On their arrival at the station, they went in through the back way, avoiding the day’s action. Langton left Anna in charge in the interview room while he went outside to await the arrival of Daniels’s solicitor.
Since making his phone calls, Daniels had hardly spoken. Now, inside the room, he looked bemused. There was a table with four chairs, two on either side. Stacked on the table were numerous files, some containing photographs.
Anna directed him to sit with his back to the door and took up her seat opposite him. She opened her notebook. Langton was not yet with them and it seemed an interminable time to be alone with Daniels.
Edward turned out to be Edward Radcliff, one of the most notorious heavy hitters in the legal system. His chambers were almost as famous as his reputation.
Langton asked if he could speak with him alone, before they saw his client.
“By all means. I’d like to know what this is all about. Sounds very unethical to me.”
“I am simply protecting your client. Alan Daniels is a known name. Rather than make a spectacle of bringing him in for questioning—”
“Questioning about what?”
“I am leading the inquiry in a series of murders. The last known victim was Melissa Stephens—”
“Jesus Christ.” He stopped walking.
Langton continued, “But we have six other victims we believe were killed by the same perpetrator.”
“This is unbelievable. I mean, it is inconceivable Alan could have any connection to these tragic women.”
“I need to ask him some questions; if he is able to give me the answers, then he will be free to leave. I will be taping and filming the interview.”
“You haven’t charged him, I take it? You’ve not arrested him?”
“That is correct, but I will still need to follow procedure.”
Radcliff took a deep breath; then, after a moment, suggested they get on with it.
There had been no words spoken between Daniels and Anna as they waited, apart from his polite refusal of her offer of tea or coffee and his request for water instead. A tape recorder and a video camera had been brought in and set up. When Langton ushered Edward Radcliff in the room, Daniels stood to shake hands with his solicitor, who then sat beside him. Langton took his seat beside Anna and rested his hands on the table. The tape and video camera were turned on.
Langton stated the date and time and that those present in the interview room attached to Queen’s Park Metropolitan Police station were himself, Detective Sergeant Travis, Alan Daniels and his solicitor, Edward Radcliff.
Daniels glanced at Radcliff, seeming slightly perplexed at the formality. The lawyer reassured his client that it was all just procedural and that he had to be given his rights for his own protection.
Langton continued, “Mr. Alan Daniels has agreed to help our inquiries. He is not under arrest, but has come to the station of his own volition. Mr. Daniels, you do not have to say anything—”
“Now wait a minute—” Radcliff began to protest.
“Sorry,” said Langton. “I mean, were you under arrest, you would not have to say anything but it would harm your defense if you did not mention here something you were later to rely on in court. Anything you do say could be used in evidence against you.” He looked at Radcliff. “If it were to come to that, of course.”
Daniels shook his head, nonplussed. The tape in the machine was turning and he stared at it, frowning.
Langton waited a few moments before asking the first question.
“Mr. Daniels, is your real name Anthony Duffy?”
Daniels blinked. He waited a moment before he answered.
“Yes; yes, it was.”
Radcliff glanced at him, then made a note.
“Did you change your name by deed poll? Or by some other method?”
Daniels leaned back in his chair, looking uncertain.
“We were unable to trace you for some considerable time. Did you apply to Births, Deaths and Marriages for the name change to be legally registered?”
There was another lengthy pause; Daniels stared at his hands, then he looked up and answered quietly.
“It was more than fifteen years ago. There was another actor by that name, so I changed it. I was in Ireland. They would have a record of it, but yes, I was originally Anthony Duffy. It was all legal.”
“Was your mother Lilian Duffy?”
His face fell. He became stressed, starting to twist his hands.
“Yes, yes, she was. Whether or not I’d describe her as a mother is another matter. I was brought up in foster care.”
“And is it true that your mother was murdered?”
Daniels leaned forward. “What on earth has this got to do with anything?”
“Could you please just answer the question, Mr. Daniels.”
“Yes, I was informed that she had been.”
“And were you questioned by the Greater Manchester Police at the time of her murder?”
“Christ! I was seventeen years old. I was brought in. They brought me in to tell me she was dead. For God’s sake!”
Radcliff was making notes. If he was surprised by what he was hearing, he didn’t show it.
“We both know it was a bit more than that,” said Langton. “You were arrested and questioned.”
“I was released. Why on earth are you bringing this up, twenty years later?”
“Were you also questioned about a previous assault on your mother?”
“What?”
“Your mother alleged you had attacked her.”
“No. No, that is not correct.” His eyes flashed with anger, then he turned to Radcliff. “There were never any charges. What the hell is this about, Edward? I have come here in good faith.”
Radcliff stared coldly at Langton. “Do these questions have some bearing on the reason Mr. Daniels is here?”
“I believe so.” Langton opened the file in front of him.
“Could you please look at these photographs, Mr. Daniels, and tell me if you knew any of these women?”
He withdrew the first photograph and glanced at the video camera.
“For the benefit of the video and the tape, I am showing Mr. Daniels a photograph of Teresa Booth.”
