Blind Fury Page 14

  “Yes, you know—wooden slatted blinds. Mrs. Smiley apparently told her that her husband worked for a company that made them. They’re rather expensive and trendy, and they come in different shades of wood and various sizes.”

  Anna clarified that they were window blinds, and she was told that the company made them to measure and fitted them.

  It was too much to hope that the teacher recalled the name of the company, and she didn’t, but it meant they were another step forward.

  Barbara wrinkled her nose at the news. “Blinds? Wooden blinds like in Switzerland at the skiing chalets?”

  “No, for homes here, slatted blinds made to measure in wood. It’s got to be quite a specialist company, as they deliver and fit them. So start checking all the companies.”

  Barbara and Joan worked together, literally going through every listed company in the Yellow Pages, on the Internet, and in the directory. While they were checking, Anna joined Mike and Barolli, who had returned from Earl’s Court. Their remaining victim had been identified by two waiters and the manager of the small restaurant. Her name was Anika Waleska; she was a Polish student who had worked for cash in hand four nights a week and the odd weekend as a relief waitress. They had no details of where she had lived, just a phone number. One night she had simply not turned up for work and had not been seen in months. The phone number was a mobile no longer in use and had been bought from a telephone warehouse.

  The police began to check back with the Polish embassy in the hope that they could give more details. The incident room was hopping, with every telephone in use as thorough checks were made via Interpol and the UK border agency. They now had a link between their two young victims, as both were Polish—but that excluded Margaret Potts.

  Joan got the breakthrough, and everyone went quiet as she had finally traced their only suspect. John Smiley worked for a company called Swell Blinds. They had moved from their warehouse in Hounslow to Manchester five years ago, and John Smiley was still employed by them. She had a contact number for him, as well as the address and details. The company still delivered to London and in fact did business all over the country. The blinds were handmade in a factory in Salford, near Manchester.

  “Did you explain why we want to contact him?” Mike asked, worried that Smiley might be tipped off and disappear.

  “No, I didn’t, because I know how important this could be, so I played it quite casual and just said it was a routine inquiry.” Joan gave a raised eye to Barbara, who hid a smile. Sometimes in his new position as DCI, Mike got under their skin. They were both old hands and knew enough of police procedure to act accordingly.

  They had made big steps forward. Mike contacted Lang-ton to tell him that their third victim had been identified and the owner of the Transit van traced. Langton suggested they move on Smiley fast but keep it low-profile. No sooner had Mike replaced the phone than Joan was startled to receive a call from Smiley himself.

  “Is he on the line now?” Mike asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take it in my office.”

  Everyone waited, and Mike eventually returned to the incident room.

  “Well, Smiley by name and nature. Very helpful; said he’s delivering in London tomorrow and he’ll come in first thing.”

  “You believe him?” Barolli asked.

  “Yes. He has no idea what we want to see him about, as I said it was connected to him not changing addresses on his van.”

  “I don’t like it,” Barolli muttered.

  “You want to go all the way to Manchester? I don’t, and if we need to confirm that he is in actual fact delivering tomorrow, we can contact his boss—all right?”

  “I’d just like to know he’s not about to do a runner.”

  “Listen, contact Manchester Murder Squad and ask them to keep an eye on him. He’s got a mortgage, a wife, and two kids, so I don’t think he’s going to do a disappearing act.”

  “Yeah, they said that about Ronnie Biggs.”

  Anna could see the tension mounting between the two men, and to defuse it, she asked if the team could move on with tracking down anyone who had known Anika Waleska.

  “It’s coincidental that Smiley’s wife is also Polish, and there may be some kind of connection there,” Anna said.

  Barolli was at it again, suggesting she read up on just how many Polish immigrants had been shipped back out of England. “We’re bloody inundated with Poles,” he said rudely.

  Anna gestured to the board, snapping, “Not murdered, though, all right?”

