Blind Fury

Chapter Three

Anna was writing up her report on the incident board and couldn’t help overhearing Barolli chatting with Mike Lewis.

“Bloody drove all the way to Leeds to sit and listen to this egotistical bastard telling us that he could help crack our case. He only wanted all the forensic and postmortem reports and the photographs... sick fucker.”

“If we want an insight, we could always bring on board a profiler,” Mike said.

Anna joined them. “But not one of them is a killer,” she pointed out.

Barolli was surprised, asking if she was having second thoughts.

“No. I think he just wanted us — or me — there for his own kudos in the prison system. He will brag how he was able to get Met officers to come to him.”

“You should have seen his cell,” Barolli fulminated, “lined with hardback books like a library; he even offered Anna still or sparkling water! I dunno about it being a prison within a prison. It’s more like a ruddy holiday camp, and he was as tanned as if he’d been to the South of France.”

Mike looked at Anna and grinned. “Must be out of a bottle, as it’s not exactly sunbathing weather. So, wasted journey?”

She was about to agree when Detective Chief Superintendent James Langton walked in. They all turned, and he gave them a brief nod of acknowledgment, then came over to survey the incident board. He read Anna’s note about the prison visit and indicated for her to join him, tapping the mug shot of Cameron Welsh.

“How did you find him?”

“As arrogant as ever. In fact, he looked even younger than his mug shot.”

“Shows what three meals a day and no stress can do. You want to take me through the meeting?”

“It’s all there. He didn’t have anything, and we think it was a ploy to entertain himself.”

“So he wrote to you.”

“Yes. That’s a copy of the letter he wrote — you’ve already seen it.” Anna pointed to the board.

“Taken a fancy to you, has he?”

“I would say he’s too in love with himself to fancy anyone else. He makes my skin crawl.”

Langton looked at her and smiled. “What if he could get inside our killer’s head?” he said.

“I truthfully think his own head is stuck so far up his arse that he’d be incapable. He just wants to pull our strings. All this is a sick game, and I don’t want to see him again.”

“Got under your skin, did he?”

“Yes — and Barolli’s. Ask him what he was like.”

“I will. Okay, thanks.”

Anna returned to her desk as Langton went into Mike’s office. They were there for quite a while. Meanwhile, the incident room was quiet, as the officers had no new evidence and still no identification on their victim. Both Jean and Barbara had been working through all the Mispers on file but had no result.

Emerald Turk’s address had been searched while Anna was at Barfield, but no suitcase had been found. Barolli had also started looking for any ex — police officers who might have known Margaret Potts, but his inquiries fell on stony ground. It was depressing; the case was grinding to a halt.

Barolli came up to Anna’s desk and pulled at his tie. “I’ve been on to bailiff companies, but so far I’ve had no luck in tracing anyone who knew Potts or anyone who was an ex-copper. I dunno how far back I need to go in checking out retired Flying Squad guys, because they’re usually the ones that take up security or bailiff work. Maybe we need to talk to Emerald Turk again.”

Anna shrugged. They were grasping at straws, but to date, Emerald had been the most informative person with regard to the first victim.

“I don’t know if she can be any more help, but I don’t mind doing it,” Anna said. She wished they at least had the victim’s suitcase, and even better, her notebook with the license numbers.

Barolli ran a hand through his hair. It was hard to believe that they had no ID on two young beautiful girls and were still concentrating on Margaret Potts because they had little else to go on. Joan had been working on the possibility that they could identify their girl from dental records, but even though they were able to show on Crimewatch the two unusual front-teeth implants, they had not received a single call.

Mike came out of his office and signaled to Anna for her to join him and Langton.

Langton was sitting behind Mike’s desk, flicking through reports. He looked up and smiled at Anna as she came in. She was slightly thrown, although he had promised that their relationship would be more relaxed. She sat down and waited for him to finish glancing through the reports. Eventually, he let out a long sigh. “Not good, is it?” he said.

She knew he was referring to their inquiry, and she nodded.

“We have nothing, which is worrying,” he went on. “Pity the team didn’t get Potts’s suitcase — even better, the bloody notebook with the license-plate numbers. That’d have been really helpful.” He smiled at her again, and she started to find it unnerving. “Shame you didn’t question Emerald Turk first time round and not that impatient bugger Barolli. Knowing you, I doubt you’d have let it slip past you.”

She was even more puzzled and glanced at Mike Lewis, who was leaning against the wall, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Maybe not,” she said.

Langton stretched back in his chair and puffed out his breath. “I’ve got a lot of cases I’m overseeing, but this one causes me the most concern. Three dead women estimated to have all been killed by the same perpetrator — and from the MOs, it’s maybe more than estimated — but nevertheless, we have no leads connecting each victim. Hard to, when two remain unidentified. All we know for sure is that Potts was earning her keep shagging punters from the service stations, but whether or not the other two girls were also on the game...” He shrugged. “Then we have this creep Cameron Welsh. Now, if he is tugging our strings out of a misguided ego trip and he just wants to prove something to himself, do we dismiss him out of hand? What if he does have information? What if he could, as he said, get into the mind of our killer?”

“I very much doubt that,” Anna said, but she sensed what was coming and wouldn’t look at Langton.

“We have to go back,” Langton said, “and this time I will allow him to look at the postmortem report and—”

“You may be right, but I hope you don’t want me to go and see him again.”

“Sorry, but I do. He wants to interact with you. In Barolli’s report, he said Cameron turned his chair away from him so he wouldn’t have to look at him, and directed his entire conversation to you.”

“Well, yes, he did, but I’m female, and I think he just wants to get his rocks off having me there.”

“Fancies you, does he?”

She was getting angry. “I wouldn’t know what that sick twisted creep felt about me, but I would prefer it if someone else went to talk to him.”

Langton stood up. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do: you go and visit him again and see what he comes up with. If you are unable to deal with it, then we’ll arrange for one of the others to be with him.”

