Above Suspicion (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  He chuckled about how the two women, older and younger, were at loggerheads. Even at the tender age of eight, Beryl was fighting with her mother. A couple of times she had run off and her mother would drag her back home from the hairdresser’s. Then he went quiet; just saying not much had happened until Beryl had left home at sixteen and her mother had found a little flat for her with two friends.

  Anna opened her notebook. “This was when she went to work at the health spa?”

  He snorted. “There was another name for it: bloody knocking shop. Open until late at night; a lot of hanky-panky went on.”

  “The most important period I need to know about is the time she went to Manchester.”

  “Right. So they said. Mrs. Villiers had found hypodermic needles in Beryl’s bedroom and she turned up at the station in a terrible state. She also had a phone number. She believed that Beryl was in Manchester. She even had this idea she was being held against her will by some woman. So I pulled in a couple of favors. You have to understand: I’d known this girl since she was a toddler.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “Her name was Kathleen Keegan: a real hard tart. She was running a brothel and using drugs and booze and Christ knows what else. Pal from Vice Squad went in, put a bit of a threat about. Beryl, they said, had been there, but had left before the visit.”

  “Can you give me the address?”

  He nodded, adding that it wouldn’t be much use, as the house had been torn down.

  “Was it Shallcotte Street?”

  “Not that shit hole, excuse my language. That was also demolished when this new housing development went up all around that area. But you know, they’re like rats. You drive them out of one place and they just turn up in another.”

  Anna passed over a list of the six victims.

  “Do you recognize any of those names as being connected to Kathleen Keegan?”

  He rubbed his nose as he looked down the list. Then, shaking his head, he passed it back.

  “No, duck, just Beryl and the Kathleen Keegan woman.”

  His watery blue eyes assumed a sad expression.

  “I wish I had found her. Might be alive today.”

  Anna put out her hand to shake his. He gripped it tightly.

  “I appreciate your help.”

  “No trouble. She was very beautiful, lovely face. Pity the dirtbags got to her when she was young. They never let her go and to die like that: unidentified, left to rot? She didn’t deserve that.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Anna said.

  “You got a suspect?” he asked hopefully.

  “Not yet.”

  “I always think if you’ve not got him in the first few weeks, you never will. When it’s white-hot, you stand a chance. Body left to rot for weeks, hard to find witnesses, harder to get evidence.”

  “Yes, yes, it is.”

  “If I can be of any further help, you just have to call.”

  Anna had turned to walk out when he called after her.

  “You’ve forgotten your bags.” He was holding up the three shopping bags from Mrs. Kenworth’s boutique.

  Embarrassed, Anna took them from him.

  “Got a bit of shopping in as well, did you?” he teased her.

  She had only just made it to the train station in time. When she got home, she hung her new suit and the two new blouses on hangers on the wardrobe door, then stepped back, her head to one side. The sun damage, which made the right shoulder a slightly lighter shade than the left, was hardly noticeable. She closed the wardrobe door, pleased with her purchases, and was just getting ready for bed when her phone rang.

  “Hello. It’s Richard.”

  “Richard?” It had been over six months since they had last been together and that was such a disappointment she had doubted she would bother seeing him again.

  “Richard, hello,” she said cheerfully. “I was only thinking about you the other night. I haven’t heard from you for weeks! How are you?”

  “Terrific. You don’t fancy an early-morning game of tennis, do you? Only Phil Butler’s partner’s got flu and I’ve booked the court: the Met’s Athletic Club.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Richard. I’m on this really big case and you know me, I’m better at squash than tennis.”

  “Aren’t we all? Come on, sweep the cobwebs out. Half six? I can collect you.”

  “No, no. I’ll make my own way there.”

  “Terrific. Let’s meet up at quarter to seven, do a catch-up and then we can all have breakfast after the game.”

  Anna replaced the phone. It would do her good to get some exercise. Unlike the bad-tempered Langton of late, who never took any and smoked like a chimney. The more she thought about it, the more she looked forward to it. She set her alarm for half past five.

