Murder Mile

by Lynda La Plante

  Moran continued. “Have the gay pubs in Soho been checked out, Edwards?”

  “Yes, sir. Myself and other members of the team have visited numerous pubs. Some of the gay punters recognized Lang’s mugshot, but no one has seen him around Soho since the murders started.”

  “What about local drug dealers—was Lang getting his fix from any of them?” Moran asked.

  A detective raised his hand. “We’ve spoken to local informants and all known drug dealers we could trace, but again, nothing positive so far. It’s possible Lang may go further afield than Peckham to get his drugs.”

  “Then widen the bloody search for drug dealers,” Moran said, looking frustrated. “Since the last press appeal, we’ve received a shedload of possible sightings of Lang. Any of them look promising?”

  There was silence in the room as everyone looked around to see if anyone was going to speak up.

  “Come on, surely one of you must having something positive.”

  Still there was silence.

  Moran’s gloom seemed to deepen. “Even if you think it might be irrelevant, for God’s sake tell me.”

  The CID clerk raised her hand. “I re-circulated the all-ports warnings and sent another round of telexes about Lang out to all UK police stations.”

  “Have we heard back from any of them?” Moran asked.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  Moran slapped the table. “Damn it, Lang can’t have disappeared off the face of the earth!”

  Edwards raised his hand. “Is it worth speaking to his sister again?”

  Moran shook his head. “Hilary Peters doesn’t like police. There’s no way she’ll talk to us.”

  Only because of the way you treated her, Jane thought to herself.

  “What’s happening about the dismembered body? Are we investigating that as well?” Gibbs asked.

  Moran nodded. “I discussed it with DCS Blake after the post-mortem. Due to all the press coverage, the Commissioner has taken a personal interest in our investigations. Blake wants to speak with him first before reallocating the Peckham Rye case to another team. But until I hear back from him we’re stuck with that case as well.”

  Gibbs snorted. “Blake’s frightened to make a decision. It’s bloody obvious the dismembered body isn’t connected to the three women’s murders.”

  Moran sighed. “I agree. But it’s out of my hands until the Commissioner makes his decision. For now, I want to split the team in two. One half can concentrate on finding Aiden Lang and the other, led by DI Gibbs, can investigate the Peckham Rye case.”

  Gibbs frowned and shook his head, as did a number of other members of the team.

  “Can we at least have more officers to assist us?” Gibbs asked.

  Moran shrugged. “I’ve also asked Blake that very question and—”

  Gibbs didn’t let him finish. “Yeah, yeah, and he’ll ask the Commissioner, blah, blah, blah.”

  Moran slammed his notebook down on the table. “For fuck’s sake, the lot of you grow up and stop acting like children. I don’t like what’s happening as much as the rest of you. But until we find Aiden Lang, the top brass, press and public won’t stop hounding us. Remember, I’m the one who’s neck’s on the line with the Commissioner—not yours! But let me assure you of one thing: if I find out a sighting of Lang wasn’t properly investigated and he slipped through the net, then I will personally make sure the officer concerned is out of the CID and back in uniform.”

  The room fell silent. No one needed to be told about the pressure Moran was under and how stressed he was. And they also knew Moran meant what he said if they screwed up.

  Moran composed himself before continuing. “The sooner we can find out who the dismembered man is, the sooner we can make some progress. Once we know who he is, we will be able to identify his criminal associates.”

  Jane stuck up her hand.

  “What, Tennison?”

  “I had a word with Burt, the collator. He isn’t aware of any current gangland disputes, but—”

  Moran cut her off angrily. “What is it with you, Tennison? Why do you have to put a damper on everything I say? The collator is a uniform officer who’s never been a detective. He has no experience of a murder investigation!”

  “He does have twenty-five years of experience of working in Peckham,” Lawrence said in Jane’s defense.

  Encouraged, Jane continued. “Burt told me Eddie Harrison recently got out of prison. He suggested he might be trying to ‘reclaim his manor.’”

  “I was a DC at Rotherhithe when they first came on the scene. The things they did to people who crossed them were unbelievable,” Lawrence chipped in.