“It’s not a question of me being unable to deal with it. I just feel uncomfortable and would prefer not to be the one to interview him again.”

“You won’t be alone; Barolli will accompany you. I’ve already arranged it with the governor.”

Anna stood up. “So I don’t have an option?”

“Afraid not. Drive up there first thing in the morning. That’s all. Thank you.”

Anna wanted to slam the door of the office, but instead, she walked out with her hands clenched, trying to control her temper. In the incident room, she told Barolli they were on another scheduled visit to Cameron Welsh, and he swore.

“It’s a bloody waste of time, didn’t you tell Langton that?”

“Why don’t you tell him?” Anna snapped, then added that perhaps he shouldn’t, as Langton didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t found the suitcase belonging to Margaret Potts.

Barolli was still bad-tempered when Anna collected him the following morning. He remained silent for a long time, obviously furious at having to take the long journey again and the fact that he had let himself and the team down by not interviewing Emerald Turk well enough. The team still had no result in tracing the ex — police officers who were used by Margaret Potts to get back at the men who had beaten her up. The consensus was that even if they did trace them, they doubted it would progress their case. Langton, however, had insisted they continue in case one of the men picked up by Potts was their killer.

Anna and Barolli arrived at the prison and went through the same lengthy procedure. This time they did not meet with the governor, as he was unavailable. There were four different officers working inside the secure unit, and they were concerned that the three other men held there didn’t like being locked up in their cells to allow Cameron to speak to his visitors.

Welsh was sitting in the same position behind the bars in his cell, with his hair tied back in a ponytail. He was as immaculate as ever and again offered them still or sparkling water. Both refused, keen to get on with it and to leave as soon as possible. Welsh seemed to detect that Anna did not wish to speak to him. She sat, lips pursed, as Barolli passed through the bars a copy of the first file from the pathologist. This contained on-site photographs of the victims and detailed reports from the postmortems.

This time Welsh acknowledged Barolli, smiling and thanking him for the file. He edged his chair around to his desk and sat looking intently at each photograph. He made copious notes, and Anna became impatient, glancing at Barolli, who lifted his eyes to the ceiling. On this occasion, they heard the odd catcall from the other inmates, jeering and shouting abusive remarks about Welsh being a squeeler, but Welsh ignored them, as did Anna and Barolli.

Barolli glanced at his watch. Without looking up, Welsh said quietly that he was sorry for keeping them waiting, but he wished to make a thorough investigation if he was to assist them. He placed to one side the first file and requested the forensic reports. Yet again he spent ages on every page and made many notes. Anna forced herself to calm down and use the time to observe Cameron from her position outside his cell.

First she looked over the hundreds of books, noting that they were all in alphabetical order as well as arranged by size. There were many psychology, forensic, and medical manuals, and numerous volumes of true-life crime, legal textbooks, and court trials. She could see no modern novels, but two shelves contained classics, and these were alongside well-known playwrights — Ibsen, Chekhov, Shakespeare — and some of the book covers appeared to be old, perhaps secondhand, bought online or possibly from specialist journals. She paid attention to the shampoos and lotions, expensive ones, the conditioners and facial creams and suncreams and fake tanning lotions. His toothpaste was a whitener with bleach, and he had an old-fashioned boracic-powder tin. His battery toothbrushes were lined up like soldiers, as were his battery shavers and various aftershave lotions.

Barolli yawned loudly, and Welsh looked up, then returned to his notebook. He picked up a battery sharpener and started sharpening his pencils.

“Your killer is obviously working on long-haul drives for some kind of trucking company. The times of the murders are important. He is a night driver, as it is unlikely that any victim was killed in daylight.”

“We are already covering that line of inquiry,” Anna said sharply.

“Good. I thought you would be. Are you focusing on the tarts who hang out at the motorway service stations?”

“Of course.”

“I hope you’ve put up warning notices. These girls are like wasps — swat them away, but back they come, and I think...” He tapped his whitened teeth with the eraser on the end of his pencil. “I think he’s killed more than these three girls. Oh yes. This man has been busy for a long time.”

“Please pass the files back,” Barolli said.

Cameron reluctantly collected up all the papers and photographs. “I’d like to keep them,” he said.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Anna told him.

“Pity. I need more time with them.” Welsh handed the files to Barolli, ignoring Anna. “Can’t you get permission from DCS Langton?”

“No.”

“You can go, then. What I will begin working on until your next visit is the routes, and I will have more details for you after that.”

Anna had her hand resting on the bars, waiting as Barolli replaced the files in his briefcase. It was only a fleeting touch as Cameron trailed his fingers across hers, but it sent shock waves through her.

“Sorry,” he said, smiling.

Anna wanted to tell him in no uncertain terms that no way would she be returning to see him! She was even more sure it was a waste of time, since he had told them nothing new or added anything of any value to their case. All it had done was give him the sick pleasure of gloating over the pictures of the victims.

Driving back, Anna and Barolli got into a heated argument, as he felt they had gained useful information.

“Like what?” Anna demanded.

“For one, that there could be other victims, so we check back into cold cases; and second, he was right on the button for checking out long-distance lorry drivers; and third, that they would be working nights.”

Anna angrily retorted that they were, in case he hadn’t noticed, already doing exactly that, and Welsh had given them nothing new whatsoever.

“Okay, but you tell me how he knitted it all together — from what? Newspaper coverage? He may have even watched Crimewatch, but he was, to my mind, quite informative.”

Anna decided not to get into any further arguments with Barolli, who had started to annoy her. She was glad that he slept for the rest of the return journey.

Anna had just finished writing up the report of the meeting when Barbara tapped her on the shoulder to say there was a call for her from Cameron Welsh.

“Let Barolli take it — say I am not available,” she said crossly, but Barbara explained that Cameron had insisted he speak to her directly.

