Above Suspicion (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 1) Page 19

  “Bloody hell.” Barolli whistled.

  “It’s make-or-break time.” Langton rubbed his chin, which was really in need of a shave. “So while I am gone, you need to dig harder; find anything that’ll get that woman off my back.”

  “Right. Will do.”

  Anna was so excited she could hardly contain herself. She had never even been to America, let alone to three of its major cities. Secretly, she also liked the fact that she would be traveling with Langton alone: just the two of them.

  In the flat, Anna spent most of the evening selecting what to pack. She had arranged to meet Langton at the airport at half past nine the next morning. She took out her passport and made sure she had some money to change into dollars at the airport. All done, she put her wheelie suitcase by the front door, ready for the morning’s departure. It was just after ten when her phone rang. She ran to pick it up, thinking it might be Langton.

  “Anna,” a man said softly.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Come on. Don’t you recognize my voice?”

  She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” she lied. “Who is this?”

  “OK, play hard to get. I don’t mind.” He laughed. “It’s Alan Daniels.”

  She tried to collect her thoughts. “How did you get my number?”

  “You’re in the book, of course.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you want to know why I am calling?”

  “Yes, it’s late.” She wished she could tape the call.

  “Do you like ballet?”

  “Yes. I do. Very much.”

  “I have been given two tickets. I would love it if you could join me; perhaps we could have a little supper afterward, at the Ivy?”

  “Oh, well, er, yes. I love ballet.” She swallowed hard. “When are the tickets for?”

  “Tomorrow night. Very short notice I know, but—”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Daniels—”

  “No, no, no—Alan,” he interrupted.

  “Unfortunately, I will be away.” She almost said she was going to America, but stopped herself. “Thank you very much for thinking of me, Alan.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Manchester,” she lied.

  “What are you going to Manchester for?” he asked.

  “Erm, on business.”

  “We might still be able to get together. What time do you get back?”

  “The thing is, I might have to stay over. My chief said it was possible.”

  “Ah, well, perhaps another time, then. Would you like me to call you again?”

  “Yes, yes, I would. Thank you for thinking of me.”

  “Of course. Good night, Anna.” He replaced the receiver.

  Her phone number was not in the book. How had he got it? In the shower, she went over every word of their conversation. No way had Alan Daniels simply speculated that she might like ballet. She adored ballet. How did he know that?

  She made herself a sandwich and a cup of tea. The call had really taken the edge off her excitement at leaving for the States. Eventually, she got into bed. Reaching for the bedside lamp, she stopped and withdrew her hand. The photograph of her father had been turned out to face the room. She touched it every night before she went to sleep. It was always facing toward her, toward the bed, not away from it.

  She squeezed her eyes tight shut. She was scared. Had she moved the frame when she was tidying up that morning? She tried to recall exactly what she had done, but inside she knew she hadn’t moved it. She had left her front door open when she went down to the bins, but only for a few minutes. Had he been in her home?

  Anna got up and walked round her small flat. After making sure that nothing else had been moved, she double-locked her front door, throwing the bolt across it, which was something she rarely ever did. She returned to bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin. In the darkness, what had felt safe before now felt frightening: the way the dressing-table mirror reflected the streetlight through the curtains and the sight of the wardrobe door left slightly ajar all of a sudden made her heart pound. Could someone be hiding in there? She told herself not to be such a wimp, but she turned on her bedside lamp all the same. She looked at her father’s strong face in the photograph and whispered: “Was someone here, Daddy?”

  At the airport the next morning, Anna spotted Langton immediately. He carried a lightweight, folding suit bag and no other luggage. She joined him at the Virgin desk with her suitcase.

  “Can you carry that on the plane?” he said skeptically.

  “I can put the handle down,” she insisted.

  “Good. The less time we waste hanging around for luggage, the better.”

  After they were checked in, they headed through to Departures. Langton did his usual fast-paced walk; Anna, wheeling her case after him, had to trot to keep up.

  “I want to buy a camera,” he said, hastily heading toward duty-free. She waited in the background as he trailed from counter to counter, musing and picking up one camera after another. He eventually decided on a small zoom-lens job and, after he had paid for it, set off at his usual fast pace, this time to buy cigarettes and a bottle of malt whisky. Next, he was inspecting perfumes and asking her which one she preferred, since he was at a loss.

  “It depends on who you are buying it for,” Anna replied, itching to know.

  “Just give yourself a spray of that and let me smell it.”

  She sprayed her wrist with a tester bottle. When he held her hand and sniffed, it was like an electric shock.

  “Right, that’ll do.” As he sniffed her wrist again, she started to redden.

  “She’ll like that,” he said, meeting her eyes. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “It’s for Kitty,” before he was off to the counter to pay for the bottle of perfume.

  She watched him go. He was wearing a gray suit she had never seen before and a pale blue shirt with white cuffs and collar. All that and a close shave; he was looking very attractive.

  Eventually they were on board. She sat herself into the window seat and fixed her safety belt while he removed his jacket, folding it neatly to place above him in the locker. When he sat beside her and drew his belt closed, they were so close her shoulder touched his.