  Jane nodded. “Burt said they cut off fingers and toes, pulled teeth out with pliers.”

  Moran took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Thank you, Tennison. You and Lawrence have made your point. DI Gibbs can follow up on what Eddie Harrison has been up to since he got out of prison.”

  “Burt has an informant he can speak to,” Jane said.

  “Am I not making myself clear, Tennison?” Moran gave her stern look, then turned to Lawrence. “Anything from forensics that might help us?”

  “Not in locating Lang. On the positive side, the lab found fibers matching the tweed jacket in Lang’s room on all three female victims.”

  Jane had a sudden flashback to the moment Simmonds surprised her in the bedroom at Brayards Road. She had been so anxious, she hadn’t taken in the significance of the fishing photo before she dropped it. Simmonds had been wearing a tweed cap, matching tweed jacket, waistcoat and trousers.

  “What was the outcome of the social services interview with Simon Matthews?” a detective asked.

  Moran looked at Jane. “Tennison?”

  Jane didn’t hear him. She was picturing Simmonds standing over her in his mother’s bedroom holding the syringe. A cold shudder ran through her body.

  “I think she’s on another planet, sir,” the detective quipped.

  Moran nodded at Lawrence. “Wake Tennison up, Paul.”

  Lawrence was about to give her a nudge with his elbow when Jane came back to the moment, knowing she had to share what she had just found out.

  “I saw a photograph of Simmonds this morning, sir. He was wearing a three-piece tweed suit. I’m almost certain the jacket was the same one found in Aiden Lang’s hostel room.”

  “Christ, she’s off again,” Edwards whispered to Gibbs.

  “What on earth are you on about now, Tennison?” Moran asked.

  Jane looked agitated. “We might be wrong about Lang being a lone killer. For some reason, Simmonds has repeatedly lied to me. I can also prove he and Sybil Hastings were friends!”

  For a moment there was a stunned silence in the room. Then Moran gave full vent to his anger.

  “I want to know exactly what you’ve been doing behind my back!”

  Jane tried to stay calm. “Can I speak with you in your office, please, sir?”

  “No! You’ll explain yourself here and now!” Moran barked.

  Before she could answer, DCS Blake strode into the room. “Moran, I need to speak to you in private.”

  “I haven’t finished my meeting,” Moran snapped, incensed by Blake’s interruption. “Carry on, Tennison.”

  “It’s not a request, Moran, it’s an order,” Blake retorted. He glared at Jane and pointed his finger at her. “You as well, Tennison.”

  Feeling herself coloring, Jane followed Blake to Moran’s office. As soon as the door was closed, Blake turned on her.

  “What were you doing snooping around David Simmonds’ dental clinic?”

  Jane realized Simmonds must have phoned Blake as soon as she’d left. And it made her more convinced he was hiding something.

  Moran looked bemused. “You were at Harley Street this morning, Tennison?”

  “No,” Blake told him. “She was at Simmonds’ Peckham clinic and he caught her upstairs rummaging around in his dead mother’s bedroom. He wanted to mak
e a formal complaint. Fortunately, I persuaded him to let me deal with it.”

  Moran’s expression darkened. “What on earth were you playing at, Tennison?”

  Jane knew she had no choice now. She had to tell them everything.

  “I was looking for evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” Blake shouted.

  “I believe David Simmonds is connected to the murders of the three women and—”

  Blake’s eyes widened with anger. “David Simmonds is a personal friend. He’s highly respected in his profession and absolutely above reproach.”

  Jane stood her ground. “He may be highly respected, sir, but he’s a liar. I know he’s been hiding something—”

  Blake jabbed his finger at Jane. “You’ve lost your mind, Tennison!”

  Jane looked at Moran in desperation. “Believe me, sir, I’m not wrong this time. I didn’t want to say anything to you until I found some evidence to back up my suspicions—and now I have. Please hear me out.”

  Blake was at boiling point. “I’ve had enough, Tennison. As from right now, you’re off the investigation. You should be thanking me for persuading Simmonds not to make an official complaint about you.”

