There was a child’s hand-knitted sweater with a zigzag design and some of the wool fraying at the cuffs. Anna could make out a smudged name on its label: Mary Louise P., Harwood House. Again, she jotted the information down. Next came a threadbare flannelette nightdress, a set of waitress’s collar and cuffs, and a pair of tired-looking, low-heeled court shoes with holes in the soles.
Anna knew that the more expensive garments, like the cashmere sweaters, had been taken to the lab for tests. She also thought it more than likely that, despite her protestations, Sharon had picked over Louise’s stuff and taken a number of things. The leftovers were a sad array that even the charity shops would not want. There were three paperback books, well worn, with many pages turned over at the top corner: it was a habit, even when exercised on paperbacks, that Anna loathed. There were also two Barbara Cartland bodice rippers and a small leather-bound dictionary; written on the flyleaf was Harwood House Library and an address in Eastbourne. It was dated 1964, but Anna knew that Louise Pennel was twenty-two years old, so she must have taken it from the library. The last book was equally well thumbed, with many passages underlined. It was a pocket book of etiquette, from table manners to serving dinners, circa 1950.
Packing all the items back into the suitcase made Anna feel a great sadness for the girl they had once belonged to. The tawdry remnants of her life gave Anna little idea of what kind of girl Louise had been, other than that she had wanted to better herself; the horrific circumstances of her death were a far cry from the romantic world of Barbara Cartland.
About to place one of the novels back into the case, Anna flicked through it; caught between the pages was a folded note written on lined paper. The handwriting was childish and there were a number of misspellings and crossings-out. It appeared to be a draft of a job application and began Dear Mr.…It went on:
I am enclosing a photograph of myself. I would like to apply for the position of personal assistant. I am presently working for a dental practice but have always wanted to travel, and as I have no dependents this would not be a problem. I am able to type but do not have shorthand.
That was all; no signature, no name, and no address. It felt yet again like a step forward that abruptly stopped.
Anna lay awake for a while, thinking about Louise Pennel. Could that job application have been how she met their missing tall, dark stranger? Anna snuggled into her pillow and tried to distract herself by thinking about what she would wear for her date tomorrow evening. Dick Reynolds had just said a bite to eat, so she didn’t want to overdress. She hadn’t made up her mind by the time she fell asleep.
Her sleep was deep but not dreamless: the image of Louise Pennel’s ghostlike face, with her slit bleeding clown mouth open wide, kept on floating before Anna, as if she was calling out to her. Louise was naked, her skin white as porcelain, as it had been when they had first seen her severed body. She was wearing only the white waitress’s collar and cuffs and moved closer and closer as if to touch Anna. That was when she woke and sat bolt upright. It was four o’clock and the alarm would be ringing at six. She flopped down and closed her eyes; so much for a good night’s sleep.
5
DAY ELEVEN
Everyone had been instructed to gather in the incident room for a briefing. Anna had already passed over her report with the findings from Louise Pennel’s belongings. As the team waited for Langton, she began checking out the Mrs. F. Pennel in Bognor Regis. She had discovered that the Harwood House address had been a children’s home that had closed down over five years ago. A Joyce Hughes, Mrs. Pennel’s carer, answered the phone and told Anna that she was very elderly and bedridden; she was unable to say whether or not she was any relation to Louise. Anna asked if it would be convenient to call again to speak to Mrs. Pennel personally, and Mrs. Hughes suggested she try again between four and five that afternoon.
Langton came out of his office looking smart in a gray suit with a pink shirt and gray tie. He had obviously made an effort; he had shaved, and even his hair looked neat.
“Right, we all here?”
Everyone looked attentively toward him as the latecomers scurried in.
“We will have the full autopsy report first thing in the morning. We are also being joined by a profiler who has been working on the statements taken to date.”
The double doors to the incident room opened, and Lewis held one wide to allow an elegant blonde woman to walk through. She was wearing a tight-fitting check jacket that Anna thought might be Chanel, with a tight black pencil skirt and patent spike-heeled shoes; she carried a bulging black briefcase. She was tall and slender with perfect legs, and although hers was not exactly a pretty face—it was too angular, her nose too sharp—her wide-apart eyes made her appear exceptionally attractive. A comb caught up her hair in a chignon and she wore no lipstick, just a hint of gloss. Her appearance silenced the room.
Langton introduced Professor Aisling Marshe and then gave the names of all those gathered. She gave a small smile and polite nod, then started to remove files from her briefcase. Coffee was served, Bridget wheeling the trolley around the desks, as Professor Marshe talked quietly to Langton and studied the incident board. About fifteen minutes later, she removed her jacket and placed it on the back of her chair. She had on a white silk blouse, but no jewelry other than a pair of large gilt earrings. She asked Langton to draw the table closer to her chair, which he did very quickly.
Anna had never seen him be so helpful and charming. He was smiling at the professor all the time; he served her coffee and asked if she wanted sugar; it looked as if he would even drink it for her if she asked him to. Anna realized that when he had mentioned calling in a profiler, he must have already arranged to have the professor on board; he was keeping things as close to his chest as when they had last worked together.
