Early next morning, Anna pored over the details of victim six, aged thirty-four. A bleached blonde, with a sexy curvaceous figure and a known cocaine habit, Mary Murphy was a prostitute with no police record. Her body, discovered in July 2003, had made her the most recent victim until Melissa Stephens. Mary was found only three days after her murder on Hampstead Heath. She was originally from Preston in Lancashire. No handbag. Her corpse remained unidentified for two weeks.
Mary Murphy was the first case that Langton had headed up. She had a profile different from the others, being middle-class and well educated. After her divorce five years before, Mary’s twin daughters had gone to live with their father.
Mary probably started to sell herself when her cocaine habit took hold. She worked for an escort agency, though her last known client had been questioned and was no longer a suspect. She had left his suite at the Dorchester Hotel at one o’clock in the morning and had died between one and three hours later. The last sighting of Mary was by the doorman at the Dorchester, who recognized her as she was leaving the hotel. It was presumed Mary went looking for another client. After that last sighting, she had been picked up by the killer.
The file contained the same wretched photographs. The shirt was drawn up to the victim’s neck, her tights wrapped around in the same way. Her hands were tied behind her back with her red lace bra. Though she had been raped and buggered, no DNA was found; as with the other victims, the killer had used protection.
After she had finished reading the file, Anna opened her front door to pick up her newspaper. The case had made the front page: “Suspected Serial Killer on the Loose.”
Though DCI Langton had not wanted mass panic, that’s what he’d got. The case was headlined in every newspaper. There were constant references to both Jack the Ripper and “his Yorkshire namesake.” One tabloid had two-inch letters screaming “Jack Is Back.”
On arrival, Anna made her way down the station corridor toward the incident room. As she approached, all she could hear was the nonstop ringing of telephones and the babble of voices growing louder and louder. The incident room now had an extra four phones installed in one long section. The phones on all the desks were ringing and every detective was hard at it. All calls were logged: names, addresses and relevant details were then transferred from the officer to the office manager. When Anna reached her desk, the phone was already ringing. Jean gave her a rueful look.
“Welcome to Bell City. It’s a quarter to nine and we’ve had a hundred and fifty calls in. So get started.”
Anna took out her notebook and reached for the phone. “Queen’s Park incident room. This is DS Travis speaking.”
It was a long and ear-splitting day. Amidst it all, staring at the mayhem with their dark helpless eyes, were the seven victims: Teresa Booth, Sandra Donaldson, Kathleen Keegan, Barbara Whittle, Beryl Villiers, Mary Murphy, and now, Melissa Stephens.
Chapter Four
Thousands of phone calls had poured in, yet little information had resulted. However, forensics had come up with what could prove to be a significant piece of evidence. The tests performed on the DNA swabs, while yielding neither blood nor semen, had identified the type of condom worn by the killer as “Lux-Oriente,” which was made in America and easy to pinpoint because of the unique lubricant used by that company. While the indication that their killer had made his purchase in the United States was heartening, the discovery that Lux-Oriente sold millions of condoms every year made the purchaser virtually impossible to trace.
Another breakthrough occurred in the investigation when Rawlins, the murdered girl’s boyfriend, broke down and confessed that their final argument had turned physical. He had followed Melissa and continued to row with her as they walked away from The Bistro. Rawlins remembered that Melissa had carried a small envelope bag, which he had thrown at her. While he couldn’t recall the color, he remembered it was made of soft dark leather. Between the empty stalls of Covent Garden Market, there was a scuffle that ended when he punched her.
While the imprint on Melissa’s belly could no longer be considered evidence that might lead them to the murderer, some compensation was forthcoming. Rawlins had recalled that Melissa was carrying a black woollen cardigan on the last night he saw her alive. He remembered that they had tugged it between them during the argument, which had occurred when he caught up with her near Floral Street.
After the punch Melissa had angrily declared that she never wanted to see Rawlins again and, furious, he had walked away. When he changed his mind and tried to catch up with her, she had disappeared—forever.
Rawlins had become deeply distressed at this point in the interview. He blamed himself for her death. If he had only apologized for his action and taken her home, Melissa would be alive today. Shame had made him keep the quarrel a secret. That was the reason he had not told the full story to the television reconstruction team.
Langton ordered that Rawlins be released. Not only had they lost valuable time, but also the chance that someone might find and recognize either the black cardigan or the bag. However, he saw no reason to charge the boy with perverting the course of justice; Mark Rawlins had received his sentence. He would have to live forever with the knowledge of his culpability in Melissa’s death.
A press release was issued, calling for anyone with information about the girl’s missing purse to come forward. Though discretion had been assured, along with the reassurance that the police were only interested in the location where the purse was found, or snatched, not one caller could help them. The police had to presume that somewhere on Melissa’s journey her bag had been stolen, since on the CCTV footage she carried neither cardigan nor bag.
There was some cold comfort in the fact that Langton had been correct regarding Melissa’s scared run: that somewhere between leaving her boyfriend and her appearance on another security camera, something had happened to frighten her.