  Jane decided to go for broke. “I suggest your thoughts about Mr. Simmonds are clouded by bias, sir.”

  Moran shook his head, silently pleading with Jane to shut up.

  “I could have you kicked out the force for an illegal search, not to mention insubordination. Now get out of my sight!” Blake ordered.

  Jane didn’t move. “Simmonds is your dentist as well as a friend, isn’t he?”

  “You really are pushing your luck, Tennison. Simmonds is a member at my golf club, but not my dentist.”

  “I saw you coming out of his Harley Street surgery last Thursday morning.”

  “You’re mistaken, Tennison. I’m afraid I couldn’t afford Harley Street dental prices.”

  Blake’s blatant lie only served to fire Jane up further. “The receptionist told me you had a toothache. She also said Simmonds doesn’t charge friends his normal rates. I got the distinct impression you were a regular there. In fact, she said you’re often quite flirtatious towards her,” Jane added calmly.

  Blake glared at her, finally lost for words.

  Moran now saw which way the wind was blowing and changed tack. “Accepting a gratuity is against police regulations and a disciplinary offence.”

  Blake started to squirm. “The receptionist is wrong. It was a one-off. I was in a lot of pain and Simmonds kindly said he’d treat me, that’s all.”

  Moran could smell blood. “So you won’t be on Simmonds’ records as a regular patient—or have illegally claimed back any private dental treatment fees?”

  “This is not about me, Moran; it’s about Tennison. She’s a loose cannon. Her search of Simmonds’ Peckham practice is not acceptable behavior. She’s off the investigation and that’s an end to it.” Blake turned towards the door.

  Moran stopped him in his tracks. “You lied for Andrew Hastings. But I still had the decency to hear you out, so I suggest you do the same for Tennison.”

  More than a little surprised at his firmness, Jane gave Moran a grateful nod.

  Blake stopped and looked at his watch. “This better be worth my time, Tennison.”

  There was a knock at the door and Lawrence entered, carrying a folder that he handed to Moran. “The forensics update report,” he explained.

  “Thank you, DS Lawrence, but we’re busy,” Blake said tersely.

  Moran closed the door. “Lawrence stays. He’s dealt with all the crime scenes, so he needs to hear what Jane has to say.”

  “If you say so,” said Blake begrudgingly.

  Moran looked at her. “Go on, Jane.”

  She took a deep breath and began. “David Simmonds treated Simon Matthews at his Peckham clinic, not Harley Street as he’d suggested. In fact, he never even mentioned he had another practice in Peckham.”

  Blake looked unimpressed. “How is that in any way suspicious?”

  “I believe Simmonds didn’t want us snooping around his Peckham practice. It was only by chance I found out.”

  “It’s common knowledge he works there on a Monday and Friday. He’s even received an award for his charitable work.”

  “It may be to his patients and golfing friends, but I wasn’t aware of it,” Moran interjected. “Carry on, Jane.”

  “I believe Helen Matthews thought her son was being sexually abused by Simmonds—”

  “Are you seriously suggesting Simmonds is a pedophile?” Blake spluttered.

  “No. I’m suggesting Helen Matthews thought he was when Simon told her he didn’t like the dentist touching him. I think Helen was angry, which explains why she left her mother’s flat in a hurry without saying where she was going. This was late afternoon on the Friday she was murdered. It makes sense she went to confront Simmonds. Think about it: why else would she be in Peckham that day?”

  “Do you have any physical or eyewitness evidence she went there?” Moran asked.

  “No. But her body was found a stone’s throw from the Peckham clinic—as was Sybil Hastings in the boot of her own car.”

  “You think Simmonds murdered Mrs. Hastings as well?” Moran asked in surprise.

  “This just gets better and better,” Blake muttered sarcastically.

  “I don’t know for certain. But I know for a fact Simmonds knew Sybil Hastings.”

  “How?” Moran asked.

  Blake answered for her. “She and Simmonds are members of my golf club, so it’s not surprising he knew her.”

