“What?”
“The photos from Daniels’s flat. They were on my desk.”
Jean wagged her finger at Anna. “Naughty, naughty. Barolli was looking for those.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll give them to him.”
Moira sat on the edge of Anna’s desk.
“So, what was it like?”
“You know, mostly hard work.”
She arched her eyebrows. “I mean being alone with him for three days and nights?”
“Oh, Moira! I was just the chauffeur.”
“No candlelit dinners?”
“Give me a break. No! I’ve got to get my report done.”
“Your details about driving him around will make very interesting reading.” Moira was teasing her. Anna took a pretend swipe at her.
“I need expenses for both of you and receipts,” Jean called out.
“He has everything,” Anna replied, starting work. Moira wandered back to her desk.
It was after ten o’clock and Langton still had not come out of his office. Lewis was updating the board with the U.S. murder dates, while Barolli stood beside him reading Langton’s notes aloud. Arrows joined Daniels to each location.
Anna picked up the envelope containing the photographs. She hesitated and took them out, skimming through one after the other. They were all in social settings: Daniels lounging under a sunshade with a group of people in swimsuits; Daniels toasting someone with champagne at a candlelit table; Daniels leaning against a car. Only part of the car was visible.
Anna turned to the filing cabinets, overflowing with paperwork again. She read the statements from the Cuban waiter, then checked Red Leather’s (Yvonne Barber) before returning the statements to the cabinet.
She tapped on Langton’s door.
“Yes!” he snapped.
She went in to find him sitting at his desk in front of a mound of receipts, bits of paper and ticket stubs. “Can you sort this crap out for me? And they have to be in order. Did you keep a record of everything you spent?”
“Yes.”
“Well, attach it to this lot. Jean’s got to get it agreed, otherwise it’ll be out of my pocket.”
“OK.”
He swept everything into a folder.
“Can I just show you something?” She handed him a magnifying glass and placed the photograph of Daniels leaning against the car in front of him. “The Cuban couldn’t say what make, but he thought it was a pale-colored car. The other witness said it was a light color. When we brought the Cuban in, he was shown a number of vehicles. He couldn’t pick one of them out, but that tiny bit of the rear bumper we had on the CCTV footage wasn’t one of the new Mercedes, but a Mercedes about thirty years old, according to Mike.”
“So?”
“Well, look at this photograph. You can’t see much of it, but it’s a Mercedes, isn’t it? And it’s a light, creamy color.”
Langton looked at the photograph with the magnifying glass.
“Fuck!”
He leaned back, frowning. “We’ve got him down as owning a Lexus when Melissa was murdered, haven’t we?”
“Yes. Maybe that’s not his Mercedes, but we know he hired one in the States. So he must like them.”
Anna continued: while they had confirmed that Daniels had been driving a Lexus for the last nine months, they had not thought to check on other vehicles Daniels owned before that period.
Langton walked to Anna, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
“I love you, Travis.”
He bellowed for Lewis and Barolli.
Anna returned to her desk, where she continued typing up her report. Simultaneously, both Lewis and Barolli were checking with the DVLA, the MOT register and Daniels’s motor insurance company.
Langton shouted for Travis.
“Yes?”
He seemed in great spirits, flourishing a list in his hand.
“Daniels exchanges his cars like most people change underwear.”
He listed the number of vehicles Daniels had owned. As his wealth increased, he went from one expensive car to another, often changing them within a few months of each other. But the car they were most interested in was a convertible pale blue Mercedes 280SL, circa 1971, the car Daniels still owned up until the time of Melissa’s murder. The reason they had slipped up was that Daniels used a company name, so it had not been listed under personal ownership.
The news spread like a bushfire and Anna was roundly congratulated. Then came the bad news: there was no record of the Mercedes being sold or under new ownership. Daniels would have to come in again for questioning.
“We’ve still got insufficient evidence to arrest him,” Langton told Anna. “We must do this all by the book. It’ll be irregular to go and pick him up at his flat, just in case we’ve got something that incriminates him. We could be accused of failing to give him his rights. We bring him in and caution him, but make it clear he’s not being charged with anything and that he has the right to be legally represented. That means another session with Radcliff at his side.”
He gestured for her to come closer, then said quietly, “When he comes in, I don’t want you around.” Then he turned his head to bellow, “Lewis! Let’s get him in!”
Contrary to expectations, Daniels agreed to come to the station straightaway. Nor did he insist Radcliff be present.
In fact, their suspect did not appear to be fazed at all. He was even more charming than the time before and seemed to be making an effort to be as helpful as possible. He sat quietly in the interview room with Langton and Lewis while he was read his rights. Then he brought out a small pocketbook. He explained that he did buy and sell his cars in quite rapid succession, for, although he had a resident’s parking bay, if he went away filming he did not like to leave the cars unattended for lengthy periods. He had been inquiring about renting a garage space in the area for some time, but had not been lucky so far. They were asking astronomical rents.
