In the pathology lab, Henson sat before a large slice of cream cake and a cup of coffee. He smiled when they entered his lab. ‘Just having my elevenses, albeit at four o’clock, but that’s my life whenever you lot start screaming for results. And I have no intention of hurrying. It’s my career on the line if I make a mistake, so I’m not quite ready for you.’
Langton pulled a face.
‘All right. I give you one thing: I do know her last meal was a hamburger, fries and Coca-Cola. No alcohol, no drugs. A very fit young woman. Beautiful muscle tone and fresh, unblemished skin. She was a natural blonde with well-cut hair; no dye, but a few highlights. She was wearing very little make-up.’
Henson polished off his cream cake and wiped his mouth with a tissue. ‘Give me another twenty-four hours, I’ll have all the results. Then the coroner should be able to release her body for burial. We have taken slides, etc.’
He gave a sidelong glance at Anna. ‘Let’s have a look. You shouldn’t pass out this time. Easier to digest, slides.’ Henson smiled sympathetically as Anna flushed. Then, crossing the room to the area where all the pathology slides were blown up on to light frames, he addressed Langton with a new seriousness.
‘See this mark on her neck? Not having much joy in giving you possibilities: odd shape, size of the old shilling, but with a bulbous area at the top.’ He pressed his own neck with his forefinger. ‘Went in quite deeply: half an inch. Didn’t kill her, though; I would say she was already unconscious. We’re testing her brain matter, so I will have a result on that.’
‘Thank you,’ Langton said. ‘Fast as you can, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Henson said with a sigh. He walked into the lab next door.
Langton looked at Anna. ‘Right, let’s go back to the station. See if the lads have anything for us.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She was tired out, even if he wasn’t. Next time she would need more than a yogurt for lunch.
The incident room was crowded. Someone was sitting at her desk but before she could say anything Langton was clapping his hands for attention. Then they were joined by the newly added detectives, office manager and clerical staff, so Langton took the next few moments to meet everyone before he provided the update. First he confirmed that the person who had tied the bonds on Melissa was the same person who did it to their other six victims. ‘Number seven’ was now legitimate.
A large TV set was wheeled in. Langton held up a videocassette. ‘OK, everyone. This is for those of you who didn’t catch the reconstruction that was made when Melissa was just a “missing person”. After we watch, we’ll throw out to anyone who’s got a result today. Best news we’ve had yet is the verification we’re hunting the same bastard for?’ He never finished. The theme music for Crime Night started and the room fell silent, except for the underlying ringing of phones.
A photograph filled the screen and a voice-over began: ‘Melissa Stephens, last seen here at The Bistro in Covent Garden. She was wearing a distinctive black T-shirt with pink diamante logo and a pink skirt. We wish to hear from anyone who saw her that night after eleven thirty.’
The film continued for five more minutes, with a running commentary, as ‘Melissa’ was shown walking away from The Bistro, headed towards the tube station. A short interview with her parents ensued; they begged anyone who might have information about where their daughter was to come forward. They said repeatedly that Melissa would never have taken off without calling them and they feared the wont. The tape was then fast-forwarded to the next section, which ran at a spot two hours later the same night. There were details of callins. Finally, the announcer said they had received a call from a witness who was sure he had seen Melissa that night. Another full- screen picture of Melissa followed and under it, the phone number to call.
The TV set was turned off. It was a while before talk broke out again. The general atmosphere was one of depression caused by the realization that when the show had aired, the Stephenses’ young daughter was already dead.
Together the detectives went over their orders for the following day. Langton returned to the board.
‘OK, coffee’s on its way; in the meantime let’s crack on. Any new assignments from the update will be given out.’ He pointed to Mike Lewis, who moved to stand beside him. ‘For now, just sit and listen. Mike?’
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.
Chapter Three
