She took out a mirror and regarded herself with a critical eye. Her hair. She really did need to have something done. It was about five inches long and, as Langton had pointed out, it did sprout up in odd places. She wondered whether she should have it cut really short. It was so thick, just another inch and she would have curls, like the child in the old Pears soap advert.
She resolved to cut it as soon as she got time off. She would also have to buy a more stylish wardrobe. She was not going to be a frump. When she went back to bed, she touched the photograph of her father and said softly, ‘G’night, Dad.’
Chapter Eight
As Langton suspected, Alan Daniels’s teeth impressions were of no use. His new dental work had not only been extensive, it had also been done in the United States, where his dentist was not helpful. Apparently, Daniels had suffered considerable pain after teeth implants and developed an infection. He requested his original X-rays and impressions in order to take them to another dentist. Once his teeth settled down, he had destroyed the X-rays and impressions, but refused to pay the dentist the full amount, an astonishing fifty-two thousand dollars.
His appointment had been made before the murder of Melissa and the work was completed after her murder. A coincidence? Or yet another false lead?
The most vital piece of evidence in possibly linking Daniels to the murder of Melissa Stephens was gone. Daniels’s solicitor had provided the details of his dental history, along with a written explanation as to why the dental work had been necessary: a film stunt had gone wrong, a fall which caused damage to his upper front teeth, requiring the emergency dental work.
The only evidence now was circumstantial. They knew that as a child, Daniels had resided at 12 Shallcotte Street along with his mother, Lilian Duffy, and two other victims, Teresa Booth and Kathleen Keegan. They still lacked verification that any of the other victims, either Mary Murphy, Sandra Donaldson, Barbara Whittle or Beryl Villiers, also lived there.
The splintered team decided to concentrate on one victim each and continue enquiries. Anna had been allocated Beryl Villiers, the woman identified by her breast implants. She had called Beryl’s mother. She was friendly on the phone and agreed to see Anna. She had remarried and was now Alison Kenworth. Her new husband, Alec, was a long-distance lorry driver. Mrs Kenworth worked as a manageress, six days a week, at a boutique, she said and could either talk to Anna there, or at her home after she had left the shop.
Confirmation came from his agent that Daniels had indeed been in Cornwall, shooting the remake of Jamaica Inn during the week of 7 February. They seemed to be going downhill fast. Langton obsessively maintained they had the right man, but was aware that if they did not gain fresh evidence soon, the team, already halved, would be disbanded. His office door was almost off its hinges, it had been slammed so often.
Anna was sitting on the train to Leicester, musing over the first stage of her ‘makeover’. She had been to the hairdresser, who had given her a new, cropped hairstyle. It did not seem to have made very much of an impression in the office, though Langton had remarked that it made her look like a boy. There had been no time, as yet, to assemble a new wardrobe, though she had done a bit of surveillance. A sharp suit in Emporio Armani was earmarked along with some of their silk shirts, but the prices were out of her range so she was waiting for the sales.
Arriving at Leicester station, Anna was collected by a local patrol car and a driver. The driver would be on call and available to drive her when required. Langton had informed her in a barbed, throwaway manner that since the car was at her disposal, this time she should consider using it and not rely on local taxis.
She was dropped off at the small boutique at three o’clock. Mrs Kenworth a well-dressed woman in her fifties led Anna to a small back room.
‘Will this be all right?’ Mrs Kenworth asked nervously.
‘It’s fine,’ Anna said, putting down her briefcase.
Mrs Kenworth held out her arms for Anna’s jacket, which she placed neatly on a hanger behind the door. In a prominent position on a small desk there was a headshot of Beryl Villiers. Until then, Anna had only seen mug shots and mortuary pictures.
‘This is your daughter?’ she asked, rather unnecessarily. Anna was unprepared for how beautiful Beryl Villiers once was.
‘She used to do some modelling. I have more pictures.’
Mrs Kenworth opened a drawer in the desk and removed a large brown envelope containing eight colour photographs. Anna glanced through them. The photographs had been taken in a studio. Beryl seemed to be between eighteen and twenty years of age.