  “Simmonds told me he’d listened to the news on the radio about the murders in Peckham,” Jane continued. “Sybil Hastings was named as a victim, and yet Simmonds never told me she was a patient of his. I only found out they played golf together because of a photograph at Mrs. Hastings’ flat. If Simmonds had nothing to hide, then why not tell me he knew Mrs. Hastings?”

  “News of the murders was also on the radio before any of the victims were officially named. Do you know exactly when Simmonds listened to the news report?” Blake asked.

  Jane realized he’d made a valid point. “No, sir.”

  “What time did Helen Matthews leave her mother’s flat, Jane?” Lawrence asked.

  Jane got her notebook and flicked through it. “Brenda Matthews said it was between four and four thirty p.m.”

  “And Sybil Hastings? What time did she go out on the Friday?”

  Jane flicked back through her notebook again. “Agnes, the housekeeper, said it was late afternoon. She couldn’t remember if Mrs. Hastings said she was going to see a friend from the golf club,” Jane added meaningfully.

  “What are you thinking, Paul?” Moran asked.

  “Professor Martin said Matthews and Hastings died within the same time frame, which was anywhere between two and eight p.m. From what Jane just said, we can now narrow it down to anywhere between four and eight p.m.”

  Jane picked up on Paul’s observation. “When I was at Simmonds’ Peckham practice, I noticed bleach had been used to clean something off the carpet in the living room. Sybil Hastings was stabbed to death.”

  Blake shook his head. “The stains could be from anything and goodness knows how old.”

  Jane shook her head. “The stains had to be recent. Plus Simmonds was dressed in a tweed outfit in the photograph I saw in his mother’s bedroom. DS Lawrence found the same type of jacket in Lang’s hostel room, even though I was told that it wasn’t Lang’s style.”

  Moran looked at Lawrence. “What did the lab say about the fibers on the tweed jacket you recovered?”

  “After microscopic examination of both longitudinal and cross-sectional samples of the fibers, the lab concluded the ones from Lang’s jacket are exactly the same as the one’s found on the victims.”

  Jane shook her head. “But we don’t know for certain it’s Lang’s jacket.”

  Blake looked exasperated. “Are you seriously suggest
ing Simmonds planted the tweed jacket in Lang’s room?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I do know there are things that just don’t add up or make sense at the moment. The only thing that’s clear is that Simmonds has been lying to me.”

  Blake was rubbing his cheek uneasily.

  “Something troubling you, sir?” Moran asked innocently.

  Blake hesitated before speaking. “On the Thursday morning I visited him in Harley Street, Simmonds asked me if I was working on any interesting cases. I was in pain with my tooth and didn’t say much. I only told him I was in overall charge of the murders in Peckham. I didn’t know Sybil Hastings was a patient of his, but I didn’t bring up her name—I just wanted him to sort my toothache out.”

  Moran looked him in the eyes. “Did he ask you anything else?”

  Blake sighed. “Just how the investigation was going. I told him we were looking for a suspect, and the forensic evidence, by way of fibers and fingerprints, was overwhelming proof he was the murderer.”

  “Did you mention the name Aiden Lang or Ben Smith to him?” Jane asked.

  “I can’t remember for certain. But I probably did refer to Lang since we’d released his name at the press conference,” Blake answered.

  Jane was taken aback. “I asked Simmonds if he knew Aiden Lang just minutes after you’d been with him. He told me the name wasn’t familiar.”

  Moran sat back in his chair. “Well, I have to admit, from what Jane’s told us, it seems Simmonds is hiding something. The thing is, all the forensic evidence points towards Aiden Lang killing Hastings and Matthews—not to mention the fact that Summers’ body was found in his hostel room.”

  “All you have against Simmonds is supposition, whereas the evidence against Lang is solid. I doubt a magistrate would grant a search warrant for Simmonds’ Peckham and Harley Street premises,” Blake said.

  Moran agreed. “We don’t even have anything to connect Simmonds and Lang.”

  “Lang had a tooth knocked out. Maybe he was a patient of Simmonds at the Peckham clinic,” Jane suggested.

  Moran shrugged. “But even if Lang was a patient, then it’s only circumstantial evidence. We need to directly connect the two of them to the murders.”