  The following day, Langton appeared, sat himself down at one of the desks, and impatiently demanded a briefing. He was playing with a small piece of string, tying and untying a knot as Mike gave him a runthrough of the new details. His foot twitched while he tied and untied the knot. As Mike finished, he stood up.

  “You’re out by three days—correct?—from the time Estelle was last seen to her murder? And you got the ID via a phone-in from Crimewatch on Anika, right?” He sighed and chewed at his lips. “They got this anonymity deal, but did you get any hint about who the caller could have been? Did she work in the same restaurant?”

  Mike said there was no way the program would give them any assistance on tracing the caller; that was what it was all about, anonymity assured.

  “Fuck that. Go back and ask if they’ll run a request for the informant to come forward on their next show. Maybe she’ll cough up.”

  Langton paced in front of the board and then stopped, noticing Anna’s detail about her phone call from Welsh.

  He glanced at Anna. “You got your number changed?”

  “Not yet.”

  He returned to perch on the side of her desk. “Okay, I want to visit the prick. Now, I know you don’t want to set eyes on him again, Travis, but let’s put the bastard to bed or see if he’s fucking us around once and for all, eh? So first thing in the morning, all right?”

  Anna nodded, not liking it and also not wanting to spend the long journey with him, but she didn’t have an option.

  “Right, let’s see how the meeting with this guy Smiley pans out.”

  “Shall I order a patrol car for tomorrow?”

  “Nope, you can drive. You must know your way there blindfolded by now.” He smiled. Then Langton tied and untied the knot and remained silent, looking over the board again. “I want a check on any previous cold cases that might have similar MOs to our three girls.”

  “Already doing that,” Joan murmured, although she had not as yet begun the check.

  “I don’t like the missing three days. We need to go back and question Katia and the boyfriend. The victim had to stay somewhere. You don’t think he was shagging her?” he added, turning to Anna.

  Anna shook her head. “Petrovich described Estelle as naive and not in any way sexually permissive.”

  “Yeah, well, he might say that, but if this Katia was jealous, he might have screwed her in his hotel. He lives in, right?”

  “Yes, but on his days off, he stays with Katia.”

  “Go back and question him again, because we need to know if our killer picked up the poor girl and held her captive. Have you checked out the coach stations?”

  Barolli said that they had, plus the train stations, armed with photographs, but no luck. Langton retied the knot, which was becoming annoying to everyone.

  “Okay. Have another session with Eric Potts, see if he ever saw our white van. We don’t have it on CCTV footage for the approximate time Potts was murdered, but we’re not likely to, as it’s two years ago now and the suspect has owned the van since living in Kilburn, right?”

  Langton put away his piece of string, checked the time, and announced that he had to leave. As he passed Anna, he promised that he would get on to the governor of Barfield to make sure they did a sweep of Welsh’s cell. He warned her not to pick up her landline until she had the new number.

  As always, the whirlwind effect of Langton’s periodic visits left everyone uneasy.


  “What’s with the string?” Barolli asked, and Mike smiled.

  “He’s given up smoking. It’s something to do with every time you feel the need for a fag: you tie a knot, then untie it, and the urge subsides.”

  Anna hoped that the urge would not be present on the drive up to Leeds, as it would get on her nerves even more than Barolli’s antics.

  Mike passed out Langton’s orders, and Anna, along with Barolli, sorted out the next round of interviews. They called Eric, but he was not available. They decided not to contact Emerald Turk but to pay her another unscheduled visit to check if she had ever seen the white Transit van.

  Emerald was as belligerent as she had been on the two previous visits. It helped that this time Anna was accompanied, and instead of interviewing her in the kitchen, they conducted it in the sitting room. Children’s toys littered the entire room, stacked on the sofa and easy chairs. Emerald made no effort to remove anything but stood, hands on her hips, in the center of the room as Barolli and Anna remained by the door.

  “Have you ever seen this van?” Barolli passed over the picture of the van.