Daniels glanced at the black-and-white mortuary picture, then shook his head.
“No, I don’t know her,” he said firmly.
Out they came, one by one: Sandra Donaldson, Kathleen Keegan, Barbara Whittle, Beryl Villiers, Mary Murphy. To each “Did you know this woman?” Daniels shook his head and said that he did not. He was sitting very upright, gripping the edge of his chair.
“Did you reside at number twelve Shallcotte Street, Swinton?”
Daniels gave his solicitor a helpless look.
“Just say yes or no, Alan,” he said.
“I believe I did. Until I was four or five years of age, and again after a period of foster care.”
“Do you recall Kathleen Keegan as also living at that address?”
“I was just a child. Of course I don’t,” he snapped angrily.
“Do you recall Teresa Booth living at that address?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you recall any of these women living at that address?”
“No, I don’t remember any of them. I have just said: I was only a small child.”
“Thank you. Could you tell me where you were on the night of seventh February this year?”
Daniels closed his eyes, sighing.
“When?”
“Saturday, seventh February; between the hours of eleven o’clock that evening and two o’clock the next morning.”
“Probably in bed. I was filming all of February; in fact, I was on location in Cornwall. I can check this for you, but I am certain that’s where I was.”
“In Cornwall?”
“Yes. There’s a new version of Jamaica Inn being filmed.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could verify if you were in Cornwall on that date.”
Daniels told them that his agent would supply the exact schedule. He was shaking his head in bewilderment as he turned to Radcliff, saying, “I don’t believe this, Edward; it’s inconceivable.”
The lawyer patted his arm reassuringly.
Lastly, Langton laid the photograph of Melissa Stephens on top of the others.
“Do you know this girl?”
Daniels chewed his lip.
“No. No, I don’t think so. What’s her name?”
“Melissa Stephens.”
Daniels looked closely at the photograph.
“No, I don’t. Is she an actress or something?”
“She was a student.”
Langton packed up the photographs and carefully replaced them.
“Would you be prepared to have an odontologist make a cast of your teeth?”
“What?” Daniels leaned back in his chair, incredulous.
“This is getting to be rather silly now,” Radcliff said, tapping the table with his fountain pen. “You have brought my client in. You have not arrested him. He has answered all your questions. I suggest we call this a day. Unless there is something else?”
Langton explained firmly that if they were to eliminate him completely from their inquiries, they would need to take an impression of Daniels’s teeth. When Radcliff demanded a further explanation, Daniels touched his arm, demurring. “No, wait, Edward. If they want me to do a test, I’ll do it. I am sure they must have a good reason for bringing me in, so I might as well give them every assistance possible. If I do whatever they want now, my time will not be wasted again.”
“Very well.” Radcliff looked at Langton. “Do you need anything else?”
Fifteen minutes later Daniels was allowed to leave with his solicitor. He stopped in the open doorway and looked back to Langton sadly.
“Lilian Duffy was a sick woman. I have tried my hardest to forget my early childhood. If I hadn’t been fostered by an exceptionally kind couple—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Ellis?” Langton volunteered.
“Yes!” He gave a mocking glance. “You have done your homework on me!”
“Previously to that, you were cared for by Ellen Morgan.” As Daniels showed a flicker of emotion at her name, Langton continued: “We talked to her.”
The suspect lowered his voice. “Well then, you know how much my life improved after I was taken from Lilian Duffy. I have endeavored to put my wretched past behind me. I didn’t think I would be so affected by what has been brought back to me this afternoon. However, the most important thing to me now is that my past continues to be kept out of the press.”
“There is no reason why it shouldn’t,” Langton replied.
“Thank you; I would appreciate it. I am due to start a film in the United States and any bad press, especially of the type this awful case would encourage, could damage the granting of my visa at a time when my career is really taking off over there.”
Edward Radcliff murmured it was time to leave and with a brief glance at Anna, their so-called prime suspect walked out.
Langton removed his jacket and loosened his tie. Anna stood at the door, watching him for clues about how he thought it went.
“They agreed to visit the dental department at the lab, first thing in the morning,” she offered.
“It will be a waste of time.” His tone was sullen.
“Why?”
“His teeth are capped.” He took out a cigarette. “They’re very good ones. I noticed the difference as soon as I saw him.” He tapped his own teeth.
“Maybe we should find out when he had them done?” she ventured.
“Maybe.” There was a pause. “Meanwhile, check out his alibi. Filming in Cornwall?”
“Will do,” she said, approaching the desk. “Did you notice how he refers to Lilian either by her full name, or just as ‘she’? He’s unable to say the word ‘mother.’”
“Yeah,” Langton said wearily, in the process of lighting one cigarette from the butt of the last one.
“I thought the speech at the end was contrived as well.”
“He’s a fucking actor,” he muttered. “Probably got it off one of his films.”
“Should we let Michael Parks have access to the videotape? See what he can come up with?”
“Yeah,” he muttered again.