‘She’s lovely.’
‘From the time she was a little girl, she was always so confident and pretty.’
‘She took after you.’
‘Thank you.’ Anna noticed Mrs Kenworth’s eyes rapidly filling with tears and added quickly: ‘Did Beryl ever live at an address in Shallcotte Street, Swinton?’
‘I don’t know. Shallcotte Street?’
‘Yes. It was demolished fifteen years ago, so this would have been before then.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Though, to be honest, I couldn’t really tell you. From when she was seventeen, she moved around so much.’
‘When she left Leicester, did she give you an address?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if Beryl ever knew someone called Anthony Duffy?’
‘I don’t recall that name.’
The doorbell pinged and Mrs Kenworth looked into the shop. She excused herself and went to serve the customer.
Anna sifted through the photographs. It didn’t yet make sense to her that such a lovely girl could become a prostitute.
‘Sorry about that,’ Mrs Kenworth said on her return. ‘Regular. She’s taken a couple of outfits to see which her daughter likes. She’s getting married.’
Mrs Kenworth reached for the coffee pot. The tray, with cups and biscuits, was already prepared.
‘You said she left home at seventeen. Why? Did you and your daughter have a falling out?’
‘She got in with a really bad bunch of girls. She was just sixteen. She had been getting good results at school. She was also really talented, said she wanted to be an actress.’
Mrs Kenworth continued talking as she poured the coffee. She had done everything possible to persuade her daughter to stay on in school, but she had refused; she had started work at a local health spa and began to train as a masseuse. ‘At first I got her a flat with two of her friends, not far from where we lived, so I could keep an eye on her. I paid the rent.’ Next thing, Beryl had left, without telling her mother her whereabouts. It turned out she had gone to Southport to be with someone she had met at the spa.
‘She turned up one Sunday, driving a new MG. She said she was living with this man, but she wouldn’t even tell me his name.’
Suddenly, Mrs Kenworth broke down.
‘I don’t honestly know why she wouldn’t let me into her life,’ she wept. ‘She insisted she just wanted to live her own way and without any interference from me. But I wasn’t interfering, I was concerned; she was only seventeen.’
‘What about Beryl’s father?’
Mrs Kenworth dried her eyes. She said that George Villiers, her first husband, had divorced her when Beryl was ten years old. The little girl had worshipped him. At first, Beryl had gone on weekend visits to see him, but after a few years he and his new girlfriend went to live in Canada and they had never heard from him again.
‘I met Alec six or seven years ago. He’s a wonderful, kind man. I don’t know what I would have done without him.’ Tears came splashing down her face again. She blew her nose, apologizing all the time for crying. ‘Sometimes I would get a phone call, always saying the same thing: life was wonderful, she was happy. She used to come home periodically, always in another flashy car, a different one. One time I said to her, why couldn’t I meet this man she was living with?’
Mrs Kenworth took a deep breath. Beryl had told her that she
had left the man from Southport and was now with someone else, someone even better and much wealthier.
‘Did you find out the name of the new boyfriend?’
‘No. As ever, she was very secretive, but she was wearing expensive clothes and a big diamond ring; diamond earrings as well. She always wanted the best things, ever since she was a child. I was too weak with her. I’d give her whatever she wanted, just to keep the peace. She had a wild streak in her, a terrible temper.’
Anna checked her watch. She didn’t seem to be getting anywhere; certainly she was not getting the connection she hoped for.
‘It was drugs,’ Mrs Kenworth offered quietly. She poured more coffee and went on speaking in the same quiet voice.
Two or more years later, Beryl had turned up on the doorstep late one night. Her mother hadn’t heard from her, or seen her, in all that time. She was alarmed to see that Beryl had got very thin. ‘I put her to bed. She looked terrible, kept on saying, “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry.” She was covered in bruises. She wouldn’t talk about it. All she’d say was that she had got herself into a bit of trouble. There were a lot of telephone calls, late at night. Then, once she was better, she started not coming home until morning.’
