“It’s not renowned for thieves, actually, but it is a notorious haunt for gay men looking for blow jobs,” Edwards told Barnes, unable to resist putting some pressure on him.
“Well, that’s news to me … and another reason I’ll avoid the area,” Barnes said with a nervous smile.
“Had you ever met Aiden Lang before at the Heath toilets?” Gibbs asked.
“No, I had not, and I resent your insinuation that I was there for anything other than a pee.”
Gibbs held his hands up. “I wasn’t insinuating anything, Mr. Barnes.”
Barnes didn’t look convinced. “I’m very busy, officers, and have a business to run. I don’t know anything about Aiden Lang—other than that he’s a criminal. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave.”
“Lang is also a triple murder suspect,” Edwards said evenly.
Barnes now looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“How did your wife take it when you told her you were robbed in a toilet on Hampstead Heath?” Gibbs asked.
“She was upset … of course.”
“Best we speak with her then. What’s your home address?” Edwards asked.
Barnes stiffened. “I will not be spoken to like some criminal! Please leave now.”
“You leave us no choice than to arrest you for perverting the course of justice in a murder investigation, Mr. Barnes. You are not obliged to say anything—” Gibbs began.
“All right, all right.” Barnes’ body seemed to go slack. “I’ll tell you what happened, but please don’t say anything to my wife. She’d leave me and take the children.”
“I’m not interested in your home life, Mr. Barnes, just your association with Aiden Lang,” Gibbs said.
Barnes looked relieved. “I’d never met or seen Aiden Lang before that day. I’d had a working lunch with a client in the Jack Straw’s Castle pub next to the Heath. When I left, Lang approached me in the car park and propositioned me.”
“Why would he approach you in particular?” Edwards asked.
“I don’t know. He might have seen me at the toilets before with another man. We went to the toilets, then … in a cubicle he performed oral sex on me and demanded ten pounds. We’d originally agreed a price of five pounds, so I handed him a fiver. Lang became aggressive and started screaming at me. He grabbed me round the throat and took my wallet. The PC turned up and arrested him. I assume, like me, he didn’t want the officer to know what we’d been doing.”
Gibbs gave him a curt nod. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Barnes. If we need to speak to you again, we know where you are.”
Barnes said nothing as they walked out of his office.
“Where to now?” Edwards asked as they got in the car.
“Jack Straw’s Castle. We can have a bit of lunch and a pint, and ask a few questions about Lang in case he’s still a regular.”
Edwards didn’t look very excited about Gibbs’ suggestion, but he knew he had no choice in the matter.
Arriving at the top of Hampstead Heath, it was easy to find Jack Straw’s Castle, an imposing building that stood alone like a sentinel looking down over the greenery. They spoke with the landlord over lunch and showed him pictures of Lang and the victims, but he didn’t recognize any of them and neither did any of his staff. Already uncomfortable with the idea of enjoying a pub lunch whilst on duty, Edwards felt like it was a wasted visit. Gibbs, however, had one more idea up his sleeve. Leaving the pub, he told Edwards to park the car up near the toilets, so they could keep observation for a while and see if Lang, or anyone else who might be cruising for gay sex, turned up.
Edwards cheered up. “We’ll be the dog’s bollocks in the office if we get Lang.” He grinned.
It wasn’t long before they saw a youth hanging around outside the toilets. He was then approached by an older, camp-looking man, who was walking a small black and tan Yorkshire terrier. The two men then went into the toilets.
“You don’t think the dog’s involved in a threesome, do you?” Edwards joked.
Gibbs laughed. “Let’s have a word and see if either of them know Lang or have seen him in the area.”
Edwards sighed. “Can’t we wait until they come out? If we go in there we might get one of them SID things, like gonear.”
Gibbs laughed even harder. “It’s gonorrhoea, you pillock, and STD, which is short for Sexually Transmitted Disease, and you can’t catch them off a toilet seat or urinal, so shift your arse.”
When they got to the toilet, the two men were just coming out.
“That was a quick one,” Edwards quipped as he held his warrant card up to stop them.
