most precious two women in the world. God forbid anything should harm them.”
Anna was missing her parents now. At such times she felt herself very much an orphan.
Unable to sleep, she started to mull over the day’s work. Finally she sat up and picked up her notebook. Mrs. Morgan had described a school scarf; perhaps they should focus on tracking the suspect from that quarter.
Yet again, Langton was one step ahead of Anna. He already had a member of the team tracking the college their suspect may have attended. Langton hoped to find a later photo of Anthony Duffy to put out to the public, to see if anyone had information. It didn’t come in until late afternoon the next day.
Anthony Duffy had not attended school in Manchester, but rather in Great Crosby, on Mersyside. The Merchant Taylors School confirmed that a pupil named Anthony Duffy of the same age and description as their suspect had attended their school. They had a number of photographs of him. He had been an exceptional student. Anthony had gained an A in every subject at A level. The headmaster himself did not really recall Duffy, as twenty years ago he had been a junior teacher and taught much younger pupils.
An elderly math teacher remembered him. He had been puzzled that Duffy had never returned to collect his certificates. The boy was by then eighteen years old and could have been accepted at any number of universities. No one had seen or heard of him after the end of that term.
By six o’clock, the special courier had arrived with a list of pupils from Anthony Duffy’s class and their last known addresses, but the most important evidence lay underneath the list: a packet of photographs.
There were two pictures of Anthony Duffy with his rugby team. His face had been ringed by the helpful headmaster. His head was turned away slightly but part of his profile was visible. There was another picture of him with the swimming team: eight boys lined up in swimming trunks. Once again, Duffy seemed to shrink back behind a boy in front, who held the large cup for the winning team. This time the other side of his face appeared. The school dramatic society provided three photos. They, too, were group shots, but they showed far clearer images of Anthony Duffy, albeit in wigs and hats.
In one photograph he was playing King Henry from Shakespeare’s Henry V. He stood in his armor, holding a helmet with a red plume that blocked part of his face. His legs were apart and his chin up; those mesmeric eyes drew you to the young boy’s face. In another he wore a long wig and a black moustache. His costume suggested King Charles I. He was surrounded by boys dressed as women.
In the last photo, which was of the amateur dramatic society itself, he stood next to a boy wearing a fool’s costume. Duffy was holding a skull, suggesting he was playing Hamlet; luckily, in this photograph, his face was in focus and without the embellishment of a wig or makeup.
The photographs were enhanced in the lab. Everyone around Duffy was deleted and the two pictures showing partial profile were dismissed.
They had also been able to contact two ex–school friends, but neither had seen him since he left school twenty years before. One couldn’t, at first, even remember him. A third school friend, now living in Australia, was being tracked down for questioning. The other names given by the present headmaster from the school register were either deceased or uncontactable from their last known addresses.
The following morning the photos were ready; their “Hamlet” was pinned onto the notice board. His boyish body was muscular and fit. He had blond hair, high cheekbones and a tight-lipped mouth. His unusual eyes gave his face a prettiness that was almost feminine.
An expert was coming in to “age” the picture, since Anthony Duffy would now be nearly forty. The room was humming cheerfully when Jean approached Anna at her desk.
“Can I tell you something?” she said quietly.
Anna smiled up at her. “Of course.”
“I just don’t want anyone yelling me down and I could be wrong. You know what I mean?”
“Go on. What is it?”
“Anthony Duffy.”
“Go on.”
“Well, like I said, I could be barking way up the wrong tree. It’s just those eyes of his. I mean, they’re unusual, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” Anna waited.
“I think I recognize him. But as nobod
y else has, either I’m wrong or they don’t watch as much TV as I do. Anyway, there was this show on quite a while ago. I was a real fan. It used to be on every Saturday and he played a detective. It was called Sin City, on at half ten in the evening. He looks like the actor. Since then he’s been in films rather than anything else on the telly, but I’m pretty sure.”
“Let’s have his name.” Anna picked up her notebook.
“Alan Daniels. They’re also the same initials.”
“Thanks, Jean.” She stood up from her chair. “Let me run this by the gov and see what we get.”
Moments later, Langton was leaning back in his office chair.
“Alan Daniels? Never heard of him. Have you?”
“No. But Jean is a big fan. He starred in some detective series called Sin City.”
“And what is he up to now?”
“Apparently he’s sort of well known; he’s in films these days.”
“Is she serious?”
“Yes. She thought hard about mentioning it. She was pretty nervous about it.”
“Sin City? I bet she fucking was. Well, Travis, we leave no stone unturned. Get onto that actors’ thingy, Equity. They’ll have photos of everyone in the profession. Later, you can have a go at Jean. I suspect she’s heading for hot flushes.”
The following morning, Anna visited the offices of Equity and sat thumbing through the pages of their copy of Spotlight, a directory of every actor registered with them. Alan Daniels had a half-page spread. There was no age given, but in the photograph he appeared to be in his mid-to late thirties. His agency was called AI, Artists International, and was the U.K.’s biggest management company. Anna took down the particulars. Daniels was described as “six feet one, blue eyes.” As soon as she left the building Anna rang the station, hardly able to contain her nervous excitement.
“It’s Travis. I need to talk to the gov.” She waited a few moments.
“Langton.” His voice was terse.
“It’s him,” she said quietly.
Above Suspicion (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 1) Page 11