Mrs Kenworth swallowed. She just sat there for a moment, her eyes full of pain.
‘We had another terrible row. She was gone the following morning. Under her bed, I found hypodermic needles, drug things. It broke my heart. She was destroying herself.’
‘Did you know where she had gone? Did she leave an address, or contact number?’
‘No, she never did.’ An expression crossed the mother’s face, as if remembering something.
‘Manchester. That’s where she went, that time. Manchester. I found a phone number on a bit of torn paper. I called it. The woman that answered sounded drunk, or maybe she was drugged. I called a few times and the same woman always answered. Told me Beryl wasn’t there. She told me to stop calling.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I thought she was lying.’
‘Why?’
‘Call it mother’s intuition. I contacted the phone company. I thought they might give me the address. I was really worried about Beryl using drugs. They wouldn’t help. I went to the police, told them about Beryl, what I was worried about. I gave them the number.’
Anna spoke up. ‘I don’t suppose you still have the number?’
‘No. She came back. She was hysterical, shouting at me. She kicked at the front door. Said I was causing her a lot of trouble, that her friend had been visited by the police and it was all my fault. I said that I was worried about her, that I knew about the drugs.’
Tears started streaming down Mrs Kenworth’s face as she told Anna that Beryl had become like a stranger. She was abusive and violent. She warned her mother that she was not to call her friend, Kathleen, again. That if she did call, she would be getting her daughter into a lot of trouble.
‘From Kathleen?’
‘Yes. I said that she wasn’t much of a friend since she’d lied about not seeing her. Then she sort of collapsed crying and did the old “sorry” routine. I put her to bed and that’s when I saw her breasts. She’d had implants. She’d always had beautiful breasts. She was perfect. She could have done anything, been anything.’
Mrs Kenworth closed her eyes. ‘I know I was naive, but until then I’d never really considered that my daughter might be selling herself; that she might be a prostitute. If anyone had told me, I wouldn’t have believed it.’
The shop bell rang. While Mrs Kenworth went to serve the customer, Anna took down some notes. Could the Kathleen be their victim, Kathleen Keegan? If so, they would have three out of the six that knew each other. If the Leicester Police had kept records that far back, it would be another link in the chain.
Mrs Kenworth entered with a blue two-piece suit on a hanger. She put it on to a rail at the back of the office. ‘I can lock up now.’
‘That’s nice,’ Anna said, coming closer to inspect. ‘Really nice. I like the colour.’
‘I was just about to mark it down for sale. It was in the window; there’s a slight sun mark on the shoulder. What size are you?’
‘Twelve, I think.’
‘Would you like to try it on?’
Anna smiled hesitatingly.
‘Yes, thank you. Do you have any shirts that might go with it?’
It was a quarter past five when Mrs Kenworth drove Anna to her home. Upon their arrival, Anna placed a call to the local police. It was a far-reaching hope that they might still have a record of Mrs Kenworth’s visit but if so, they might possibly have the Manchester address.
Mrs Kenworth’s flat was in a well-kept council estate. The flat was immaculate, though stiflingly warm. Mrs Kenworth opened the door to her daughter’s old room. ‘I’ve kept this the way it was when she first ran away. All her pictures are in here.’ She touched a photograph of an incredibly pretty, dark-eyed young girl on a pony; then one photograph after the other, showing a pretty little girl growing into a stunning-looking teenager. ‘I still come in here to sit, sometimes, just to talk to her.’
The room was a shrine, permeated by a sickly perfume. There was a frilly pink nylon bedspread, with matching pink pillows and cushions. A collection of dolls had been lined up, all dressed in pink. The white and gold wardrobe still contained the dead girl’s clothes, yet she had not lived in the flat for most of her adult life.
‘I never saw her again after that. She sent me a Christmas card from London. Said she had a job in a fashion house, that she’d gone back to modelling. She had such beautiful brown eyes,’ Mrs Kenworth whispered, heartbroken, holding out another picture.
‘Yes, she was lovely,’ Anna said, taking it.