  Next morning, Anna got into her car wearing her tracksuit with her squash shorts and T-shirt on underneath; she put her new suit on the backseat. She would shower and change at the club after the game.

  The garage was below the block of flats in which she lived in Maida Vale. It was a new building, quite small, with only six apartments. One of the attractions had been that it was very secure, with a locked garage for the residents’ cars and an access door to the ground floor. There was a well-lit staircase and a small lift to the top floor, but as her flat was only three floors up Anna rarely used it.

  Richard, who was always early for everything, greeted her warmly. He looked different.

  “Have you lost weight?” she asked.

  “I certainly have. Down by ten pounds and I’ve got another five to go.”

  He seemed more attractive than she remembered. Perhaps it was the different haircut. There wasn’t long to catch up before Phil Butler arrived. He was a bald, thin-faced DI attached to the Robbery Squad. He crushed Anna’s fingers as he shook her hand. “Glad you could make it. This is a double or quits match. Rich and I have been going at it hell for leather for months. It’s the final today. I need to win and my partner gets flu. I tried to cry off, but there’s a hundred quid on it and you know him.”

  “Yes.” Anna smiled, thinking she didn’t really, but she wouldn’t mind seeing more of him again. Was it only the haircut? And she reminded herself, on the last night they had been together, he had been on duty after all for the last twenty-four hours.

  Richard went off to find his partner, also a police officer. Her name was Pamela Anderson, which was a bit unfortunate as she was not blonde, had no visible breasts and looked more like a rake than a babe.

  But Ms. Anderson was a whizz on the court. She served so hard that Anna took four games before she could make a return. Her partner kept on saying, “It’s OK,” then whenever there was a ball close to the net, he would yell “MINE!” which really irritated her.

  They were pretty much evens: one set and four games each. Richard had, time and time again, lobbed some really great shots and Anna kept thinking perhaps she had underestimated him. He’d never played so well. It got to five–four, with Richard and Pamela leading, when Anna got into her stride. Her serve picked up and she started slamming back the spin serve from Ms. Anderson. Suddenly it was six–five and time was running out on their court. She dodged Phil twice to make a slam from the nets. Then on a vital shot, the one they needed to win the next set, she had bellowed, “Mine, MINE!” just before missing it.

  It should have gone to a tiebreaker, but there were people waiting for their court. They shook hands. “Another time,” Phil said. A towel around his neck, he opened his wallet and begrudgingly handed over a fifty-pound note to Richard. Though he did not say it, she knew Phil blamed her for the outcome. She was astonished when Richard laughed and refused to take the money. “We’ll play again when Tara’s fit.”

  She noticed how fast the fifty-pound note went back into Phil’s pocket.

  Ms. Anderson was nowhere to be seen in the women’s changing room. Anna applied her makeup, wondering if another date with Richard might improve his performance. His tennis had
certainly improved. She made her way to the canteen. It was almost eight o’clock, just time for a quick breakfast before she had to leave for work.

  The boys had ordered bacon sandwiches and coffee for the table. Richard got up to draw Anna’s chair out for her and she sat down, impressed. He was improving every minute. She noticed he did the same for Pamela, who had now changed into her uniform.

  Phil said between mouthfuls, “I hear you’re working with Langton.”

  “Yes, I’m with the murder team now.”

  “I worked alongside him once. That was enough.” He pulled a rasher of bacon from his sandwich and took a bite. “Mind you, that was a good few years ago.”

  “Didn’t get along?” Anna asked innocently, disliking Phil even more.

  “He could be a nasty sod at times. You ever played tennis with him?”

  Anna gave him a surprised look. She could not have imagined Langton playing anything, except perhaps the odd hand of poker.

  “Got a sliced serve”—Phil slurped his coffee—“that’s a bitch to get back.”

  Then he stood up, announcing that breakfast was on him. He gave a brief smile to Anna and mentioned to Richard that he would book another court.

