‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve not seen him for Christ knows how long.’

  ‘No one you can think of?’

  ‘No. Like I said, I’ve not been in contact with him since…’ She frowned, then put her mug of tea down and went over to an untidy sideboard. She opened one drawer after another, then took out a small photograph.

  ‘The last time he was released, Arthur come by and he was with this horrible bloke, stank of booze; they wanted money and my husband kicked them out. He warned Arthur that if he ever came back, he’d beat the hell out of him. For all his bravado and macho thing with women, he’s a wimp, but he had this guy with him and my kid Keith had this little throwaway camera…I don’t remember the other one’s name even, just that they’d met in prison; he and Arthur were bragging about stuff, and I made Sharon go up an’ stay in her room.’ She passed the photograph to Anna. ‘I remember him gloating about how he’d been living free of police supervision because of some legal loophole; he said something about the register. He and Arthur had had a fair amount to drink. That was when my husband had listened to enough and threw them out.’

  Anna looked at the photograph. ‘And this was how many years ago?’

  ‘Two–no, longer. I dunno. I didn’t even have Tina then, so it’s a while back.’

  ‘So it wouldn’t have been here at the bungalow?’

  ‘No, me other place.’

  ‘Has he been here?’

  Gail turned away and wiped her nose with her sleeve. ‘No, thank God.’

  ‘And this man with your brother, you don’t recall his name?’

  ‘No. Had a Newcastle accent though.’

  Anna spent a while longer with Gail before she felt she was able to leave.

  Brandon, sitting in the car, was impatient. He glared at her as she sat beside him. ‘I hope you bloody got something. I know I did–fleas! What a shithole. She should be reported to the social services for leaving that little kid on her own.’

  Anna said nothing as he started up the engine and they drove out; just as they turned into the road, an open lorry piled high with pig food turned into the drive.

  Back at the station they used computer imagery to identify the man in the photograph as Vernon Kramer. 1976: he had convictions for dishonesty and served twelve months. 1980: convicted of bodily harm and theft; received a six-month sentence. 1984: acquitted of three rapes. 1986: sentenced to six years for the rape and indecent assault of two fourteen-year-old girls. He was released early in 1990, after serving just three years. Eight months later, Kramer was sentenced to five years for the false imprisonment of a thirteen-year-old girl he abducted at knifepoint. This sentence coincided with Murphy’s conviction; the two men then served time in the same prison.

  Anna sighed and turned to Brandon. ‘He was released yet again in January 1997. This is maybe what Gail meant–he gloated about being out too early to be listed on the sex offenders’ register.’

  ‘Yeah, him and thousands of others, because their crimes took place before the register was created. It was, believe it or not, feared they would claim their inclusion was a breach of bloody human rights! Makes me want to throw up.’

  Anna nodded in agreement, then she turned over a page and looked to Brandon.

  ‘Last known address…you are not going to believe this, but it’s in Brixton–and not far from where our victim was living.’

  Brandon approached and leaned over the back of her chair; he’d refreshed his cologne and she had to take a deep breath.

  ‘Let’s check it out,’ he said. ‘If he’s harbouring Murphy, we need to get in there–and fast.’

  Not wanting to tip off Kramer, they used the old ‘voting register’ scam. Anna had agreed to act as a decoy; she would simply knock on the door of the hostel to ask whoever answered if they had the correct names listed for the voting register. The hostel was in a very rundown area of Brixton, and contained eight bedsits. The man who opened the front door was black, very muscular, and naked, down to a pair of boxer shorts; he also seemed stoned out of his head. He had a wide, gap-toothed smile, with two gold teeth beside the gap. He looked her up and down, then slammed the door shut, having told her to fuck off! Anna gasped–he had towered above her and smelt heavily of body odour. She reported back to the team. As the house was already staked out, they decided Anna could return to base and they would wait.

