“So, is it good or bad news?” he said quietly.
“I wouldn’t say it was good, whatever way you look at it.” Coral removed her rubber gloves. “But I know what you’re asking me and the answer is yes. We believe your little girl was killed by the same person: the knots, the method of tying them, are identical.”
“Thank you,” he said, tight-lipped.
“We are still working on her clothes, so you might get something new there; but, as yet, we have nothing.”
Outside in the car park, Langton lit a cigarette. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? Not so much as a carpet fiber.” He sucked in the smoke and half turned toward Anna. “The fucker must know exactly what he’s doing.”
“You think there’s a place he takes them to?” Anna asked. “Maybe he kills them and dumps the bodies elsewhere.”
“Nope. Killed at the site, or near it. In all the cases, they had to agree to go with him.”
“That’s true with the prostitutes. But Melissa wouldn’t have agreed to go with him unless she knew him and she was found a long distance from her flat.”
Anna would have continued speculating, but Langton had flicked his cigarette aside and was walking toward the waiting patrol car. “We’re going to see Henson next, at the pathology lab,” he shouted to Anna behind him. “Maybe he’ll have something for us.”
He slammed the passenger door shut. She just managed to scramble in the backseat before the car drew away.
In the pathology lab, Henson sat before a large slice of cream cake and a cup of coffee. He smiled when they entered his lab. “Just having my elevenses, albeit at four o’clock, but that’s my life whenever you lot start screaming for results. And I have no intention of hurrying. It’s my career on the line if I make a mistake, so I’m not quite ready for you.”
Langton pulled a face.
“All right. I give you one thing: I do know her last meal was a hamburger, fries and Coca-Cola. No alcohol, no drugs. A very fit young woman. Beautiful muscle tone and fresh, unblemished skin. She was a natural blonde with well-cut hair; no dye, but a few highlights. She was wearing very little makeup.”
Henson polished off his cream cake and wiped his mouth with a tissue. “Give me another twenty-four hours, I’ll have all the results. Then the coroner should be able to release her body for burial. We have taken slides, et cetera.”
He gave a sidelong glance at Anna. “Let’s have a look. You shouldn’t pass out this time. Easier to digest, slides.” Henson smiled sympathetically as Anna flushed. Then, crossing the room to the area where all the pathology slides were blown up onto light frames, he addressed Langton with a new seriousness.
“See this mark on her neck? Not having much joy in giving you possibilities: odd shape, size of the old shilling, but with a bulbous area at the top.” He pressed his own neck with his forefinger. “Went in quite deeply: half an inch. Didn’t kill her, though; I would say she was already unconscious. We’re testing her brain matter, so I will have a result on that.”
“Thank you,” Langton said. “Fast as you can, yes?”
“Yes,” Henson said with a sigh. He walked into the lab next door.
Langton looked at Anna. “Right, let’s go back to the station. See if the lads have anything for us.”
“Yes, sir.” She was tired out, even if he wasn’t. Next time she would need more than a yogurt for lunch.
The incident room was crowded. Someone was sitting at her desk but before she could say anything Langton was clapping his hands for attention. Then they were joined by the newly added detectives, office manager and clerical staff, so Langton took the next few moments to meet everyone before he provided the update. First he confirmed that the person who had tied the bonds on Melissa was the same person who did it to their other six victims. “Number seven” was now legitimate.
A large TV set was wheeled in. Langton held up a videocassette. “OK, everyone. This is for those of you who didn’t catch the reconstruction that was made when Melissa was just a ‘missing person.’ After we watch, we’ll throw out to anyone who’s got a result today. Best news we’ve had yet is the verification we’re hunting the same bastard for—” He never finished. The theme music for Crime Night started and the room fell silent, except for the underlying ringing of phones.
A photograph filled the screen and a voice-over began: “Melissa Stephens, last seen here at The Bistro in Covent Garden. She was wearing a distinctive black T-shirt with pink diamanté logo and a pink skirt. We wish to hear from anyone who saw her that night after eleven-thirty.”
The film continued for five more minutes, with a running commentary, as “Melissa” was shown walking away from The Bistro, headed toward the tube station. A short interview with her parents ensued; they begged anyone who might have information about where their daughter was to come forward. They said repeatedly that Melissa would never have taken off without calling them and they feared the worst. The tape was then fast-forwarded to the next section, which ran at a spot two hours later the same night. There were details of call-ins. Finally, the announcer said they had received a call from a witness who was sure he had seen Melissa that night. Another full-screen picture of Melissa followed and under it, the phone number to call.
The TV set was turned off. It was a while before talk broke out again. The general atmosphere was one of depression caused by the realization that when the show had aired, the Stephenses’ young daughter was already dead.
Together the detectives went over their orders for the following day. Langton returned to the board.
“OK, coffee’s on its way; in the meantime let’s crack on. Any new assignments from the update will be given out.” He pointed to Mike Lewis, who moved to stand beside him. “For now, just sit and listen. Mike?”
Mike opened his notebook.