She looked at the professional headshot. It seemed impossible that this lovely girl had been found dead on waste ground and the only way she could be identified was by her breast implants. Mrs Kenworth’s daughter could have had the world at her feet, but she had been murdered at thirty-four, her beauty completely laid waste by years of prostitution, violence and drug abuse.
Mrs Kenworth raised her eyes to Anna. ‘I wouldn’t believe it when the police told me she was a prostitute.’
When Anna’s mobile phone rang, it startled them both. Anna excused herself and murmured instructions for her driver to collect her from the flat. It was with relief that she finally climbed into the patrol car a few minutes later. The interior heat and the mother’s anguish had sapped her energy.
On saying goodbye, Anna had glimpsed another side to Mrs Kenworth. Anna had just mentioned Beryl’s father again: did he know of her death? In response, Mrs Kenworth’s face became tight and vicious and her lips pulled tightly together.
‘I didn’t know where he was to tell him his daughter was dead. He never had to deal with the local press banging on the door, asking me about the prostitute murdered and left unidentified for six months. You saw all those lovely pictures of her; they could have picked any of them, but no, they had to print that terrible picture from the murder. She looked like a mean-faced whore. Not like my daughter at all. He never sent a penny for her. He never even sent Beryl a birthday card, a Christmas card — nothing! He left me for a bitch that I trusted as my friend. And he broke his daughter’s heart. And then she broke mine.’
Anna touched Mrs Kenworth’s hand as the older woman blinked the tears back.
‘I really have to go. The car’s waiting. But thank you so much for your time and for helping me with the suit.’
‘Any time, dear.’ Mrs Kenworth managed a half smile. ‘You know where I am. I’ll always give you a good price.’
Reclining against the back seat of the patrol car, Anna closed her eyes and gave a silent prayer of thanks for a happy childhood and two loving and understanding parents.
At the police station she headed straight to reception, where the desk sergeant lifted the flap in his counter and said, ‘Come on in. We’ve roped in a retired officer. Some kind of friend to the Villiers family.’
The small interview room smelled of paint. A white-haired, rotund ex-detective stood up to shake Anna’s hand as she was led into the room. Anna was amused to find he didn’t waste any time on a preamble, but went straight to the subject.
‘You wanted to know about Beryl Villiers? How long have you got?’
‘Not long, actually,’ Anna said. ‘I’m on the seven o’clock train back to London.’
Ex-DS Colin Mold leaned back, clasping his hands over his belly. ‘Right, me duck.’ He gave a different version of the Villiers family as troubled, with numerous domestic callouts. Villiers and his wife were always scrapping. ‘The fact is, the man couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. He knocked her around, but his wife always dropped charges before they went to court.’ Then, Mold continued, Villiers had run off with his wife’s best friend, a hairdresser. In the divorce proceedings, he failed in his fight to get custody of Beryl, but he did get access to her. Not long after, he had dumped the hairdresser and skipped, with another girlfriend and a lot of rent owing, to Canada. Nobody had heard from him since. The real victim was Beryl, who had loved him.
He chuckled about how the two women, older and younger, were at loggerheads. Even at the tender age of eight, Beryl was fighting with her mother. A couple of times she had run off and her mother would drag her back home from the hairdresser’s. Then he went quiet; just saying not much had happened until Beryl had left home at sixteen and her mother had found a little flat for her with two friends.
Anna opened her notebook. ‘This was when she went to work at the health spa?’
He snorted. ‘There was another name for it: bloody knocking shop. Open until late at night; a lot of hanky-panky went on.’
‘The most important period I need to know about is the time she went to Manchester.’
‘Right. So they said.’ Mrs Villiers had found hypodermic needles in Beryl’s bedroom and she turned up at the station in a terrible state. She also had a phone number. She believed that Beryl was in Manchester. ‘She even had this idea she was being held against her will by some woman. So I pulled in a couple of favours. You have to understand: I’d known this girl since she was a toddler.’
Above Suspicion at-1 Page 14