At last the professor seemed ready to talk to them. The room fell silent.
“Firstly, I’d like to express my thanks to DCI Langton—James—for giving me this opportunity. I am actually in England on a sabbatical.” She turned to flash a knowing smile at Langton.
Anna was stunned; it was very obvious that Langton and this American knew each other extremely well. If they weren’t already sleeping together, Anna was certain that they would be soon. She was so taken aback that she missed what was said next. She wasn’t alone; some of the other officers had been shooting glances at one another.
“I want you to have a look at my previous work, so I’ve had a few sheets typed up for you.” She handed them to Langton, who began passing them around. “Just so that you know more about me, and hopefully trust in my judgment over the Louise Pennel case.”
She was nervous; she kept turning a pencil in her manicured hands. As the team started reading, the professor flipped open her own file and waited patiently.
Professor Marshe had been working for Court TV in America for the past eighteen months, participating in live discussions on the cases broadcast. They all appeared to be high-profile murder trials. Her previous work had been in connection with the NYPD homicide unit as a freelance adviser. She had been educated at Vassar and had an impressive list of degrees. She had also spent eight months interviewing serial killers in various prisons across America for her latest book and had guested on two high-profile television documentaries. She was single, aged thirty-eight.
Anna folded the CV and, along with the rest of the room, looked toward Professor Marshe, eager to hear what she had to say.
“I would really have liked more time to digest the case history to date, so I will very likely need to get back to you with further details on how I think you should progress.”
She turned to indicate the photographs of Louise Pennel. “The killer obviously had a lengthy period of time to commit this crime. She was missing for three days. It is quite possible she took that length of time to die. Your killer has to have a place where the dismembering and blood draining could be done. I do think the perpetrator is someone with medical training and I do think
you are looking for a male. He will live somewhere in this area, quite possibly close to the murder site itself. This kill is premeditated. Your killer will have taken many months choosing his victim and planning the torture as part of his modus operandi; he must therefore have known the victim very well. He would have known that she would not be missed for some considerable time. I am aware that you are hoping to trace a suspect. This description of a tall, well-dressed, perhaps middle-aged man would fit the profile I have begun on your killer. This man, I doubt I have to tell you, is extremely dangerous. I do not think that Louise was his first victim; I also do not think she will be his last. Perhaps it would be advisable to go back into any unsolved cases and look for murders with an exceptional sadistic sexual motive.”
Professor Marshe paused and looked at her notes; she then tapped the page. “It’s quite possible that this killer will have been married; he may even still be married and with a family, grown-up children, I think. He has a hatred of women. So look for someone whose previous marriages have failed, someone who has been humiliated and someone with an immense ego; it is his ego we need to concentrate on, because that’s what will lead you to him.”
Anna stifled a yawn. The truth was Professor Marshe had not really told them anything they had not already discussed. Langton, on the other hand, appeared so enamored with what the professor was saying that Anna wanted to slap him. She watched, irritated, as Professor Marshe held up the book on the Black Dahlia that she herself had brought to Langton’s attention.
“The last book written on the Black Dahlia constantly refers to how clever the killer of Elizabeth Short was: clever enough that, after numerous contacts by him to the police, they were still unable to catch him. It is quite likely that he went on to kill two more women, as if to prove himself above suspicion. Even after these murders he remained undetected. Your killer will have enjoyed reading as much information about Elizabeth Short as possible, because he identifies himself with her killer. If you read the description of Elizabeth Short, she is very similar to Louise Pennel: Elizabeth was twenty-two years old, five feet six inches. She had black hair, whereas Louise Pennel was dark blonde, dyed red. Both women’s fingernails were bitten down to the quick. I am certain your killer chose Louise Pennel very carefully and I am certain he will have the same overblown ego as Elizabeth Short’s killer. His psychological sickness will mean he wants as much attention given to the Louise Pennel case as to the Black Dahlia. For starters, he has alerted the press to the Elizabeth Short case and encouraged them to give your victim the nickname of the Red Dahlia. I am certain that the two letters received by the journalists were sent by him. Now he will become desperate to hear about the inquiry: he will want to read about his exploits; to hear that you have no leads will fuel his ego and provoke him to make further contact. To date, you have not released the full extent of Louise’s horrific injuries. I suggest you maintain a very low profile to draw him out. The more he is drawn out to make contact, the more likely he is to make a mistake.”
Anna watched as Professor Marshe closed her file, indicating that the meeting was over. The team began to talk among themselves. Langton and Professor Marshe spent some time looking over the board, then went into Langton’s office. Barolli wandered over to Anna’s desk.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“She’s not exactly said anything we haven’t discussed. I mean, we are all certain he’s a freak, and quite possibly the tall, dark stranger that Louise was dating, but the reality is we are no closer to discovering who he is. To be honest, I am not sure if we have the time to play his games.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trying to draw him out and putting a press embargo on exactly what we release might just be a big time-waster. Someone out there knows who he is; someone saw him with Louise, and without a big press push, we might not get anything until he kills again. Which I agree with her, he is going to do.”
“So you didn’t rate her?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Barolli smiled. “The bit about the suspect being married with grown-up kids will give us more to work on.”