“I interviewed the call-in witness from the show. The guys handling the missing person case had already traced him, so we got to him fast. His name is Eduardo Moreno; he’s Cuban and speaks very little English. He works at the Minx Club, on the corner of Old Compton Street in Soho. The club is a transvestite hangout; members only, know what I mean? Across the street is a massage parlor, real cheap dive; bright pink neon sign outside, that sort of thing. The neon is quite important because not only is it pink, it flashes. So Mr. Moreno, who works as a waiter-stroke-dishwasher, is standing outside the club having a cigarette at about midnight. He is certain the girl he saw is Melissa, though it gets a bit screwed up, because he thought she came out of the massage parlor–stroke–knocking shop.”
Lewis described how Moreno had seen Melissa bending down to talk to someone in a car. He could not say the color and make, just that it was a big car and pale. He was also unable to say if Melissa got in the car; just that he’d turned away to talk to someone passing and when he looked back both the car and Melissa had gone. He was also unable to describe the driver, but he thought it was a man.
Langton gave instructions to bring Moreno in and show him every make of car. He was skeptical about his claim that his English was poor, since he had managed the phone call. Lewis explained that another waiter made the call for him, as they both thought there could be a reward. The good news was that the Minx Club had CCTV security cameras, as did the massage joint, and after a lot of persuasion both establishments had agreed to allow their tapes to be viewed. There was plenty of footage and only one camera was time-coded. Any film of Melissa could then be enhanced by the lab and returned quickly. Mike planned to view the tapes first himself.
Alan Barolli was up next. He told them he had spent the day exploring the streets around the possible routes Melissa had taken. The film crew had only forty-eight hours to compile their footage and so had gone for the most direct route. Barolli had spent time checking out every other path Melissa might have taken. The result was that he had more than six additional CCTV tapes and they were being reviewed in the hope they would provide details of the exact journey she had taken from Covent Garden that night. However, as
Langton had suspected, due to the passage of time, a number of places using CCTV had already recycled the tapes.
Langton threw the discussion open to the room for questions. Anna put up her hand, then found herself flushing when the entire room turned to look at her.
“Two things, really. It must have been cold that night. Melissa, we know, was wearing a T-shirt and short skirt. Do we know if she had an outer garment, say a jacket or coat?”
Observing a few looks and shrugs in response, Langton gave instructions to check with her boyfriend. He was about to move on when he saw Anna’s hand was still raised; he nodded.
“Also, the T-shirt has that sequined logo. It’s possible that our killer, who has only picked up prostitutes to date, thought Melissa came out of the massage parlor. The T-shirt saying ‘strip’ across the chest might have given him that idea.”
Langton nodded and checked his watch. “OK, it’s eight o’clock; let’s call it quits tonight. Tomorrow, full steam ahead. Get the Cuban in, the CCTV footage sorted out, and we’ll see if the postmortem reports can help.”
There was a mass exodus to the doors; some of them, like Anna, had been on duty since nine or earlier. She collected her coat and briefcase and headed toward the filing cabinet.
“Gov, can I take the file on victim four?”
Langton gave her a perfunctory nod and continued to confer with the office manager about the duty roster. In preparation for all the new officers, copies of the files had already been made, so Anna just removed one, signed the report logbook and left, feeling very tired.
Reaching the car park, she was more than a little pissed off to find her beloved Mini with a scrape down one side. It was impossible to tell if the beat-up Volvo next to it was to blame. Anna chucked her briefcase onto the backseat and sat for a moment, wondering if she should return to the station to complain or perhaps request an allocated parking space, but in the end her tiredness prevailed and she just drove home.
Chapter Three
Anna had only been in this job for two days, but already it had taken a toll on her domestic life. There was dirty washing in the bathroom and she badly needed groceries. She jotted several items down on a shopping list and decided to pick them up on her way into the station the next morning.
That finished, she poured herself a glass of wine and set about making supper. It was after eleven by the time she had eaten and she realized as she opened the file on the fourth victim that she was too tired to take anything in. She set her alarm for half past five the next morning and crashed out.
In the morning, she had a shower, got dressed and made some coffee. By six o’clock she was feeling much brighter as she opened the file.
Barbara Whittle, another well-known prostitute, had been forty-four at the time of her death. Her body had been found in a state of advanced decomposition. There were the usual on-site photographs, plus close-up shots of her tied hands and her neck, where her tights had been wrapped and drawn taut to strangle her in the same way as the others. This case was put on file in 1998.
Barbara was almost five feet eight and her body was ravaged by alcohol. The corpse showed severe bruising, numerous abrasions and lacerations. The ligature mark, which ran in a horizontal groove around her neck, was embedded deeply. Due to the lengthy period of time before discovery, the victim’s bound hands were white and swollen and a wedding ring cut deep in the bloated skin.
Barbara was quite dark-skinned, with frizzy permed hair. Anna thought she must at one time have been very pretty. Like the others, she had numerous children, of unknown whereabouts. Though murdered in London, Barbara Whittle had resided in Manchester. Her body waited six months to be identified.
