The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

  Placed close to the electric fire was a floral-printed sofa, piled high with cushions. Reclining on it was an incredibly pretty elderly lady with snow-white hair worn in a braid around her head. She wore a nylon nightdress and pink knitted bed jacket; her eyes were heavy with mascara, her cheeks rouged, and her lips outlined in pink.

  “Mrs. Pennel?” Anna asked, moving closer.

  “Hello, dear.” Mrs. Pennel’s nail polish matched her lipstick; her puffy arthritic fingers bore a number of diamond rings and her wrist a large bracelet. She patted a velvet chair near her and smiled.

  “Sit down, dear; have you been offered a drink?”

  Anna could feel the sweat under her armpits; the temperature in the room was about eighty degrees. “No, thank you. Do you mind if I take my coat off?”

  “I have some gin and tonic in the cabinet.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “If you want a coffee or tea, you’ll have to ring for Mrs. Hughes. I did have a kettle in here but I don’t know where it is, and some teacups, but they were taken down to the kitchen and never brought back up again. Would you like a drink?”

  Mrs. Pennel was evidently hard of hearing. Anna leaned forward and spoke up. “No, thank you.”

  Mrs. Pennel blinked and fussed with her bed jacket. “Are you from the Social Services?”

  It took Anna quite a while to communicate to Mrs. Pennel that she was there to ask about a girl called Louise. She seemed not to know the name and showed no reaction when Anna told her that she had found her address on a label attached to a suitcase. It was hard going. Mrs. Pennel leaned back and closed her eyes; whether she was listening or not, Anna couldn’t tell.

  “Mrs. Pennel, Louise was murdered.”

  No reaction.

  “Are you related to her?”

  No reaction.

  Anna tapped the ringed hand. “Mrs. Pennel, can you hear me?”

  The mascaraed eyes fluttered.

  “It has been in all the papers. Could you look at this photograph and tell me if you know this girl?”

  Anna held the photograph out. “This is Louise Pennel.” Mrs. Pennel sat up, searched for some glasses, and then stared at the photograph.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  “Louise Pennel,” Anna said again, loudly.

  “Is it Raymond’s daughter?”

  “Who is Raymond?”

  “My son; that’s him over there.”

  Mrs. Pennel pointed to a row of photographs. There were various pictures of Florence in theatrical costumes and two of a young dark-haired man in military uniform who Anna recognized from Louise’s album.

  “Is this your son?”

  “He married a terrible woman, a hairdresser; he died of a burst appendix and if she had got a brain she would have called an ambulance, but she let him die. I would have helped out if I’d known they were in financial trouble, but she wouldn’t even speak to me. Heather, her name was; Heather.”

  Anna sat down and showed the photograph to Mrs. Pennel again. “Did Louise ever come to see you?”

  Mrs. Pennel plucked at her jacket and turned away. “My son was a foolish boy, but if he’d asked for help, I’d have forgiven him.”

  Anna was becoming impatient. She leaned forward and spoke loudly. “Mrs. Pennel, I am here because I am investigating the murder of Louise Pennel. I need to know if she came here and if so, whether someone was with her.”

  “Yes!” the old lady snapped.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said yes. Yes, yes, yes. My son I would have helped, but not that woman, with her bleached hair and her common voice and cheap perfume. She was to blame; it was her fault he died.”

  Anna stood up. “Mrs. Pennel, your granddaughter is dead. I am not here about your son or your daughter-in-law, but about Louise Pennel. I just want to know if she came here and if anyone accompanied her.”

  Mrs. Pennel closed her eyes; her hands were drawn into fists, her lips tight. “I said if he married her I would disinherit him, cut him off without a penny, and he spat at me. My own son; he spat at me. If his father had been alive, he wouldn’t have dared do that; he would not have dared marry that whore. I nearly died carrying him; I had a terrible time. I was in the hospital for weeks after his birth. I only ever wanted what was best for him; I spoiled him, gave him anything he wanted, but he just walked out. He chose that terrible woman over me.”