  There was an uneasy silence after he’d left. Pamela nibbled at her sandwich, while Richard said confidentially to Anna, “So, how is it working out? Word is, not too good.”

  “We just got some big leads,” Anna protested.

  Pamela laughed. “I know your commander’s DCI. And she’s not a happy bunny.”

  “Oh, really? Well, perhaps she hasn’t had the update. When you’re dealing with seven murders, some as far back as—”

  “I know James Langton, too.” Pamela dabbed her lips. “He used to be part of the Met’s athletic team, bicycle racing. I often saw him at the athletic track in Maida Vale.”

  “Langton on a bicycle?” Anna asked, surprised.

  “That was a while back, of course, when he was married to Debra Hayden. Did you know her?”

  “No.”

  “She was amazing. She used to race with him—‘the Demon Duo,’ they were called. It was all very sad.”

  “You mean the divorce?” Anna was fascinated.

  “No, Debra was his first wife. She died of a brain tumor. Tragic, really; she had a great career ahead of her. And she was very beautiful.”

  Anna noticed that Richard had gone quiet, but she couldn’t resist.

  “I know he has a thing about blondes.” She was trying to sound casual.

  Pamela looked up sharply.

  “I couldn’t say. Debra was Persian, though, so I doubt it.”

  “Oh,” Anna said, and would have liked to continue, but Pamela was checking her watch. She collected her bag and leaned over to kiss Richard.

  “See you later, darling,” she said. She smiled at Anna. “Nice meeting you. Richard’s told me a lot about you.”

  Richard fiddled with his teaspoon, embarrassed. Pamela waved as she left the canteen.

  “What do you think of her?” he asked nervously.

  “She seems very nice,” Anna replied, with some confusion.

  “Congratulate me. We’re engaged.”

  “Oh! Congratulations! I’m, uh, speechless. How long have you been together?”

  “Six months, on and off.”

  “Six months? Really!”

  “I didn’t mention her before, because when I last saw you, I wasn’t so sure.”

  “And now you are.”

  “Yes. We’re living together.”

  “Oh. Wonderful.”

  “Yes. Pammy put me on the Atkins. And I’m working out. I’ve never been fitter. I’ve got ten times the energy I used to have!”

  “I can see that. Look at the time. I can’t be late.”

  As she stood up, Richard kissed her cheek. She couldn’t believe it; he was wearing aftershave.

  “Thanks for stepping in this morning. Phil’s a really nice guy, recently divorced. You two seemed to get along well. Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

  “Sorry,” she said, gathering her things. “Work’s really busy right now.”

  She couldn’t wait to get away from him. She could have kicked herself. Why the hell hadn’t she put him on the Atkins diet? All that potential and she hadn’t spotted it? Some detective!

  She returned briefly to the ladies to comb her hair. She adjusted her new suit in the mirror. Her white shirt was open at the neck, revealing the gold chain and small diamond that had once belonged to her mother. She looked great.

  At the station, Anna was disappointed that no one remarked on her makeover. They had all gathered in the incident room for the latest briefing. Langton sat on the edge of the desk and, on the board behind him, the dead women’s faces looked out at the assembled team.

  “Mike, what you got?” Langton asked Lewis.

  Lewis had been allocated the second victim, Sandra Donaldson. He reported that he had traced one of her kids to Brighton. The boy was working in a seaside fish-and-chip shop. According to Lewis, he was one sandwich short of a picnic and all his questions only produced monosyllabic grunts. The boy had been brought up in various foster homes. He claimed he didn’t know any of the women, he didn’t know anyone from Manchester, he hadn’t really known his mother. He described his sister as a slag and his brother as a criminal, presently a guest of Her Majesty in Brixton prison.

  Barolli had had no luck either. He, too, had begun tracing relatives of the victims. The ex-husband of Mary Murphy had left England to live in Germany, taking her twin daughters with him. She had no other contactable family. Barolli had then turned to Kathleen Keegan’s children in the hope that they could help. Since they were scattered all over the place, he had gone for the eldest: a married daughter, living in Hackney with five kids.

