Murder Mile

by Lynda La Plante

  Moran glared at him. “You got a problem, Edwards? And before you answer, I’m not in the mood for any more of your frivolous remarks.”

  Edwards looked chastened. “I just remembered something, sir. Although Lang’s mugshot doesn’t show it because his mouth’s closed, the arresting officer said he had an upper front tooth missing on the left side of his mouth. Believe it or not, Lang told the officer it was knocked out when someone robbed him.”

  Moran looked happier. “Good, that should help with identifying him.” He cleared his throat. “I want Lang traced and arrested within the next forty-eight hours. All of you need to keep up the hard work. We can’t rest until he’s found. There must be a connection between our three victims and Lang, and finding it will lead us to him. I don’t believe any of the murders are random, so it’s more likely the three women were lured to their deaths, especially as neither Summers nor Hastings were from Peckham. Likewise, I suspect our unknown victim isn’t either.”

  Jane spoke up. “The Kentish Town primary school that Eileen Summers taught at, and her home address in Chalk Farm, are not far from Hampstead Heath, where Lang was arrested.”

  “Good point. Revisit Eileen Summers’ school and see if Lang was ever a pupil there.”

  “But Eileen is only twenty-three, so she couldn’t have been a teacher when he was at primary school,” Jane argued.

  “Don’t question, Tennison, just do as I ask. It may be that Lang is an ex-pupil with a grudge against the school and he decided to take it out on one of the teachers. I know there’s more questions than answers right now, and the press are about to give me a grilling, so let’s find Lang before he kills again. Or we might all find ourselves back in uniform.”

  Jane bit her tongue as Moran left the room. The impending press conference had clearly made him edgy.

  “Well, if he’s a gay boy, he shouldn’t be hard to break,” Gibbs remarked.

  “He might just squeal like a piggy … Weee … Weee.” Edwards grinned, adopting a hillbilly accent in imitation of the film Deliverance.

  Some of the officers laughed as everyone began to leave the room.

  “Now that was a great film.” Gibbs laughed.

  “Yeah, remember that bit where Burt Reynolds shot the pervert hillbilly with a bow and arrow, then buried him?” Edwards added.

  Jane noticed Lawrence shaking his head sadly at his colleagues’ childish and narrow-minded behavior.

  As Jane left the team meeting, she saw Moran speaking to Blake in the corridor. She would have liked to have gone into the press conference, but Moran had made it clear he wanted them out on the streets doing everything they could to find Aiden Lang.

  Blake lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and let out two streams of smoke through his nostrils. “Have Summers’ parents given us the OK to release their daughter’s name to the press?”

  “Yes. They’re coming down today to do an official ID on the body,” Moran replied.

  “I think it’s best you take the lead at the press conference, Nick. I don’t want to steal your limelight. Besides, you know a lot more about the case than I do, so you’re also in a better position to fend off any dodgy questions.”

  Moran frowned. “I can take the flak, but if they start to criticize my detectives, then I expect you to step in and defend them. They’ve hardly slept and haven’t stopped grafting since day one.”

  “Of course I’ll support them. I’m also confident you’ll have Lang arrested and charged by tomorrow night. It will be a big deal, and could lead to calls for your promotion to detective superintendent, which I of course will recommend.” Blake stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the hallway table. “I’ll do the introductions, then hand over to you.”

  As he led the way to the conference room, Moran resisted the urge to kick Blake up the backside for his condescending manner. Moran wondered how he’d feel if he told the press the investigation had initially been hindered by Blake and Andrew Hastings’ lies.

  As Blake and Moran entered the conference room, the high-pitched whine of camera flashes charging up was followed by a strobe of pulsating light as the flashes popped, creating a slow-motion effect as the two officers walked over to the podium. Blake introduced himself as the senior officer overseeing the investigation and Moran as the lead investigator, then made a brief statement.

  “I am pleased to tell you that DCI Moran has identified a single male suspect in all three murders. He will give further details after he has briefed you on the current state of the investigation and appealed for the public’s assistance.”