“Pardon?” the older man said.
Edwards gave them a stern look. “Gross Indecency in a public toilet is a criminal offence under the Sexual Offences Act 1956.”
But the man showed no sign of being intimidated. “As a barrister, I’m fully aware of that offence, officer, as is my son here, who’s currently studying law at university.”
Edwards shook his head. “Yeah, good try, mate—these toilets are a well-known haunt for you bum bandits.”
The older man looked incensed. “We’ve just met up to go for lunch in Jack Straw’s Castle. I hope, for your sake, you’re not implying that we have just committed a sexual act in the toilets?”
Gibbs realized the man was telling the truth and quickly stepped in to defuse the situation. He apologized for any misunderstanding and told the two men they were looking for a murder suspect who frequented the Heath and showed them a picture of Lang, but neither the solicitor nor his son had seen him before. Gibbs thanked them for their assistance and hoped they had an enjoyable lunch.
The barrister nodded at Gibbs, then turned to Edwards.
“I suggest you don’t jump to blinkered conclusions in future, officer. My son and I could just as easily have mistaken you and your colleague for a gay couple, but we’re not as narrow-minded as you. Good day.”
When the pair were out of earshot, Edwards muttered, “Fucking wankers. I reckon that lawyer is a closet poofter like our Mr. Barnes.”
Gibbs shook his head. “You need to wind your neck in and change your attitude, Edwards. We could have ended up with a serious complaint there.”
Edwards looked at him in surprise. “What? You make remarks about poofters as much as I do.”
“That’s just having a laugh amongst ourselves. I don’t have a problem with gay men. To be honest, I couldn’t care less if Aiden Lang is a gay rent boy; the fact he’s brutally murdered three women is what makes me detest him.”
“I need a pee.” Edwards stomped off to the toilets with a disgruntled look.
Gibbs waited a few seconds before sneaking into the toilets and creeping up behind Edwards, who was muttering to himself about queers. Gibbs reached out and squeezed Edwards’ bottom, making a startled Edwards jump forward, urinating on his trousers and shoes.
As Gibbs burst out laughing, Edwards turned and shouted angrily, “That’s not funny, guv. Look at the state of my bloody trousers!”
After dropping Lawrence off at the lab, Jane rang Moran to update him about the visit to the Golden Lion and the woman who’d been looking for Aiden Lang. Moran also had some positive information.
“We’ve had a call from a woman in Kilburn called Brenda Matthews. She was so distressed it was hard to understand what she was saying, but anyway, the gist of it is she thinks her daughter Helen may be the unidentified victim. Everyone’s busy so I’ll get the local plods to visit her.”
“I’m on my way to Eileen Summers’ primary school in Kentish Town to see Mrs. Rowlands. Kilburn’s nearby so I could follow up on Brenda Matthews first,” Jane said, hoping he’d say yes.
“OK, do that. The address is flat forty, Bronte House on the South Kilburn Estate.”
Jane parked in the street outside Bronte House, an eighteen-story concrete tower block in South Kilburn. The grass area outside the block was littered with rubbish bags spilling out rotting waste due to the
bin strike. But Jane knew the rundown appearance of the estate was also due to the area’s drug problem, which brought a lot of crime to the neighborhood.
Brenda Matthews lived on the tenth floor and Jane knew before she even pressed the lift button that it would be out of order—probably not through any mechanical fault, but deliberate damage caused by some of the many young criminals and hooligans who lived on the estate. Jane, like so many of the unfortunate residents, had no choice other than walking up the stairs.
She was breathing heavily when she reached the tenth floor, and thanked her lucky stars Mrs. Matthews didn’t live on the eighteenth. She waited a few moments to get her breath back, then knocked on the flat door. It was instantly opened by a small woman in her mid to late fifties. She wore glasses, had short wavy hair with a few grey streaks, and was casually dressed in a brown shirt, brown and white checked knee-length skirt, with a white apron over it and slippers. But what Jane noticed most was the tremor in hands and the distraught look on her face.
She also immediately saw a strong resemblance to the unknown victim.