“Tough. Just who does he think he is? Please, Barbara, tell him I am not available, and if he has anything to say, let him talk to Barolli. I refuse to speak to him.”

Anna waited, watching as Barolli took the call. He said little, making notes and recording their conversation. When he replaced the phone, he turned to Anna. “Listen to this.”

“I’m all ears,” she said tetchily.

Cameron Welsh didn’t like the fact that Anna had not taken his call, since, as he had said to Barolli, he was attempting to fast-track her career. Barolli had laughed and joked that perhaps Cameron could fast-track his, and it appeared to amuse the man, because he went on to discuss his theories at length. He suggested that the murder team should focus their inquiries on companies that delivered into, not out of, London. This was due to the fact that the victims were discovered near motorway service stations that had a drive-over or bridge from one side of the M1 to the other. So their killer, he estimated, would pick up his target from the services before the one nearest to where the victim was discovered, not the one closest, which he believed the police were currently focusing on.

Anna was tapping her foot with impatience.

“He said he’d have more details when he’d finished working on his profile of the killer,” Barolli went on, “and would require us to visit again.”

“This is preposterous! As if we haven’t considered that possibility, even more so as we know that Margaret Potts picked up her clients and then returned via—”

Barolli interrupted her. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but we’ve not considered that he picked them up on his way into London.”

“Because we’ve concentrated on where the bodies were found, not on the other side of the motorway heading into London.”

“But what if he was delivering into London and picked up the girls then? He could hold them in his vehicle, then dump them when he was leaving. Bodies could have been held by him for days.”

Anna sighed, still not in any way impressed. “Fine, go along with it, and rope in more officers to make further inquiries, but I sincerely believe he is bullshitting us.”

Barolli didn’t, and he went in to talk to Mike Lewis about the phone call. Mike listened and was almost as doubtful as Anna, but Barolli was insistent that, given time, Welsh could bring them something. He informed Lewis that Welsh had requested another opportunity to look over their files.

“Tell you what, Paul, bring up the old files on Cameron Welsh and look at Travis’s connection to him, and then we’ll talk to Langton and see what he thinks we should do.”

Mike Lewis and Barolli went over the arrest and interrogation of Cameron Welsh.

“Jesus, he was a sadistic bastard. No wonder Travis doesn’t like having to confront him. Maybe she’s right. This could all be a ploy done to give him some perverse satisfaction.” Mike sighed.

“I don’t agree. I think he has given us some informative material, and you have to understand that he’s not kept the files — so what if he does know a lot more and is stringing us along?”

Mike was still uncertain but eventually agreed to instigate further inquiries focusing on trucking companies delivering into London on a regular basis.

Due to the massive stack of information that resulted, the team was inundated. Mike had a meeting with Langton, who was as dismissive of Cameron’s input as Anna, until the thought occurred to him that Cameron’s psychobabble about getting into the mind of the killer might also be a cover-up.

“Could Welsh have had an interaction with another prisoner, one who was released and fitted the time frame?” Langton wondered.

“Well, we got a list of prisoners, but according to the governor, Welsh is a real loner and never shared his cell,” Mike pointed out.

“Maybe, but what about when he was held before his trial? It would mean a lot of digging back, but as we’ve still got no identification on two victims, we’re gonna have to get out the spades.”

Anna had not spoken to Langton, but she knew he had been discussing the latest visit to Barfield with Mike Lewis, and when they had the next briefing, she was certain he was going along with the idea that Welsh had information. She sat at her desk listening as Mike told them he wanted a check on all the inmates and prisoners held with Welsh before his trial who could possibly have had a conversation with him.

“We’re grasping at straws here, but we have to look at the possibility that someone may have admitted to Welsh that he was the killer and that he got away with it. This prisoner would have had to be released for the time frame of the murders, so it does at least cut down a lengthy elimination process.”

With the paperwork piling up from the new lines of inquiry, the team was kept busy, and they had yet to identify the two victims. Knowing that Anna was not happy about the focus on Cameron Welsh, Mike asked her to come into his office.

“Listen, I know how you feel about this, Anna, but stay with it. We have to work together.”

“Fine, but do you mind if I focus on Margaret Potts?” Anna didn’t want to be uncooperative, but she could barely contain her exasperation. “I don’t think we have covered the only identified victim’s background. I want to go back to Emerald Turk, and I still think we should continue trying to trace the guys she used to help her out when she was knocked around.”

“Okay by me, and we’ll keep our heads down trying to come up with a possible connection from inside the prison,” said Mike, knowing that he had to keep working on all the possibilities.

Anna sifted through the previous records of Margaret Potts. On file they had three arrests for prostitution, and backtracking through the court appearances, Anna saw that one of the fines had been paid by a Stanley Potts. They knew she had been married, and that she had two children taken into foster care, but they had never interviewed anyone save Emerald Turk. Anna went over the list of prostitutes who had been arrested alongside Potts and could know more about her, and she checked to see if any of them had ever worked service stations. It was painstaking work, and she knew it could well prove to be not worth the effort.

To track down Stanley Potts took almost the entire afternoon. He had been in Parkhurst Prison when Margaret’s body was discovered and had refused to be interviewed. He had subsequently stayed in numerous hostels and halfway houses, moving around almost as much as Emerald Turk. But at last Anna got a recent address from a probation officer who, although no longer in contact with Stanley, recalled him moving into shared accommodation with two other ex-prisoners.

It was late in the afternoon by the time Anna left the station.

The shared accommodation was a run-down semi-detached in Camden Town. The three-story house had been divided into four flats, and Stanley Potts was listed on the bell at the front door in flat 2. There were other names scribbled beneath his, and it looked as if numerous people had lived or were living in flat 2. When Anna rang the bell, it took a fair while before she heard footsteps. Finally, the door opened a few inches.

“Good afternoon. I am Detective Travis, and I am looking for a Stanley Potts — I believe he lives here?”

“Yes.”