Anna shrugged. “I don’t see how; we’ve not even got a possible suspect yet.”
“But she said that Louise had to have been with this guy. You said it yourself: somebody has to bloody know him.”
“Not if he made sure he was never seen with Louise; from what I gathered from Sharon, he never even went into the flat. He waited outside in the car.”
“Yeah, the shiny black one!” Barolli sighed, exasperated, and wandered off.
Anna crossed her legs beneath the desk and swore as she felt her tights snag. She bent down and hitched up her skirt; the ladder was spreading upward from a large hole on her knee.
“You want to see if this woman in Bognor Regis can give us anything?”
Anna looked up; Langton was leaning on her desk.
“Sure.”
He leaned closer, looking down. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing; just snagged my tights.”
“Off you go, then.”
“Now?”
“Yes, Travis, now; unless you have something else pressing? No need to take anyone with you.” He paused for a moment. “What did you think of her?”
She knew who he was referring to, of course, but acted as if she didn’t. “Think of who?”
“Professor Marshe?”
“Interesting; not as informative as Michael Parks.”
“Well, he didn’t give us much to start off with, if you remember; in fact, I didn’t rate him at all when he first talked to the team, but he came up with the goods on how to handle Alan Daniels. Aisling seems to think we are hunting down another sociopath.”
Anna busied herself packing her briefcase. “Bit obvious; I mean what sane person would commit such a horrific murder? Every time I think about it I feel sick.”
“Let’s hope your outing to Bognor Regis proves to be worthwhile.”
“Will it be okay if I go straight home after, as I’m off at four?”
“Why not?” he said, walking away; he then turned back, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Eager to get off home? That’s not like you; unless you’ve got a date?”
“No,” she lied, then added that she had been up late working on the report.
“Ah yes; well, enjoy your trip.”
“Thank you.” Anna snapped her briefcase closed. She didn’t know how he managed to get under her skin so easily. “I’ll call in if I do get anything,” she said, but he was already moving across the room to speak to Lewis and Barolli.
Mrs. Pennel’s was a large Victorian double-fronted house with big bay windows, set well back from the road leading down to the beach. All the other properties had gardens that were well kept, if slightly strewn with sand, but this one was very overgrown. Anna rang the intercom at the gate and waited, the wind whipping her coat. At last, a disembodied voice asked who she was, and then buzzed it open. The path and front steps were gritty with sand and the doormat was threadbare; it looked as if it hadn’t been swept or moved in years.
Anna rang the bell and stepped back. The front door had stained-glass panels, two with tape over the cracks. It was a few minutes before the door clicked open and a reincarnation of Mrs. Danvers peered out. She was dressed in a black crepe skirt and woolen sweater, with a housekeeper’s faded floral smock over it, dark stockings, and lace-up shoes. It was her iron-gray hair that made Anna think instantly of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, as it was worn in an old-fashioned forties style with a roll on either side of her head. She had thin, drawn lips and small, button-cold eyes.
“Are you the policewoman?”
“Yes, I am Detective Inspector Anna Travis. Are you Mrs. Hughes?” She showed her warrant card.
“Yes; you had better come in.” She opened the door wider.
Anna stepped into a cold and unwelcoming hallway. It was as if the house was suspended in a time warp. The walls
were lined with dark prints and old brown photographs, and the glass of the heavy chandeliers was tinted mustard yellow and green. There was a distinct smell of mothballs.
“Follow me. Mrs. Pennel is expecting you, but she may be sleeping.”
Mrs. Hughes led the way up the stairs past a sick-looking plant on a plinth in front of dark green velvet draped curtains.
“Have you worked for Mrs. Pennel a long time?” Anna asked.
“Yes, twelve years. There used to be other staff but they’ve not been here for years; nowadays we just have a cleaner.”
Mrs. Hughes stopped on a sparse landing, next to a commode chair and a walking frame, and held up her hand. “Give me a minute.”
Anna watched as Mrs. Hughes entered a room at the far end of the landing.
“Florence, the lady is here to see you. Florence!”
Anna could not hear a reply. “Do you need me to stay with you?” Mrs. Hughes asked, standing to one side.
“No, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“There’s a bell push at the side of her door; just pull it when you leave. I’ll wait downstairs.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s all right; I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Anna closed the door behind her, as she could sense Mrs. Hughes hovering. She wasn’t really like Mrs. Danvers; actually, she’d been quite helpful so far.
“Mrs. Pennel?” Anna asked, taking in the room.
It was not as drab as the rest of the house. The walls were apple green, the carpet a darker green, and the curtains floral. There was a massive carved wardrobe, a matching dresser with a bow-fronted mirror on top, and a four-poster bed with drapes that matched the walls. There were also large potted plants in the corners; Anna presumed they were fake, as the heat in the room was overpowering. A marble fireplace had a large electric fire in the grate with all four bars on. Old-fashioned central heating pipes ran around almost the entire room and, judging by the heat, they were all turned on as well. There were stacks of magazines and fashion books on stools and small tables, and bottles of water, medicine, and perfume jostled for space with silver photograph frames on the mantel shelf and dressing table.
The Red Dahlia Page 6