  For a moment the room went silent. This was information the press were not expecting. It was also something Moran had intended to keep to the end. He nodded to one of his detectives at the back of the room, who was operating a slide projector between two television cameras.

  Moran pointed to the projection screen behind him. Photographs of Eileen Summers and Sybil Hastings, and an artist’s impression of the unidentified victim, came up on the screen. Moran gave a detailed description of the unknown victim, followed by the others: who they were, where their bodies were found, and brief details of how they had been murdered. He did not reveal that a similar rope had been used to strangle two of the victims.

  Blake suddenly stepped forward, as if wanting to show his involvement.

  “To date we have had no one reported missing across the country who matches the unidentified victim’s description. I would appeal to anyone who thinks they might know her to get in contact with the Peckham incident room.”

  “Do you have any connection between the three victims?” a member of the press shouted out.

  Blake didn’t answer, looking at Moran.

  “Not at present. However—”

  “How strong is the evidence against your suspect?” Moran was interrupted as the cameras started to flash again and a barrage of questions were shouted out.

  “One at a time, please … One at a time.” Blake raised his voice and pointed to a journalist.

  “More to the point, how many more women will be killed before you arrest him?”

  Moran tried to remain calm. “I am not prepared to go into the exact details, but there are forensic links between all three murders, pointing to our prime suspect: this man.” Moran paused as the mugshot of Aiden Lang appeared on the screen, then gave his age and physical description, including his missing tooth and the fact that his hair was believed to be currently dyed blond, and added that he had used the alias Ben Smith. As Moran was about to appeal for the public’s assistance in finding him, Blake stepped forward again.

  “Obviously someone out there knows Lang and we also believe he has a sister who lives in South London. I would appeal to her, or anyone who knows his whereabouts, to contact DCI Moran’s incident room. If you see him, do not approach him as he is obviously very dangerous and prone to violence.”

  “What else are you doing to trace Lang?” a newspaperman asked.

  Blake was quick to answer. “Everything we can, of course. All-ports warnings have been sent out and every force in the country has been issued with his photo—which we’re also distributing nationally, in the press and on television.”

  “In less than a week three murders have been committed within a mile of each other. What makes you think you’ll find him now, DCS Blake?” someone else piped up.

  “I have every confidence that, with the help of the public, DCI Moran will arrest Lang before he commits another murder.”

  Some of the press laughed out loud, and one shouted out, “But you haven’t a clue where Lang is!”

  Moran decided he’d had enough and cut Blake off before he could answer the question.

  “We only identified Lang yesterday after a fingerprint analysis revealed he was using the name Ben Smith. I have a dedicated team of officers working day and night to find Lang, and we need the press to help us, not hinder us by accusations of incompetence. It’s not good for the victims’ families or the morale of the investigating
officers. Let me assure you my team will arrest Lang and bring him before the courts. Every one of them is determined to solve these horrific murders and give the grieving families and friends the answers they need.” Moran paused as he picked up his paperwork. “I’m sure DCS Blake would be happy to answer any further questions. I need to get back to my investigation and support my officers in their work.”

  There was a buzz of conversation in the room as the journalists looked at one another. Moran seized the moment to exit the room as a flurry of further questions were directed at Blake, delighted to be leaving him in the proverbial “shit.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lawrence sat silently looking out of the passenger window of the “Jaffa cake” as Jane parked outside the Golden Lion. He certainly didn’t seem his normal enthusiastic self, chomping at the bit to examine the crime scene and find forensic evidence that could break open the investigation.

  “You were very quiet in the meeting, Paul. Are you OK?”

  He didn’t look at her. “I’m fine, just really tired. There’s a load of work piling up at the lab, and with everything Moran wants done, it’s just getting bigger and bigger. The danger is that when you get tired, you make mistakes and miss things that might be important.”

  Jane smiled. “You, miss something? As if! You could sleepwalk your way around a crime scene and still find more than the rest of us put together.”