The Cuban was brought back three times, but he became more confused on every occasion. Even an interpreter was unable to extract any further information. The section of the car was determined to be a Mercedes, possibly circa 1970, though they were unable to ascertain if it was white or merely pale since the film was in black and white.
The mood of the murder team changed when the profiler arrived. Professor Michael Parks was in his mid-forties, balding, and wore horn-rimmed glasses. He stood in front of the team over the course of two hours, displaying a calmness that seemed at variance with what he was saying to them. He advised them to look for a male, mid-thirties, affluent, possibly attractive. Despite these attributes he would be unmarried and in a profession that enabled him to travel.
Parks regarded the irregular time gap between each murder as worrying. The first kill was in 1992, next came one in 1994, then 1995. Then, after a lengthy gap, another in 1998, then 1999 and following a gap of almost four years, Mary Murphy, killed in 2003 and then the last victim, Melissa, in February of this year.
The team listened carefully as Parks explained that a serial killer can become dormant, “killed out,” as he described it, his desires satiated. In some cases, he might never kill again. However, Parks believed that their killer would not stop. He was almost certain that between those lengthy gaps, other murders must have been committed.
Parks indicated the victims’ photographs; the faces now as familiar to the team as their own families’. He continued: “One obvious common denominator is that the women are known prostitutes. Another thing I have noticed and this is very common with serial killers, is the physical similarity of the victims. All the women, including the last victim, had brown eyes. They all had bleached, dyed or natural blonde hair. I believe this man started out by killing a woman who hurt him, maybe left him, possibly a mother figure, a prostitute herself. He would therefore, to begin with, be killing his mother. However, toward the end of the lineup of victims, he is killing younger women, seemingly indiscriminately. This means he has not satisfied his urge. The way he leaves their bodies expos
ed and humiliated is a sign of his hatred. This man detests whores and seeks to defile them in any way possible.”
The room was silent. Many of them, including Anna, wrote copious notes. But Langton sat impassive, staring at the floor.
“Most serial killers,” Parks continued, “usually take some kind of token. It is possible our man took their handbags. This would provide him with the pleasure of later sifting through their belongings. While he may keep a number of small items, the bags themselves would be too large an item to keep, too dangerous; they would eventually be dumped or burned.”
Parks removed his glasses. “He’s very intelligent. He leaves no DNA, no clues. To the outside world, he probably seems the personification of respectability.
“The first four victims were used to getting in strange men’s cars. There is little sign of struggle because they would have consented to being tied by their wrists. None of these women were gagged, which proves they must have complied with his desire to tie their hands behind their backs. I would say the ones that struggled, like Beryl Villiers, may not have consented. Melissa, we know, was unconscious at an early stage.”
Parks folded his glasses, placing them in his top pocket. “That is all I have for you today. All I can say in leaving, is this.” He paused theatrically. “He isn’t yet satiated. I would say quite the opposite. The murder of Melissa and its subsequent press coverage will have heightened his drive to kill again, if he has not done so already.”
The team continued over the next four days to interview and cross-question callers they felt to be legitimate. In the end, the most informative and legitimate-sounding call came from a woman with a very deep voice, who insisted on anonymity but said she was certain she had seen Melissa on the night she disappeared.
It had been almost midnight when she had noticed a girl fitting Melissa’s description on Old Compton Street, bending down to talk to the driver of a pale blue sports car. She could not identify the make, only that it was an “old type.” She never saw the driver’s face clearly, though she said he was clean-shaven and “blondish” and, although it was evening, he was wearing dark glasses. She was about to cross the road and confront the girl about poaching on her patch when Melissa got in the car and was driven off.
They put a trace on the call. It was from a mobile phone but they couldn’t get a fix on the caller’s location. Langton ordered Lewis to try harder to track the caller down.
“Track her down?” Lewis shook his head disbelievingly. “How? We don’t know what she looks like; we don’t have a name. We’ve got nothing.”
“The voice!” Langton snapped. “Mike, for God’s sake, play the call and listen! You know she works Old Compton Street. She’s probably a transvestite: right area, Club Minx. Go and talk to as many of them as you can find. Match the voice! He or she’s all we’ve got so far.”
“Right, gov. Will do.”
“Now, everyone else pay attention. We need to go back to square one. Open up Teresa Booth’s case. Go through every one of the victims again. See if we’ve missed anything.”
Three weeks had passed. No new witness had been traced, there were no further clues as to their killer’s identity and the Murder Review Group had started sniffing around, wanting results. The commander heading up the Gold Group also wanted results, which they didn’t have. Without any new evidence, Melissa’s case could be taken over by a new team, or the present team could be halved. The case was heading slowly for the dead files and Langton, frustrated beyond belief, knew it. He still maintained a grueling schedule, though they were coming up empty-handed every day.
It was a quarter past three in the afternoon when the call came in. Jean took it and handed it over to the office manager, who forwarded it to Langton.
“What’s this?”
“Call yesterday afternoon. From Spain.”
“Spain?”
“Caller said he was Barry Southwood, ex-detective. Said he had information about the serial murders. Left his contact number.”
“Southwood?” Langton said, frowning.
“Said he was an ex–police officer.”
“Yeah, right, I heard you. Anyone checked him out yet?”
