database, the team still had no result. Social Services also came up blank; Passport and Immigration likewise. Anthony Duffy didn’t appear to exist. They had requested information from the Greater Manchester murder team and Vice Squad, but many files had been lost in a fire at the station fifteen years ago,
If alive, Anthony Duffy would now be in his late thirties. They contacted Housing, Benefits and Inland Revenue; no one had a record of Anthony Duffy. They had numerous Duffys, of course and even eighteen Anthony Duffys, but none of the correct age. There was not a parking ticket in his name, no police record and he had never been called for jury duty. It seemed that he had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Then their luck seemed to turn. The address for the mother, Lilian Duffy, had been found on an old electoral register. The house she had lived in was owned by Jamail Jackson, a small-time con artist and pimp in the Swinton area. But then, no sooner did they glimpse a light at the end of the tunnel than it flickered out. The house had been demolished fifteen years ago and Jamail murdered in a pub fight four years later.
Langton ordered the search to spread to foster homes and adoption agencies. But by six o’clock that evening, they still could find no trace of Anthony Duffy. He could be living abroad; he could be lying in the cemetery.
Anna had stayed the course all afternoon but by that time she was feeling even worse. She had not dared eat anything all day, only spooning in her mouth half a bottle of Bisodol. Lying in bed later that evening with a hot water bottle across her stomach, she went over and over everything Southwood had said.
Duffy was well educated. The profiler Michael Parks had described the killer as having above average intelligence. There was also the connection with his mother being a prostitute. He had to be a very viable suspect.
Could there be a link between the older victims? They were all from the north of England and had moved down to London for one reason or another. Or they had become weekenders. Could one of the victim’s relatives have a clue to Duffy’s whereabouts? Sleep didn’t come easily to Anna that night.
By the time she got to work the next day, Langton had divided up the team and sent them to interview relatives and other contacts of the victims. So it continued for the next three days, as the team worked on tracing and interviewing people. On the fourth day everybody was called together for a briefing.
Langton asked for an update. One by one, the officers detailed their interviews with the victims’ relatives. Many had moved on, or were dead, so tracing them had taken time. The children of the victims were spread far and wide, many of them on the same downward spiral towards drug and alcohol abuse as their mothers. No one appeared to have ever heard the name Anthony Duffy and there was as yet no photograph of him to show.
Langton suggested they return to Southwood and get an e-fit picture made of their suspect. Anna had written in her report that he had a very good recall of Duffy’s face. The picture could be aged, then released to the press.
Then the breakthrough they had been waiting for came. Mike Lewis up in Manchester found a possible link in the files of an adoption agency there. The woman running the agency had no papers going back further than twenty years, but acting on her own initiative she visited Ellen Morgan, who had been the administrator at one time. Since then, laws and restrictions regarding the foster programme had been tightened, but twenty years ago Mrs Morgan not only arranged foster care for numerous children, she was also a foster mother.
It was Moira who took Lewis’s call. Mrs Morgan had at one time cared for a boy called Anthony Duffy. Her address was a nursing home, Green Acres, in Bramhall, near Manchester.
Langton chose to do this interview himself and ordered Travis to accompany him. It was to be another day trip. They boarded the eight o’clock train at Euston the next morning. Langton wore a smart suit and held an armful of newspapers.
‘Mike’s also managed to track down an ex-Vice cop who might be able to help,’ he told her as they made their way along the narrow aisle to their seats.
‘I thought we’d interviewed them all,’ she said.
‘This one was invalided out, eight years ago. Shot in the leg. He lives at Edge Hill. I’ve got a car waiting for us, so we can zap about, see what we can get.’
Langton settled in his seat, opposite Anna. He took out one paper, proffered another, but she shook her head, indicating her own Guardian. She was ill at ease sitting opposite him. She couldn’t help wondering how it would be, being in such close proximity to him for the three and a half hour journey there and the three and a half hours back. She sat back to read. Occasionally she would steal a glance at Langton, but he appeared oblivious to her presence. The entire journey passed mostly in silence.
She just managed to avoid the train door slamming into her as he charged off down the platform once they reached the station.
Outside, a Greater Manchester Police patrol car was waiting for them. Langton sat in the front seat with the driver, a friendly, chatty officer. They did not discuss the case. Instead, the two men engaged in a lively conversation about the rise in property prices.
‘You married?’ the officer asked.
‘Nope. Been there twice though, so I’ve got the T-shirt.’ Langton grinned. He turned suddenly to Anna in the back seat.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘Am I married?’
‘Yes?’
‘No, I’m not.’
The driver offered the information that, not only was he married, he had five children.
‘Five?’ Langton said, shaking his head in astonishment.
‘You got any?’ the driver asked.
‘Yes, one daughter. She lives with her mother. Lovely girl, very bright. I have her some weekends, when I’m free.’
As Langton chatted, Anna was amazed to hear so much about his personal life. By the time they reached their destination, Langton in turn knew virtually the driver’s entire life history.
The nursing home looked pleasant, set in the middle of a well laid-out garden. The reception area seemed light and friendly. There were flowers on the desk and cards pinned up on the bulletin boards. Mrs Steadly, the cheerful administrator, was a woman in a pink suit.
‘You can see Mrs Morgan in her room, unless you prefer to have coffee and biscuits in the sun lounge. You won’t be disturbed there. It’s not that warm today and with all the glass it can get a bit chilly. We really need to put central heating in, but we have to raise the money first!’ she said as they crossed the reception area with her.
‘I think we’d prefer to see Mrs Morgan in her room,’ Langton responded, smiling.
The room was fairly large, with numerous pot plants on the windowsill. Mrs Steadly introduced a frail, tiny woman with a halo of snow-white hair. Crippled by painful arthritis, Ellen Morgan moved with the aid of a walking frame.
Mrs Steadly backed out of the room and closed the door. Laid out on the bed were two large photo albums. Anna took a seat by the window, Langton sat on the bed and Mrs Morgan leaned on her frame.
‘I knew you wanted a photograph. So I got everything out and went through them. It brought back memories, I can tell you.’
Langton smiled. ‘You had a very full life. How many children have you cared for?’
‘Too many. But I keep in touch with most of them and they come and see me,’ she said, moving across to the bed.
Langton gently helped her to sit beside him and placed the album she was pointing to in her lap.
‘Tell me about Anthony Duffy,’ he prompted.
‘Anthony was four when I first met him. He was only supposed to come for a few weeks, but he stayed with me eight months. He was very shy, exceptionally nervous. He looked like a skeleton when he arrived,’ she chuckled.
Langton watched the bulbous, distorted fingers turning the pages. Then she pointed. ‘Here’s one from that time. It was taken at one of the boy’s birthday parties. There’s Anthony, at the corner of the photograph.’
Langton gazed at the face, then removed the photo, which he passed to Anna. Anna was struck by the image of this tiny boy, with his paper hat, wearing a striped, knitted pullover. His pixie-like face was unsmiling; he had large, extraordinary, beautiful blue eyes.
