press, all the media coverage. It’s fucking disgusting!’
‘What if it’s true?’ asked a sullen, pockmarked officer.
‘What’s true?’
‘That he has some serial killer.’
‘Bullshit. No way is that little girl part of his enquiry. Six months he’s been on it, collecting old slags from all over England. I’m telling you, DCI Fuckface Langton is desperate. He won out because he’s brown-nosed the commander, or fucked her, because there’s no other way he could have got this case, no fucking way.’
While Anna finished her lunch, the three men continued to slag off Langton, paying her no attention. She was making her way back to the incident room just after one o’clock when it occurred to her to check whether her new Mini was still intact. It was. She was at the rear entrance of the station when she saw Langton with Commander Jane Leigh, one hand at her right elbow, as if steering her to her waiting car.
Anna watched Langton laughing with the commander as they approached her car. He opened the rear door. There was an obvious familiarity between them. When she got in the back seat, he leaned in to finish the conversation.
Anna got back to her desk just ahead of Langton, who banged into the incident room.
‘Have a good lunch?’
‘Erm, yes, thank you. And you?’
‘Not had time. I’ll get a sandwich.’ He nodded to Jean, who gave him a wry look.
He checked his wristwatch and looked over at Anna. ‘Interview room two. I’m going for a slash.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, getting ready with her notebook and pencils as the doors swung closed after him.
It was almost a quarter to two when Langton walked into the interview room where Anna was waiting. He held a beaker of coffee in his hand, wrapped with a paper napkin.
‘He’s just arrived,’ he said, sitting beside her. ‘His name is Mark Rawlins, student. London University. Business affairs.’
He sipped from his takeaway coffee. ‘You were at Oxford, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jack must have loved that.’
‘Yes. My father was very proud, you know, that I made it to Oxford.’
‘What do you think he’d feel now?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well, here you are in a rundown station with the Murder Squad, on a case full of tarts and’
Before she could think of an answer the door opened and Jean, holding a chicken sandwich, peeked in.
‘Your order, sir, minus tomatoes - and there is a Mark Rawlins in reception.’
‘Is he on his own, or with someone?’
‘He’s with his father.’
‘Well, tell his father that I just want to see Mark. No, forget it. Let him bring in who he wants.’
Jean closed the door.
‘Is he a suspect?’ Anna asked.
‘Not yet,’ Langton said, biting into his sandwich. He chewed rapidly; as if he had a train to catch, thought Anna. ‘You look at me as if you know something I don’t. Or you disapprove of me. Which one is it?’
She flushed. ‘Sorry. Just over-eager, I guess.’
‘Really? Is that what it is?’
There was a pause: he took another bite of his sandwich.
‘I overheard DCI Hedges talking in the canteen.’
‘Yeah, and … ?’ he said, with his mouth bulging.
‘He doesn’t like you.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘He said he didn’t know how you’d got this case, unless you were having a scene with the commander. He said there was no connection between the murders,’ Anna continued. ‘That what you said about there being a connection was all bullshit.’
Langton finished his sandwich and wiped the table in front of him with his hands, picking up a few crumbs.
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, hesitating. ‘Melissa was young and beautiful. From what I have read so far, your killer goes after a specific type: bruised, old, beaten - so unloved they wouldn’t even make it on to the missing persons list because nobody cared enough about them to report them missing.’
‘I agree, but the way her tights were wrapped round her neck three