‘Used to have a racing bike. You ever use that track, not far from where you live? I’d get there sometimes late at night, haul the bike over the fence and ride round in the darkness. Used to clear my head. Not done that for a while, though.’
‘Your head that clear now, is it?’ she joked.
He cocked his head to one side. ‘Always fishing, aren’t you, Travis? Well, my head is clear and it’ll be a lot clearer after I’ve had a swim.’
He tossed his clothes on to her sun lounger.
‘When you’ve finished, could you take my clothes up to your room? I forgot the credit card thingy and my wallet’s in the jacket.’
He dumped the towel and after a rather poor dive at the deep end, started to swim a slow crawl. She watched him for a couple of lengths, then picked up his clothes and walked back inside the hotel.
She had just finished drying her hair, when he knocked on her door.
‘Any developments from the station?’ She handed him his clothes.
‘Nope. See you in ten minutes, down at reception.’ With that, he left.
His wardrobe was consistently surprising her. By the time she got to the reception area, he had miraculously appeared in a crisp, white shirt and light suit. He was wearing dark shades.
They drove to the main, massive LAPD building and after fifteen minutes there, got back in the car and drove to Orange County, where they had been informed the police station would be likely to have more details.
The second victim, Maria Courtney, aged twenty-nine, had a long record of prostitution in Los Angeles. She was also a crack addict. Her murder had taken place between the times of their last two victims back home. So, like Trixie’s, Maria’s case was cold.
Maria had last been seen, by a waitress, coming out of the Blues Club on Sunset, in a very drunken state. No one else had come forward to say that they had seen her after that. Langton was given the waitress’s cell-phone number and called her, but her answering service was on, so he hung up.
Her body was found in a known crack area of Orange County. She was, as with their other victims, lying face down, hands tied and strangled by her own tights. Anna and Langton spent the next couple of hours checking the files and mortuary pictures of the dead woman. At six o’clock they left the department to head back to their hotel. They drove up Sunset past the Blues Club and on to the CBS television studios in Century City.
The black receptionist had to use a pencil to dial the internal phone number. She had the longest false nails Anna had ever seen: they curved over like talons. Her hair was braided in a mass of plaits, with coloured beads that clanked together every time she moved her head.
‘I gotta Detective James Langton and I gotta Anna Travis in reception.’ She listened, then addressed them. ‘You go up to the fourteenth and someone will getchas.’
‘Thank you,’ Anna said.
They emerged from the lift into a large reception area on the fourteenth floor. A thin young man with round glasses and a face full of pimples approached them. He put his hand out to Anna: ‘Detective Langton?’
‘No.’
‘That’s Detective Sergeant Travis,’ Langton said tersely. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Langton.’
They followed the young man as he weaved along narrow corridors between rows of desks. Finally they reached a line of offices. By now the sound of phones ringing and actors’ voices on videotape had created an extraordinary wall of sound.
They paused outside the last office as the pimple-faced youth stammered out their names. The person inside the office kept on talking. As they waited, they couldn’t avoid hearing his side of the telephone conversation.
‘She wants how much? An hour? You must be joking! No way we could run to that, unless we shoot it in Romania. I am sure she is, but I am going to have to get back to you. Yes, yes, I know she’s just adopted a boy. We’ll arrange to take a nanny, half her fucking household if that’s what she wants, but we cannot agree to that price. Right, right.’
They glimpsed a hand gesturing for them to enter the office. As Anna and Langton stepped in from the corridor, Mike Mullins finished his call.
‘Love you too, babe. Get back to me. Fine, thanks.’
He replaced the phone and stood up.
The room was crammed from floor to ceiling with tapes and scripts and on the side of a very large oak desk was an enormous orchid arrangement. Mike Mullins was short, with a suntan, hair plugs and gleaming white teeth. He was wearing a floral shirt which flopped over his stomach and pale blue jeans. ‘Right. Now, have you been offered a water, latte, juice or anything?’
‘We’re fine,’ Langton said.
‘Sit down, please.’
They sat side by side on a soft, brown leather couch. Mullins passed a script to the hovering assistant.
‘I want four copies of each and white page them.’
Mullins then eased back round his desk. ‘I am sorry. I can’t remember why you are here?’
‘You made a TV film last year. It was called Out of the System,’ Langton answered.
‘Oh Christ, yes.’
‘It starred an actor called Alan Daniels.’
‘Did it?’ Mullins said, clasping his hands. ‘I can’t honestly remember. I must have blanked it from my mind.’ His forehead puckered. ‘Yes, I think he was in it. British, right?’
‘Yes, he is.’
Mullins swivelled to face his computer, where he tapped away at the keyboard, muttering to himself the whole time. He then peered closer at the screen. ‘Of course. I know who it is. Yes. Alan Daniels, but he wasn’t the lead. Yes, I remember him. I couldn’t afford him now.’
‘Do you have a record of the locations where you would have used him?’
Mullins pursed his lips and then did some clicking on his keyboard. ‘I’ve got the entire budget here.’
‘And the dates Daniels was working?’
Mullins kept clicking his mouse then finally shook his head. ‘I know the dates for the entire filming schedule because it’s in the budget. Just not artist by artist, but we filmed over six weeks: start date September twentieth, through to the beginning of November. We were LA based, so I don’t have the location lists.’
He turned, frowning from his computer screen. ‘He’s not suing me, is he?’
‘No. Could he have been in LA for that entire period of time?’
‘Yes, yes, I think so. I’ll get the cast and crew list up for you.’
They waited, as he fumbled around. He did a print-off sheet, which he glanced at. ‘Alan Daniels stayed at the Chateau Marmont, just off Sunset; I can’t give you the list, as it has private home addresses, etc’
Langton stood. ‘Thank you; appreciate your time.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘I’m sorry, but we are just making enquiries.’