see if anyone had information. It didn’t come in until late afternoon the next day.
Anthony Duffy had not attended school in Manchester, but rather in Great Crosby, on Merseyside. The Merchant Taylors School confirmed that a pupil named Anthony Duffy of the same age and description as their suspect had attended their school. They had a number of photographs of him. He had been an exceptional student. Anthony had gained an A in every subject at A level. The headmaster himself did not really recall Duffy, as twenty years ago he had been a junior teacher and taught much younger pupils.
An elderly maths teacher remembered him. He had been puzzled that Duffy had never returned to collect his certificates. The boy was by then eighteen years old and could have been accepted at any number of universities. No one had seen or heard of him after the end of that term.
By six o’clock, the special courier had arrived with a list of pupils from Anthony Duffy’s class and their last known addresses, but the most important evidence lay underneath the list: a packet of photographs.
There were two pictures of Anthony Duffy with his rugby team. His face had been ringed by the helpful headmaster. His head was turned away slightly but part of his profile was visible. There was another picture of him with the swimming team: eight boys lined up in swimming trunks. Once again, Duffy seemed to shrink back behind a boy in front, who held the large cup for the winning team. This time the other side of his face appeared. The school dramatic society provided three photos. They, too, were group shots, but they showed far clearer images of Anthony Duffy, albeit in wigs and hats.
In one photograph he was playing King Henry from Shakespeare’s Henry V. He stood in his armour, holding a helmet with a red plume which blocked part of his face. His legs were apart and his chin up; those mesmeric eyes drew you to the young boy’s face. In another he wore a long wig and a black moustache. His costume suggested King Charles I. He was surrounded by boys dressed as women.
In the last photo, which was of the amateur dramatic society itself, he stood next to a boy wearing a fool’s costume. Duffy was holding a skull, suggesting he was playing Hamlet; luckily, in this photograph, his face was in focus and without the embellishment of a wig or make-up.
The photographs were enhanced in the lab. Everyone around Duffy was deleted and the two pictures showing partial profile were dismissed.
They had also been able to contact two ex-school friends, but neither had seen him since he left school twenty yean before. One couldn’t, at first, even remember him. A third school friend, now living in Australia, was being tracked down for questioning. The other names given by the present headmaster from the school register were either deceased or uncontactable from their last known addresses.
The following morning the photos were ready; their ‘Hamlet’ was pinned on to the notice board. His boyish body was muscular and fit. He had blond hair, high cheekbones and a tight-lipped mouth. His unusual eyes gave his face a prettiness that was almost feminine.
An expert was coming in to ‘age’ the picture, since Anthony Duffy would now be nearly forty. The room was humming cheerfully when Jean approached Anna at her desk.
‘Can I tell you something?’ she said quietly.
Anna smiled up at her. ‘Of course.’
‘I just don’t want anyone yelling me down and I could be wrong. You know what I mean?’
‘Go on. What is it?’
‘Anthony Duffy.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, like I said, I could be barking way up the wrong tree. It’s just those eyes of his. I mean, they’re unusual, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’ Anna waited.
‘I think I recognize him. But as nobody else has, either I’m wrong or they don’t watch as much TV as I do. Anyway, there was this show on quite a while ago. I was a real fan. It used to be on every Saturday and he played a detective. It was called Sin City, on at half ten in the evening. He looks like the actor. Since then he’s been in films rather than anything else on the telly, but I’m pretty sure.’
‘Let’s have his name.’ Anna picked up her notebook.
‘Alan Daniels. They’re also the same initials.’
‘Thanks, Jean.’ She stood up from her chair. ‘Let me run this by the gov and see what we get.’
Moments later, Langton was leaning back in his office chair.
‘Alan Daniels? Never heard of him. Have you?’
‘No. But Jean is a big fan. He starred in some detective series called Sin City.’
‘And what is he up to now?’
‘Apparently he’s sort of well known; he’s in films these days.’
‘Is she serious?’
‘Yes. She thought hard about mentioning it. She was pretty nervous about it.’
‘Sin City? I bet she fucking was. Well, Travis, we leave no stone unturned. Get on to that actors’ thingy, Equity. They’ll have photos of everyone in the profession. Later, you can have a go at Jean. I suspect she’s heading for hot flushes.’
The following morning, Anna visited the offices of Equity and sat thumbing through the pages of their copy of Spotlight, a directory of every actor registered with them. Alan Daniels had a half-page spread. There was no age given, but in the photograph he appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. His agency was called AI, Artists International and was the UK’s biggest management company. Anna took down the particulars. Daniels was described as ‘six feet one, blue eyes’. As soon as she left the building Anna rang the station, hardly able to contain her nervous excitement.
‘It’s Travis. I need to talk to the gov.’ She waited a few moments.
‘Langton.’ His voice was terse.
‘It’s him,’ she said quietly.
‘What? Are you certain?’
‘It’s his eyes. Yes, I’m certain. What do you want me to do?’
‘Don’t say anything to anyone. Just get back here fast and we’ll decide how to proceed.’
‘OK’.
‘Anna, listen to me. If he’s a fucking TV star, we have to tread very carefully. The last thing we need right now is a media cock-up.’
Anna shut off her phone and took a deep breath to calm herself.
Back in the incident room, Jean almost had heart failure. Langton cupped her face in his hands and kissed her soundly on the lips.
‘I was right?’
Langton crossed her lips with his finger. ‘Shh. Don’t say a word to anyone. Do you hear me, Jean?’
Jean nodded solemnly. After Langton returned to his office, Jean glanced at the victims’ photographs, then stared at the boyish, smiling face of Anthony Duffy.
Chapter Seven
Anna stood shoulder to shoulder with Detectives Lewis and Barolli in the small office. Langton stood behind his desk, facing them. He looked quite sharp in his grey suit, crisp white shirt and blue tie. He had shaved closer, Anna mused, noting the absence of his usual five o’clock shadow.
She started to attention when Langton began abruptly: ‘We’re bringing him in this afternoon. The consensus is we take this softly softly. The commander wants Daniels questioned without it becoming public knowledge. Only if further evidence is corroborated do we go for an arrest. Remember, first off, he’s just helping our enquiry.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t want you telling your wives, or girlfriends — urn, boyfriend, in your case, Travis — understand? When the media acts like vultures in these high-profile cases, it just makes our job harder, sometimes impossible. Now, we’ve only got circumstantial evidence in the first six cases, but it’s a bit better for Melissa. And if Alan Daniels did the lot of them, that’s what we want to get him for: all seven murders.’