  Anna stood up; there was no way she could break into the stream of vitriol that spewed out of the old lady’s painted lips. She didn’t even appear to have noticed that Anna was picking up her coat, ready to leave. She stared straight ahead into the electric fire, her hands clenched.

  Anna headed down the stairs, and she could still hear Mrs. Pennel as she continued to berate her dead son, her voice echoing down.

  “Twenty-six years old, his whole life ahead of him, and she came and destroyed everything. I loved my son; I would have given him everything I have. He knew that; he knew I adored him, but he chose that bitch!”

  Mrs. Hughes appeared at the kitchen door. She looked up the stairs, then back to Anna. “She can keep going for hours until she’s exhausted, then she just sleeps. Did you want to know about Raymond? I should have warned you not to bring up his name if you didn’t. She’s like a broken record!”

  “Could I just have a few words with you?” Anna asked.

  The kitchen was as tired and old-fashioned as the rest of the house. Mrs. Hughes put the kettle on and turned to Anna. “She’s ninety-four; she’s been dying for the last twenty years, but hangs on as if she’s afraid to let go. I think it’s the fury that keeps her alive. She doesn’t even want to watch TV or listen to the radio. She just lies up there in her own world. She sometimes looks through her photograph albums, her days when she was an actress, before she married the major. He died twenty-odd years ago; everyone she knew is dead.”

  “Did you know her son?”

  “Not really. By the time I came, he’d left; they had this fight about the girl he wanted to marry. Mrs. Pennel cut him off, and he never came back.”

  Anna nodded. “I am here because a girl called Louise Pennel has been murdered; she had a suitcase with this address.”

  “That might be her granddaughter; I think one of her names was Louise. Mary Louise?”

  Anna took a deep breath; at last she was able to ask the questions she needed answering. She took out Louise’s photograph. “Is this her?”

  Mrs. Hughes looked at the photograph.

  “Yes. I only met her once. She’s murdered?”

  “She came here? To Harwood House?”

  “Yes, about eight or nine months ago. She’s been murdered?”

  “Yes; it has had extensive news coverage.”

  “We don’t get the newspapers; she likes the glossy magazines.”

  “Is there any way you could recall the exact date Louise came here?”

  Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips, then went to a cabinet and opened a drawer. She took out a large calendar, evidently a freebie from an estate agent. She began flicking through it, licking her fingertips as she turned over month by month of elegant houses.

  “It was last May, the sixteenth, nearly nine months ago now.”

  “Thank you, that’s terrific. Is Mrs. Pennel very wealthy?”

  “Yes, well, worth a few hundred thousand, then there’s this house and she has some nice jewelry. She has a solicitor who comes round a lot to check on the running of the house. My wages and the bills are paid direct. I think he suggested she move into a home, but she won’t have it. She just lives up there, never comes down here, hasn’t for years.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Murdered; that’s terrible.”

  Anna did not want to get into the details of the murder. She concentrated on her notebook. “Do you live in?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a room next to hers, in case she needs me at night.”

  Mrs. Hughes set down the tea tray and poured from a small dented teapot. “Place is going to r
ack and ruin, but she won’t spend a penny on doing anything; well, I suppose at ninety-four, why bother?”

  “Did Mrs. Pennel talk to Louise when she was here?”

  “No, the old girl was very poorly with the flu; I never thought she’d get over it, but she did. Louise just turned up on the doorstep.”

  “So you had never met her before?”

  “I knew there was a granddaughter, but the old lady would have nothing to do with her; I didn’t even know her name. I said for her to come back and I told Florence she’d called round, but she said if she came again, not to let her in.”

  “Did she say why she had turned up?”

  Mrs. Hughes dipped a biscuit into her tea. “She needed some money. She said she had a good job opportunity and wanted to buy a new coat. It was strange, you know, never having seen her before; to be honest, I did think she was a bit desperate. She said this job was very important.”

  “Did she tell you anything about it?”

  “Not really; she said it was going to take her abroad and she would have to get a passport; sounded too good to be true to me. I think she answered an advert in the paper for a PA to someone wealthy. She’d sent a letter and got a reply asking to meet her, so she wanted some new clothes. She needed shoes as well: she had these worn old things on, very down at heel they were.”