Langton then asked about the Mercedes-Benz. Daniels smiled relaxedly. The Mercedes was one of his favorites, he said, but even in the Queen’s Gate area a soft-top car was too attractive to thieves.
“The roof was constantly being slashed. It seems any yob passing with a knife—”
“You sold it?” Langton asked incredulously.
“Worse. I was going to. I had already stopped the insurance. Then I had a prang in it, and so that was that.”
“You sold it?” Langton repeated.
“Well, you could call it that.”
“What do you mean?”
“It went to the crusher. It would have cost a fortune to repair and it had rust, as well. So I paid for it to be destroyed.”
Langton felt the ground moving beneath his feet. Every time they took a step forward, back they went. He took down the name of the crushing yard and released Daniels. With an equally despondent Lewis, Langton stared from the window, watching Daniels being led out via the rear entrance toward his chauffeur-driven black Mercedes.
Anna was glad she had not had to face him. The breaker’s yard was contacted and they confirmed over the phone that Alan Daniels’s Mercedes had been crushed into a two-foot square box.
The date was the day after Melissa Stephens was murdered.
Jet lag kicked in for Anna around four o’clock in the afternoon. As for the rest of them, from everyone being so “up,” they had all come crashing down.
Until Barolli pointed out that if Alan Daniels had taken the car to be crushed, it meant that he had lied about not being in London.
When Anna went to see Langton to ask if she could go home, he sighed: “Yeah. Why not? Fuck-all is happening here.”
She rubbed her forehead, which was throbbing. “But, surely the fact he owned the same type of car Melissa was seen getting in, means—”
“It means nothing,” he interrupted. “Not without proof it was his car, proof he was driving it and proof that whoever killed her was the driver. It is all circumstantial. It would never
even get to trial. If it did and he walked, it would be over. We’d never be able to get him back. That’s the bloody law.”
“Is the profiler coming tomorrow?”
“Yeah, he’s coming.”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah, tomorrow and tomorrow.”
Once she was home, Anna took a couple of aspirin. She felt really awful. Perhaps if they had good news, she would have felt better. All she wanted was to go to bed and sleep it off. She checked her answerphone, remembering to press replay for any calls that had come in when she was away. When the electronic voice informed her that the last caller had withheld their number, she deleted everything.
She went back to the kitchen and picked up a pair of rubber gloves. She took the photo frame from her bedroom and, turning it over, eased back the small clips. She had decided to take the photograph out of the frame, then wrap the materials in a plastic bag for the lab, taking care not to touch the silver surrounds. She carefully placed the glass and frame in the bag and put it in her briefcase.
This particular photograph had been on her mother’s bedside table for years, making it the first thing she saw in the morning and the last thing at night. Curious, Anna drew closer: stuck between the photograph and the backing was an envelope. She got into bed before opening it.
She recognized her father’s handwriting. On the front of the envelope he had written “To My Beloved.” Inside, there was a single sheet of writing in his neat and closely written hand.
Bella mia,
I cannot make what happened into something as simple as a bad dream. If I could, I would. I know how it affects you and rules the way you are. I love you with an unconditional love that accepts whatever you can give me. But I am nevertheless concerned. By allowing your fears to rule your existence, you are making the animal a constant presence. To walk outside the fear will make you stronger. I beg you to let me help you. Bella, you are too perfect, too beautiful to make this home a prison, albeit one filled with your sweetness and your darling soul.
I love you.
Papa.
Papa was the name Anna’s mother always used for her husband. Anna reread the letter, confused. It seemed like a letter of encouragement to a victim, but she had no idea about what it referred to. There was no date. She folded it and slipped it beneath her pillow, but she kept on seeing the neat, slanted handwriting and the word “animal.” She tossed and turned, wondering if something terrible had happened to her mother.
The phone rang. It took Anna a few moments to sit up in the dark and find it.
“Anna,” the soft voice breathed.
“Yes.” This time she knew exactly who it was.
“Welcome back.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you have a good trip to Manchester?” he asked.
“Yes, yes I did.”
“But you didn’t go to Manchester, did you?”
She felt her body tense.
“I called the station. I was told you were in the States.”
“Yes, yes I was. It was very unexpected.”
“Did you have a nice time?”
“Yes.”
“Whereabouts in the States did you go?”
Her hand felt clammy, from holding the receiver too tightly. “It’s very late, Alan; I’m just going to bed.”
“Late?” he said, teasingly. “It’s only ten o’clock.”
“I know, but I’m very tired. What do you want?”
“I’ve got tickets for the ballet again. You said you liked the ballet, so when I was given them, I immediately thought of you. It’s Giselle.”
“Oh. When are the tickets for?”
“This Thursday, at Covent Garden. Are you free?”
“Can I get back to you, Alan? Just in case I’m on night duty. I haven’t got my schedule yet.”
“Well, don’t leave it too long.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night.”
“Good night, Anna.”