  Emerald glanced at it and then shrugged. “I dunno. It’s a common sort of van, isn’t it?”

  “Might have been parked close by; maybe Margaret was driven here in it. Have another look.”

  Emerald sighed and snatched the photograph. “No. She’s been dead two years or more, so why would I fucking remember this van?”

  “We think the driver may be connected to her murder,” Anna said quietly.

  “Well, she wasn’t run over, was she? So no, I’ve not seen it, and I dunno anyone drivin’ one. Is that all you come for?”

  “Thank you for your help,” Barolli said, glancing at Anna.

  “My pleasure,” Emerald replied sarcastically, kicking a red tractor out of her way as she walked toward them.

  “The suspect delivers blinds—wooden slatted ones,” Anna said as Barolli turned halfway out of the door. “Did Margaret ever mention knowing someone who did that?”

  Emerald shook her head at Anna. “No, she fucking didn’t. She was usually half-cut when I saw her. If you ask me, you lot are like the blind following the blind.” She snorted a laugh.

  Eric was in his office when they called and he confirmed that he had never seen Margaret get in or out of a white Transit van, nor did she ever mention that she knew anyone selling blinds. They returned to the incident room just as Mike got the message that John Smiley was in reception asking if he could leave his van in their car park. Mike asked Anna to join him for the interview as Barolli was told to go down and show Mr. Smiley where he could park and to have a good look over his van.

  John Smiley was tall and well built, with a slight comb-over. He was dressed in green overalls with a Swell Blinds logo embroidered on the pocket and printed on the back of his overalls. He was quite a good-looking man, with dark eyebrows and dark brown eyes, though his teeth were slightly stained with tobacco.

  He came into the interview room smiling, confident. When he sat down, he apologized for not having informed the DVLA about his change of address.

  “I kept on meaning to get it sent in, but at first we didn’t have a permanent address in Manchester, and we rented a flat. Then we moved from that place to another before we found our house.”

  Mike opened a file and made a note. “Have you now registered the vehicle?” he asked.

  “I’m going to do it first thing in the morning. I’ve got the form with me.”

  “So you own the van, Mr. Smiley?”

  “Yes, I do. The firm supplied me with one when I first started working for them, then they traded it in for this one and I bought it from them. I got it for a good price. I was glad that I did, ’cause when the firm moved, a couple of guys who didn’t have their own transport got made redundant.”

  “Have there been other drivers using your van?”

  “No way, never. I keep it in very good condition—even the kids aren’t allowed to mess it up. To be honest, I thought when the company moved from London to Manchester, they’d suggest trading it in for a new one, but they were economizing, cutting back on a lot of expenses.”

  “I am going to show you two photographs, and I’d be grateful if you could tell us if it is your van caught on the CCTV camera.” Mike slid the pictures across the desk.

  Smiley looked carefully at both of the photographs and then nodded. “Yes. You can even see my license plate, so it’s definitely my van.”

  “Can you tell us why you were at the London Gateway service station on both these occasions?”

  Smiley took out a small, well-thumbed diary and glanced at the photographs in front of him before flicking through the pages. “Yes, I’d been delivering to a Mrs. Freeman in Kensington. She wanted the blinds measured for a conservatory.”

  Mike made a note, then gestured to the second photograph. Again, Smiley looked through his diary after reading out the date on the photograph.

  “Yes, that was delivering four sets of floor-to-ceiling oak blinds to a Mr. Leatherhime, big house in Cobham. My firm will have all the receipts of payments and delivery dates. These are just for me personally.” He closed his diary.

  “So take me through how you stopped off at the London Gateway Services on both occasions.” Mike leaned back in his chair.

  “Well, it’s a fair old way from Manchester to London, and I usually try to get there and back as fast as possible. I want to be with my kids and put them to bed, or at least say good night to them, if possible. My wife gives me a packed lunch, and I eat on the way, and then I stop off at the London Gateway on the way back and use their toilets, because to be honest, I don’t like to ask customers if I can use theirs. So I have a bathroom break, usually order a coffee to take out, and keep going.”