  As luck would have it, before she even left, the front door opened again and Kramer walked out. Anna remained in the unmarked patrol car. He was tailed to an off-licence, where he bought twelve cans of beer and a bottle of vodka. He then walked to a fish and chip shop and was seen to buy two portions of fish and chips.

  Totally unaware he was being tailed, Kramer walked casually back to the house. He stopped at one point to light a fresh cigarette from the stub in his mouth, tossing it aside. He then continued to the front door and fumbled with the keys. Just as he was letting himself in, Brandon and two back-up officers moved in. Kramer didn’t put up any kind of resistance. He admitted that Murphy was in his flat, and said he was scared to kick him out. He was searched, handcuffed and taken to Anna’s patrol car; he sat sullenly in the back, leaning his head against the window as they drove back to the station.

  Kramer lived in bedsit 4B. Brandon, accompanied by the two uniformed officers, entered the house and knocked on the door. There was a pause, then it was unlocked.

  ‘Did you remember to get them to put vinegar on mine?’ said a voice.

  Brandon shouldered his way in. There was a brief moment when Murphy thought of attempting to fight his way past, but he gave up fast.

  Anna would have liked to have been in on the interrogation, but no way: this was Brandon and Sheldon’s territory. As Murphy was intoxicated when he was brought in, they delayed questioning him until first thing the following morning. No one had mentioned the fact that it was Anna who had patiently questioned his sister and come up with the photograph that led them to capture him. She remained at the station until nine, writing up her report, before leaving for home. She was too tired to go and visit Langton, so called Glebe House to say she was working late. She spoke to the night nurse and was told that Langton had had a good day’s physio and was watching a movie. Anna asked for him not to be interrupted, but to pass on the message that she would see him the following evening.

  She felt guilty about being so relieved to get an early night. Tomorrow would be the interrogation, then Murphy would be taken to the magistrates. There was, she knew, no possibility of bail. She calculated that a trial date would be set quite quickly, then it would be down to preparation for the trial. That would be the end of the case.

  Anna was back at the station by eight-fifteen the next day; Murphy was to be brought up from the holding cell at nine for the interrogation. By nine-fifteen, she was sitting alone in the small observation room adjacent to the interview room. Murphy had still not been brought up, as they were waiting for his solicitor to finish talking to him. It was just after ten when they took up their seats and she saw Murphy for the first time.

  Murphy, wearing a white paper suit, was sullen-faced. He had cropped hair, big flat ears and a large nose. His thin mouth was drawn downwards, almost clownishly, at the sides. His eyes were dark and blank, giving hardly any expression at all. He sat with his hands cupped in front of him, big gnarled hands with dirty fingernails. Anna felt disgusted by the look of him, by his insolence and by the lack of any kind of remorse when shown the photographs of his victim.

  He leaned forwards and then rested back. ‘Yeah, that’s her.’

  It was chilling to hear him explain how he had seen Irene Phelps on a number of occasions walking back towards her flat. He said, without any emotion, how on that particular day he had followed her to her door and simply pushed her inside. At one point, when Brandon was discussing the DNA results from his attack, he had shrugged.

  ‘You know, you people think rape is about sex. Of course, sex comes into it, but you know what it’s really about? Power.’ Murphy’s thin clown mouth drew down in a sickening smirk. ‘I had power over her. Sex is just an extension of that power. Afterwards, I was real hungry, so I made up a sandwich: tomatoes, lettuce, and there was some ham. It tasted good.’

  Anna clenched her fists; it was so hard to believe what this man had done and, moreover, how he could sit there talking about making a ham sandwich with the blood of his victim still on his hideous hands.

  ‘I can’t help it.’ He gestured wide, then continued. ‘I got this determination, you see, deep down inside me, and it’s really deepset, you know what I mean? And my problem has always been that I have to satisfy that anger. What did you say her name was?’

  Brandon’s face was taut. ‘Irene Phelps.’

