Lewis whipped round on Moira. ‘This is a fucking murder enquiry, Moira! She needs to get herself organized: sending bloody text messages! She never even contacted the Spanish policeman we arranged to help her.’
It was a nightmare journey home for Anna. Ron’s friend with the B and B, was in fact the proprietor of a seedy, rundown hostel. The room was cramped and damp and she had to share the dubious bathroom. That, with the after-effects of the awful sangria, greasy hamburger and french fries from Ron’s favourite cafe, had kept her up most of the night before she re-boarded the plane. She staggered back and forth to the toilets throughout the trip. She wasn’t exactly sick, but she did feel like someone with a cement mixer in her stomach.
When she arrived at the station just after two o’clock, she wasn’t feeling any better. The cement mixer kept on churning, but now she was feeling light-headed, too. Moira came to her desk.
‘Gov is very spiky about your text message,’ she whispered. ‘You wanted me to pass it on, right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, he’s ready to have a go at you.’
‘Go at me? My God, I’ve had no sleep, I have worked my butt off and Southwood is even worse than you described. He’s got no idea what I had to go through to get the information out of him!’
‘Travis!’ There was a bellow from inside Langton’s office.
Anna made her way there.
‘Sit down,’ he snapped. ‘What the hell were you doing? You did not contact the authorities. You did not use the patrol car provided.’
‘Nobody told me to contact anyone,’ she spluttered.
‘It’s fucking procedure, Travis! You think we’d just let you loose without any backup? Then I get handed this text message! Lost your voice, did you? Couldn’t call in?’
‘It was very late when I got the information.’ The cement mixer was churning faster, making her break out in a sweat. ‘I think I’ve got a bit of food poisoning,’ she added.
‘Take some Bisodol! You going to be sick, is that it?’
‘No. I just don’t feel very well.’
‘Neither do I. So, let’s have it! Who is this Anthony Duffy? This suspect? Jesus Christ, who the fuck is he?’
It took Anna over fifteen minutes to explain how she had eventually been able to gain the information from Southwood. Langton listened without interruption; though he made a few notes, his anger was palpable.
‘So, if the profiler is right about our killer taking his revenge against his mother, then Southwood’s suspect could be the man we are looking for.’ Anna swallowed audibly.
Staring at her, Langton now held up his hand.
‘You think this cab driver saw what you did by the swimming pool?’
‘No, sir. I am sorry if it was unethical, or against usual procedure, but I did get a result.’
‘True. Well, I hope to Christ it doesn’t have any repercussions for us. Go and fix your stomach and we’ll get on to this.’
‘Thank you.’
Langton’s expression softened a fraction. ‘I’m sorry I sounded off at you, Travis. You look terrible, by the way.’
‘I feel terrible.’
Lewis was standing by the computer. Having run the name Anthony Duffy through the ‘known felons’ 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?’