  “Always at the London Gateway?” Mike asked, looking down at his notes.

  “No, sometimes I don’t need to, but as it’s the first service station on the M1, when I need to go, it’s usually about that time. I leave early, around four-thirty to five, and it’s a four-hour drive, sometimes a lot longer if there’s traffic or an accident. It can take me up to six hours, as the M6 is always slow and can put me back a couple of hours.”

  “So you stop off at the London Gateway and use their conveniences?”

  “Yes, sir, but not on a regular basis. It’d depend on whether or not I needed to use them. Our orders have been on the slack side, so I’ve not had to do many trips for the past few months.”

  Mike removed the photograph of Margaret Potts, saying, “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  Smiley seemed to give it a lot of attention before he shook his head.

  Estelle Dubcek’s picture came next. “How about this girl?”

  “No, sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.”

  “This girl?”

  Smiley leaned forward to look at Anika Waleska’s photograph. He hesitated and then shook his head again. “No.”

  “Do you ever give hitchhikers a ride?”

  “Me? No, never, not worth it. It’s too much of a risk, never have and never will.”

  “Tell me about your wife.”

  “My wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Smiley puffed out his cheeks and eased around in his chair. “I dunno what you’re asking me about her for. She can’t drive, and she’s never driven my van. You know, I’m getting to feel a bit uncomfortable. What’s this really about? It’s not just my vehicle license not being updated, is it?”

  “No. You are just helping our inquiries, Mr. Smiley.”

  “What about?”

  Mike gathered up the photographs. “These women were murdered.”

  Smiley opened and shut his mouth. “I don’t understand.”

  “We are just eliminating people with a vehicle caught on the CCTV cameras in the areas where these women’s bodies were discovered. You happened to be at the location on two of the occasions.”

  “My God. This is serious, isn’t it?” />
  “Yes, Mr. Smiley, very serious, but I think you have explained your reasons for being at the London Gateway, so I just need to iron out a few more things. How long have you been married?”

  “For twelve years. I’ve two children, aged eleven and eight—a boy and a girl. My wife is called Sonja. She and I met when I came out of the army; she was working in Aldershot.”

  “Was she from there?”

  “No. She’s originally from Warsaw in Poland. She came over to England with her mother twenty years ago.”

  “Do you speak Polish?”

  “No. Truth is, she hardly speaks it herself now, and we lost her mother four years ago. She was still living in Alder-shot and went a bit senile. We were going to bring her to live with us in Manchester when we got settled, but then she got pneumonia, spent a few days in the hospital, and never came out. Seventy-two, fit as a fiddle before, but just a bit confused, know what I mean?”

  “Did your wife ever come on these trips to London?”

  “No, no way. She works as a dinner lady at the local school, and she’s keen that the children always have someone at home. She’s a wonderful mother, which is why I try to get back before their bedtime. Kiss them good night.”

  “Have you ever picked up a prostitute at the service stations?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Smiley. It’s nothing to be ashamed of; we are asking everyone we interview.”

  “Never. For one, I wouldn’t fancy it, I’m too fussy about personal hygiene, and for two, if my wife was ever to catch me doing anything so stupid, she’d castrate me.” He laughed. “Just joking, but the truth is, I wouldn’t jeopardize my relationship. I love my wife, in fact, I worship the ground she walks on, she’s . . .”

  He picked up his diary again and thumbed through it to take out a small Polaroid picture. He passed it across the table. “That’s Sonja a few years back—she was a real looker, and to be honest I’d sown my wild oats before I met her. Twelve years in the Paras, and we were a wild bunch, fought in the Iraq invasion, got decorated, and I was even thinking about enlisting for another tour when I met Sonja. There was no more gallivanting around for me after that, and she’s a good few years younger.”