“Are you coming? Everyone’s waiting in the incident room for an update—”
“Anna, get the fuck out of here, will you?” he fumed. “Just leave me alone for a few minutes.” She stared at him. “Go on, get out! For Christ’s sake!”
Anna left, slamming the door behind her. This was getting to be an infectious habit, she thought grimly.
Half an hour later, the entire team had been assembled. Langton appeared, looking tired and unshaven. His mood seemed dark.
“Right. We had him in. He was questioned and released. The dental match won’t do us much good; he’s had his teeth capped recently.”
Anna put up her hand.
“YES!” He glared at her.
“Dentists have to make sets of the old teeth before doing implants and capping them. We could get in touch with his—”
“Yes, good. Do that. Thank you, Travis.”
Langton took a deep breath. “We need more evidence. The truth is, we have nothing on him. So tomorrow, we start from scratch.” He indicated the photos of the dead victims. “We turn over every single one of these cases until we find something. If we don’t, we’re well and truly fucked. The Gold Group is coming in to hear about the Daniels interview.”
He looked around at his team’s waiting, expectant faces.
“The reality of the situation is, we didn’t get enough. That said”—Langton paused to shove his hands into his pockets—“even if the team gets cut by half, which is on the cards, I am not prepared to let this go back on the case files. I am going to fight like hell to maintain this incident room. Because I truly believe that Anthony Duffy, aka Alan Daniels, is our killer.”
There was a low murmur round the incident room.
He gave a rueful, boyish smile. “All we need is the evidence to prove it, so let’s get cracking in the morning. For now, we all need a bloody drink. Let’s adjourn to the pub. First round is on me.”
The tension of the day was finally taking its toll on Anna. She felt exhausted and was packing up in preparation for home rather than the pub when she looked up to find Jean standing beside her.
“What was he like?” Jean whispered conspiratorially.
Anna smiled. “Well, he certainly is good-looking. Lives in a fantastic house, beautiful furniture. He’s charming and he’s in great shape.” She frowned, trying to put her finger on what was wrong.
“Go on,” Jean encouraged her.
“I can’t quite fathom it out. He has a kind of mysterious manner about him. It’s like he knows something that you don’t; a big secret.”
“If the boss is right and he killed all seven of them, that is one hell of a secret.” Jean leaned closer. “Did you find him sexy?”
“I’m not sure. Those eyes are amazing. When he turns them on you, it’s like he’s looking right at you, or through you.”
“Every Saturday I’d sit glued to the TV. You have no idea what a fan I was. Sin City. You don’t remember it?”
“I was still in school uniform, Jean.”
“I wasn’t long out of my gym slip either. I was hoping I’d get a glimpse of him. Didn’t you find him attractive at all?”
When Anna saw Jean’s eager expression, she realized what it would be like if Alan Daniels’s involvement in the case became public knowledge. There was something avaricious about Jean’s curiosity and there were no doubt hundreds of Jeans out there who would be snatching up the morning’s papers to read the latest about Daniels. The background details alone would create a tabloid frenzy. Perhaps what he had said on his departure was really heartfelt. To have succeeded in re-creating himself and putting his troubled past behind him was admirable. If the in
formation was leaked that they had questioned him, it could destroy an innocent life.
“Is it him, do you think?” Jean was watching her face with interest.
Anna shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Langton seems to think it is,” Jean persisted.
“Thinking isn’t good enough,” Anna protested. “He also said that.”
“No need to get shirty with me,” Jean retorted. “I was just curious what you felt.”
“If you must know, I felt sorry for him.”
“Ah, he got to you, did he?”
Anna grabbed her briefcase. “No, he did not get to me, as you put it. Anyway, whatever I felt is immaterial. Good night.”
“’Night,” Jean said. Moira was packing up. She nodded to Anna’s retreating form.
“What was that about?”
Jean whispered across their desks. “I’d say she fancied Mr. Alan Daniels.”
Moira chuckled, though she didn’t take Jean’s comment seriously.
“She doesn’t have a chance,” Moira whispered back. “Have you seen the way she dresses? He’s got his pick of every woman in London.”
“I doubt he gave her a second glance,” Jean concurred. “She really needs to do something with her hair.”
Anna, mortified, stood outside the doorway to the incident room. She could hear their laughter as she made her way to the stairs, holding back tears.
Anna had bought some groceries at the small supermarket round the corner from her home: fresh coffee, lots of canned soups. Now she stacked them in her cupboards. Then it was time to do a load of washing, after which she selected garments for dry cleaning, all the while trying to push Jean and Moira’s disparaging comments from her mind. However, as she checked over her outfits for work, she saw their point: charcoal-gray pleated skirt with matching jacket; dark gray straight skirt with matching jacket; two pairs of dark brown trousers and one pair of black trousers.
“Boring! Fucking boring!” she muttered. She was a plainclothes detective, who had “designed” herself a uniform. Nothing in her wardrobe had a glimmer of personality and that included the plain court shoes. She dressed like a frumpy schoolteacher, circa 1960, she thought mournfully.
Above Suspicion (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 1) Page 13
