Lynda La Plante - Above Suspicion

The room was silent. Many of them, including Anna, wrote copious notes. But Langton sat impassive, staring at the floor.

‘Most serial killers,’ Parks continued, ‘usually take some kind of token. It is possible our man took their handbags. This would provide him with the pleasure of later sifting through their belongings. While he may keep a number of small items, the bags themselves would be too large an item to keep, too dangerous; they would eventually be dumped or burned.’

Parks removed his glasses. ‘He’s very intelligent. He leaves no DNA, no clues. To the outside world, he probably seems the personification of respectability.

‘The first four victims were used to getting in strange men’s cars. There is little sign of struggle because they would have consented to being tied by their wrists. None of these women were gagged, which proves they must have complied with his desire to tie their hands behind their backs. I would say the ones that struggled, like Beryl Villiers, may not have consented. Melissa, we know, was unconscious at an early stage.’

Parks folded his glasses, placing them in his top pocket. ‘That is all I have for you today. All I can say in leaving, is this.’ He paused theatrically. ‘He isn’t yet satiated. I would say quite the opposite. The murder of Melissa and its subsequent press coverage will have heightened his drive to kill again, if he has not done so already.’

The team continued over the next four days to interview and cross-question callers they felt to be legitimate. In the end, the most informative and legitimate-sounding call came from a woman with a very deep voice, who insisted on anonymity but said she was certain she had seen Melissa on the night she disappeared.

It had been almost midnight when she had noticed a girl fitting Melissa’s description on Old Compton Street, bending down to talk to the driver of a pale blue sports car. She could not identify the make, only that it was an ‘old type’. She never saw the driver’s face clearly, though she said he was clean-shaven and ‘blond-ish’ and, although it was evening, he was wearing dark glasses. She was about to cross the road and confront the girl about poaching on her patch when Melissa got in the car and was driven off.

They put a trace on the call. It was from a mobile phone but they couldn’t get a fix on the caller’s location. Langton ordered Lewis to try harder to track the caller down.

‘Track her down?’ Lewis shook his head, disbelievingly. ‘How? We don’t know what she looks like; we don’t have a name. We’ve got nothing.’

‘The voice!’ Langton snapped. ‘Mike, for God’s sake, play the call and listen! You know she works Old Compton Street. She’s probably a transvestite: right area, Club Minx. Go and talk to as many of them as you can find. Match the voice! He or she’s all we’ve got so far.’

‘Right, gov. Will do.’

‘Now, everyone else pay attention. We need to go back to square one. Open up Teresa Booth’s case. Go through every one of the victims again. See if we’ve missed anything.’

Three weeks had passed. No new witness had been traced, there were no further clues as to their killer’s identity and the Murder Review Group had started sniffing around, wanting results. The commander heading up the Gold Group also wanted results, which they didn’t have. Without any new evidence, Melissa’s case could be taken over by a new team, or the present team could be halved. The case was heading slowly for the dead files and Langton, frustrated beyond belief, knew it. He still maintained a gruelling schedule, though they were coming up empty-handed every day.

It was a quarter past three in the afternoon when the call came in. Jean took it and handed it over to the office manager, who forwarded it to Langton.

‘What’s this?’

‘Call yesterday afternoon. From Spain.’

‘Spain?’

‘Caller said he was Barry Southwood, ex-detective. Said he had information about the serial murders. Left his contact number.’

‘Southwood?’ Langton said, frowning.

‘Said he was an ex-police officer.’

‘Yeah, right, I heard you. Anyone checked him out yet?’

‘Yep — Barolli. Turns out he’s a dirty cop. Fifteen years with Vice. “Enforced retirement”.’

‘OK. Get everything you can on him. Then we’ll call the old sod back.’ Langton paused by Anna’s empty desk.

‘Where’s Travis?’

Barolli looked up. ‘With Lewis. They’ve had no luck finding our gravel-voiced tart yet; they’re still trawling around Soho. You want me to call them back in?’ ‘No,’ he growled, retiring to his own office.

It was almost six o’clock; Anna and DS Lewis were standing outside a small, dingy cafe near King’s Cross station. It was a known haunt for pimps and hookers, especially on a rainy night. The two detectives had spent hours stopping known street girls on every corner of Soho. They had also walked through the main train stations, but again their questions met with no luck. With the only description being ‘a gravelly voice, male or female’, there was not a lot to go on. It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. Lewis called it quits. They would both fill in their report the following morning at the station. Lewis went for the bus, but Anna decided that she would take the tube home.

She spotted the tube station and headed down the escalator. Her feet ached like hell and she was exhausted. Coming up the escalator was a tall, rangy woman with thick, black, curly hair. She wore a tight red leather skirt, a leather jacket with studs and a low-cut vest. She was carrying a big bulging shoulder bag and talking animatedly to a short, plump, blonde woman.

‘I said, “For a tenner, I wouldn’t light your cigarette!” The cheeky sod! So then he says—’

Anna turned. She was certain it was ‘the voice’. She stepped off the down escalator and jumped on to the one going upwards. At the top, she glimpsed the red leather skirt disappearing; the woman was walking away on strappy, red high-heels.

Outside the station Red Leather was nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, Anna checked the taxi rank, then returned to the station, but she’d lost her. She sighed, then noticed a sign for the ladies’ toilets. Red Leather’s dressing room?

Inside, the plump blonde was at the mirror, outlining her lips with gloss. A toilet flushed. Anna checked her make-up.

The blonde called out to her friend, ‘My mum said she wanted me to pay her the going rate. I said to her, that’s a bit much!’

Red Leather exited a cubicle and tottered over to the washbasin.

‘Mmm,’ she said.

‘I mean, these bleedin’ childminders are getting twenty quid an hour, you know?’

‘Mmm.’

Anna washed her hands. Her back was to the two women, but she could see them both in the wall of mirrors above the sinks. They finished their make-up, frizzed up their hair. The blonde never stopped talking, while the woman in red leather, whom Anna was desperate to hear, still didn’t say a word.

‘Tarra, then. See you Monday.’ The blonde walked out. Anna crossed to the hand-dryer wafting her hands, playing for time. Her heart quickened as Red Leather washed her hands, shook the water from them and turned to Anna.

‘Those things take a hell of a time, don’t they? I mean, they should just provide paper towels.’

Anna was certain it was the same voice. Red Leather clicked over to an empty cubicle and withdrew reams of toilet paper. The prostitute returned to the mirror, drying her hands.

Trying to sound casual, Anna walked over and said, ‘Tell me something. You called Queen’s Park police station, didn’t you, and said you had information about Melissa Stephens.’

Red Leather looked up sharply. ‘So what? I said all I knew.’ She sidestepped Anna. ‘There’s nothing more. Excuse me.’