“Brenda Matthews?” Jane asked as she showed her warrant card and the woman nodded. “I’m Detective Sergeant Tennison. I’ve come about the call you made to the incident room regarding your daughter, Helen. Can I come in and speak to you?”
“Are you investigating them murders in Peckham?”
Jane didn’t answer. She could see Mrs. Matthews was unsteady on her feet, so took her gently by the arm and helped her onto the settee. The living room in the small two-bedroom flat was neat and tidy, though sparsely furnished, with just the settee, an armchair, side dresser in one corner and a small dining table pushed up against the wall, along with three wooden chairs. In another corner of the room there was a small cardboard box overflowing with Dinky and Corgi toy cars, some Action Man dolls and accessories.
Jane got Mrs. Matthews a glass of water from the kitchen and handed it to her. Once Brenda had taken a few sips, Jane sat next to her on the settee and noticed an old wedding picture on the wall.
“Is your husband at work, Brenda?”
“I’m a widow. He died some years ago in a car accident.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I can imagine this is very distressing for you, Brenda, but can I ask why you called the incident room?”
Mrs. Matthews’ lower lip trembled, and she began to cry. “I’d been out shopping for groceries and bumped into my neighbor on the landing. She’d watched the lunchtime news about the murders in Peckham and said a drawing of one of the victim’s looked just like … my Helen.” She paused to wipe her eyes. “I’d seen in Monday’s paper about them two women who was murdered in Peckham, but it didn’t say no names.” She turned to Jane with a pleading look. “I’m scared, so scared … Please tell me it’s not my Helen.”
Jane felt desperate for her, but couldn’t help wondering, if it was Helen, why she hadn’t reported her daughter missing earlier. She decided, rather than prolonging the agony asking painful questions about Helen, to resolve the situation in a more direct way.
“Do you have a photo of Helen I can look at?”
Mrs. Matthews pointed to a picture on a wooden side dresser. “There’s one of her with my grandson Simon at the fun fair. He’d just turned nine.”
Mrs. Matthews began to rock back and forth, clutching her hands together below her chin, as if praying for Helen’s safety. Jane realized the box of toys in the corner must be Simon’s. She got up to look closely at the photograph. It was a poor quality black and white picture, taken from a distance, which made it hard to be certain if the victim was Helen.
“Please, God, officer, tell me it’s not my Helen,” Mrs. Matthews sobbed.
Jane could see Brenda was in shock and she really didn’t want to take her to the mortuary to view the body in case it wasn’t her daughter.
She crouched down in front of her. “It’s hard to say from that photo. Do you have another picture, a close-up, perhaps?”
Mrs. Matthews pointed to the chest of drawers. “There’s some photos in the top drawer. One of them is her and Simon in one of them Woolworths photo booths what takes pictures of you.”
Jane opened the drawer and immediately saw an A4-size school photograph. Sat in the middle of the children was a smiling Eileen Summers. It was the same picture Mrs. Rowlands had shown Jane when she first visited the school. Jane’s heart raced as she rummaged through the drawer. She found the black and white passport-sized photo booth picture of Helen and Simon, who was sitting on his mother’s lap, with his arms around her neck. Jane held it next to the school photo and could see Simon sitting on the floor in front of Miss Summers.
There could be no doubt anymore: Helen Matthews was the killer’s first victim, and there was now a definite connection between her and Eileen Summers. Mrs. Matthews could tell from the somber look on Jane’s face that her worst fears were true.
“The dead girl’s my Helen, isn’t it?”
Jane nodded, unable to find any consoling words.
Mrs. Matthews began rocking back and forth on the settee, holding her arms tightly around herself. She realized that Brenda had no idea Eileen Summers had been murdered, and thought it best not to tell her yet.
Jane sat down next to her on the settee and held her hand. “I’m so sorry, but I will need you to formally identify Helen at the mortuary. I will be there with you, but we don’t have to do it right away. My main concern at this moment is obviously for you and Simon. Is he at school just now?”
Helen nodded as she continued to rock back and forwards, her eyes still filled with tears.
“We will also need to notify Simon’s father.”
