“She charged that I had beaten her up. I was questioned by this revolting pig of a man. He was abusive to me. The really sick thing was, I had seen this man at the house. He was a Vice Squad officer and he used to be around there all the time.”
Anna guessed he was referring to Barry Southwood. Now Daniels spoke so quietly that his voice was hardly audible.
“They found her body about eighteen months after and arrested me on suspicion of murder. It was all unreal, terrifying. I had no money for a lawyer, nothing. I was certain it was him. I went back to that disgusting house to confront him. One of the women told me he’d done a runner, taken their money. She said he had threatened them that if they ever said anything to the cops about him, he would kill every one of them.”
Daniels was standing now, staring ahead, almost mesmerized, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
“Did you ever find out where he went? The man in the blue suit?”
“Their pimp?” He nodded. “I saw him on the front page of the Manchester Daily News. He was opening up a new nightclub. He had these TV stars around him. He looked for all the world like a successful businessman.”
“What was his name?”
“John George McDowell.”
He watched her get up and fetch her notebook. She wrote down the name.
“I’ll pass it to the team first thing in the morning.”
He stood. “I have to go now. I hope that I have helped you. It’s been painful, telling you all this. I hope you will protect me, Anna.”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
“Promise me?” He moved closer.
“I promise, Alan.”
He cupped her face in his hands. When the doorbell rang, they jumped apart.
At the front door, Anna moved the spy hole aside: Langton was outside. “It’s my gov,” she said hopelessly.
Daniels shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not doing anything wrong, Anna.”
She opened the door.
“Hi, I need to talk to you,” Langton said. Before she could stop him, he brushed past her into the living room and froze. She followed helplessly.
“Nice to see you again. I was just leaving.” Daniels extended his hand. “Anna, see you soon.”
Langton stood in mute fury as he sauntered out. Anna closed the door behind her visitor.
“What the fuck is going on?” Langton hissed.
“He came to see me.”
“Jesus Christ!” He flopped down on the sofa. “You continue to amaze me, Travis. What the hell did you let him in for?”
She chewed her lip. “Um—I am still here.”
“Don’t you be bloody sarcastic with me. Why didn’t you call in? He could have killed you.”
“Why don’t you let me tell you what he came to see me about?”
“I can’t wait,” he snapped.
She summarized Daniels’s conversation, finally producing her notebook with the name: John George McDowell.
“It’s bullshit.”
“But we should check it out.”
“Travis, don’t you want to know why I’m here?” he demanded.
She blinked nervously.
“Surveillance lost him in Wardour Street.” He looked at her expectantly. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why you’re here.”
“Partly. Your boyfriend has been in your flat. Travis, we have a match. Sweetheart, it’s Alan Daniels’s fingerprints on your daddy’s photo frame.”
Her body started to shake. She had been alone with Alan Daniels for over three-quarters of an hour.
Langton picked up her notebook. “We will check out this ‘John George McDowell.’ From now on, Travis, you don’t make a move without me and the team knowing it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We will get someone to look after you, as you don’t seem capable of acting like a professional officer.”
“Will you be staying here?”
He glowered. “What the fuck do you think I am, Travis, your bloody babysitter? There is an officer parked outside your flat. Tomorrow, I want from you a full report of exactly what Daniels said.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Langton had slammed the front door closed behind him, Anna bolted it, top and bottom. She stood in her small hallway, feeling angry. Not at Langton this time but at Alan Daniels, who had used her so expertly, as if she were just a pawn in his game.
Chapter Sixteen
John George McDowell had a police record, a long one, with many different charges: living off immoral earnings; two years for assault; another eighteen months for dealing in stolen property. After the nightclub closed down years ago, McDowell had spent more time in prison for aggravated burglary. Then the trail went dead and Mike Lewis was having a hard time tracing his present whereabouts. He waited for the Midlands police to get back to him.
Barolli was also on the phone. He had been assigned to check out their Cuban witness, which resulted in a big runaround because he had been fired from the transvestite club for stealing. Barolli eventually discovered that he was working at a restaurant in the same area. Now Barolli was at his desk, having problems tracing their second witness. Jean joked with him that to lose one witness was unfortunate; to lose two was flipping careless. He was not amused.
Yvonne Barber, the deep-voiced prostitute, had moved from her last address and no one seemed to know where she had gone. A roommate said she might have gone to Brighton, but she hadn’t heard from her in over a week. Barolli cursed. It was very frustrating, especially as she had been warned to keep the police informed of her whereabouts.
Anna was finishing off her report on the previous evening when Lewis yelled over to Barolli to ask if they’d any luck with Daniels’s fingerprints. Barolli shook his head.
“They’re waiting for that woman to come down from Nottingham and do the digital enhancing trick again.”
Anna looked up at Barolli. “What did you just say?”
“What about?”
“The fingerprints. I thought there had been a match.”
Barolli shook his head. “That’s news to me. Like I said, she’s coming down from Nottingham.”