  “Was anyone with her?”

  “No, she’d come on the train from London. She said she was renting a room in a hostel; where, she didn’t say, but she looked very shabby and pale, and her hair needed washing. I felt sorry for her, but there was nothing I could do.”

  Mrs. Hughes cupped her hand to draw the biscuit crumbs from the table, then stood, listening, her head tilted to the ceiling.

  “She’s quiet; probably fallen asleep.”

  Mrs. Hughes crossed to the old-fashioned big square sink and brushed the crumbs from her hands. She turned on the tap, swilling around the sink and draining board.

  “Are you sure Louise Pennel never came here before?”

  Mrs. Hughes returned to the table and picked up Anna’s cup. “I lost my husband; he committed suicide fourteen years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was a bankrupt; couldn’t live with it. I have a daughter but she emigrated to Canada. I’ll go over there one day and see her; she’s got three children. I doubt if the old lady will last much longer. Her solicitors asked me to stay on caring for her, so that’s why I’m here; I’m supposed to have Sundays off, but I never take them. I’m always here, so if the girl had come by, I would have known about it. We hardly ever have any visitors, just her solicitor and sometimes Social Services to check on her health.” Mrs. Hughes gave an embarrassed smile. “Not a very exciting life, is it? But the old lady’s solicitors said I’m mentioned in her will; she keeps telling me that after she’s gone I’ll be looked after, so here I am.”

  “But she wouldn’t see her granddaughter?”

  Mrs. Hughes shrugged and began washing the teacups.

  “Did you give Louise a suitcase?”

  Mrs. Hughes kept her back to Anna and made no answer.

  “The reason I contacted Mrs. Pennel was because there was a label on a suitcase with this address; it was in Louise’s flat.”

  Mrs. Hughes dried the cups, still with her back to Anna. “It was mine.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said it was my case, one I used when I moved in here.”

  Anna kept her voice very calm and steady. “You gave it to Louise?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Hughes seemed preoccupied as she put the crockery into a cabinet.

  Anna persisted. “Why did you give her your suitcase?”

  Mrs. Hughes closed the cabinet door. She had two pink spots high on her cheeks. “I felt sorry for her; when the old lady wouldn’t see her, she looked desolate. She kept on chewing her nails, saying she just needed a couple of hundred pounds and that she would pay it back as soon as she got this job. Well, I didn’t have the money to give her and I knew if I asked Mrs. Pennel for it, she’d go ballistic; her solicitors count every penny—God forbid if I overspend on the groceries. I didn’t have any cash to give her.”

  Anna smiled warmly. Mrs. Hughes was obviously upset, constantly touching the roll of curl at the side of her head.

  “So you gave her your suitcase?”

  “Yes; there are wardrobes full of clothes that Mrs. Pennel will never wear. I’ve taken armfuls to the local charity shop.”

  “So you gave her some clothes?”

  “Just a few dresses and coats and things; I mean they weren’t suitable for a young girl but they were very good quality.” The pink spots on Mrs. Hughes’s cheeks deepened and she seemed flustered.

  “Anything else?” Anna asked innocently, wondering why she seemed so nervous.

  Mrs. Hughes sat down and rested her head in her hands. She then explained how she had gone up the stairs to fetch the suitcase and clothes. When Louise had turned up, she had been polishing some silver in the kitchen. It was not until Louise had left that Mrs. Hughes realized that two snuffboxes and a solid silver candlestick were missing.

  Anna calmed Mrs. Hughes by asking her to describe the clothing and shoes. The poor woman was so afraid she would lose her job or her place in Mrs. Pennel’s will that she had never mentioned it to anyone. Anna doubted if the items could have been worth more than a few hundred pounds and she saw no reason to contact Mrs. Pennel’s solicitors. She would nevertheless have to mention it in her report, so that the items could be traced in case Louise had sold them.

  Checking her watch, Anna remembered she had asked the taxi to wait. She knew she’d get a ticking-off at the extra cost, but she had gained some worthwhile information. She had three quarters of an hour before her train was due and so decided to call in at the local station.