Mrs. Matthews shook her head. “Helen was a single mother and never told anyone who Simon’s father was, not even Simon. Oh dear God, how am I going to tell him his mother’s dead? I need to see Simon. Can we go to his school?” Brenda pleaded.
“Yes, of course. Brenda, I know you are very upset right now, but I just need to ask you a few important questions about Helen before we go and see Simon. Is that OK?”
Brenda nodded.
“I’ll also need to search her bedroom.”
“Helen doesn’t live here; she has a place of her own.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Number four Willbury House, on the Hilldrop estate. It’s near Tufnell Park tube station.”
Jane jotted down the address, realizing that answering questions was somehow helping Mrs. Matthews to keep from completely collapsing. “I don’t mean to pry, Brenda, but does Simon live with you?”
“Sometimes. But it’s just so Helen can go out and work. She’s a cleaner, you see. It’s hard for her to earn money when Simon’s not at school. During the school holidays he spends most of the time with me. He’s been with me over the half term.”
Jane was a little confused about the arrangements concerning Simon, as she knew he must have returned to school on the Monday just gone.
“I take it you made the arrangements about Simon before the half term started?”
“Yes and no. We’d spoken about it beforehand but then Helen came here last Friday afternoon to see Simon.”
“What time was that?”
“About three thirty, I think. Helen gave me some money for looking after Simon. She said she’d been busy and doing lots of extra hours cleaning.”
“Are you looking after Simon this week as well?”
“Well, I didn’t think so, but then again I wasn’t sure, cos I thought Helen said she’d collect him from me on the Monday evening after school. When she didn’t, I thought maybe Helen said she’d pick him up on the Tuesday from mine after school, but again she didn’t. I was a bit annoyed with her, to be honest, and neither of us has a phone, so after I dropped Simon at school this morning, I went to her flat to see what she was playing at, but she wasn’t there.” Mrs. Matthews started to cry again at the realization her daughter was already dead when she went to the flat.
“Did you speak with any of t
he neighbors?” Jane asked, realizing Mrs. Matthews wouldn’t have got an answer at Helen’s flat.
“No. I thought she might have been at work. I put a nasty note through the letter box about her responsibilities as a mother.” The memory sent her into a fit of sobs.
Jane rubbed her arm. “It’s not your fault, Brenda. You weren’t to know what had happened to Helen, and she never saw the note.”
There was more that Jane wanted to ask Mrs. Matthews about her daughter, especially about how she seemed when she came to her flat last Friday, which must have been shortly before she was murdered. But she realized talking about Helen’s last known movements would simply be too upsetting. She would speak with her in more depth later. Instead, she told Mrs. Matthews that they would go to the school, see Simon and speak with Mrs. Rowlands, the headmistress. The prospect of seeing Simon seemed to calm her down, and Jane was able to help her down the stairs and into the car, before driving the short distance to the school, the dark clouds overhead making the silent journey feel even more oppressive.
Twenty minutes later, Brenda Matthews sat in numbed silence in the headmistress’ office as Jane took Mrs. Rowlands to one side and told her that Helen Matthews had also been murdered.
Mrs. Rowlands was clearly shocked, but kept her composure for Mrs. Matthews’ sake. “Is there no end to this madness? You do have a hard job, Sergeant Tennison. I don’t know how you cope with so much death and misery.”
“I sometimes wonder myself, Mrs. Rowlands,” Jane admitted. “But I have a job to do and that’s what keeps me going, I suppose.”
Mrs. Rowlands smiled sadly. “Your DCI Moran rang me this morning. He told me there would be a press release at lunchtime, naming Eileen as one of the victims. I was going to hold an assembly with the teachers, children and parents at the end of class today and inform them.”
“Mrs. Matthews doesn’t know about Eileen yet. I couldn’t tell her earlier due to the state she was in. She’d like to see her grandson and then, if she’s up to it, I’ll take her to formally identify Helen’s body. I asked her on the way here if there was anyone who could look after Simon, but she doesn’t appear to have any other family in London. Do you have a contact number for the local social services so I can arrange—?”
Murder Mile Page 17
