The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

Anna hesitated. “I think our killer was at the club, and someone must have seen him.”

  He nodded, and then checked his watch. “I’ll come to the club with you; now I need a shower, so get some breakfast.”

  “I doubt anyone will be there; it’s not yet nine.”

  Langton opened his office door to be confronted by Lewis, who was red in the face.

  “We’ve got another letter.”

  A certain girl is going to get the same as LP got if she squeals on me. Catch me if you can.

  On the back of the envelope, there was more:

  L. Pennel got it. Who’s next?

  A speeding patrol car took Langton, Anna, and the handwritten note directly to the forensic labs to meet a handwriting expert. As they arrived, they received a call from the incident room: Dick Reynolds had called; he too had received another note, not handwritten, but using newspaper cutout letters.

  HaVe cHanGed mY mind. YoU wOuld Not hAVe giVeN me a sQuare dEal. Dahlia kIlliNg was JuStiFied.

  The handwriting expert deduced that their writer had taken great pains to disguise his or her personality by printing the message and endeavoring to appear illiterate; however, the style and formation of the handwriting betrayed the writer as an educated person. He loathed being put under such pressure but he said that the sender was, in his opinion, an egomaniac and possibly a musician.

  Langton tried to contain his impatience. “Musician? What do you mean? I mean, what gives you that he was a musician from these notes?”

  “The highlighting of certain letters is as if he is giving a musical weight to them.”

  “Really? How about if he’s just trying to disguise his writing?” Langton said edgily.

  “That’s also quite possible.” The expert added that the letter was feeding the writer’s ego and that the writer would be unable to keep a secret; in his estimation, what had been written was the truth.

  Langton and Anna went next to the Sun’s offices. Barolli confirmed to Anna over the phone that the wording of the letters was almost identical to notes sent by the Black Dahlia killer, the only difference that, unlike the LA killer, their sender had not named his next victim.

  Anna could see the pressure coming down on Langton: these contacts said so much but held no clue as to the sender. The team had no fingerprints, just the handwriting and the expert’s opinion that all contacts to date had been sent by the same person.

  Reynolds was waiting in the reception; as he handed over the note in a plastic bag, his mobile rang. He listened and then looked shocked.

  “We’ve got another one; it’s in the mail room.”

  It was after two when Langton and Anna returned to the incident room. The team was stunned to be told that Reynolds had had a second contact. Langton read the message out loud.

  Go slow. Mankiller says Red Dahlia Case is cold.

  Langton was handed yet another letter by Lewis:

  I have decided not to surrender. Too much fun fooling police. Red Dahlia Avenger

  Langton looked around the team and then shook his head. “This is bloody unbelievable. Four contacts from the crazy bastard, and we can’t keep the fucking journalist Reynolds quiet. He’s going to print his letters!”

  “What do we get from them?” Lewis asked.

  Langton glared at him. “That he’s playing silly buggers with us—with me—and that if we are to believe him, he’s going to kill again!”

  “But he says someone is squealing: who does he mean by that?” Barolli asked.

  “I don’t bloody know!” Langton snapped. “I think he’s just goading me.”

  Anna watched as he headed toward his office. Everything about him was crumpled; he still had not had time to take a shower. She felt sorry for him. “Are you coming to the club?” she asked.

  “No, I’ve got my work cut out here; you get off there. Take Barolli with you.”

  He slammed the door behind him. Anna was on her way to Stringfellow’s with Barolli fifteen minutes later. They were driven in an unmarked patrol car, both sitting in the back with a driver up front. Anna explained to Barolli about the reordering of the CCTV footage.

  “It’s possible; do you know how many tapes we had to wade through? It’s not my fault if we got it wrong.”

  “Nobody is blaming you,” she said quietly.

  “Fifteen hours I had to sit through, fifteen!”

  “Yes, I know. By the way, did you check if Louise ever had a mobile phone?”

  “Yes, and we don’t think so. But at the same time, she could have bought one of those ten-quid, pay-as-you-go things, which doesn’t have to be registered.”

  “Did you also check all the calls made from Sharon’s land line?”

  “Yes, don’t you read the reports? Hairdressers, agent, nail extensions, hair extensions, gym classes! I bloody checked them all. No calls to our suspect, unless he runs a salon—that girl spends a fortune! So maybe one of them that did her beauty treatment is a suspect. I don’t bloody know!”

  Barolli huffed and puffed almost the entire way to the club. They had been under pressure for some time without a breakthrough, and it didn’t look as if one was coming.

  Anna and Barolli were met by the club’s manager, an impatient man eager to get on with his day. He had arranged for both doormen and the two bartenders to come in early to talk to them, but none had arrived. He led them through a maze of Hoover cables past the cleaners who were putting broken glasses, cigarette packs, and stubs from the previous evening into large black bin liners. None paid any attention to Anna or Barolli as they waited in a velvet-covered booth. Anna looked across to where Louise Pennel had sat and crossed to the bar. Anna sat on a stool, surveying the vast dance floor. She had a clear view of the entire club via the mirrors behind the bar. If Louise Pennel was, as she suspected, waiting for someone, it was a very good position: she could see the main entrance from reception into the disco area. She swiveled on the stool, then slid off to cross to the ladies’ room. It also was in the process of being cleaned, by a group of girls who jabbered away to one another in Portuguese as they swept away the mounds of tissues and toilet paper strewn around the floor.