  Bognor Regis police station was not exactly a hive of activity. The duty sergeant suggested she talk to a DS Len White, who had been at the station for thirty years and was now there on a semi-retired basis, giving talks to the local schools.

  Anna outlined the reason for her visit to Mrs. Pennel. DS White, a gray-haired, thick-set officer, listened intently. He had a habit of breathing heavily through his nose, leaning his elbows on the desk.

  “I know the old lady, quite a character. I was very wet behind the ears when I was called out to the place: big garden party going on, and the cars had blocked the through road down to the beach. She used to be quite the social queen. To be honest, I’m amazed she’s still going strong; she must be, what?”

  Anna smiled. “She is ninety-four.”

  “I reckon she must be, cos she was no spring chicken then. After the major died, she took to her bed. He was a character: we’d picked him up a couple of times the worse for drink. He had an old Rolls-Royce and we’d find him sitting sleeping over the wheel; he’d wag his finger: ‘Not drivin’ officer, just sleeping it off.’ So we’d take him home and often have a drink together. I was fond of the old boy, but he was an old soak really.”

  Anna took out the photograph of Louise Pennel. “Did you ever see the granddaughter, Louise Pennel?”

  “No, never met her. I knew the son, Raymond; he was a sad case. Florence doted on him. We gave him a slap on the wrist when he was caught down by the seafront, cottaging by the gents’ toilets. He was warned not to be seen there again; he was, quite a few times, but his mother always pulled strings. She worshipped the ground he walked on.”

  “He was gay?”

  “Yes; he knew from a very early age.”

  “But he married a local girl, didn’t he?”

  DS White smiled. “He did. I can’t recall her name, but I knew she’d got a bit of a reputation for putting it about. Mrs. Pennel called us in once: there was all hell let loose. She was screaming and smashing things up; she wanted us to help her talk sense into her son, wailing and throwing her arms around. Nothing we could do but try and calm her down. I’d got fond of the family, so would help out when I could. A few
nights later, I got called out again: she claimed some of her jewelry had been stolen and a silver tea service had gone missing. Turned out Raymond had packed it into a suitcase and gone off with this girl.”

  “Did she press charges?”

  “No. I never saw her again until years later when Raymond was buried; died of a burst appendix. Apparently he was broke, living in some rented place, with the same drink problem as his father. Mrs. Pennel got his body brought home, and as far as I recall, his wife never came to the funeral.”

  “Do you know what happened to the wife and to Mrs. Pennel’s granddaughter?”

  He nodded. “Again, I can’t be exactly sure of the dates, but about four or five years later, I was told that Raymond’s wife had died of cancer. One of her mother’s relatives had contacted Mrs. Pennel to see if she could take the little girl but apparently she refused, so she went into a children’s home; must have been about eleven years old. Sad, isn’t it? All that money and that big house and she wouldn’t have anything to do with her, and now: tragic. What a waste.”

  “Yes,” Anna said, declining to enlighten DS White as to just how tragic Louise’s death had been.

  Returning to London on the train, Anna felt depressed. Fitting Louise Pennel’s background together had not exactly taken the inquiry a stage further. There was one thing that might bring a result: the advert that Louise had answered. They might get lucky and be able to trace a link to their suspect. It was imperative that they discover which paper or magazine Louise had read the advert in. All Anna knew was that Louise was to have a job interview sometime after May sixteenth. Was that when Louise had met her killer?

  Anna sighed. Despite all their modern technology, they were, as with the original Elizabeth Short murder, grasping at straws. Sixty years between, and yet they had so far been unable to use any of their scientific expertise to unlock the pitiful clues they had acquired to date. Anna leaned back and dialed the incident room on her mobile. She spoke briefly to Barolli to see if he could start running a check on the newspaper ads that Louise might have answered. She suggested they first try Time Out, as she knew that was where Louise had read Sharon’s advert. She got quite an earful from the frazzled detective, as he had had yet another fruitless day’s work trying to find previous employers of Louise, but nevertheless, he said they would get onto it ASAP.