  ‘Right, Irene; well, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I suppose it was lucky her daughter wasn’t home, because I’d thought about doing her.’

  Anna walked out of the room. She couldn’t stand to watch another second’s gloating from that sickening man, who’d murdered a decent young woman and probably traumatized her twelve-year-old daughter for the rest of her life. Murphy’s psychiatric reports from the time he had been in prison evaluated him as being very dangerous; the fact that he was released made it chilling to even contemplate the total ineptness of the probation departments. It exposed the terrifying weaknesses at the heart of the criminal justice system.

  Anna returned to her desk as Harry Blunt passed with two mugs of coffee; he placed one down for her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, rather surprised.

  ‘Good work–that photograph was a piece of luck. That animal could have hung out for weeks, maybe months; the filth he was living with, they could have started to kill together.’

  Anna sipped her coffee. Harry seemed loath to move away. ‘I’ve got a daughter the same age as Irene Phelps’s little girl,’ he told her.

  ‘Did her father come and see her?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, she’s going to be living with him. Won’t be easy; he’s got two kids with another wife and, at her age, moving schools, new environment…Poor little soul.’ He slurped his coffee and then sighed. ‘You know, there are no excuses over this bastard. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and what makes me puke is that no one is going to take the blame, and they should. His effing so-called probation officers should be sacked. Whoever gave that son of a bitch a low-risk category should be fired; better still, be made to look at the dead woman’s corpse–ask them then if they still think he’s a low risk. Do you know how many murders last year were committed by low-risk bastards freed on parole?’

  ‘Not right off, no, I don’t.’

  Harry leaned forwards. ‘Nearly fifty. I dunno how they think we can do our job; we no sooner get them to trial and banged up than they let them loose again! Bloody frustrating. I tell you what, if that creature in there had killed my daughter, then I’d strangle him. Why not? Gimme twelve years–good behaviour, I’d be out in seven, probably less. I’m not kidding. The Home Secretary said there was a crisis–a fucking crisis? I’d say it’s a lot more than that. My mate’s a prison officer, and he says his pals have been warning the Prison Officers Association: there’s overcrowded wings, riots and hostage taking–something he’s gotta face every week, and you know what? The Home Office pays forces nearly four hundred quid for each prisoner, that’s if you count it up; a bill to the tax payers of over ten bleedin’ million, and are they building new prisons? Are they hell as like. That’s how fucking pricks like Murphy get out early. And now you know they are giving inmates friggin’ keys to their cells, so they gain respect? Jesus Christ, I dunno what the world is coming to.’

  He drained his coffee and stood up. ‘Sorry,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘Just needed to get it off my chest.’

  ‘Do you ever talk about your work with your wife?’

  ‘No, I try to close down when I walk out of here, but on this, with my daughter being the same age…I kept on looking at her, then looking at my wife and thinking, what if it had happened here, in my house? My home invaded by that madman, and one that should never have been let out on the streets? Well, look at poor old Jimmy.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Langton. Fucking illegal immigrant got him and nearly killed him, and from what I’ve heard, he’d have been better off.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, he’s not going to walk again, is he?’

  Anna flushed. ‘Yes, of course he is. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but he’s making a remarkable recovery.’

  ‘Just a bloke I knew who was at the rehabilitation home, released a few days ago; he told me. May have got it wrong, sorry.’

  ‘Yes, you have got it wrong, Harry.’

  ‘Well, I’ve said I’m sorry, love. I know you and he are–what exactly? Living together?’

  Anna stood up, packing her files. ‘I hope you will put your friend right. James is really hoping to get back to work soon.’

  ‘Oh well, good on him.’ Harry moved away, leaving her feeling tense and angry, but thankfully no longer thinking about Arthur George Murphy. She would not allow him to invade her life. Langton already had.

  She felt so protective towards Jimmy and, moreover, so upset that rumours were spreading that he would never walk again.