“Is he here now?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

Anna showed him her ID. “I would really appreciate you talking to me, as I am on the team investigating Margaret Potts’s murder.”

“Can’t help you, love. I was in prison and hadn’t seen her for years before that.”

“Yes, I know. This would be just for me to get an insight into her background. You were married?”

“I just told you, I got nothin’ to say. I’d not set eyes on her for years.”

“Could we just talk? I won’t take up much of your time. It’s just that there are a few things you might be able to help me with,” Anna persisted.

“Like what?”

“Well, her friends...”

“I don’t know any of them.”

“Please, Mr. Potts, could we do this now, because I don’t want to have to ask you to come into the station.”

The door opened a fraction more, and Anna could get a look at him. The man before her didn’t resemble the mug shot from the files. He was square-faced and unshaven, with thick, gray-flecked curly hair, and it looked as if he had speckles of paint in it, with even more specks over his dirty shirt.

Stanley was about five-eight, solid with a beer belly, and his trousers were held up by a broad leather belt. He had on old worn carpet slippers with no socks, and there were more signs of paint splashes on his dirty trousers.

Anna followed Stanley down a dimly lit hall with bicycles chained up along the wall, alongside an old-fashioned Hoover.

“In ’ere,” he said as he reached a door.

The room was dark, with an old horsehair sofa and chair and a threadbare carpet. On a coffee table were the racing papers, cans of beer, and overflowing ashtrays; stacks of newspapers lay on every available surface. The room smelled of beer, stale tobacco, and curry.

“You want to sit down?” He gestured to the armchair and sat in the center of the sofa. “Not found who done it, then?” he added.

“Sadly, no, we haven’t.”

He lit a cigarette, his fat fingers nicotine-stained and with black nails.

“You were married to Margaret?”

He nodded.

“Can you recall anyone who might be able to help me get to know her?”

“No. The prison governor told me she’d been bumped off. I read about it in the papers as well.” He didn’t sound particularly sad.

“During your time together, surely you must have met some of her friends, or someone she was close to and would have remained friendly with after you separated?” Anna suggested.

“No. What she did was her own business. She was useless. My kids were always filthy, and she never cooked, gave ’em Kentucky Fried Chicken morning, noon, and night. They was out of control — that’s why I kicked her out, then my kids got taken away. Best thing for ’em, ’cause she was no bloody good with them, and I was workin’, so I never knew they weren’t going to school.”

“Did you know Emerald Turk?”

“No.”

“Anyone you can think of that might be able to help me?”

“Nope.”

“Do you still keep in touch with your children?”

“No.”

“What about men your wife might have known?”

“She knew a lot, but I wouldn’t call ’em friends. She was a tart,” said Stanley matter-of-factly.

“I am especially interested in men she might have used to help her get her own back on a punter who didn’t pay. A couple of times she was beaten up, so she needed some help — you know, to pay them back.”

Stanley shook his head. The ash from his cigarette drooped to over an inch long. “Listen, love, me and Maggie parted ways and not on friendly terms. I was glad to see the back of her.”

“But you had feelings for her once. You paid a fine when she was in court for prostitution.”

He frowned and sucked in a lungful of smoke, then flicked off the ash onto the carpet. “Maybe I did — don’t remember. That’d be some time ago, and it could’ve been me brother. He might have helped her out, but not me.”

“Your brother?” asked Anna with interest.

“Yeah. He used to have a thing with her.”

“Would he have given your name to the court? It was a five-hundred-pound fine.”

“She probably paid him in kind, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you have his address?”

“No. We don’t get on — it’s obvious why. He’s a bastard, and he never helped me out. I’ve not seen him for more than five or six years.”

“What work does he do?”

“Works for a bailiff company, or he did. Like I said, I’ve not seen him. He was shagging her, though, like every man that come into the house.”

“What’s his name?”

“Eric.”

Anna stood up, eager to get away from the cigarette smoke and the stench of the flat. Stanley looked up at her and then jerked a thumb at a sideboard. It was hard to see anything for old newspapers and used food cartons. He shuffled over to it, throwing papers aside, opening drawers.

“Hang on a minute... I was wonderin’, was there anythin’ of value found after she was murdered?”

“Value — like what?”

“She had some nice jewelry. She got me mother’s diamond engagement ring, and by rights I should have it back, unless she sold it. Knowing her, she’d take the pennies off a dead man’s eyes, but it was a nice stone worth a bob or two, and I gave her a gold bracelet that cost me a few quid.”

“There was nothing. She didn’t have her own place when she was killed, but I think she left a suitcase with some contents, so I’ll make inquiries for you.”

Stanley opened a drawer and rooted through it, bringing out a dog-eared brown envelope. “You can have this — I got no use for it. It’s her birth certificate and crap.”

He passed Anna the envelope, but she didn’t open it.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Potts,” she said as sincerely as she could.

In reply, he plonked himself back down on the sofa, not bothering to show her out.

In her car, Anna opened the envelope. There was, as he had said, a tattered birth certificate, along with a few old photographs. Some were stained and creased. There were pictures of Margaret aged about seventeen, others of her holding two small toddlers. There was also a Valentine’s card. Anna was surprised by the scrawled writing and the flowery verse that said how deep their love was. It was signed, Loving you with all my heart, Stan.

Later that evening, Anna sat eating her supper at her kitchen table, looking at the contents of the envelope, the faded photographs especially. Her kitchen was compact, with a small breakfast bar and a more comfortable high stool than the one she had sat on at Emerald’s. She used her microwave oven more than her new gas one, and her fridge was small, fitted with a freezer compartment on the top. She’d made an omelette with salad and had stuck a list of groceries to the fridge door with a magnet. Her fitted cupboards had mostly tins of tomato soup inside. She was out of milk so had her coffee black.

