Anna collected her briefcase and wordlessly left the station. She was driven in a patrol car by a large, over-talkative officer. He started with his hobby, which was buying car wrecks and doing them up to sell. He described how he checked out the salvage companies which often took spare parts from cars before they were crushed. He listed different prices he had paid to them, compared to buying the same thing from a main dealer.
At last, they arrived at the Brighton mortuary. Anna was glad to escape the car.
The Sussex Police had made enquiries but come up empty-handed. Their best guess as to time of death was a couple of weeks ago. She had been in the water for that length of time and she had a very high alcohol level: five times the legal limit. Though her body was in horrific shape and her face was bloated, Anna recognized her as Red Leather.
No one had reported her missing and they had no idea where she had been staying. They found no ID and lacked any knowledge of where she had been on the night of her death. Anna gave what details she could and the address in Leeds for them to contact the girl she lived with in order to find any relatives. They said they would put an appeal for information in the local press and get in touch as soon as they had any news.
Death was due to strangulation, but the MO was not the same as their victims’; her hands were not tied, nor was her underwear used to strangle or tie her. The belt was of a very cheap variety and a woman’s not a man’s; it could possibly have come from a raincoat.
When Anna returned to her garrulous driver, she sat in the back, explaining that she’d had a late night and planned to catch up on her beauty sleep. She phoned Barolli on the mobile to confirm that the corpse was indeed that of their second witness, then she stretched out. It was almost four o’clock. As Anna was falling asleep, she was vaguely aware of her driver talking about spraying cars: how much paint sprays cost; how some of the expensive models needed at least four coats; how he layered on the paint, then carefully rubbed it down until he got the right texture and finishing gloss. His biggest profits were always on the vintage cars, he mumbled, but it was hard to find parts, especially for the older Mercedes. But the dealers he knew kept parts for him, headlights, bumpers, even seats.
Around the same time, Langton and Mike Lewis were getting out of a taxi at the Manchester police station. Before interviewing McDowell, who was being held in the cells, the duty sergeant and the arresting officer took them into a small office, where they heard about his arrest the night before. McDowell worked for an Irish pub as a bouncer; he was doing it for the booze and a few quid at the end of the week. It was late, almost half past eleven, when the police were called. A prostitute had been sounding off in the bar. He was trying to evict her, but she and her pimp started punching McDowell. When the police arrived, the fight became a brawl. McDowell, who had been drinking heavily, charged at the police like a mad bull. It took three policemen to restrain him. He had passed out in the cells.
‘How old is he?’ Langton frowned, checking McDowell’s records.
‘Fifty-two.’
McDowell’s list of crimes was part petty, but his association with prostitution was what interested Langton. He had a string of girls working for him at the club and a lot of them were on the game. He had been charged with living off immoral earnings.
‘Did you ever have an address for him? Shallcotte Street?’
They had so many addresses it was like an A to Z of Manchester, but there was no record of him living in the same house as Anthony Duffy or his prostitute mother. McDowell had moved constantly from one place to another.
‘He’s now in the basement of an old house that’s been earmarked for demolition, not far from the Granada TV studios.’ The sergeant shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s a real stinkhole of a place. I’d say he just dosses down there, or passes out. The guy has a massive drink problem. The nightclub was a big success for a while; all the stars used to hang out there. Unfortunately the profits he didn’t drink away, he put up his nose. He fancied himself as a ladies’ man.’
‘What about his Mercedes?’
‘It’s been in the pound for a week. He had fifty outstanding parking fines.’
Langton nodded. ‘Right. Let’s talk to him, then.’
They were shown to an interview room and supplied with coffee. It was ten minutes before they heard the thump of footsteps and a loud voice shouting: ‘What was I supposed to fucking do? You got that bitch in the cells? I bet my bollocks you’ve fucking let her go, but I’ve been here all fucking day. I want to see my solicitor, because this isn’t fucking right!’
When the door opened, there were two uniformed officers on either side of McDowell. Even after all they had heard about him he still took Langton and Lewis by surprise. He stood glowering before them: six foot three inches tall; bedraggled shoulder-length blond hair; a receding hairline. His tie and shoelaces had been removed, so his feet slopped out of his shoes as he walked in. His blue suit had a strange fifties look, with its draped jacket and baggy trousers. His dirty, stained shirt was open at the neck. He had enormous sloping shoulders, like Robert Mitchum.
When he saw Langton and Lewis, sitting on the opposite side of the bare table, McDowell looked confused.
‘What’s this about?’
Langton stood up. ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector James Langton from the Metropolitan Police and this is Detective Sergeant Lewis.’ When Langton shook his hand, the returning squeeze felt like iron, a big shovel. He looked down at a gnarled hand with knuckles that stood out, red-raw and callused.
‘We’d like to talk to you.’
McDowell closed his eyes. ‘Oh shit, I didn’t fucking kill him, did I?’
‘Who?’
‘The cop I knocked out.’
‘I’m here on a different enquiry. Please, sit down.’
‘Not until I know what this is about.’ McDowell stood, legs apart.
‘I am leading a murder enquiry, Mr McDowell. I would like to ask you some questions.’
‘No fucking way. I want a solicitor.’
Langton sighed. ‘Very well, that can be arranged.’
McDowell sat down. He asked for a smoke; Langton passed over his packet and then lit McDowell’s cigarette. The duty sergeant went off to find a solicitor from their lists and, until he returned, they had no option but to sit and wait. McDowell dragged on his cigarette.
‘You’re not charging me with anything, are you?’ ‘We need to ask you some questions if we’re to eliminate you from our enquiry.’ ‘What time is it?’
Lewis looked at his watch. ‘It’s half past five.’ ‘I’m going to lose my fucking job over this.’ McDowell shook his head. ‘They’ve had me here for over sixteen hours. I know my rights!’ He inhaled; the smoke drifted from his nose as his watery eyes looked from Langton to Lewis.
‘Shit, this is serious, isn’t it?’
Back at the station, Anna had typed up her Brighton report and handed it to Barolli. She glanced at him. ‘At the time of the murder, was Daniels under surveillance?’
‘No, that started later.’
‘So, it’s possible Daniels could have driven to Brighton.’
‘But how would he know she was there?’
Anna shrugged. ‘Maybe he asked your Cuban friend, back on Old Compton Street. Or perhaps when she was questioned, she found out who he was and contacted him. It could have been that way round.’
‘I’ll check it out,’ he yawned and rubbed his eyes.
Anna returned to her desk and looked over the memos that had collected while she was away. She asked Jean: ‘Am I on lates tonight?’
‘Yes, with the gov and Lewis out.’
‘Right.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better get a bite to eat in the canteen.’
‘Be a love and file this for me, on the way.’
Anna collected the file Jean held up, but before filing it away she skimmed the report which detailed the information so far received on McDowell. As she stood by the cabinet, her reading started to slow down. She had reached the description of McDowell’s car: a cream Mercedes-Benz. She hesitated and then placed the file in order. Now she opened another drawer and flipped through the files until she found one detailing the vehicle history for Alan Daniels. Then she found what she was looking for. The place Alan Daniels had sent his Mercedes to be crushed was called Wreckers Limited.
‘I thought you were getting something to eat?’
Anna returned to her desk and picked up her notebook. ‘Jean, the driver I had this afternoon, is he from downstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was his name?’