  “She was unable to recall anyone called Anthony Duffy, or if her mother was acquainted with any of the other women. She did remember that Kathleen had lived in Manchester and supported Manchester United; she said her mother had probably screwed the entire football team, given that she screwed everything else. She hated her.”

  As Barolli sat down, Moira stood up to address the room. She told them about her visit to Emily Booth. Teresa Booth’s mother was still alive, residing in a care home for the elderly. The old lady was feisty and still had all her faculties. Moira had them laughing with her mimicry of the woman’s Newcastle accent.

  It had been a lengthy interview. Though the old lady did not recognize any of the victims’ names, she handed Moira photographs of her daughter, including a group shot of three women sitting on the railings at a sea front. Moira held up the photograph.

  “I thought it was Brighton to begin with, but the old lady said that it was Southport, Lancashire. Not far from Manchester, right?”

  The photograph was circulating round the room and had reached Langton.

  “Now, I may be wrong, but take a look at the woman to the right, wearing a black skirt and sun top. I think she’s Beryl Villiers.”

  While Anna waited for her turn, she opened her briefcase and removed a selection of the photographs Beryl’s mother had provided. After Moira’s photograph was passed to her and she had examined it, Anna stood up, heart pounding, to address the room.

  “It’s either her, or a doppelganger. I brought this picture from Leicester.” The second photograph began to circulate.

  Langton was the last to compare both pictures. After considering them, he approached the wall and pinned up both pictures.

  “What else have you got for us, Travis?”

  “Kathleen Keegan,” she said. The room erupted.

  Anna described the interview with the ex-detective, then the one with Mrs. Kenworth. Jean was writing the updates on the board, marking the connection between those women in red felt-tip pen. Now that four of them had been connected to each other, possibly all of them would be connected to the house in Shallcotte Street. The only two unlinked as yet to the others were Sandra Donaldson and Mary Murph
y.

  “Good work, Travis. Barolli, I want you to contact Manchester Vice Squad. We need to know about any working girl—well, she’d be an old woman now—who was had up for prostitution before Shallcotte Street came down.”

  Lewis put up his hand. Langton nodded.

  “Gov, even if we get each woman knowing each other—maybe even knowing Lilian Duffy—what does it prove?”

  Langton exhaled a sigh. “That the killer also knew them; perhaps all of them. That’s what these links are providing.”

  “Yeah, well, I know that part,” Lewis said.

  “So what’s your problem?”

  “I just can’t get my head round the fact that Duffy would kill them one by one. There’s years in between the murders, in some cases. I think we should be looking elsewhere, one of their pimps, or a client. Duffy, or Alan Daniels, was only eight years old when he finally left Shallcotte Street. We know where he went, what school, et cetera. What does tracing the slags who knew each other give us? I mean, Lilian Duffy? It was bloody twenty years back when he’s down for possibly killing his mother! And the latest murder is Melissa Stephens? She’s not a hooker, she’s not a slag: she’s a seventeen-year-old student.”

  “You’re saying you don’t think we have a serial killer?”

  “We know there is a serial killer. Everyone’s agreed they’ve got the same MO.”

  The tension in the incident room was uncomfortable as Lewis went head to head with Langton.

  “So?”

  “I’m saying we should back off these old cases. Only concentrate on Melissa Stephens. We’re wasting valuable time on the case and as time goes on, we’ll lose any leads we might get.”

  “We haven’t got any leads, Mike!”

  “I know that,” snapped Lewis. “But we’ve all been schlepping around the fucking country when we should have been here. What I’m saying is, if you think Duffy is the killer, get the Cuban in.”

  Langton’s jaw was working overtime. “He never saw his face.”

  “OK, get the gravel-voiced tart in. She said he was blond. She saw part of him.”

  “She said she only saw him from the side and he was wearing shades.” Lewis sat down, sighing.