She finished eating and placed her dirty dishes in the sink, washing them up before returning to look over the photographs. It was hard not to feel saddened by the knowledge of what had happened to these people. In one photograph, a young Stanley Potts stood with his hand resting on his wife’s shoulder. Her face had been scribbled over, perhaps by one of her children. Anna replaced everything in the envelope to take into the incident room the following morning. She was eager to get the team tracing Eric Potts; it was too much of a coincidence that he worked for a bailiff company. Perhaps this was the man to whom Margaret had turned when she needed help. He might also have contact with the ex — police officers. It could be the lead they so badly needed, at last.

After taking a shower, she checked her laundry basket, adding to the note on the fridge door that she had to remember to take in her laundry and collect the fresh sheets in the morning.

Anna had not been living in her flat that long, yet long enough to have made some kind of effort to make it less austere, but it never seemed to be a priority. There was the photograph of her beloved father by her bedside, and her dressing table contained a neat row of cosmetics and perfumes, but Anna even put her hairbrushes and combs in a drawer. In some ways the neatness was a comfort; it wasn’t obsessive, because when a case occupied her day and night, the laundry basket overflowed and she did leave clothes on the back of her dressing-table chair and the floor. Her lack of interest in any culinary attempts made her slack on her food shopping. The stations’ canteens were good enough. The one luxury she always made an effort with was pristine laundered cotton sheets and white duvet covers, with a matching white pillow; she also had numerous white cotton nightdresses. She delighted in slipping between the chilled, sweet-smelling sheets, and on this night, having felt she had made some breakthrough in the case, she fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

First thing in the morning, Anna set the wheels in motion at the station to trace Eric Potts, before she headed out to visit Emerald Turk again. It was a gray day; dark clouds were gathering, and heavy rain had been forecast. As she parked a short distance from the high-rise block, she saw Emerald herself carrying two carrier bags filled with groceries, heading straight toward her.

“Morning.”

Emerald stopped and stared at her, then continued walking toward the entrance. Anna followed, making her way up the filthy stairs and along the corridor to Emerald’s front door.

“What you doin’ here?” the woman said aggressively. “Hoping to see you.”

“Well, now you have.” Emerald opened her front door and tried to shut it again at once.

“Please don’t,” Anna said. “I just want to talk to you. I can do it here or down at the station — it’s up to you.”

“What do you want now, for chrissakes! This is fuckin’ harassment.”

“Let me in, please.”

In total contrast to the previous visit, the kitchen was a mess. Dirty crockery was stacked in the sink, and there were numerous empty wine bottles lined up on the floor, with more dirty glasses on the draining board. Emerald took off her raincoat and chucked it aside. Beneath it, she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with flip-flops.

“Have a party last night, did you?” Anna asked.

“What’s it to you? It was me bloke’s birthday, if you must know. And I’ve got a fucking terrible hangover.”

“Do you know Eric Potts?”

“Who?” Emerald massaged her brow.

“Eric Potts. He’s Margaret’s brother-in-law.”

“No. Never heard of him, but if he’s anything like that fat slob of a husband of hers, I wouldn’t go near him with a bargepole.”

“So you knew Stanley?” Anna asked, recognizing the description.

“No, I never knew him, but he used to beat the shit out of Maggie. She told me what he’d done to her for years, and she got the hell out because she reckoned that one day he would kill her. She said he used to take all her money, spend it down the bookies, and she had to hide her handbag, as he’d nick her purse and take every penny so she couldn’t feed her kids.”

“She never mentioned Eric?”

“No.”

“He was a good friend — paid her fine once.”

“Well, maybe that was before I knew her.”

“Did you know her children were taken into care?”

“Yeah, I knew that. She used to cry about them but reckoned that they were better off without bein’ around her husband. When he was drunk, he’d knock them about as well as her.”

Emerald walked out of the kitchen. She snapped that if it wasn’t a problem, she was going to the toilet. Anna cleared a space around the breakfast bar, moving a stack of dirty children’s clothes and dropping them onto the overflowing laundry basket. She waited, heard the toilet flushing, and then Emerald returned.

“This suitcase—” Anna began.

“For chrissakes, your mob came looking for it yesterday! I told you I’ve not got it, is that why you’re back here? Didn’t you believe me? I’ve not got Maggie’s fucking suitcase.”

“Her husband reckons that it might have had some jewelry in it, specifically a diamond ring.”

“There was nuffink in it but shit, I told you. I never found no diamond rings, and if he’s saying they was in the suitcase, he’s a lying bastard. Christ, she didn’t even have a room of her own; she had fuck-all, and if it wasn’t for me, she’d have been sleeping rough on the street.”

“Who else used to put her up besides you?”

“I dunno. She used to just turn up and ask to doss down wiv me. I’ve told you all this, I told you last time you was here.”

“The last time I was here, you brought up the fact that Margaret used to keep a record of the men she’d picked up,” Anna reminded her.

“Yeah, I told you that she’d get the numbers off their vehicles.”

“You said that she had friends, ex-coppers who could trace the addresses of those who ripped her off or hurt her.”

“Yeah, but who they were, I dunno. I got no interest in hirin’ heavies to look after me, ’cause I got a bloke, and I don’t do service stations, all right?”

“You never heard her talk of her brother-in-law, Eric Potts?”

“No, and I never met her prick of a husband, either. All I know is what she told me about him.”

“This notebook — are you sure you didn’t find it?” Anna pressed her.

“Fuck me, I told you I’ve not seen it! For chrissakes, why would I lie about somefink like that? It don’t make sense.”

“You didn’t find any jewelry in Margaret’s suitcase?”

“No, I fucking didn’t!”

Emerald was getting so angry her face was red, and she kept waving her hands around. Anna decided not to push it any further. Emerald hurled items out of the laundry basket until she found the tracksuit jacket, snatching it up and almost shoving it into Anna’s face.

“I got this, this T-shirt I’m wearin’, and some other gear, and that was all. And I don’t like you accusin’ me of lying, so why don’t you get the fuck out of here. Go on — GET OUT!”