  Chapter Three

  As soon as Anna had been released from duty, she called the rehabilitation home to see if she could speak to Langton to confirm that she would, unlike the previous night, be there to see him.

  ‘Hi, how you doing?’ He sounded unlike himself.

  ‘Well, we caught the killer and he’s admitted it. He couldn’t really get out of it; we had enough evidence.’ She listened. ‘Hello, are you still there?’

  ‘Yeah, but listen, I’m feeling really whacked out, been doing a lot of work in the gym. I’m just going to crash out and have an early night. Let’s say you come tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you.’

  ‘So, see you tomorrow. I’m glad you got a result. G’night.’

  The phone went dead. She sat holding the receiver, feeling wretched. He really hadn’t sounded like himself–not even his moody self. She waited a while and then called again, this time to speak to the nurse. By the time that call ended, she felt even worse.

  Langton had not been working out in the gym–far from it. He had overstretched himself the day before and now had an infection in his knee joint; he was unable to walk and in great pain. The swelling was the size of a football and they were very concerned; having already had septicaemia once, they were worried there might be a recurrence. He had been given morphine to dull the pain and was, as they spoke, being taken back to his room to sleep.

  Anna wanted to weep. Had this so-called friend of Harry Blunt’s been right, and would Langton never walk again? She went over everything the nurse had said and was certain that if Langton did rest, did not push himself, the infection could be controlled and he would be able to return to exercising, in moderation.

  She cooked herself an omelette but hardly touched it, and was about to go over to Langton’s flat to collect his mail, when the doorbell rang. It was Mike Lewis; he apologized for not calling her and just turning up, but he had been to see Langton himself.

  Anna passed Lewis a glass of wine; he sat, glum-faced, on her sofa.

  ‘He’s not in good shape, Anna.’

  She said she’d called the night nurse and knew about the knee infection.

  ‘Well, that’s part of his problem.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s all the other stuff, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t. What do you mean?’

  ‘His head; his mind is all confused, and he’s so bloody angry.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’ she said defensively.

  ‘Yeah yeah–of course, but I can’t help him Anna. I can’t do what he wants.’

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’

  ‘Track down this bloody illegal immigrant that knifed him.’

  ‘Has he asked you to do that?’

  ‘Christ, he’s on the phone every day asking me how far I’ve got, what I’ve come up with, but you know there’s been a dedicated team trying to locate the bastards. I’m already on another case and I don’t have the time to do what he wants.’

  ‘How far have you got?’

  ‘Well, that’s the point–I haven’t. There’s no trace of them. I reckon they’ve already skipped the country, but telling him that is like a red rag to a bull. He refuses to believe the bastard could just walk away, or fly, or whatever he’s done, but we can’t get a trace on either of them. The team handling the search have done no better.’

  ‘Have you got any details with you?’

  Lewis sighed and opened his briefcase. ‘I’ve the original case file, which I should not have made copies of, but I did. The rest is all I’ve been able to get so far.’

  ‘Can you leave this with me?’

  Lewis nodded. ‘Sure, but you won’t get any help from anyone. I’ve just come across a brick wall. I don’t know what else to do.’

  Anna made Lewis a sandwich and changed the subject, asking him about his son and how Barolli was doing.

  ‘Well, we’re all missing having the boss as our SIO; no one comes up to him, have you found that? I know you’ve been working with that prick Sheldon.’

  Anna smiled.

  ‘Anna, there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him, same with Barolli, but it’s fruitless.’ Lewis hesitated. ‘You know, what is important is that he concentrates on getting fit. As it stands, he’s never going to be able to work again; he’ll have to go before a physical assessment board and no way will he come through it. I think he’ll get signed off.’

  Anna showed Lewis out. By this time, it was after eleven and she didn’t feel like going through the files he had left. She had too much to think about, predominantly Langton’s physical condition. She set her alarm for five o’clock, to give her time to read up on the file. She had no notion of what it contained, but if she could do anything to help, then she would make it her priority.