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Authors: Lynda La Plante
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and a minuscule section of the back bumper. See it?’
Lewis had to rewind the tape twice before it was clear to them what he was pointing at on the edge of frame: there was a fraction of the side of a car and a small section of the vehicle’s bumper.
‘It could be the same car that was on the inside of the Range Rover; either that, or he’s driving down Old Compton Street from Tottenham Court Road and parking up on the corner. We’ll get that section blown up and see if we can tell the make of the car, but I think it could be a Mercedes, an old one, maybe thirty years old.’
The video ended and Lewis rewound the tape.
Viewing the video had left the team with a strange, almost surreal feeling. Melissa had come to life in front of them and yet they seemed as far away as ever from trapping her killer. Langton closed his office door with unusual quietness. Everyone went to work on their various assignments.
Anna studied the file of the fifth victim. Beryl Villiers was thirty-four. Younger and fitter, she had put up more resistance than the others. Nevertheless, both her eyes were blackened and swollen and her nose had been broken; two front teeth had been knocked out and were found near the body.
She, too, was a known prostitute and had a history of addiction, but her autopsy showed no signs of her still using, nor any alcohol. Her home address was in Bradford. When all else had failed to produce anything, Beryl had finally been identified by the number on her breast implants. Once she was identified, the police leading her enquiry had questioned all the working girls around King’s Cross station. None could recall who Beryl had picked up earlier that night, after a couple of punters she’d taken to the old station arches. She was last seen patrolling her beat, around ten fifteen, but no one could recall seeing her after that. Four weeks after she disappeared, in March 1999, Beryl’s body was found on Wimbledon Common.
Beryl was younger than the previous victims. She had no children. She was a ‘weekender’, travelling from Bradford every Friday night and returning home on the following Monday. She originally hailed from Leicester, where they located her mother; she seemed more distraught to learn her daughter was a prostitute than to learn that she was dead.
Anna made copious notes and returned to the filing cabinet for the last case history.
‘What are you doing?’ Moira asked.
In reality she was making herself busy. ‘Just familiarizing myself with the case files,’ she said.
‘You’re Jack Travis’s daughter, aren’t you?’
Anna’s eyes lit up. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Everybody knew Jack. He was something else. I was sorry he died.’
‘It was cancer.’
‘Yes, I know. We sent flowers. How’s your mother handling it?’ Moira asked.
‘She died two years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. She was very beautiful. I remember meeting her once. None of us could believe that old codger had kept her secret for so long.’
‘He worshipped her.’ Anna smiled.
‘We all pretty much worshipped your dad. If he’d been handling this case, he’d have got a result by now. I think Langton’s out of his depth. And I tell you something: that girl had to have a handbag. Why aren’t we concentrating on that?’
Anna felt an urge to defend Langton. ‘We are, though.’
‘Bloody haphazard way of going about it. And that reconstruction? They didn’t have her with a handbag in the video. They’re bloody amateurs. Why didn’t they ask her mother if one of Melissa’s handbags was missing from home?’
‘Have we checked Melissa’s flat?’ Anna asked.
‘Of course we have. She had a wardrobe full of handbags.’ Moira stared at the photographs on the wall. ‘Better life than any of these poor bitches. Seeing them up there, it’s as if their eyes follow you around, like wounded dogs. All got the same expression, haven’t they?’
‘Have you noticed how many come from up north?’
Moira
Lewis had to rewind the tape twice before it was clear to them what he was pointing at on the edge of frame: there was a fraction of the side of a car and a small section of the vehicle’s bumper.
‘It could be the same car that was on the inside of the Range Rover; either that, or he’s driving down Old Compton Street from Tottenham Court Road and parking up on the corner. We’ll get that section blown up and see if we can tell the make of the car, but I think it could be a Mercedes, an old one, maybe thirty years old.’
The video ended and Lewis rewound the tape.
Viewing the video had left the team with a strange, almost surreal feeling. Melissa had come to life in front of them and yet they seemed as far away as ever from trapping her killer. Langton closed his office door with unusual quietness. Everyone went to work on their various assignments.
Anna studied the file of the fifth victim. Beryl Villiers was thirty-four. Younger and fitter, she had put up more resistance than the others. Nevertheless, both her eyes were blackened and swollen and her nose had been broken; two front teeth had been knocked out and were found near the body.
She, too, was a known prostitute and had a history of addiction, but her autopsy showed no signs of her still using, nor any alcohol. Her home address was in Bradford. When all else had failed to produce anything, Beryl had finally been identified by the number on her breast implants. Once she was identified, the police leading her enquiry had questioned all the working girls around King’s Cross station. None could recall who Beryl had picked up earlier that night, after a couple of punters she’d taken to the old station arches. She was last seen patrolling her beat, around ten fifteen, but no one could recall seeing her after that. Four weeks after she disappeared, in March 1999, Beryl’s body was found on Wimbledon Common.
Beryl was younger than the previous victims. She had no children. She was a ‘weekender’, travelling from Bradford every Friday night and returning home on the following Monday. She originally hailed from Leicester, where they located her mother; she seemed more distraught to learn her daughter was a prostitute than to learn that she was dead.
Anna made copious notes and returned to the filing cabinet for the last case history.
‘What are you doing?’ Moira asked.
In reality she was making herself busy. ‘Just familiarizing myself with the case files,’ she said.
‘You’re Jack Travis’s daughter, aren’t you?’
Anna’s eyes lit up. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Everybody knew Jack. He was something else. I was sorry he died.’
‘It was cancer.’
‘Yes, I know. We sent flowers. How’s your mother handling it?’ Moira asked.
‘She died two years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. She was very beautiful. I remember meeting her once. None of us could believe that old codger had kept her secret for so long.’
‘He worshipped her.’ Anna smiled.
‘We all pretty much worshipped your dad. If he’d been handling this case, he’d have got a result by now. I think Langton’s out of his depth. And I tell you something: that girl had to have a handbag. Why aren’t we concentrating on that?’
Anna felt an urge to defend Langton. ‘We are, though.’
‘Bloody haphazard way of going about it. And that reconstruction? They didn’t have her with a handbag in the video. They’re bloody amateurs. Why didn’t they ask her mother if one of Melissa’s handbags was missing from home?’
‘Have we checked Melissa’s flat?’ Anna asked.
‘Of course we have. She had a wardrobe full of handbags.’ Moira stared at the photographs on the wall. ‘Better life than any of these poor bitches. Seeing them up there, it’s as if their eyes follow you around, like wounded dogs. All got the same expression, haven’t they?’
‘Have you noticed how many come from up north?’
Moira
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