“Yep—Barolli. Turns out he’s a dirty cop. Fifteen years with Vice. ‘Enforced retirement.’”
“OK. Get everything you can on him. Then we’ll call the old sod back.” Langton paused by Anna’s empty desk.
“Where’s Travis?”
Barolli looked up. “With Lewis. They’ve had no luck finding our gravel-voiced tart yet; they’re still trawling around Soho. You want me to call them back in?”
“No,” he growled, retiring to his own office.
It was almost six o’clock; Anna and DS Lewis were standing outside a small, dingy café near King’s Cross station. It was a known haunt for pimps and hookers, especially on a rainy night. The two detectives had spent hours stopping known street girls on every corner of Soho. They had also walked through the main train stations, but again their questions met with no luck. With the only description being “a gravelly voice, male or female,” there was not a lot to go on. It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. Lewis called it quits. They would both fill in their report the following morning at the station. Lewis went for the bus, but Anna decided that she would take the tube home.
She spotted the tube station and headed down the escalator. Her feet ached like hell and she was exhausted. Coming up the escalator was a tall, rangy woman with thick, black, curly hair. She wore a tight red leather skirt, a leather jacket with studs and a low-cut vest. She was carrying a big bulging shoulder bag and talking animatedly to a short, plump blonde woman.
“I said, ‘For a tenner, I wouldn’t light your cigarette!’ The cheeky sod! So then he says—”
Anna turned. She was certain it was “the voice.” She stepped off the down escalator and jumped onto the one going upward. At the top, she glimpsed the red leather skirt disappearing; the woman was walking away on strappy red high heels.
Outside the station Red Leather was nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, Anna checked the taxi rank, then returned to the station, but she’d lost her. She sighed, then noticed a sign for the ladies’ toilets. Red Leather’s dressing room?
Inside, the plump blonde was at the mirror, outlining her lips with gloss. A toilet flushed. Anna checked her makeup.
The blonde called out to her friend, “My mum said she wanted me to pay her the going rate. I said to her, that’s a bit much!”
Red Leather exited a cubicle and tottered over to the washbasin.
“Mmm,” she said.
“I mean, these bleedin’ childminders are getting twenty quid an hour, you know?”
“Mmm.”
Anna washed her hands. Her back was to the two women, but she could see them both in the wall of mirrors above the sinks. They finished their makeup, frizzed up their hair. The blonde never stopped talking, while the woman in red leather, whom Anna was desperate to hear, still didn’t say a word.
“Tarra, then. See you Monday.” The blonde walked out. Anna crossed to the hand dryer wafting her hands, playing for time. Her heart quickened as Red Leather washed her hands, shook the water from them and turned to Anna.
“Those things take a hell of a time, don’t they? I mean, they should just provide paper towels.”
Anna was certain it was the same voice. Red Leather clicked over to an empty cubicle and withdrew reams of toilet paper. The prostitute returned to the mirror, drying her hands.
Trying to sound casual, Anna walked over and said, “Tell me something. You called Queen’s Park police station, didn’t you, and said you had information about Melissa Stephens.”
Red Leather looked up sharply. “So what? I said all I knew.” She sidestepped Anna. “There’s nothing more. Excuse me.”
“I would like to talk to you,” said Anna, astonished she was right.
Red Leather stood licking her lips at the mirror. “Well hard luck, sweetheart. I’ve done m
y good-citizen shit. How in Christ’s name did you find me?”
“You have a very unusual voice.”
“Yeah. Comes from a punter stepping on it, squashed me larynx. Tarra.”
As Red Leather walked to the door, Anna hurried after her. “Could I just have ten minutes, please?”
Red Leather’s hand was on the door. “I felt sorry for the little girl, right? I told them all I saw. I’m not gonna walk out with you. In that suit, those shoes, you got Vice Squad virtually stamped on your forehead. It’d bring me a lot of grief.”
“I’m not with Vice.”
“Sweetheart, I don’t give a shit if you’re with the Royal Ballet.”
Red Leather walked out, Anna hot on her heels. “I’m with the murder team. Look, don’t make me arrest you.”
Red Leather stopped and snarled, “On what fucking charge?”
“Couldn’t we just have a coffee?”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I’ll pay you for your time,” Anna said.
“Fifty quid. Go back inside the toilets. I’m not being seen out here with you.”
“You go in first,” said Anna, sure that otherwise she would walk away the moment her back was turned.
Red Leather sighed noisily and returned to the ladies. Anna followed her.
When Langton finally put in the call to Spain, Southwood’s answering machine was on.
Moira had her coat on, ready to leave. “All I know, gov, is he was a bent cop. Real piece of work. I was still in uniform; it was that long ago. We called him the Groper.”
“You think this information he’s got could be for real?”
“I dunno. It’s not like he called straightaway; it’s been weeks. And he kept on about a reward.”
Langton smiled ruefully and told Moira she could go home. He knew he would have to take the call seriously, but his budget was tight. A trip to Spain was the last thing he needed in the report book, especially if it was a waste of time. When he tried the number again, the machine was still on. Depressed, he hung up.
Above Suspicion Page 7
