‘Yes?’
He seemed in great spirits, flourishing a list in his hand.
‘Daniels exchanges his cars like most people change underwear.’
He listed the number of vehicles Daniels had owned. As his wealth increased, he went from one expensive car to another, often changing them within a few months of each other. But the car they were most interested in was a convertible pale blue Mercedes 280SL, circa 1971, the car Daniels still owned up until the time of Melissa’s murder. The reason they had slipped up was that Daniels used a company name so it had not been listed under personal ownership.
The news spread like a bushfire and Anna was roundly congratulated. Then came the bad news: there was no record of the Mercedes being sold or under new ownership. Daniels would have to come in again for questioning.
‘We’ve still got insufficient evidence to arrest him,’ Langton told Anna. ‘We must do this all by the book. It’ll be irregular to go and pick him up at his flat, just in case we’ve got something that incriminates him. We could be accused of failing to give him his rights. We bring him in and caution him, but make it clear he’s not being charged with anything and that he has the right to be legally represented. That means another session with Radcliff at his side.’
He gestured for her to come closer, then said quietly, ‘When he comes in, I don’t want you around.’ Then he turned his head to bellow, ‘Lewis! Let’s get him in!’
Contrary to expectations, Daniels agreed to come to the station straight away. Nor did he insist Radcliff be present.
In fact, their suspect did not appear to be fazed at all. He was even more charming than the time before and seemed to be making an effort to be as helpful as possible. He sat quietly in the interview room with Langton and Lewis while he was read his rights. Then he brought out a small pocket book. He explained that he did buy and sell his cars in quite rapid succession, for, although he had a resident’s parking bay, if he went away filming he did not like to leave the cars unattended for lengthy periods. He had been enquiring about renting a garage space in the area for some time, but had not been lucky so far. They were asking astronomical rents.
Langton then asked about the Mercedes-Benz. Daniels smiled, relaxedly. The Mercedes was one of his favourites, he said, but even in the Queen’s Gate area a soft-top car was too attractive to thieves.
‘The roof was constantly being slashed. It seems any yob passing with a knife’
‘You sold it?’ Langton asked, incredulously.
‘Worse. I was going to. I had already stopped the insurance. Then I had a prang in it, and so that was that.’
‘You sold it?’ Langton repeated.
‘Well, you could call it that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It went to the crusher. It would have cost a fortune to repair and it had rust, as well. So I paid for it to be destroyed.’
Langton felt the ground moving beneath his feet. Every time they took a step forwards, back they went. He took down the name of the crushing yard and released Daniels. With an equally despondent Lewis, Langton stared from the window, watching Daniels being led out via the rear entrance towards his chauffeur-driven black Mercedes.
Anna was glad she had not had to face him. The breaker’s yard was contacted and they confirmed over the phone that Alan Daniels’s Mercedes had been crushed into a two-foot square box.
The date was the day after Melissa Stephens was murdered.
Jet lag kicked in for Anna around four o’clock in the afternoon. As for the rest of them, from everyone being so ‘up’, they had all come crashing down.
Until Barolli pointed out that if Alan Daniels had taken the car to be crushed, it meant that he had lied about not being in London.
When Anna went to see Langton to ask if she could go home, he sighed: ‘Yeah. Why not? Fuck all is happening here.’
She rubbed her forehead, which was throbbing. ‘But, surely the fact he owned the same type of car Melissa was seen getting in, means’
‘It means nothing,’ he interrupted. ‘Not without proof it was his car, proof he was driving it and proof that whoever killed her was the driver. It is all circumstantial. It would never even get to trial. If it did and he walked, it would be over. We’d never be able to get him back. That’s the bloody law.’
‘Is the profiler coming tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, he’s coming.’
‘See you tomorrow, then.’
‘Yeah, tomorrow and tomorrow.’
Once she was home, Anna took a couple of aspirin. She felt really awful. Perhaps if they had good news, she would have felt better. All she wanted was to go to bed and sleep it off. She checked her answerphone, remembering to press ‘replay’ for any calls that had come in when she was away. When the electronic voice informed her that the last caller had withheld their number, she deleted everything.
She went back to the kitchen and picked up a pair of rubber gloves. She took the photo frame from her bedroom and, turning it over, eased back the small clips. She had decided to take the photograph out of the frame, then wrap the materials in a plastic bag for the lab, taking care not to touch the silver surrounds. She carefully placed the glass and frame in the bag and put it in her briefcase.
This particular photograph had been on her mother’s bedside table for years, making it the first thing she saw in the morning and the last thing at night. Curious, Anna drew closer: stuck between the photograph and the backing was an envelope. She got into bed before opening it.
She recognized her father’s handwriting. On the front of the envelope he had written ‘To My Beloved’. Inside, there was a single sheet of writing in his neat and closely written hand.
Bella mia,
I cannot make what happened into something as simple as a bad dream. If I could, I would. I know how it affects you and rules the way you are. I love you with an unconditional love that accepts whatever you can give me. But I am nevertheless concerned. By allowing your fears to rule your existence, you are making the animal a constant presence. To walk outside the fear will make you stronger. I beg you to let me help you. Bella, you are too perfect, too beautiful to make this home a prison, albeit one filled with your sweetness and your darling soul.
I love you. Papa.
Papa was the name Anna’s mother always used for her husband. Anna reread the letter, confused. It seemed like a letter of encouragement to a victim, but she had no idea about what it referred to. There was no date. She folded it and slipped it beneath her pillow, but she kept on seeing the neat, slanted handwriting and the word ‘animal’. She tossed and turned, wondering if something terrible had happened to her mother.
The phone rang. It took Anna a few moments to sit up in the dark and find it.
‘Anna,’ the soft voice breathed.
‘Yes.’ This time she knew exactly who it was.
‘Welcome back.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you have a good trip to Manchester?’ he asked.
‘Yes, yes I did.’
‘But you didn’t go to Manchester, did you?’
She felt her body tense.
‘I called the station. I was told you were in the States.’
‘Yes, yes I was. It was very unexpected.’
‘Did you have a nice time?’