Anna felt a chill running down her spine. They should not hold off a press release: these women, whatever their lives had become, had deserved a warning of the horror that awaited them. If the killer planned to continue murdering these working girls, they should know of the danger they were in. Anna glanced up at the clock at that moment and panicked: she was going to be late for the office.
By the time she arrived, Langton had already left the incident room for the pathology lab. She drove there, aware that by this time it was half past ten and she was very late. After hurrying into the building, she found Langton with Henson, staring at an illuminated X-ray unit. They turned as she came into the room and apologized for her lateness. Langton returned to his scrutiny.
Enlarged on the screen, the strange circular wound to Melissa’s neck was deep, just breaking the surface of the skin. Langton peered closer. “Maybe a ring with a rounded stone?”
“Possibly,” murmured Henson. “But if it was punched in her neck, it would have left more bruising. I’ve no idea. By the way, at the back of her head, there’s a small bald patch. Looks like a clump of hair was torn out.”
Henson switched on the next light box. “Right, next. This is an X-ray of the brain tissue—see where we’ve got the blue and green areas? The blue is enlarged. This means your girl was unconscious for some time prior to death.”
Henson clicked on the next photograph, which showed the ligature wound to her neck. “It’s so tight that it’s almost cut through to the jugular, pressing onto it. The skin abrasions from the garroting are really appalling. Poor little soul didn’t stand a chance.”
He lit up another X-ray; this one focused on Melissa’s belly. “This is interesting. You can see there are marks on her stomach. I would say these came from being carried, possibly over someone’s shoulder. See the indentation here and just beneath her belly button?”
Henson cocked his head, still looking at the picture. “I’d say he was right-handed.” He mimed lifting something heavy and placing it over his shoulder. “Yes, could be right-handed.”
“Could they be punches?” Anna ventured.
Henson narrowed his eyes. “Punches?”
“Yes, the one on her stomach looks like part of a fist to me.”
Henson pursed his lips. “I doubt that is a punch. As I said, more like a bruise from being carried.”
Langton was growing visibly impatient, but Henson hadn’t finished his deliberations.
“She died where you found her. The time of death we’ve got down to approx five weeks ago. We’re expecting more details of the insect infestation, but it’s difficult to get all that much as the weather plays such a part. It went from very cold to nearly seventy degrees in a matter of a day.”
Langton stated that he did not want the coroner to release the body until they were certain it would not be required for further examination.
“Have it your way. The parents have been calling constantly. They want to arrange a funeral service. But if you need her, fine; we’ll keep her on ice.”
Depressed about the limited information he had gained, Langton walked silently with Anna through the car park. As she stopped by her car, she said, “Sorry I was late, sir.”
“That yours?” he asked, still glowering.
“No, I stole it to get here. Joke.”
She was fumbling for her keys and when she looked up to smile, seemingly oblivious to her, Langton was walking away toward a patrol car and uniformed driver.
She got into the Mini only to find a notice plastered across her windscreen: “Private car park. For medical employees only. Your car will be towed away.”
Her attempts to rip the notice off left strips of partly glued paper across the windscreen. She swore softly and repeatedly, for a very long time.
Mike Lewis glanced up from his desk as Anna put the Barbara Whittle file back and signed out her fifth victim for more late-night reading.
“Get anything helpful from that old fart Henson?”
“No. Murdered where she was found,” replied Anna. “Possibly carried over the killer’s shoulder. You?”
“Yards of fucking CCTV footage, plus two hours with that Cuban fruit and nut. His BO is the worst I’ve ever come across and I’ve had my fair share of smellies.”
They were interrupted by a su
dden burst of laughter from a group of detectives round DC Barolli’s desk. He was holding up an article from the internal Met newspaper.
“Says here, they’re lowering the physical entrance requirements for women; they just can’t keep up. You read this, Jean?”
Jean gave them a sour-faced glance, but Moira, a big blonde with heavy breasts, grinned with derision. “Wankers. It’s brains, not brawn, that cracks a case.” Though Moira waited for a response, they avoided her scrutiny and returned, mumbling, to their desks.
“Any of you beefcakes traced the girl’s handbag yet? You should try getting off your arses—” Moira broke off as Langton appeared in the doorway. She returned to marking up the board.
“What was that?” he asked as he joined her.
Anna listened curiously. She had also been struck by the fact Melissa had no handbag and that none of the other victims’ handbags had been recovered.
Moira answered Langton earnestly. “I know they never mentioned it in the reconstruction, but surely she’d have had one? Why would she walk off from her boyfriend without a purse when she was supposedly heading for the tube?”
“Boyfriend couldn’t recall if she had one or not.”
“Yeah, but they don’t notice. He said the same thing about her coat.” Moira flipped through her notebook. “All she had on was a T-shirt and miniskirt? When it was cold out? But the no-bag thing really worries me. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, I know.” Langton turned to Barolli at his desk. “Have you been back to The Bistro?”
“Yep. We questioned waiters, the owner, and managed to trace a couple of customers. No one remembers much. The place was jammed, so even though it was cold, some of them were eating outside. Melissa and Rawlins sat at the table ringed on the right of this photo.”
Langton frowned over the photographs of the restaurant.
Above Suspicion Page 5
