‘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.
The file contained copies of all the murder enquiry paperwork: witness statements, documents from the arrest of the suspect, and numerous photographs. Added to these were Lewis’s notes and, in a small black notebook, Langton’s own private notes on the case. Langton had an expression: ‘it’s in the book’. He would tap the pocket where he kept it. Jokes about train spotting or ‘one for the book, Gov’ were often heard around the incident room. He would say it whenever anyone screwed up — that could even mean forgetting his morning coffee! When Anna had asked him about it, he had grinned and said it was common knowledge he had a terrible memory; he had started, when he was a rookie, just making notes of things he shouldn’t forget — sometimes, it could be just to remind himself to collect his laundry. Over the years, it had become a habit and then a talking-point; then he noticed that he could make detectives very edgy if they saw him jotting something down whilst he was with them.
‘Like to keep my team on their toes,’ he laughed.
She said to him that she had never seen him use it.
‘Ah. That’s because what I jotted down about you had nothing to do with police work.’
‘You’re telling me you needed to be reminded of whether or not you fancied me?’
Again he had laughed, dismissing it with a waft of his hand. ‘The date of your birthday? Now forget it. It’s just a joke anyway; and besides, you constantly have your nose in your official notebook — more than any other officer I have ever worked with.’
It was true; in fact, her father had tipped her off. He always said to write everything down, because the memory can play tricks. If you are required to recall in detail an incident for the courtroom, your book becomes your security blanket.
Langton’s notebook had a red elastic band wound tightly round it. It was slightly curved, as if it had taken the shape of his chest. Anna eased back the elastic band, and wrapped it round the palm of her hand before she opened the book. His small, tight handwriting covered every page, back and front, until three-quarters of the way through, when it stopped abruptly. The thin pages were stiff; a couple she had to blow apart, which made her think that no one had read the notes recently. Maybe Lewis hadn’t bothered; if the notebook was such a joke, he might not have thought it of any value.
The writing was meticulously neat, but not that easy to read; she peered at page one.
The call out for the horrific murder of a teenage girl called Carly Ann North came in at 9 a.m. The body had been discovered on wasteground behind King’s Cross station. Although only sixteen years of age, North had already been convicted of prostitution and sent to a young offenders’ institute. She was from a very dysfunctional background, both parents heroin addicts. She had been knifed and her wounds were horrific; the killer had attempted to decapitate her. He had also tried to remove her hands, to avoid fingerprints being taken. A police officer had disturbed the killer, having seen three men loitering near the wasteground. He caught him, but the others, obviously acting as lookouts, ran off, leaving their friend fighting with the officer. The killer was an illegal immigrant. The judge had ordered at his trial that, after serving a sentence for rape, he should be deported. Underlined was his name: Idris Krasiniqe, aged twenty-five.