Anna printed out her report, clipped the pages together and headed for Langton’s office. Not waiting for a reply to her knock, she walked in and slammed the door shut behind her. When Langton looked up in surprise, she dumped the report on his desk.
“You are a bastard, you know that?” She put both her hands on his desk. Her face was red with anger. “You said the prints were a match. You bloody lied.”
“Maybe I had a reason.”
“Like what? To scare the living daylights out of me? Make me frightened to be alone in my own flat?”
“Maybe I did it because I felt you needed a kick up the arse.”
“You bastard. You had no right!”
He pushed his chair back. “I had every right to make you see sense; you let the son of a bitch into your place.” To her rising fury, he began to mimic her. “‘I don’t know if he’s guilty. I just really liked him.’”
“I did not say that.”
“How about that tragic diatribe he gave you about his wretched background? He suckered you in, Travis. You could have been his next victim. It was lucky I came round when I did. I only came because the surveillance team had lost him!”
“So, you frighten the life out of me?”
“You needed to realize the danger you were in.”
Before she could reply, Mike Lewis knocked and entered. “Can I see you for a minute, gov?”
Langton looked at her. “You all done?”
She went out, this time closing the door quietly. She was shaking with anger. Every time she thought she knew the man, she found she was mistaken. She was no closer to knowing Langton, but she had learned one thing: to make damned sure not to put a foot wrong where he was concerned, because now she knew he would cut her down and perhaps even damage her career.
Inside the
gov’s office, Lewis pulled at his collar. “Listen, gov—Alan Daniels might have done us a favor. This McDowell character is being held in Manchester City police station; he’s been there all night. They hauled him in for beating up a prostitute and her pimp and then taking out two of their officers who were trying to arrest him.”
“He’s a regular customer, I understand.”
“He’s been inside off and on, lots of short stretches. He’s a fucking nightmare. But he was out of the nick for our victims, I’ve checked.”
“Manchester?”
“Yep. Daniels told Travis that McDowell knew Lilian Duffy. He could easily have known the other women. Plus, he drives a 1987 cream four-door Mercedes-Benz.”
“Can they hold him until we get there?”
“I’d say so. They’ve been waiting to question him once he sobers up.”
Langton and Mike Lewis were preparing to head up north when the Sussex police called in the discovery of a bloated female body found below the old pier legs in Brighton. The pier was under orders for demolition; it had been cordoned off from the public. The woman had been strangled with a leather belt, drawn so tightly round her neck that the skin by her jugular had broken under the buckle. Could it be their other witness? She had extensive bruises and jagged cuts, which the postmortem report said could either have been from the rocks around the pier, or from the body banging against the pylons. The body had no identification; it might never have been found except for a very high tide, which floated it closer to the shore.
Langton ordered Anna to go down to Brighton and verify whether or not it was their witness. They would also need an estimated time of death, which would allow them to check if their suspect, Alan Daniels, would have had time to make the trip there.
Anna was disappointed not to be going to Manchester to interview McDowell, but, after their last interaction, she doubted if Langton would let her accompany him as far as the station car park.
Langton had already left the station with Lewis. She waited for Moira to coordinate a driver and patrol car for her. From her desk, Moira glanced at Anna.
“You OK? Seem to be in a bit of a dark one today.”
“I am.”
“If you want to talk about it—”
“I don’t.”
Nearby, Jean gave a raised eyebrow to Moira.
“You’re getting to be quite a prima donna,” Moira said good-naturedly. “What with surveillance at your home, the Opera House and now a private car to Brighton!”
“Just get them to allocate a car for the day, please, Moira.”
A short while later, Moira informed Anna that the driver would be waiting in the car park in fifteen minutes.
“Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.” She raised her voice slightly so that Jean could hear. “I was a bit surprised you weren’t with the gov on the train to Manchester. He usually takes you with him.”
“I won’t be going anywhere with him, in the near or distant future,” Anna said grimly. “In fact, the sooner I am off this case, the better.”
Moira pursed her lips. “I thought you two got along?”
“Well, I’ve had enough; I don’t know how you all stand him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Anna burst out: “He’s a two-faced bastard, that’s what it means. He’s a selfish, egotistical control freak.”
Moira leaned closer, saying quietly: “You watch what you say about him. Because we all rate him. And if this is about him turning up at your place and reading you the riot act, then you should think again. Because when he knew the surveillance team had screwed up, the only thing he cared about was that you were safe. He had to check for himself. He’s that way with all of us. As busy as he is, he still found time to come over to my place and talk to my daughter. Her own father couldn’t find the time, but he did. And he had a word with the boyfriend. He didn’t have to do that, but he did it to help me out. He’d help any one of us out, if we needed him.”
“Did he tell you what he said to me?”
Moira moved off to her desk. “I’m not getting involved in this one; I’m just saying you should watch your mouth. We’re all on his side and we’ve been on it a hell of a lot longer than you! I saw him going through a private hell and he never laid it on anyone.”
“I know about his wife dying, Moira.”
