“Always at the London Gateway?” Mike asked, looking down at his notes.
“No, sometimes I don’t need to, but as it’s the first service station on the M1, when I need to go, it’s usually about that time. I leave early, around four-thirty to five, and it’s a four-hour drive, sometimes a lot longer if there’s traffic or an accident. It can take me up to six hours, as the M6 is always slow and can put me back a couple of hours.”
“So you stop off at the London Gateway and use their conveniences?”
“Yes, sir, but not on a regular basis. It’d depend on whether or not I needed to use them. Our orders have been on the slack side, so I’ve not had to do many trips for the past few months.”
Mike removed the photograph of Margaret Potts, saying, “Have you ever seen this woman?”
Smiley seemed to give it a lot of attention before he shook his head.
Estelle Dubcek’s picture came next. “How about this girl?”
“No, sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.”
“This girl?”
Smiley leaned forward to look at Anika Waleska’s photograph. He hesitated and then shook his head again. “No.”
“Do you ever give hitchhikers a ride?”
“Me? No, never, not worth it. It’s too much of a risk, never have and never will.”
“Tell me about your wife.”
“My wife?”
“Yes.”
Smiley puffed out his cheeks and eased around in his chair. “I dunno what you’re asking me about her for. She can’t drive, and she’s never driven my van. You know, I’m getting to feel a bit uncomfortable. What’s this really about? It’s not just my vehicle license not being updated, is it?”
“No. You are just helping our inquiries, Mr. Smiley.”
“What about?”
Mike gathered up the photographs. “These women were murdered.”
Smiley opened and shut his mouth. “I don’t understand.”
“We are just eliminating people with a vehicle caught on the CCTV cameras in the areas where these women’s bodies were discovered. You happened to be at the location on two of the occasions.”
“My God. This is serious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. Smiley, very serious, but I think you have explained your reasons for being at the London Gateway, so I just need to iron out a few more things. How long have you been married?”
“For twelve years. I’ve two children, aged eleven and eight — a boy and a girl. My wife is called Sonja. She and I met when I came out of the army; she was working in Aldershot.”
“Was she from there?”
“No. She’s originally from Warsaw in Poland. She came over to England with her mother twenty years ago.”
“Do you speak Polish?”
“No. Truth is, she hardly speaks it herself now, and we lost her mother four years ago. She was still living in Alder-shot and went a bit senile. We were going to bring her to live with us in Manchester when we got settled, but then she got pneumonia, spent a few days in the hospital, and never came out. Seventy-two, fit as a fiddle before, but just a bit confused, know what I mean?”
“Did your wife ever come on these trips to London?”
“No, no way. She works as a dinner lady at the local school, and she’s keen that the children always have someone at home. She’s a wonderful mother, which is why I try to get back before their bedtime. Kiss them good night.”
“Have you ever picked up a prostitute at the service stations?”
“Me?”
“Yes, Mr. Smiley. It’s nothing to be ashamed of; we are asking everyone we interview.”
“Never. For one, I wouldn’t fancy it, I’m too fussy about personal hygiene, and for two, if my wife was ever to catch me doing anything so stupid, she’d castrate me.” He laughed. “Just joking, but the truth is, I wouldn’t jeopardize my relationship. I love my wife, in fact, I worship the ground she walks on, she’s...”
He picked up his diary again and thumbed through it to take out a small Polaroid picture. He passed it across the table. “That’s Sonja a few years back — she was a real looker, and to be honest I’d sown my wild oats before I met her. Twelve years in the Paras, and we were a wild bunch, fought in the Iraq invasion, got decorated, and I was even thinking about enlisting for another tour when I met Sonja. There was no more gallivanting around for me after that, and she’s a good few years younger.”
Smiley left the station half an hour later, assuring Mike Lewis that he would have his van registered by the following morning. Neither Anna nor Mike said a word as he replaced the photographs and notes in a file. Eventually, he stood up and stretched.
“What do you think?”
Anna had not made one note. “Bit too much information. Guy’s got verbal dysentery, but we can check out his company’s deliveries and—”
Barolli entered the interview room, interrupting her. “Transit van is clean enough to eat your dinner off. There’s not a mark on it, and considering it’s eight years old and with quite heavy mileage, it’s in very good condition, new tires and everything. The two front seats look hardly used, and the two rear passenger seats have been removed, to make more room for storage, I suppose. There’s no carpet, but rubber matting and shelving in the rear.”
Barolli looked from one to the other, saying, “You suss him for this?”
“Not right now, Paul, but we’ll need to check out all his details. He’s an ex-Para, with commendations, and he’s been with the same company ten years. No police record, just a slip up on his vehicle license being out of date.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mike headed into the corridor.
“What do you think?” Barolli asked Anna.
“I don’t know. He was affable and not thrown by any of the questions. Didn’t break out in a sweat, answered everything we needed to know and more.”
“Another dead end.” Barolli sighed with frustration and followed Lewis out.
Anna shrugged. Was it? She had not picked up anything suspicious, and there was only one slight show of nerves when they asked him about his wife. He had not asked for a solicitor to be present, and she wondered if he lived up to his name, not that he had smiled, apart from when they said he could leave. She had no gut feelings about him, just that he had been overtalkative.
By the time Anna returned to the incident room, Mike had relayed the content of their interview to Langton by phone.
“Said he’ll be at your place by seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”
Mike walked off to his office, and Anna caught the raised eyebrow between him and Barolli.
“I’ve got one, Anna,” Joan said, rocking back in her chair.
“One what, Joan?”
“Victim. Murdered four years ago, case went cold, victim never identified but found not far from Newport Pagnell service station.”
But Anna was packing up her briefcase, ready to leave. “Let Paul handle it,” she said. “I need to get off home, as I’ve got an early start. Good night.”
As soon as Anna left the incident room, Barolli did a nasty mimic of her with his hands on his hips. “And we all know who’s picking her up for that ‘early start’! I’d put money on it he’ll shag her before they leave for Barfield.”
Chapter Seven
Anna was waiting in her car outside her garage at exactly seven-thirty. She didn’t want Langton coming into her flat. But he surprised her by turning up carrying two Starbucks coffees and a bag of muffins.
“Morning. I reckoned you wouldn’t have had breakfast, so I brought it along to eat on the drive.”
Langton got into the passenger seat, propped the coffee on the tray between them, and slammed the door closed. He swore as he opened the bag because one of the muffins was chocolate.