She took slow, deep breaths and slipped her hand beneath the pillow to touch her father’s letter. It had been written to comfort her mother, but it now calmed her. She climbed out of bed and checked the windows, then bolted the front door. As she did so, she had a flashback to her childhood home. There were a number of locks on their front and back door, window locks, security alarms. Had someone frightened her mother? Was that why she had been so cautious all her life?
Anna became certain that something had invaded her family home. The “animal” her father had described had made her mother a prisoner. As she recalled her day-to-day interactions with her parents, Anna realized that her mother hardly ever left the house, never on her own and only occasionally with her husband. It was Anna’s father who came to the gymkhanas. Always him. She turned to look at his picture. For a second, she had forgotten that she had taken it from its frame because she thought it had been touched by strange hands inside her house.
Remembering, she felt no fear; in fact the reverse. She was angry that she had allowed Alan Daniels to unnerve her not once, but twice. If he had some sick plan to frighten and stalk her, then he had chosen the wrong target.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’ve asked my neighbors,” Anna said. “No one saw anyone loitering around the block of flats, the garage, or on my floor.”
Langton nodded, lips pursed.
“I could be mistaken, but I thought we should have it dusted for fingerprints just in case.”
He rocked back in his chair. Anna was wearing a new shirt, tight black skirt and new shoes. The plastic bag containing the picture frame was on her knee. She looked good; he knew he didn’t. But she also seemed different, more positive.
“So you’re agreeing to go out with him?”
“Yes. I think we should grab at anything we can.”
“Well, as long as he doesn’t make a grab at you.”
“I can deal with him,” she said. “Of course, I’d be wired and I could—could I?”—she hesitated—“Could I have a small hidden camera?”
He laughed. “Travis, with such a high-profile case, I don’t see why the Met wouldn’t get you an entire film crew!”
She looked momentarily confused.
Langton’s face became serious. “There can be no camera, no wire. It would be too dangerous for you if he realized he was being monitored. Also, we can’t make this look like entrapment. If we filmed him, it couldn’t be used in a court; likewise any tapes we made. It sounds good, but it only works in films, not real life. Speaking of which, you have to be very careful, Anna. You must not place yourself in any danger. No going back to his place, do you hear me? Keep it out in the open.”
She passed him the photo frame. “I’ll get his prints when we’re at the ballet.”
He shook his head. “No, you won’t. You’ve been watching too much Murder, She Wrote. Just leave that bit to us.” Lewis tapped on the door and came straight in. He said their profiler had watched Alan Daniels’s interview three times and was ready to discuss it.
The remainder of the team had gathered in the incident room. The room fell silent, as Michael Parks moved slowly from one victim’s photograph to the next, before turning to face his audience.
“I could be wrong. My earliest impression was that we were dealing with a psychopath. If you’ve got the right suspect, the killer is not a serial psychopath. After watching him on the video, I am convinced that Alan Daniels is a sociopath. It’s not much different clinically and it’s a no less dangerous breed, but in my experience, sociopaths are by far more cunning, intelligent and personable than psychopaths. They also don’t experience fear. They are exceptionally dangerous because their destructiveness is not easily recognized and their talents often bring them admiration, unfortunately.”
Parks stood in front of the flip chart with a thick black felt-tip pen. “I say unfortunately, because sociopaths are intrinsically evil.” He started to make a long list. “If a suspect has demonstrated these symptoms, then you can be p
retty sure he is a sociopath.”
Parks wrote in large block print:
1. Is he self-centered and egocentric?
“From watching the tape of the Chicago interview, I would say without doubt.”
2. Does he manipulate others by reading very quickly their vulnerabilities?
He tapped the page with his pen. “I would say yes. Did you notice that his interviewer was nervous? He put her at her ease by displaying shyness himself, letting her feel she was the one in control. Very quickly, he had her in the palm of his hand.”
3. Does he feel little guilt, shame or remorse? Is he capable of weaving a web of lies and deceit? Above all, does he feel impervious to discovery?
Langton met Anna’s eyes. They both knew this was correct. Parks now marked up number four.
4. Does he have a superficial charm: does he relate well with other people at a superficial level?
Parks tapped his pen again. “Your suspect is an actor. What better profession?” Langton leaned forward, frowning. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “Watch the videotape again,” Parks went on. “Look at the way he uses his charm. Watch how he even manages to manipulate the audience.” He turned back to the board.
5. Is he able to love? Or to demonstrate long-term loyalty? Can he feel normal human empathy? Can he possess deep affection for others?
“A sociopath only pretends to have those feelings. I can assure you, they are false.”
Langton thought about how Alan Daniels had refused to use the word “mother” and how he refused to acknowledge his foster mother. Anna found herself agreeing with everything the profiler said. It all fit Alan Daniels.
6. Does he have an attitude of superiority and an inflated arrogant self-appraisal?
“Did you notice at the end of the interview, how he almost gives a royal wave, with that slight bow of his head?”
“Fuck,” muttered Langton. “I hadn’t picked that up at all.”
7. Does he use others? Is he a cheat? A liar? Does he lie for the pleasure of it, as well as for what he can get out of his lies?
Above Suspicion Page 23