  Barolli was drinking a cup of coffee when she returned to the booth.

  “Did anyone question the cloakroom attendant?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we see Louise with no coat on, then with her coat off and over her arm, so she must have left it there.”

  Barolli looked at his watch impatiently. “I’ll ask the manager if he can contact whoever was on duty that night.”

  Ten minutes later, a heavy-set man with a crew cut, wearing a bomber jacket and jeans, strolled over. “You wanted to see me?” he said begrudgingly.

  “Yes; you want to sit down?” Anna gestured to her side.

  “Okay, but I’m off duty, you know. I don’t usually come in until just before we open.” He slid into the booth. His chest was so wide that he nudged Anna.

  “I really appreciate your time,” she said sweetly, and opened her file to take out the photographs of Louise Pennel.

  “I’ve been shown them before,” he said.

  “I know, but I would appreciate it if you looked at them again.”

  He sighed. “Like I said before, I work the doors; we get hundreds of girls every night. I remember the ones that cause trouble or the famous ones, but I don’t remember this girl at all.”

  Anna laid down the photograph of Louise with the flower in her hair.

  “No, no memory of ever having seen her here, sorry.”

  Anna next laid on the table the drawing of their suspect.

  He looked at it, then shook his head. “I don’t know; I mean, he could be a number of blokes, but I can’t say he’s someone I remember. If you know he’s a member, that might help, but no, I don’t know him.”

  “He’s maybe older than most people that come here?”

  “Not really; we get them all shapes and sizes and all ages; lot of middle-aged guys come here, for the yo
ung girls, to watch the dancers, but I’m outside the club.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” Anna said, stacking the photographs.

  “I can go then, can I?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He squeezed himself out of the booth and walked back toward the entrance, where he met another equally broad-shouldered man, who was at least six feet four; he pointed over to Anna and walked out.

  Anna moved further around the booth to give the next doorman space to sit beside her. He reeked of cheap cologne and his hair was greased back.

  “I’ve been asked about this girl before,” he said as he sat down.

  “Yes, I know, but we are just hoping that something might jog your memory.”

  “Right, I understand. I’ve been reading about her, but you know, I said before, I don’t recall ever seeing her; we get hundreds a night in.”

  Anna’s patience was being tried. “Yes, I know, but could you just look over the photographs again, please?”

  It was virtually the same response as from the previous doorman. Anna was relieved when he left; his cologne was making her feel sick.

  Barolli returned and hovered. “No luck?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, like I said, I have questioned them, and all the taxicabs that work the club.”

  “Did you get any joy with the cloakroom attendant?”

  “Yeah, she’s coming in; should be another half hour.”

  Anna sighed; it was feeling like a waste of time.

  “This is the barman,” Barolli said, nodding over to the reception as a tall, handsome man headed toward them. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with trainers. He smiled.

  “Hi, I’m Jim Carter. I’d have been here earlier but I had a problem with my car.” He slid in beside Anna.

  Anna introduced herself as Barolli wandered off, looking bored.

  She laid out the photographs and drawing. “Do you recall her at all?”

  He shook his head. “Nope, and this guy isn’t familiar.”

  Anna pointed across to the bar. “She sat on that stool for some considerable time. Can we walk over there?”

  “Sure, anything to help.”

  Anna sat on the stool used by Louise Pennel, and Jim Carter moved behind the bar.

  “She was sitting here for a good while on the night she went missing. She had two beers: glasses, not bottles.”

  Jim nodded. “If I’m serving, I’m on the go; we do a lot of cocktails, so it’s shake and serve, shake and serve.”

  “She paid for her drinks in coins, counting them out on the counter.”

  Anna swiveled on the stool and leaned on the bar with her elbows. Jim stood with his hands on his hips, still no memory.

  “She was constantly looking to the doorway into the reception area, as if she was waiting for someone.”

  Yet again he shrugged. Anna described what Louise was wearing, and he still looked vague.

  “I’d like to help you, but I’m sorry. I mean, she was very attractive, obviously, but when I’m working, you hardly get time to think, never mind remember anyone specifically.”

  Anna thanked him and sat alone as he walked out into the reception area. She saw him chat to the two doormen still hanging around; they looked as if they were discussing the waste of their time as they turned back to look at her.

  Barolli passed them with another cup of coffee. Anna watched him via the mirror behind the bar. He crossed to the booth and slumped inside. She watched as he tapped his foot, looked at his watch, and slurped his coffee. He leaned back and caught her eye, shrugged, then pointed to his coffee; she shook her head.

  It was another ten minutes before Doreen Sharpe arrived. She was the cloakroom attendant, a single mother in her early thirties.

  “This shouldn’t take long.” Anna once again laid out the photographs of Louise Pennel. “Her coat was maroon with a velvet collar,” she said, and described the rest of Louise’s outfit.

