‘No, Debra was his first wife. She died of a brain tumour. Tragic, really; she had a great career ahead of her. And she was very beautiful.’
Anna noticed that Richard had gone quiet, but she couldn’t resist.
‘I know he has a thing about blondes.’ She was trying to sound casual.
Pamela looked up sharply.
‘I couldn’t say. Debra was Persian, though, so I doubt it.’
‘Oh,’ Anna said and would have liked to continue, but Pamela was checking her watch. She collected her bag and leaned over to kiss Richard.
‘See you later, darling,’ she said. She smiled at Anna. ‘Nice meeting you. Richard’s told me a lot about you.’
Richard fiddled with his teaspoon, embarrassed. Pamela waved as she left the canteen.
‘What do you think of her?’ he asked nervously.
‘She seems very nice,’ Anna replied, with some confusion.
‘Congratulate me. We’re engaged.’
‘Oh! Congratulations! I’m, uh, speechless. How long have you been together?’
‘Six months, on and off.’
‘Six months? Really!’
‘I didn’t mention her before, because when I last saw you, I wasn’t so sure.’
‘And now you are.’
‘Yes. We’re living together.’
‘Oh. Wonderful.’
‘Yes. Pammy put me on the Atkins. And I’m working out. I’ve never been fitter. I’ve got ten times the energy I used to have!’
‘I can see that. Look at the time. I can’t be late.’
As she stood up, Richard kissed her cheek. She couldn’t believe it; he was wearing aftershave.
‘Thanks for stepping in this morning. Phil’s a really nice guy, recently divorced. You two seemed to get along well. Maybe we could do it again sometime?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, gathering her things. ‘Work’s really busy right now.’
She couldn’t wait to get away from him. She could have kicked herself. Why the hell hadn’t she put him on the Atkins diet? All that potential and she hadn’t spotted it? Some detective!
She returned briefly to the ladies to comb her hair. She adjusted her new suit in the mirror. Her white shirt was open at the neck, revealing the gold chain and small diamond that had once belonged to her mother. She looked great.
At the station, Anna was disappointed that no one remarked on her makeover. They had all gathered in the incident room for the latest briefing. Langton sat on the edge of the desk and, on the board behind him, the dead women’s faces looked out at the assembled team.
‘Mike, what you got?’ Langton asked Lewis.
Lewis had been allocated the second victim, Sandra Donaldson. He reported that he had traced one of her kids to Brighton. The boy was working in a seaside fish and chip shop. According to Lewis, he was one sandwich short of a picnic and all his questions only produced monosyllabic grunts. The boy had been brought up in various foster homes. He claimed he didn’t know any of the women, he didn’t know anyone from Manchester, he hadn’t really known his mother. He described his sister as a slag and his brother as a criminal, presently a guest of Her Majesty in Brixton prison.
Barolli had had no luck either. He, too, had begun tracing relatives of the victims. The ex-husband of Mary Murphy had left England to live in Germany, taking her twin daughters with him. She had no other contactable family. Barolli had then turned to Kathleen Keegan’s children in the hope that they could help. Since they were scattered all over the place, he had gone for the eldest: a married daughter, living in Hackney with five kids.
‘She was unable to recall anyone called Anthony Duffy, or if her mother was acquainted with any of the other women. She did remember that Kathleen had lived in Manchester and supported Manchester United; she said her mother had probably screwed the entire football team, given that she screwed everything else. She hated her.’
As Barolli sat down, Moira stood up to address the room. She told them about her visit to Emily Booth. Teresa Booth’s mother was still alive, residing in a care home for the elderly. The old lady was feisty and still had all her faculties. Moira had them laughing with her mimicry of the woman’s Newcastle accent.
It had been a lengthy interview. Though the old lady did not recognize any of the victims’ names, she handed Moira photographs of her daughter, including a group shot of three women sitting on the railings at a sea front. Moira held up the photograph.
‘I thought it was Brighton to begin with, but the old lady said that it was Southport, Lancashire. Not far from Manchester, right?’
The photograph was circulating round the room and had reached Langton.
‘Now I may be wrong, but take a look at the woman to the right, wearing a black skirt and sun top. I think she’s Beryl Villiers.’
While Anna waited for her turn, she opened her briefcase and removed a selection of the photographs Beryl’s mother had provided. After Moira’s photograph was passed to her and she had examined it, Anna stood up, heart pounding, to address the room.
‘It’s either her, or a doppelganger. I brought this picture from Leicester.’ The second photograph began to circulate.
Langton was the last to compare both pictures. After considering them, he approached the wall and pinned up both pictures.
‘What else have you got for us, Travis?’
‘Kathleen Keegan,’ she said. The room erupted.
Anna described the interview with the ex-detective, then the one with Mrs Kenworth. Jean was writing the updates on the board, marking the connection between those women in red felt-tip pen. Now that four of them had been connected to each other, possibly all of them would be connected to the house in Shallcotte Street. The only two unlinked as yet to the others were Sandra Donaldson and Mary Murphy.
‘Good work, Travis. Barolli, I want you to contact Manchester Vice Squad. We need to know about any working girl ? well, she’d be an old woman now ? who was had up for prostitution before Shallcotte Street came down.’
Lewis put up his hand. Langton nodded.
‘Gov, even if we get each woman knowing each other ? maybe even knowing Lilian Duffy ? what does it prove?’
Langton exhaled a sigh. ‘That the killer also knew them; perhaps all of them. That’s what these links are providing.’
‘Yeah, well, I know that part,’ Lewis said.
‘So what’s your problem?’
‘I just can’t get my head round the fact that Duffy would kill them one by one. There’s years in between the murders, in some cases. I think we should be looking elsewhere, one of their pimps, or a client. Duffy, or Alan Daniels, was only eight years old when he finally left Shallcotte Street. We know where he went, what school,
‘You’re saying you don’t think we have a serial killer?’
‘We know there is a serial killer. Everyone’s agreed they’ve got the same MO.’
The tension in the incident room was uncomfortable, as Lewis went head to head with Langton.
‘So?’
‘I’m saying we should back off these old cases. Only concentrate on Melissa Stephens. We’re wasting valuable time on the case and as time goes on, we’ll lose any leads we might get.’
‘We haven’t got any leads, Mike!’
‘I know that,’ snapped Lewis. ‘But we’ve all been schlepping around the fucking country when we should have been here. What I’m saying is, if you think Duffy is the killer, get the Cuban in.’