Anna apologized as she headed down the hallway. “Thank you for seeing me. I wasn’t implying that you had done anything illegal.”

The front door was slammed after her, and she heard the chain link being put into place.

Alone, Emerald felt as if she was having a panic attack. She couldn’t get her breath. As she went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water, she had to sit on one of her stools to calm down. She was still holding on to the track-suit top and was about to toss it aside when she felt for the book. It had been left inside the pocket since Anna had last been there, and she took it out, swearing to herself. It could have easily dropped to the floor during the interview, but then if it had, she’d have made up some excuse that she hadn’t even known it was there. Yet she did know, and she was scared that she’d lied. But it still didn’t make her want to do the honorable thing. Instead, she threw it into the bin.

“Fucking coppers. Bastards.”

Anna had just reached her car when she got a call from Barbara in the incident room. They had traced an Eric Potts. He worked for a bailiff’s company with offices in Hendon. Whether or not it was Margaret’s brother-in-law, they were unable to confirm, as he was out on a job and wouldn’t be back in the office until lunchtime. Anna had been pondering whether to return to the station but now decided she’d have an early lunch and make her way over to meet with Eric.

Back at the station, the team continued slogging through the list of ex-prisoners, placing to one side possible suspects who might have had information for Cameron Welsh. The officers questioning everyone at the service stations were having no luck, with no one able to recall their redheaded victim. Barbara received yet another call from Cameron Welsh. He said he wished to speak to DI Travis, but when told she was not in the station, he said he would speak with Paul.

“Paul, your friend Cameron’s on the line!”

Barolli took the call, but this time Cameron was distinctly unfriendly and quite cold about DI Travis not taking his calls.

“She’s out working, Mr. Welsh, so if you have anything to say, please go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“I have more details I wish to discuss with you and Anna, but I find the cell door being closed very constricting. I want you to get permission for us to sit outside in the recreational area.”

“That may not be possible.”

“Then I won’t see you. Pass on my message to Anna.” The phone went down, and Barolli tutted.

“He’s really pushing himself, cheeky bastard.” He turned to see Langton standing by the incident-room board, which unnerved him slightly.

“What did he have to say for himself?” Langton asked, turning to face Barolli.

“Claims to have more information but wants us to talk without the bars.”

“Ignore him. Let’s see how long it’ll be before he calls again.”

“He was peeved that Travis wasn’t here to talk to him.”

“Really. Well, if this is all down to him having the hots for her, he can go and stuff himself. Where is she?” Langton demanded.

Barbara signaled to him. “She may have got a trace on a relative of our first victim, Margaret Potts. He works for a bailiff company and could be the person Maggie Potts used to track down punters who knocked her around.”

“Where did Anna get him from?”

“She traced Potts’s husband — it came via him.”

Langton threw a cool look at Barolli, who squirmed in his seat.

“Got to hand it to her,” the detective said sheepishly. “Always busy, busy...”

When Langton moved off to Mike’s office, Barolli turned to Barbara and asked in a different voice, “When did all this go down?”

“About an hour ago. She’ll be on her way to interview this brother-in-law. You never know, he might have some information we could use. Nothing else is happening, is it?”

Barolli pursed his lips. Yet again Anna had trampled over him, and he knew that if she was able to get this information now, he should have been able to find it months ago.

The office was above a fish-and-chip shop. The name of the company appeared to be Debt Collectors, with no other sign — just a small arrow in red felt-tipped pen on the card stuck to the door. Anna climbed up a narrow staircase, where the pungent smell of fried food hung in the air. From outward appearances, at least, the business didn’t look as if it were exactly flourishing.

At the top of the second staircase, a makeshift partition with a frosted-glass door had been built across the landing. Anna rang the bell, and the door was opened by a thin-faced woman in her late fifties with iron-gray hair and a matching suit.

“Yes?”

Anna showed her ID, and the woman stepped back.

“Come in.”

The small reception area was cramped. A desk and two chairs and a large old-fashioned filing cabinet were all that could fit into the small space. Two doors led off from the reception, and Anna was politely asked to sit, and the woman introduced herself as Mrs. Kelly.

“I am a sort of general dogsbody. We have two offices, and my husband owns the company. We’re unusually busy right now, with a lot of people wanting their debts sorted. It’s strange, isn’t it? Bad times for some and good for others.”

“Is Mr. Potts in?”

“Not yet, but he’s due any moment. He’s training two new employees, and they were out early, but I told someone who called wanting to get particulars from him...”

“That would have been from my station.” Anna passed her card to Mrs. Kelly.

“Yes. I said he was expected back at lunchtime, but sometimes there may be a problem that needs sorting. My husband is in his office, if you’d like to talk to him.”

“I would, yes, but can you tell me a little about Mr. Potts first?”

“Ask my husband. I’ll just tell him you are here.” The woman glanced at the card Anna had passed to her and crossed a few paces to knock on one of the office doors. She gave a small smile. “One moment.”

Mrs. Kelly was fast, darting into the office before Anna could say anything. She came out almost as quickly and held the door ajar. “Ron will see you, Detective Travis.”

Ron Kelly was a short, squat man with a pair of wide red braces and checked trousers. The thick leather belt around his waist looked as if it held his girth in too tightly. His desk was filled with files and trays overflowing with papers. A computer took up most of the rest of the space on his desk. In here, the smell from the fish-and-chip shop was overpowering.

“Sit down, love, I’m Ronald Kelly.” He was pompous, and when he stood to shake Anna’s hand, he seemed no taller than when he was sitting behind his desk.

“Let me just say that Eric’s one of my most trusted employees,” he went on immediately. “He’s been with me for nearly eight years, so you won’t hear me say a word against him. Lovely bloke, he is — do anything for you, and he’s good at his job.”

“I actually wanted to talk to him about his sister-in-law, Margaret Potts.”