  “Did you know Barolli hates flying?” he said, reaching to take the in-flight magazine from the seat pocket in front.

  “Daniels called me last night,” she said quietly.

  “What?” He put his magazine down and turned to face her.

  “He called me at home, after ten. He said my number was in the book, but it isn’t.”

  He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Why didn’t you tell me before? What did he say?”

  She repeated the conversation, almost word for word.

  “That it?” he said when she had finished.

  She hesitated. When she woke up that morning, she was less sure that she had not moved her father’s picture herself. “Yes.”

  “Tell me something, Travis. Do you fancy him?”

  “No, I do not!” she said sharply. “Speaking of which, I don’t know what you told Barolli went on at Queen’s Gate, but I don’t find his jokes very funny.”

  “Don’t be so uptight. Listen, if Daniels asks you out again, I want you to accept. We’ll monitor your calls. And if you go out with him, we’ll keep tabs on you.”

  He was looking so elated by her information that Anna felt a little resentful.

  “Oh, thank you very much. Don’t ask how I feel about it!”

  “It’s the classic syndrome, don’t you see? He wants information.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s an option, then, is there?”

  “He will be getting a kick out of being close to the investigation, close to someone involved in trying to capture him. It couldn’t be better, Travis.”

  “So, you still think it’s him?”

  He ignored the question and delved into the arm of his seat, bringing up the
video screen,

  “But if you’re wrong?” she persisted. “What if he’s innocent?”

  “You mean what if he just fancies you?”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Really? This movie star who could have any woman he wants falls for DS Anna Travis. Somehow he gets hold of her number and calls, hoping for a date? That sounds plausible? Come on, grow up!”

  “All I said was: what if you’re wrong?”

  He stubbornly fixed his earphones onto his head.

  “Conversation over!”

  “I have had men ask me out in the past,” she said with pursed lips.

  He half lifted his earphones. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I believe you. But how many of them were under suspicion for murder? Date any serial killers lately? Get real, Anna. The guy is dangerous. He’s coming on to you because it’s a game he gets a kick out of playing.”

  “What about the fact his dental X-rays don’t match the bite mark from Melissa’s tongue?”

  In response, he sat back and closed his eyes to listen to the in-flight music program.

  She stared out of the window. What if he was right? At the same time, what if he was wrong? Why couldn’t the truth simply be that Daniels liked her? After a while, she too eased her seat back and tried to sleep, but she kept thinking about Daniels: remembering the picture he had shown her of himself as a child. Was it true that he had never shown it to anyone before?

  She needed to use the toilet. Unfastening her seat belt, Anna climbed over the reclining Langton. He did not sit up when she left, nor as she clambered back to her seat, though he did turn over in his sleep. She watched, alarmed, as his head lolled closer to hers, then came to rest on her shoulder. It was a strange feeling: to have him so close. What a pity she didn’t like him anymore. And it was quite obvious he didn’t think very much of her.

  Somewhere on the flight, she too closed her eyes. Their positions changed. Anna woke up to find her head was now on his shoulder and he was gently stroking her cheek. She sat bolt upright.

  “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed.

  “That’s OK. I was trying to wake you. We’re landing in fifteen minutes.”

  “Right.” She felt disorientated, even more so when he leaned closer.

  “You were catching flies and snoring,” he said, amused.

  She looked at him, perplexed. “So were you! But I was too polite to tell you.”

  He laughed. “Well, fingers crossed we get a result today.” He eased his seat forward into the upright position. Then he smiled at her. “You sleep like a little girl. I was just teasing.”

  She said nothing, but she decided she liked him again.

  It was much warmer in San Francisco than either had anticipated. The temperature had reached the mid-seventies by two o’clock. Langton ordered the taxi driver to take them to the Super 8 Motel on O’Farrell Street, which was only a fifteen-minute drive from the airport. The motel was situated in the Tenderloin district, close to the police station. This area was the red-light district, probably the worst neighborhood, with a flood of drug dealers and drug addicts and prostitutes patrolling the streets. The driver explained: “It’s a great place, but you gotta be careful: the streets ain’t the cleanest and you gotta watch out for oddballs coming up to you. So stay alert and don’t let ’em get to you, but the ’Loin is a great place, an’ you got the greatest diners and restaurants.”

  When they arrived at the motel, Langton said he would meet Anna in the lobby in twenty minutes. There was hardly time to unpack, so she had a shower and quickly changed her shirt. In the lobby, she found him talking to the concierge. He had maps and was already on first-name terms with the man, who handed him the car-hire documents and keys.

  They went into the car park. When Langton located their rental car, he was taken aback by the size of it. It was a bright blue Chevrolet Metro; inside, it smelled like a rose garden.

  “Right. You drive, I’ll direct,” he said, getting into the passenger seat and opening the map. Anna took a deep breath. “You take a right out of the gates and remember, you are on the other side of the road. Keep driving and then it’s left, right, right and another left and we should be there.”

  He told Anna they would be meeting the deputy chief first, at the Bureau of Investigations; then on to Captain Tom Delaware, who headed up the CAP division, attached to the Vice Squad.

