The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

  Anna said nothing.

  “Nobody told me not to do anything with them, and I’d already given you a whole lot. Anyways, Kenneth said he could get me some publicity as well, so I let him have the one of Louise with the flower in her hair and some pictures of me.”

  “Did you give him anything else?”

  “No, he gave me fifty quid. He said he only got a hundred, so we split it.”

  “Did you tell Kenneth Dunn about the marks on Louise’s mouth?”

  “No, no, I didn’t, I swear I didn’t. I haven’t told anybody about them, I swear before God.”

  “Did you give anything else to the journalist?”

  “No, I never met him.”

  “Has anyone called you, wanting to talk about Louise?”

  “Only calls I’ve had are about the advert in Time Out; in fact, I’ve got a girl coming round this afternoon, so could you get Louise’s stuff out, because I don’t want it. It might sound awful, getting someone to move in, but I got to pay the rent and Louise owed me for a month.” Sharon smoothed her skirt with the back of her hand. “She was always on the scrounge. She’d say ‘Can I borrow five quid?’ and I’d always have to ask for it back. She was always short of money, and she wouldn’t buy groceries, she’d just eat my stuff. It wasn’t just food: she’d take my Tampax and nail varnish remover. I know it sounds petty, but it really annoyed me.”

  Sharon was agitated, her cheeks flushed pink. “I know I shouldn’t be talking about her like this, but it’s the truth and she was such a liar. I’d say to her about paying me back, and she’d always plead poverty and that she’d pay me on her next week’s wages. One time, I was so fed up that when she went to work, I went into her room. She had two hundred quid in a drawer! I faced her out when she came back and she just said that she’d forgotten about the cash!”

  “So she did pay you back?”

  “Yes, eventually, but the point is I always had to ask. Like I said, she didn’t pay the rent on time, so I’m out four weeks. I often thought about asking her to leave.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  She shook her head, then frowned. Anna could almost see Sharon’s brain ticking over.

  “What is it?” Anna said encouragingly. “Anything you think of might help me.”

  “You know, there was something about her: I mean, she made you feel sorry for her. It was always as if she was waiting for something. Every time the phone rang, she’d give this expectant look toward it; never pick it up, though. I can’t explain it; it was like she was always hoping for something to happen. We did have a few good times. She could be very funny and the blokes always came on to her; she was a big flirt—well, at first.”

  “What do you mean, at first?”

  Sharon sighed. “When she first turned up, I rented the room to her because she was really sort of excited about her future, but after a couple of months, she was different, sneaking in and out, and she got very secretive. To be honest, I couldn’t really make her out at all. If you asked her a question about what she’d done before, where she lived, anything personal at all really, she’d never give you a direct answer. I think, well, it was kind of my in-tu-…” She frowned.

  “Intuition?” Anna suggested.

  “Yeah. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. Well, I’ll never know now, will I?”

  Anna put Louise’s suitcase into the boot of her Mini. She’d helped Sharon pack up the rest of Louise’s belongings. There wasn’t that much: a few clothes and shoes, and some books. Anna was unsure what she would do with them. It was sad that this was all that was left of Louise’s life and no one wanted them.

  The forensic team began checking over Louise’s garments. They were paying special attention to the dirty underwear, in case they found DNA that might be of use at a later date. The clothes were all tagged and listed and then pinned out on white paper, laid flat on a long trestle table. At the same time, the pathologist was completing his detailed autopsy. It had taken considerable time, due to the fact there were so many injuries; the dismembering and draining of her blood had hampered the usual tests. DCI Langton had called for an update and didn’t like what he was told. If it was at all possible, Louise Pennel’s murder was even more horrific than they had first thought. The pathologist said that it was without doubt the worst case he had ever had to work on, but that he would be able to give full disclosure within twenty-four hours.

  A frustrated Langton sat in his office, brooding darkly. Nine days and they still had no suspect. Even with extra officers working alongside his team, they had not come up with a single witness who had seen Louise Pennel in those days before her body was discovered. He had an uneasy feeling that something was about to explode, and he would be at the receiving end of it.

  Anna was kept waiting, as Richard Reynolds was not at his desk. She sat in the reception area of the Sun’s offices, reading back issues of the paper, for almost three quarters of an hour. She was just getting impatient when Reynolds strode over to the reception desk. He was tall, with a thatch of sandy hair and the most extraordinary blue eyes.

  “Hi, I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I expected you earlier, so when you didn’t show, I popped out to see someone. I’m Dick Reynolds.”

  Anna stood up and shook his hand. “Anna Travis.”

  “Nice to meet you. Do you want to come through to the news desk?” He bent down to pick up her briefcase and gestured that she should follow him. “If you’d prefer, we can bag someone’s office, more private; crime section’s a bit like Piccadilly Circus!” He held open a swing door, standing to one side to allow her to pass in front of him.

  “Whatever,” she said pleasantly. It made a nice change from the usual stride and swinging doors of Langton and his mob.

  “Someone’s office” turned out to be a cordoned-off corner with a desk cluttered with bright potted plants, stacks of papers, and a computer.