Kelly looked confused.

“Margaret Potts was murdered, and I am investigating her death,” Anna explained. “I would just like to ask Mr. Potts some questions about whether he knew her well and could perhaps help me trace some of her friends. I was given Eric’s name by his brother, Stanley.”

“I don’t know anything about the poor woman, but I know of the brother. I’ve not actually met him, but he’s a bad lot, by all accounts. I’m certain Eric has nothing to do with him. In fact, I’ve not heard him mention his name for a long time. He was in prison, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was.”

“So this poor woman was his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Eric’s not said anything to me about her, but then, he’s a private sort. We don’t mix socially, and he’s not in the office that much. Most of his work is out on the road, see.”

“What work did he do before he came to your company?”

“Army. He’d done twenty years’ service. I’ve been looking for his CV, but to be honest, after so many years working here, I couldn’t tell you where it is. I’ll get the wife to try and dig it out; she handles most of the paperwork.”

“Thank you, but I doubt it will be necessary. Do you employ a lot of ex — army officers?”

“Yes and no. Got a couple on the books along with ex-coppers, but not all of them are regulars like Eric. I bring them in when I’m overloaded. Funnily enough, right now we’ve got a shedload of work on. Eric’s out with two guys this morning, showing them the ropes. There’s a lot of outstanding debts at the moment, with nonpayment of rent a big problem.”

At that moment, Mrs. Kelly tapped on the door and popped her head round to say that Eric had returned and was in his office.

Anna stood up. There was nothing more she could gain from Mr. Kelly, but as she walked to the door, she paused. “The ex — police officers you employ — I’d appreciate you giving me their details before I leave. Thank you.”

Eric Potts bore no resemblance to his brother, Stanley. He was six feet tall and muscular, with sloping shoulders, a man who obviously did weight training. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit and a white shirt and a smart tie, and his handshake was strong. He offered Anna a cup of coffee, which she declined. He had a flask in front of him and a mug, along with a sandwich. Unlike his boss’s desk his desk was devoid of anything else, and the office was much smaller. The window behind him had a broken blind and looked as if it had not been washed for years. The other odd thing about his office was that it smelled of room spray — or it could have been his cologne; whatever, it was strong and obliterated the smell wafting up from the fish-and-chip shop.

“Your boss speaks highly of you,” Anna said pleasantly, taking a seat in front of him.

“Well, so he should,” Potts replied. “I’ve worked for him for eight years, and I don’t think he’s lifted his butt off his office chair once in all that time.” He grinned to reveal very white teeth; he was really quite a handsome man. His hands were large, and the knuckles looked like those of a boxer’s. In fact, a slightly crooked nose gave him the look of one.

“I met your brother,” Anna said quietly.

“Stanley,” he said as softly. He sighed, shaking his head. “One of life’s losers, I’m afraid. Never held a job, and if he did any work, it’d be down the betting shop. He was addicted to gambling and drinking — and he and I fell out years ago.”

“You knew his wife.”

“Margaret. Yes, I did. I know what happened to her, but the sad thing was, no matter how many times you’d try and tell her to stop what she was doing, she just wouldn’t listen.”

“You knew she was a prostitute?”

“Yes.”

“So you kept in touch with her after she left your brother?”

“Yes. Not on a regular basis, though. Years could pass and I’d not hear from her, then she’d turn up.”

“At your home?” asked Anna.

“Yes. Usually when she was broke or needing a place to stay for a while. It caused problems with my wife, as they didn’t get along; plus, I’ve got two kids, and often she’d be the worse for wear on drink or drugs, so eventually, I had to put a stop to her coming round.”

“Did you still see her?”

“A couple of times she’d call me and I’d meet her in a café, but I hadn’t seen her for almost a year before I read about her being murdered.” Unlike his brother, Eric appeared genuinely upset talking about it.

“No one ever approached you to ask about her?”

“No. Why should they? Like I said, I hadn’t seen top nor tail of her for more than a year. Last time we met, I gave her some money. I said to her it’d be the last and that I couldn’t go on shelling out to her, as I had my own commitments, and I warned her again that she could end up in a bad way doing what she was doing.”

“What exactly did you think she was doing?”

“Come on, love.” Eric gave Anna a weary look. “She was a tart and getting on in years — not that she didn’t try and keep herself looking good. She did, and when she was young, she was a real looker. How she got involved with my brother was always beyond me. You know about him, do you?”

“I know he spent time in prison.”

“Not that. The way he knocked her around and he mistreated their kids. He was a useless husband and father. When she left him, her kids were taken into care, thank Christ, but she herself had taken enough.”

“Did she run to you?”

“Me? No way! I was married, remember? She took off with some other tosser who put her on the streets.” Eric wiped a hand across his face. “You couldn’t say anything to her about him or about what he was making her do. She was, to my mind, caught in a vicious circle, beaten up by her husband and then knocked about by this creep. Got what he deserved in the end, though — died of a drug overdose.”

“Stanley implied that you and Margaret were lovers. In fact, he blamed you for breaking up his marriage.”

Eric changed color. Opening one of his desk drawers, he took out a small bottle of brandy, removed the top, and poured two measures from the lid into his mug. He gave a rueful smile and replaced the bottle. “That idiot accused everyone of screwing her — me, his neighbors, Uncle Tom Cobleigh. But she was a decent girl, and whether or not we had a bit of thing is neither here nor there. I cared about her, I always did, and that’s why she felt she could come to me when she was in trouble.”

“Did you know she was working the service stations?”

He nodded.

“And do you know how she would travel to them? I presume she didn’t have a car.”

He shrugged. “I think she’d catch a lift, maybe, but I couldn’t say for sure, ’cause by the time she was ducking and diving with the bloody truckers, I’d given up trying to help her. All I know is she’d pull in the blokes at the service stations, do whatever to earn a few quid, then come back by morning.”

“But you did help her, didn’t you?”