“Yeah, well, the second one went off with one of his closest friends. And he’s still paying through the nose for her daughter.” She continued, red in the face: “Now I’ve gone and said too much, so don’t go and repeat it, or I’ll bloody have you!”
Anna collected her briefcase and wordlessly left the station. She was driven in a patrol car by a large, overtalkative officer. He started with his hobby, which was buying car wrecks and doing them up to sell. He described how he checked out the salvage companies that often took spare parts from cars before they were crushed. He listed different prices he had paid to them, compared to buying the same thing from a main dealer.
At last, they arrived at the Brighton mortuary. Anna was glad to escape the car.
The Sussex Police had made inquiries but come up empty-handed. Their best guess as to time of death was a couple of weeks ago. She had been in the water for that length of time and she had a very high alcohol level: five times the legal limit. Though her body was in horrific shape and her face was bloated, Anna recognized her as Red Leather.
No one had reported her missing and they had no idea where she had been staying. They found no ID and lacked any knowledge of where she had been on the night of her death. Anna gave what details she could and the address in Leeds for them to contact the girl she lived with in order to find any relatives. They said they would put an appeal for information in the local press and get in touch as soon as they had any news.
Death was due to strangulation, but the MO was not the same as their victims’; her hands were not tied, nor was her underwear used to strangle or tie her. The belt was of a very cheap variety and a woman’s not a man’s; it could possibly have come from a raincoat.
When Anna returned to her garrulous driver, she sat in the back, explaining that she’d had a late night and planned to catch up on her beauty sleep. She phoned Barolli on the mobile to confirm that the corpse was indeed that of their second witness, then she stretched out. It was almost four o’clock. As Anna was falling asleep, she was vaguely aware of her driver talking about spraying cars: how much paint sprays cost; how some of the expensive models needed at least four coats; how he layered on the paint, then carefully rubbed it down until he got the right texture and finishing gloss. His biggest profits were always on the vintage cars, he mumbled, but it was hard to find parts, especially for the older Mercedes. But the dealers he knew kept parts for him, headlights, bumpers, even seats.
Around the same time, Langton and Mike Lewis were getting out of a taxi at the Manchester police station. Before interviewing McDowell, who was being held in the cells, the duty sergeant and the arresting officer took them into a small office, where they heard about his arrest the night before. McDowell worked for an Irish pub as a bouncer; he was doing it for the booze and a few quid at the end of the week. It was late, almost half past eleven, when the police were called. A prostitute had been sounding off in the bar. He was trying to evict her, but she and her pimp started punching McDowell. When the police arrived, the fight became a brawl. McDowell, who had been drinking heavily, charged at the police like a mad bull. It took three policemen to restrain him. He had passed out in the cells.
“How old is he?” Langton frowned, checking McDowell’s records.
“Fifty-two.”
McDowell’s list of crimes was part petty, but his association with prostitution was what interested Langton. He had a string of girls working for him at the club and a lot of them were on the game. He had been charged with living off immoral earnings.
“Did you ever have an address for him? Shallcotte Street?”
They had so man
y addresses it was like an A to Z of Manchester, but there was no record of him living in the same house as Anthony Duffy or his prostitute mother. McDowell had moved constantly from one place to another.
“He’s now in the basement of an old house that’s been earmarked for demolition, not far from the Granada TV studios.” The sergeant shook his head in disgust. “It’s a real stinkhole of a place. I’d say he just dosses down there, or passes out. The guy has a massive drink problem. The nightclub was a big success for a while; all the stars used to hang out there. Unfortunately the profits he didn’t drink away, he put up his nose. He fancied himself as a ladies’ man.”
“What about his Mercedes?”
“It’s been in the pound for a week. He had fifty outstanding parking fines.”
Langton nodded. “Right. Let’s talk to him, then.”
They were shown to an interview room and supplied with coffee. It was ten minutes before they heard the thump of footsteps and a loud voice shouting: “What was I supposed to fucking do? You got that bitch in the cells? I bet my bollocks you’ve fucking let her go, but I’ve been here all fucking day. I want to see my solicitor, because this isn’t fucking right!”
When the door opened, there were two uniformed officers on either side of McDowell. Even after all they had heard about him he still took Langton and Lewis by surprise. He stood glowering before them: six foot three inches tall; bedraggled shoulder-length blond hair; a receding hairline. His tie and shoelaces had been removed, so his feet slopped out of his shoes as he walked in. His blue suit had a strange fifties look, with its draped jacket and baggy trousers. His dirty, stained shirt was open at the neck. He had enormous sloping shoulders, like Robert Mitchum.
When he saw Langton and Lewis, sitting on the opposite side of the bare table, McDowell looked confused.
“What’s this about?”
Langton stood up. “I am Detective Chief Inspector James Langton from the Metropolitan Police and this is Detective Sergeant Lewis.” When Langton shook his hand, the returning squeeze felt like iron, a big shovel. He looked down at a gnarled hand with knuckles that stood out, red-raw and callused.
Above Suspicion Page 29