  “Right, have a seat, and I’ll get some coffee organized.”

  Dick left her for only a moment before returning and giving her a lovely wide smile. “On its way, Anna. Right, how can I help you?”

  “It’s about the article you wrote, which showed a photograph of the murder victim Louise Pennel.”

  “Right, yes; what about it?”

  “I need to know where you got the photograph from.”

  “Well, that’s easy: from a journalist that worked here.”

  “You linked Louise Pennel’s murder and another case?”

  “Right, the Black Dahlia. To be honest, it was a bit far-fetched; I hadn’t even heard of the old case, but as they both had a flower in their hair, it was just something to hook the story onto, really. I didn’t have much else to go on, as we hadn’t had a press release.”

  “Have you since read up on the Black Dahlia case?”

  “No, I’ve been on the missing kid from Blackheath.”

  “So the only similarity between the two cases, as far as you’re concerned, was the flower?”

  “Yep.”

  “You said you got the photograph from another journalist; did he mention to you the Black Dahlia case?”

  “No. I wouldn’t have known anything about it, but I got an anonymous letter that likened your girl, Louise Pennel, to…” He frowned. “Elizabeth Short was the other victim, wasn’t she? Happened years ago in Los Angeles.”

  “Yes; have you checked into any details of her case?”

  “Nope; went on the Internet to get a bit of info, but to be truthful, it was sort of sidelined by this young boy that’s missing; he’s only twelve.”

  “Do you still have the letter?”

  “No. I should maybe have kept it, because you are here and there’s obviously something going on, but we get a shedload of crank letters every time we headline a murder story. I spoke to someone investigating the case, Richmond station. I did tell them I’d destroyed it. I’m sorry.”

  “Can you recall exactly what it said?”

  Dick looked to the door
as a young secretary carried in a tray of coffee and a packet of biscuits. By the time he had offered milk and sugar and then leaned back in his chair, Anna was feeling very relaxed in his company.

  “It didn’t say much, just that the Black Dahlia killer was never caught. It also said that there was now another one, the Red Dahlia. In the photograph we had, the flower in Louise’s hair looked like a rose to me, but it made a good header.”

  “Was it handwritten?”

  “No, it was typed. Not from a computer; well, I don’t think it was, because it was quite heavy print. It was on a piece of cheap lined paper.”

  “I have to ask you that if you do get any further contacts regarding the Louise Pennel case, you get in touch with me immediately. This is my direct line.” Anna handed him her card. He slipped it into his wallet as she put her coffee cup back into the saucer. “Thank you very much for your time.”

  “My pleasure. Have you had lunch?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, have you had lunch? Only I haven’t, and there’s a nice pub a few minutes away.”

  She flushed and buttoned her coat, unable to look at him. “I have to get back, but thank you for the invitation.”

  By the time Dick Reynolds had led Anna back through the maze of corridors and out to her Mini, she had agreed to have dinner with him the following evening. She was feeling very pleased with herself; it had been a long time since she had been attracted to anyone and she had liked him from the moment she had set eyes on him.

  Reynolds was soon back at his desk, logged onto the Internet. As they had not had a press release detailing the exact similarities, he still believed it was a case of both victims being very pretty girls who wore flowers in their hair and who were only twenty-two when they were killed. He hadn’t realized how much information there was: an entire website for the Elizabeth Short murder that detailed much more appalling similarities; with almost sixty years between the two murders, he decided to concentrate on his missing schoolboy story—for the time being, at any rate.

  4

  DAY TEN

  Anna sat with a surly Langton in his office. “I knew that silly girl was lying,” he said.

  “They sold the photograph for a hundred pounds, split it fifty-fifty.”

  “I can read,” he said as he flipped through her report detailing her interviews with Sharon, Ken Dunn, and Dick Reynolds. “So if they were notes written by the killer, we’ve lost them! Maybe they were just as they said—some crank.”

  “No!”

  Langton looked up.

  “The first note mentioned the cuts to Louise Pennel’s mouth—that detail had not been released. The second was more like a teaser; the journalist had never heard of the Black Dahlia, so just presumed it was the flower connection. Both letters, I think, came from the killer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this last journalist didn’t bite or use it, did he?”

  “Because he presumed—”

  “Yes, yes! That it was just a crank, like the bloody phone calls we’ve had from all the nutters. I’m just surprised that neither kept the notes. Probably wet behind the ears; an old pro wouldn’t have tossed it.”

  “Well, neither of them are old,” Anna said, and felt a hot flush spreading over her cheeks.

  Langton leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Weren’t they now? Well, word of warning: you can never trust them, young or old. I would put money on the fact that, after your visit, they’ll be beavering around to see what they can dig up, and that worries me. Yes?”

  Lewis had tapped the door and peered in. “You want all the files to go over to the hotel?”

  Langton nodded. Lewis closed the door again.

  “Bringing in a profiler. Don’t know if we can get Parks, as he’s writing some book and doing a freebie on the Cunard.”

  “What?”

  Langton stood up and yawned. “Profiler we used for the Alan Daniels case. He’s since become quite a high profile himself, so I dunno who we’ll get in to look over the case. But whoever it is, I hope to Christ they can help us, as we’ve still got fuck all.”