“I said I gave her a few quid now and then, yeah.”

“No other ways? I know Margaret kept a logbook of her punters’ car and lorry registrations, and if they didn’t pay her or knocked her around, she’d get help in tracing them.”

“I don’t want to get into this.” He put his big hands up.

“Mr. Potts, Margaret’s body was found dumped in a field beside the M1 motorway. She’d been raped and strangled. There was no handbag, nothing to identify her but her fingerprints from police records. We have no suspect and no witnesses — but what if one of the men she was able to get revenge on killed her? If you know anything about any of the men she picked up, it won’t get you into any trouble, but we would like to question them as possible suspects.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Look, a couple of mates — ex-coppers — helped out, and yeah, we did pay the blokes a visit, but not for a long time. Like I said to you, I’d not been in contact with Maggie for a year or more before she was murdered.”

“Do you still have the information?”

“No. Got rid of it as soon as it was done.”

“What about friends of Margaret’s? Do you know anyone I could talk to that she knew well?” Anna wasn’t going to give up.

“No. Listen, I might sound like a right dickhead, but you can only go so far with someone, know what I mean? She had her head kicked in, and the bloke threw her out of his cab. I got his company address from my pals, and I called on him. I gave him the same medicine he gave to Maggie, and he handed over fifty quid. I was having problems with the wife not wanting her staying on our couch, but she was a right mess — black eyes and a broken nose. I said to her that this time that was it: I wasn’t gonna do it again, and she had to straighten out her life — go into a hostel, anything but stop living the way she was.”

“She didn’t want to report it?”

“No way, not with her record.”

“So when she wasn’t staying with you, where did she live?”

“Rough. There’s a place she used in the West End — you know, book in for the night, or she crashed out with one or other of the other women she knew, but I didn’t know where, and I never met any of her so-called friends. I say so-called because they were always nicking her things. Not that she had much, just bits of jewelry from my mother.”

“Did you ever meet a woman called Emerald Turk?”

“No.”

“Margaret had a suitcase. Did she bring it round to your place when she stayed?”

“Suitcase? Yeah, I think she had one, although she’d use the lockers at one or another station for most of her belongings. She never had much. Not that she didn’t try and keep herself clean. When she stayed at my place, she was always in the bath and washing and ironing, another reason the wife didn’t want her around.”

It was totally unexpected: Eric suddenly put his hands over his face and wept. He then took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “Fucking tragic life,” he said shakily. “And don’t think I haven’t felt like shit sometimes, ’cause she didn’t deserve to end up the way she did.”

He opened the same drawer and rifled through it for a moment. He brought out a small, cheap folding frame with two photographs inside it. He opened it and passed it to Anna. “That was Maggie when I first knew her.”

The photograph was of such a pretty woman, smiling at the camera, wearing a white cotton dress and sitting on a park bench. In the opposite frame, facing her, was a picture of a young Eric in army uniform. “I loved her once,” he said softly.

Anna returned to the incident room. With her she had the name of the company and driver that Eric had “seen to,” and two names of ex — police officers who worked sporadically for Ronald Kelly. She doubted they would gain any vital information regarding Margaret Potts’s killer, but what they might succeed in was getting a clear indication of exactly how she worked her stretch.

They still had two victims unidentified, so until they knew who the girls were, the team was concentrating on Margaret’s murder for clues. They did not know if either of the young victims was a prostitute; all they had was that they were killed in the same way and possibly from thumbing a lift at a service station.

Writing up her report of the day’s interviews, Anna was furious to be told by Mike Lewis that Langton had given the go-ahead for yet another prison visit to Cameron Welsh. She would have to drive all that way again with Barolli first thing in the morning, and the governor had agreed to allow them to interview Welsh out of his cell in the open section of the secure unit.

Anna passed to Joan and Barbara the ex — police officers’ names and contact numbers, plus that of the lorry driver who had mistreated Margaret Potts. She suggested that one of the team get on it straightaway, adding sarcastically that it might just give them the lead they needed, rather than wasting time with Welsh.

It was after ten that evening when Langton rang Anna at home. He said he’d read her report and that her diligence, as always, had paid off. It would be an even better result if the ex-cops were able to give them the names of more punters Margaret Potts had been seeing; they could haul them in for questioning.

“The more insight we get into how she worked and from which service stations, the better, so I’ll handle the talks with the cops. I’ll be able to put the pressure on them...” He paused. “Are you listening?”

“Yes. I actually would have liked to talk to the lorry driver myself, but as I’ll be schlepping all the way to Barfield Prison again...” Anna was tired and didn’t bother hiding how she felt.

“Eh, eh, don’t get uptight with me. I know you don’t like it, but it’s you he wants to talk to. I think if he has anything worth our while, you’ll be the one to get it. That’s the reason I want you back at the prison.”

“You are more optimistic than I am. I personally think this is just feeding his grotesque ego.”

“Maybe, but let’s see how this visit pans out.”

“Okay,” she said flatly.

“Everything else all right with you?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking.”

“Good night, then. Oh, I’m having another go at asking the public to help identify our Jane Does. We’re running a slot on Crimewatch again.”

“That’s good. ’Night.”

“’Night.”

Anna replaced the receiver and got into bed, conscious that the case was presently going nowhere, even with her added information. It would, she knew, open up if they could just identify their victims. As it was, the entire focus was on Margaret Potts’s murder, a case that was virtually cold before she even came on board.

As she had felt on previous murder inquiries, the more she delved into a victim’s past life, the more the character became visible, almost alive. Margaret Pott’s life had been miserable. The thought of this woman with no place to live, carrying her worldly possessions around in a suitcase and sleeping in hostels and wherever she could get a bed for the day to make ready for the next night’s hideous work, was unbearably depressing. The poor woman had lost her children and, Anna felt, was so worn out by abuse that even though she had been warned over and over again of the dangers, she continued risking the only real possession she had: her own life.