  Lawrence sighed. “Believe me, Jane, I’ve made mistakes. I’ve been lucky so far, and I’ve been able to hide or rectify them before anyone else notices.”

  Jane thought for a moment. “What do you reckon to this Aiden Lang? I mean, if he is gay, as Edwards was inferring, then why would he rape two of the victims?”

  “Maybe he’s bisexual,” Lawrence replied brusquely.

  “Never thought of that,” Jane admitted.

  Once again Lawrence didn’t look at her, clearly not wanting to discuss Aiden Lang. Jane shrugged and got out of the car. Lawrence followed.

  The Golden Lion had many original features dating back to the late seventeen hundreds. The exterior carved oak façade, interior rustic oak floor, and ornate red and gold ceiling all suggested the pub’s former glories and a time when Soho first became known for its theatres and music halls. Now it was busy with lunchtime trade and the customers were predominantly male.

  Jane and Lawrence approached the bar and she asked the barman if the landlord was available. He bent down, lifted the wooden trap door to the cellar and shouted, “The Old Bill’s here, John—they want to speak to you!” The conversation in the pub went quiet as everyone looked towards the bar.

  The landlord, John Davis, was a portly man in his fifties, with greasy hair and a beer belly. He was dressed in a white open-necked shirt with a sweat-stained collar, black trousers and brown suede shoes. Once they were seated in the corner, out of earshot of the staff and the regulars, Jane briefed him about the murders and showed him a photo of Aiden Lang.

  “Yeah, that’s Aiden. He was working here as a trainee barman up until seven or eight weeks ago. I rent the rooms out on the first floor to the bar staff. Aiden had one, but his replacement’s living in it now—he’s the bloke you spoke to behind the bar.”

  “Did Aiden have blond hair when you last saw him?” Jane asked.

  “No.”

  “What about a missing upper tooth?”

  “Yeah, on the left side.”

  Lawrence picked up his forensic bag and looked at Davis as he stood up. “I need to search the room for anything that might help us find Lang, or assist the investigation, so if you could tell me where it is, I’ll get on with it. We’re pressed for time.”

  “It’s on the first floor, second room on the right. The barman’s got the key. The top floor’s all mine if you need to search it.”

  “No, Lang’s room is the only one I need to see.” Lawrence walked off to get the room key from the barman.

  “So why did Lang stop working here?”

  “I sacked him after I caught him with his fingers in the till. He denied it, but I told him I saw him slip the money in his pocket. He said he was going to pay it back, but I didn’t believe him. I went to get the money out of his pocket and he pushed my hand away, so I thumped him. Truth is, it was me that knocked his tooth out. I didn’t mean to, it was an instinctive thing. An accident, if you see what I mean.”

  “It’s still assault, Mr. Davis. But under the circumstances, I think we can forget about it. So tell me, why did you hire Lang in the first place?”

  He laughed. “His boyish good looks attracted the gay punters. I gotta tell you, officer, Aiden was a well-spoken lad, who always dressed in fashionable gear. Apart from the thieving incident, he was never any bother. I suspected he might have a drug problem, ’cause his eyes used to look a bit too big for his head sometimes.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he’d murder anyone, especially a woman, considering it’s a fair bet he was gay. I never saw him get aggressive when any of the male punters grabbed his arse or squeezed his bollocks. Sorry, pardon my language.”

  Jane shrugged. “I’ve heard worse. Did Lang ever mention if he had any family? A sister, perhaps?”

  Davis paused. “Not that I recall. I never asked Aiden about his personal life, to be honest.”

  “Was he in a relationship with any of the punters, or anyone you know of?”

  “Don’t know. I did tell him I was against staff having relationships on the premises, but what he did outside the pub was his own business.”

  Jane showed him pictures of Sybil Hastings, Eileen Summers and the artist’s impression of the unknown victim. “Do you recognize any of these women?”