  Doreen took her time; she looked from one photograph to the next and licked her lips. “I’ve been reading about the murder,” she said softly. “Terrible thing; they call her the Red Dahlia, don’t they?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “She didn’t leave me a tip.”

  “I’m sorry?” Anna leaned forward.

  “She left her coat. I put it on a hanger for her, gave her the ticket; it’s sort of a courtesy thing the club has, you know: they don’t charge you for leaving your coats, but you make it up in tips.”

  “You remember Louise Pennel?”

  “The coat didn’t fit what she was wearing underneath it—very low-cut top and short skirt—it was more a coat worn by a rich teenager in the fifties. I used to have a secondhand one but it was green, vented collar and six velvet-covered buttons, but hers was red, dark maroon, and came from Harrods. I saw the label.”

  Anna was flabbergasted.

  “I put it on a hanger for her and gave her a ticket. It was quite early on. I have a system, you know; the early birds I put on the back rail because as the evening goes on, they are the ones that leave late. Don’t ask me why, but they do; we get a big rush between eleven and two, people coming in from shows or dinner, and they usually stay only an hour or so; you have to have a system or you’d be searching through the racks like a demented idiot.”

  “So you took her coat?”

  “Yes, and hung it on the back rail. She took her ticket and went into the bar area, I think.”

  Anna could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  “It would be about eleven thirty, maybe a bit after when she came back. I said to her that she was leaving early and she said that she had to go, so I got her coat. I passed it over and she walked off, without so much as a thank-you, let alone a tip!”

  Anna showed her the sketch of their suspect. “This is just a drawing of the man we think Louise might have been waiting for; did you see him?”

  “I’ve been thinking about him,” Doreen said, tapping the sketch.

  Anna could hardly contain herself. “You saw him?”

  “Well, I think I might have; I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.”

  “In the club?”

  “No, outside.”

  “Outside the club?”

  “Yes, by the fire-escape doors. They lead into an alley; when we need a cigarette break, we nip out there. At the end of the alley is the road that runs behind the club. It’s only a few feet away, and the parking attendants have a field day because punters think they can park out there, but they hand out tickets like confetti!”

  “You saw this man?”

  “Like I said, I am not one hundred percent sure; it could have been him. I didn’t get that much of a good look; what I saw was him sitting inside his car.”

  “Do you know what make of car it was?”

  “Black, very shiny, caught the lights, maybe the new Rover? I’m not good with cars, but my boss on the other job has one and it was similar to his, which is why I remember it.”

  “He was sitting inside the car?”

  “Yes, then he got out and walked round to the passenger side as she came up to the car. He opened the door and she sort of hung back; then he pulled her toward him and they looked like they were having some kind of argument, but from where I was standing I couldn’t hear what they were saying. She pulled away from him and then he gripped her by the arm and pushed her into the car; he slammed the door so hard, it rocked the car. The reason I remember it was I saw her coat and I wondered if he was maybe her father, because I thought she was very over made up. I mean she was only twenty-two, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes.” Anna nodded, glancing at Barolli, who stared at Doreen in total silence. “And he looked like this sketch?” Anna persisted.

  “Yes, thin-faced, short hair, and he had this long, dark coat on. It could be him; quite tall as well, but not well built.”

  “Can you recall anything else?”

  “No, I went back in, in fact before they drov
e off. I can only take a few minutes out there or there would be coats up the yingyang, and I got to get someone to look after the tickets. I usually get one of the girls from the toilets: they have two on duty because people make such a mess in there.”

  Just as Anna was about to thank Doreen for coming in, she dropped another jewel in their lap. “She had a friend with her, blonde girl, she’s often at the club; she’s a naughty one. She didn’t stay more than an hour.”

  Anna closed her eyes; this had to be Sharon.

  “So I had to get her wrap, it was one of those bits of fur; you know, sort of a collar thing that’s in fashion at the moment: you can’t really hang them up on the hangers, you’ve got to tie them or they slip off. She was quite a little madam: she said for me not to tie a knot in the ribbon; anyways, she came back and she was with her.”

  “I’m sorry, who was with her?”

  “Your dead girl, she was with her; they were arguing and then the blonde girl opened her bag and gave her some money.”

  Anna opened her file, searched around, and brought out the photograph used by the newspapers of Sharon. “Is this the blonde girl?”

  “Yes, that’s her. I mean, I don’t know her, but I saw her picture in the newspaper as well; I recognized them both. The blonde has quite a mouth on her, and they was really having a row, and then she almost threw this money at her and screeched out something, then sort of pushed her; you know, like a smack, but it was a push.”

  As Anna put the photographs back in the file, Barolli beat her to the next question.

  “Why haven’t you come forward with this information?”

  Doreen looked startled. “Well, I didn’t think it was anything interesting, you know. I didn’t think it meant anything, really; it doesn’t, does it?”

  “It’s a great help to us.” Anna smiled, though she didn’t feel happy at all. She was furious that Sharon had not told them the truth about her last night with Louise. Doreen led them to the alleyway and fire exit. The road was not that far from the doorway and, as Doreen pointed out, it was very well lit. As they returned to the club, Doreen, who by now fancied herself as some kind of detective, stopped to show them the cloakroom.