Lynda La Plante - Above Suspicion

Mike opened his notebook.

‘I interviewed the call-in witness from the show. The guys handling the missing person case had already traced him, so we got to him fast. His name is Eduardo Moreno; he’s Cuban and speaks very little English. He works at the Minx Club, on the corner of Old Compton Street in Soho. The club is a transvestite hang-out; members only, know what I mean? Across the street is a massage parlour, real cheap dive; bright pink neon sign outside, that sort of thing. The neon is quite important because not only is it pink, it flashes. So Mr Moreno, who works as a waiter-stroke-dishwasher, is standing outside the club having a cigarette at about midnight. He is certain the girl he saw is Melissa, though it gets a bit screwed up, because he thought she came out of the massage parlour-stroke-knocking shop.’

Lewis described how Moreno had seen Melissa bending down to talk to someone in a car. He could not say the colour and make, just that it was a big car and pale. He was also unable to say if Melissa got in the car; just that he’d turned away to talk to someone passing and when he looked back both the car and Melissa had gone. He was also unable to describe the driver, but he thought it was a man.

Langton gave instructions to bring Moreno in and show him every make of car. He was sceptical about his claim that his English was poor since he had managed the phone-call. Lewis explained that another waiter made the call for him as they both thought there could be a reward. The good news was that the Minx Club had CCTV security cameras, as did the massage joint and after a lot of persuasion both establishments had agreed to allow their tapes to be viewed. There was plenty of footage and only one camera was time-coded. Any film of Melissa could then be enhanced by the lab and returned quickly. Mike planned to view the tapes first himself.

Alan Barolli was up next. He told them he had spent the day exploring the streets around the possible routes Melissa had taken. The film crew had only forty-eight hours to compile their footage and so had gone for the most direct route. Barolli had spent time checking out every other path Melissa might have taken. The result was that he had more than six additional CCTV tapes and they were being reviewed in the hope they would provide details of the exact journey she had taken from Covent Garden that night. However, as Langton had suspected, due to the passage of time, a number of places using CCTV had already recycled the tapes.

Langton threw the discussion open to the room for questions. Anna put up her hand, then found herself flushing when the entire room turned to look at her.

‘Two things, really. It must have been cold that night. Melissa, we know, was wearing a T-shirt and short skirt. Do we know if she had an outer garment, say a jacket or coat?’

Observing a few looks and shrugs in response, Langton gave instructions to check with her boyfriend. He was about to move on when he saw Anna’s hand was still raised; he nodded.

‘Also, the T-shirt has that sequinned logo. It’s possible that our killer, who has only picked up prostitutes to date, thought Melissa came out of the massage parlour. The T-shirt saying “strip” across the chest might have given him that idea.’

Langton nodded and checked his watch. ‘OK, it’s eight o’clock; let’s call it quits tonight. Tomorrow, full steam ahead. Get the Cuban in, the CCTV footage sorted out, and we’ll see if the post mortem reports can help.’

There was a mass exodus to the doors; some of them, like Anna, had been on duty since nine or earlier. She collected her coat and briefcase and headed towards the filing cabinet.

‘Gov, can I take the file on victim four?’

Langton gave her a perfunctory nod and continued to confer with the office manager about the duty roster. In preparation for all the new officers, copies of the files had already been made, so Anna just removed one, signed the report logbook and left, feeling very tired.

Reaching the car park, she was more than a little pissed off to find her beloved Mini with a scrape down one side. It was impossible to tell if the beat-up Volvo next to it was to blame. Anna chucked her briefcase on to the back seat and sat for a moment, wondering if she should return to the station to complain or perhaps request an allocated parking space, but in the end her tiredness prevailed and she just drove home.

Anna had only been in this job for two days, but already it had taken a toll on her domestic life. There was dirty washing in the bathroom and she badly needed groceries. She jotted several items down on a shopping list and decided to pick them up on her way into the station the next morning.

That finished, she poured herself a glass of wine and set about making supper. It was after eleven by the time she had eaten and she realized as she opened the file on the fourth victim that she was too tired to take anything in. She set her alarm for half past five the next morning and crashed out.

In the morning, she had a shower, got dressed and made some coffee. By six o’clock she was feeling much brighter as she opened the file.

Barbara Whittle, another well-known prostitute, had been forty-four at the time of her death. Her body had been found in a state of advanced decomposition. There were the usual on-site photographs, plus close-up shots of her tied hands and her neck, where her tights had been wrapped and drawn taut to strangle her in the same way as the others. This case was put on file in 1998.

Barbara was almost five feet eight and her body was ravaged by alcohol. The corpse showed severe bruising, numerous abrasions and lacerations. The ligature mark, which ran in a horizontal groove around her neck, was embedded deeply. Due to the lengthy period of time before discovery, the victim’s bound hands were white and swollen and a wedding ring cut deep in the bloated skin.

Barbara was quite dark skinned, with frizzy permed hair. Anna thought she must at one time have been very pretty. Like the others, she had numerous children, of unknown whereabouts. Though murdered in London, Barbara Whittle had resided in Manchester. Her body waited six months to be identified.

Anna felt a chill running down her spine. They should not hold off a press release: these women, whatever their lives had become, had deserved a warning of the horror that awaited them. If the killer planned to continue murdering these working girls, they should know of the danger they were in. Anna glanced up at the clock at that moment and panicked: she was going to be late for the office.

By the time she arrived, Langton had already left the incident room for the pathology lab. She drove there, aware that by this time it was half past ten and she was very late. After hurrying into the building, she found Langton with Henson, staring at an illuminated X-ray unit. They turned as she came into the room and apologized for her lateness. Langton returned to his scrutiny.

Enlarged on the screen, the strange circular wound to Melissa’s neck was deep, just breaking the surface of the skin. Langton peered closer. ‘Maybe a ring with a rounded stone?’

‘Possibly,’ murmured Henson. ‘But if it was punched in her neck, it would have left more bruising. I’ve no idea. By the way, at the back of her head, there’s a small bald patch. Looks like a clump of hair was torn out.’

Henson switched on the next light box. ‘Right, next. This is an X-ray of the brain tissue — see where we’ve got the blue and green areas? The blue is enlarged. This means your girl was unconscious for some time prior to death.’

Henson clicked on the next photograph, which showed the ligature wound to her neck. ‘It’s so tight that it’s almost cut through to the jugular, pressing on to it. The skin abrasions from the garrotting are really appalling. Poor little soul didn’t stand a chance.’