  Davis took his time looking at the pictures before shaking his head. “Sorry, I don’t recognize any of them. We don’t get many women in here, and if we do, they’re usually lesbians. Can I show these pictures to my bar staff?”

  “Sure. I’ll nip upstairs and see how my colleague is getting on.”

  Davis pointed Jane towards the door that led to the staff accommodation.

  “Find anything of interest?” Jane asked Lawrence, entering the dingy room.

  “No. I’ve had a good look around. But the barman said he chucked anything out that Lang had left behind.”

  “Are you going to dust for fingerprints?”

  “What for? We know he lived here, so finding his prints won’t prove anything or help us find him.” Lawrence picked up his bag. “Have you finished downstairs?”

  “Just about.”

  “I’ll wait in the car then.”

  Jane handed him the car keys, then went to retrieve the victims’ pictures from the landlord, who was standing next to Aiden Lang’s replacement. As Jane approached the barman, he held up the black and white artist’s impression of the unidentified victim.

  “Last Thursday or Friday afternoon, a woman who looked a bit like this came in and asked for Aiden. I told her he’d been sacked for stealing cash from the till. She looked upset and walked out.”

  “Can you tell me anything more about her?”

  The barman thought for a second. “She had brown hair, shoulder-length—a sort of sandy color and parted in the middle.”

  “How old would you say she was?”

  “I dunno, late twenties, early thirties?”

  “Can you remember what she was wearing?”

  “Bloody hell, I only saw her for a few minutes. Her coat was buttoned up so I didn’t see what was under it.”

  “Was the coat blue?” Jane asked, realizing the woman’s description was very like the unknown victim’s.

  “It could have been, but I can’t remember now. It’s freezing cold; everyone who comes in here is wearing a coat.”

  “OK, thanks for your help.” Taking the artist’s impression back, she walked quickly out to the car, got in and turned to Lawrence.

  “The barman gave a description of a woman who came to the pub looking for Aiden Lang. It could’ve been our unidentified victim. She seem
ed upset when he told her Aiden had been fired for stealing.”

  “Well, that’s something positive to tell Moran,” Lawrence agreed, but his tone was unenthusiastic. “Can you drop me off at the lab, please?”

  Paul was silent on the journey back. Jane knew he had been working long hours and could see he looked tired, but was still surprised by his uncharacteristic behavior.

  Gibbs and Edwards were on their way to Highgate, one of London’s most affluent suburbs, to see the accountant who had been robbed by Aiden Lang.

  “What’s this accountant’s name again?” Gibbs asked Edwards.

  “Mr. Poofter?” Edwards smirked.

  Gibbs laughed. “That might be why he only gave his work address on his victim statement.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet he’s married and doesn’t want his wife to know what happened.”

  “Well, he’ll be in for a shock when we turn up at his office unannounced. Best I ask the questions.”

  “I won’t argue with that.” Edwards snorted.

  Arriving at the elegant building, they guessed that Peter Barnes was a wealthy man. Gibbs spoke with the receptionist, who rang Barnes then escorted them to a plush office. Barnes was in his late thirties and well dressed in a three-piece pin-stripe suit, white shirt, silk tie and black brogues. He was six foot tall, well groomed and athletic-looking.

  “Good afternoon, officers,” he said, holding a hand out to Gibbs. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’d just like to ask you a few questions about Aiden Lang, Mr. Barnes, the man who robbed you a few weeks ago in the toilets at Hampstead Heath.”

  “That was some time ago now. But it was a terrifying experience. To be honest, I don’t know what he’d have done to me if the constable hadn’t intervened.”

  Gibbs nodded sympathetically. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.”

  “Indeed. I won’t be going there again, that’s for sure.”

  “As a matter of interest, what were you doing on Hampstead Heath that day?” Gibbs asked.

  Barnes pushed a hand though his hair. “I, uh, was out, um, visiting a client and got caught short on the way back to the office. So I, uh, popped into the toilets on the Heath. If I’d known it was a thief’s hangout, I certainly wouldn’t have gone there,” he added.