  Anna managed to get them to the police department without a major accident. Whenever Langton rapped out his instructions en route, she just gritted her teeth. Finally, as they were driving round the large car park in front of the San Francisco Police Department, Langton snapped at her to “just park the car.” She pulled on the brake and fumed at him.

  “Do you want to drive? Or will you let me do it?”

  She finally parked the car in a space marked “visitors.” She and Langton walked in silence toward the main entrance of the San Francisco PD.

  It was freezing inside the air-conditioned building. Their meeting with the deputy chief, thankfully, was short and to the point. When he checked their credentials and passports he seemed almost apologetic, reassuring them it was just a necessary procedure, since they were being given access to files and case reports.

  A young female officer led them to Captain Delaware’s office. She tapped and ushered them inside.

  Tom Delaware was a rotund, beefy man, with a gut hanging over his pants and a big personality to go with it. He greeted them warmly and offered coffee. They refused. Langton passed over the duty-free malt whisky. Delaware grinned. “You touch my heart.” He examined the bottle, then put it into his desk drawer.

  “I know you’re on a tight schedule, so let’s get started.”

  From a thick file on his desk he withdrew a photograph of the victim: Thelma Delray, aged twenty-four. Langton thought she looked older, but he said nothing. Her sad story mirrored the British victims’ pasts. “Trixie,” as Delaware referred to her, was a well-known hooker, having worked the red-light district since she was a teenager. Every time they placed her into a foster home, she ran back to her pimp and was subsequently out on the streets. She was a drug addict and Anna also thought she looked older than her age.

  The mortuary shots were very reminiscent of their own victims. The close-up photos showed her murder had the same MO. The way her bra was tied looked the same. The tights were wrapped around her neck, three times.

  “What about suspects?” Langton asked.

  Tom said her pimp had no apparent motive: Trixie was earning good money for him. Why kill his golden goose? He also had a strong alibi. He was in their apartment in Bay View, with two witnesses, on the night she was last seen alive. Three weeks later she had been found facedown in John Macaulay Park, very decomposed. It had been a hot summer.

  “One of the park keepers discovered the body here. Son of a bitch dumped her that close. Any one of the little kids could have found her.”

  On the last night Trixie was seen alive, a number of girls recalled her talking to someone in a car. It was midnight; she never came back to her patch.

  “Who identified her body?” Langton asked.

  “Her mother.”

  Langton put Alan Daniels’s photo on the desk.

  “You ever seen this guy?”

  Delaware frowned. “Nope. No, can’t say I have.”

  The captain drove them to the park, to show where Trixie’s body was discovered.

  “We believe the killer brought her here, took her out of the car and into the bushes over there. Killed her on-site. A witness saw a car parked there, but he couldn’t recall what make it was. No registration and he said the lights were out.”

  It was half past six and in the red-light district the girls were on the streets. Anna stared out of the back window of the patrol car. She was so tired she could feel her eyelids drooping. Of course, it would be after midnight, London time. Langton seemed not to flag at all. He suggested dropping Anna back at the motel, while he took Tom to a few b
ars for an evening out.

  Anna felt irritated, because she knew she was being dismissed. But back at the motel, she felt relieved. She went to the hotel restaurant for a hamburger and then straight to her room. She checked the route on the LA freeway map before bed. The following day was going to include a long drive.

  Langton, meanwhile, was barhopping with Tom Delaware. Or, as Tom described it, “girl shopping.” At first he wondered if Langton was looking for himself, but he soon realized he wasn’t. By the time they reached Joe’s Restaurant in a really rough area, Taylor Street at Turk Street, Tom’s feet ached and he was hungry. As they leaned back in their comfortable black-burgundy leatherette booths, Langton asked Tom if he recalled there being a film unit in the area at the time Trixie was murdered.

  Tom didn’t, but he put in a call to an ex-cop pal who supplemented his pension by working as a location manager for film units. They talked more over supper as they waited for him. At midnight, he arrived and over coffees, the photograph of Alan Daniels was again produced.

  Anna woke with a start. There had been a loud crash from the room next door. She looked at her watch: it was half past three. Another crash. She suspected this one was the fall of the ironing board. So he not only slammed his office door, he knocked over everything no matter where he was. Next, the toilet flushed. That was followed by more bangs and thuds. She heard Langton swear a few times, then there was the clicking of lights being switched off. Then on, then off; she couldn’t keep track.

  Then, finally, silence. She found it difficult to go back to sleep. Perhaps because now, in London, it would be eight o’clock in the morning.

  She got up reluctantly and had another shower to wake up properly. At five o’clock, she lay down and closed her eyes, thinking what she would order for breakfast. She woke with a start. She thought she had heard a fire alarm. But the noise was coming from next door. Langton was obviously up and taking a shower. She decided she might as well dress and join him for breakfast.

  She knocked on his door. He yanked it open.

  “I was wondering if you wanted breakfast,” she said, avoiding looking at him. He was wearing just a towel slung round his hips and holding a muffin in his hand. She could see he was fit, his stomach was tight and he had a hairy chest; not too much, but it was as dark as his head hair, which was standing up on end. She remembered Pamela Anderson saying he used to be very athletic. Nevertheless, it surprised her that he was so lean and in such good shape.