  He perched on the corner of his desk. “I don’t suppose Sharon gave us any more details on this tall, dark stranger and his shiny fucking car?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we’ve got nothing from anyone else either. I am loath to do a TV slot: if the facts get out, it’ll create a nightmare. You know, they never released the details on exactly how the Yorkshire Ripper killed.”

  “He murdered eleven women, so maybe they should have,” Anna said tetchily.

  Langton ignored her tone. “They didn’t with Fred West, either. Apparently it puts readers off: too much gore and they won’t buy the paper; they need just enough to titillate their appetite. We give anything near the truth with our case and it’ll create mayhem. I’m going for a press embargo.”

  “But we need help from someone,” Anna said, standing.

  “I am aware of that,” he snapped, and barged out into the incident room. Anna picked up her report and followed, as there was to be a briefing any minute.

  Langton paced up and down in front of the incident room board. He constantly pulled at his hair so it stood up on end; his tie was loose and his five-o’clock shadow made his face look hollow. Anna wondered how long it would be before the commander paid a visit; her office must be monitoring the progress on their case, or lack of it.

  “Right, we’re going nowhere fast, so if anything has come in, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  There seemed to be no breakthrough from any quarter. Checks had unearthed no suspicious doctor or surgeon. They also had no further details as yet from the forensic team.

  Langton tugged at his tie. “We have to trace this suspect, the dark-haired, middle-aged boyfriend; it doesn’t make sense that none of Louise’s so-called friends knew anything about him. Someone must have seen him or met him; someone knows more than we’ve uncovered. So tomorrow, go back to square one and reinterview her known associates. We know she only lived at Sharon’s flat for six months, so dig further back; where she lived before, anyone found out?”

  Barolli held up his pencil. “I’ve got a bed-and-breakfast address in Paddington and a flat in Brixton off the DSS. She was also at a hostel in Victoria, but so far we’re coming up empty-handed: people are saying she used to keep to herself.”

  “Get back to all those places and try again. Yes!” Langton pointed to Lewis.

  “We’ve got a previous employer: a dog clipper! She worked there for some time before the dental surgery. It’s also a boarding kennel. She was a poor worker, always late; she only lasted four weeks. Owner hired her from the job center; we’ve been back there trying to trace any other work she may have got through them, but so far, not much luck.”

  Langton nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He sounded tired and ratty. “Louise was at Stringfellow’s and yet no one sees her there, or sees her leave with anyone; that was thirteen days ago. Thirteen! For three days and nights, she was somewhere with somebody and whoever that was mutilated her and tortured her to death. Whoever that was drained her blood and cut her in half! And we do not have a single clue to his identity! All we know is that she was having a relationship with an older man, a tall, dark-haired, middle-aged man. Now, from the photographs that Sharon Bilkin sold to the press, someone has to recognize her. It just isn’t logical for a girl as attractive as our victim to be able to disappear into fucking thin air!”

  Langton told the team about the notes that had been sent to the press and destroyed by the two journalists, who could remember nothing unusual about the postage stamps or franking on the envelopes. If they had held a clue, they no longer had access to it now. By the time he finished the briefing, he was in a foul mood, and the entire team was left feeling depressed. They had only one option: to go back over what little they had, hoping to uncover something they had missed.

  Anna did not get back
to her flat until nine fifteen. She hoped her dinner date with Dick Reynolds the following evening would not have to be canceled. She was on the early-morning shift, though, so she should be able to leave the station by four in the afternoon, giving her time to wash her hair, have a nice long bath, and get ready. She brought Louise Pennel’s suitcase in from the car and left it by an armchair. She was tired out and so just made some cheese on toast and a big mug of tea, which she took into her lounge to eat in front of the TV. She zapped through a few channels and ended up watching some game show in which a team of hysterical women were trying to cook a three-course dinner that cost no more than five pounds. She finished her own meal and decided it was bedtime, using the remote to turn off the set.

  Without the TV on, the room was almost in darkness; the cheap suitcase drew Anna’s attention as she drank the last of her tea. Even though she was tired out, she dragged it over to the sofa, switched on a lamp, and opened it up. The clothes she had taken from Louise’s bedroom were neatly folded, as she had packed them herself. She took out each item and laid them on the floor. She then searched the suitcase again for anything they might have missed.

  The lining was frayed but there was nothing hidden inside it. She glanced at the sticker labeling the case with Sharon’s address, and then looked at it more closely. It had been pasted over another, so she cut the tag off, took it into the kitchen, and put the kettle on. Holding it gingerly in the steam, she was able to pick slowly at the corner until she could peel the top sticker off. Underneath, in old-fashioned, looped writing, Mrs F. Pennel, Seacroft House, Bognor Regis was written in ink.

  Anna made a note of this and then placed the two labels in an envelope to take into the station in the morning.

  Next, she began to check every single item she had removed, things that neither the forensic team nor Sharon had wanted. They smelled of a strange, musty perfume, which Anna recognized as stale Tudor Rose.