The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

  “I’d just let him brood a few more hours, I’m sure this won’t—”

  “Travis!” came the bellow before he could finish.

  Anna turned to see Langton holding the blinds of his office window open; he gestured for her to join him and then let them flip closed again. She tapped on his door and waited a beat before she went in.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he said, standing in front of his desk with his thumbs caught in his braces.

  “I meant everything I said.”

  “I bloody hope you did, but it doesn’t alter the facts.”

  There was a pause as he glared at her. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl standing in front of her teacher; she had to bite the inside of her mouth hard to stop the tears welling up.

  “What do you think your father would have to say?”

  “He would be ashamed.”

  He nodded and then checked his watch. “Go home.”

  “I was intending to do that.”

  As she walked to the door, she paused a moment. “Did we get anything from the cash found at Sharon’s flat?”

  “Not yet; it’s Sunday, remember?”

  “Oh, I know what day it is, and one I won’t forget.”

  She walked out and closed the door quietly behind her. Passing through the incident room, she got a few glances and smiles, but they didn’t make her feel any better. She went up to Lewis, who was printing serial numbers on the board.

  “We might get some luck with these. There’s over a thousand pounds in new notes; the rest are all odd numbers.”

  Anna hovered and then asked if she could speak to him in private. He looked nonplussed and then gestured to the corridor.

  Anna gathered her things and went to wait for Lewis. It was a few minutes before he joined her.

  “I spoke to Reynolds this morning; his excuse for what he had done was that in the Black Dahlia case, a screenwriter wrote a similar article—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I have read the book.”

  “Then you know what happened after the article was written: the killer was so angry about this suspect that was held claiming all the credit—”

  Lewis interrupted her, impatient. “We released our suspect this morning; we sent him back to where he walked out from, an institution over in Tooting: it was another time waster.”

  “Yes, I know that, we suspected it from the moment he walked in. What I am saying is, the article on the old Black Dahlia case was in actual fact a ruse, made up by the journalist to try and flush out the real killer.”

  Lewis sighed, even more impatient. “Anna, I know: we’ve all read the book; the time waster we just released had also read the book! You’re not telling me anything we haven’t discussed this morning. Unless I am hearing you wrong and you are trying to tell me that you gave all the information to this prick at the Sun because you were trying to flush out the real killer?”

  “No, I am not saying that.”

  “Then what exactly are you trying to tell me?”

  She hesitated. It was obvious she never intended for it all to happen, but what if it did do some good? “Listen: what if such a big article, and in all the Sundays, might be enough to dent the real killer’s ego? He’ll want to make sure we know we are holding the wrong man.”

  “The gov’s already reasoned that might happen, so he’s been in touch with your boyfriend, seeing if he can repair some of the damage.”

  Anna was taken aback. Langton never ceased to surprise her.

  “You should thank him, because if he does go down that route, it’ll get you off the hook. He’ll be saying that the whole nasty episode was a ruse to flush the bastard out. It depends on whether or not we get a result.”

  “If you do, does that mean I’m still on the case?”

  “Don’t ask me, I didn’t know you were off it. I suspected you’d be in deep trouble, but you know the gov—he always protects his team.”

  Lewis went back into the incident room, leaving Anna in the corridor, a lump in her throat.

  10

  DAY TWENTY-ONE

  Anna was watching the early-morning news when the phone rang. It was Barolli; he had been instructed to tell her they needed her to help man the phones. She was out of the flat and in the incident room in ten minutes. Langton wasn’t there; he had been called in for a big powwow with the top brass. No one said anything to her; it was just accepted that she was back.

  The daily newspapers had all run articles based on the coverage in yesterday’s papers, unaware that the suspected Red Dahlia killer was no longer in custody, but correctly saying that the police had received many notes, apparently from the killer, and that each one had been authenticated as being written by the same person. Calls were coming in thick and fast, but by midday, there had been no contact from their killer. Barolli and Lewis were out, trying to trace the banknotes found at Sharon Bilkin’s flat; it was the only new development, apart from her tragic murder. Anna worked the phones alongside uniformed and clerical staff. It was Bridget who took the call, and she immediately came over to Anna.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a woman, and she’s very nervous. She’s called twice and hung up. I recognized her voice; this is the third time. She says she has information and needs to speak to someone on the inquiry.”

  “Put her through to me.”

  By the time Bridget returned to her desk, the caller had hung up. They had hundreds of hang-ups along with time wasters, so Anna continued contending with the incoming calls. At three fifteen, Bridget signaled to Anna. “It’s her again.”

  Anna nodded, and Bridget told the caller she was transferring her to a senior officer.

  “Good afternoon, this is DI Anna Travis speaking. Who is this?”

  “Are you on the murder?” The woman’s voice was very faint. “The Red Dahlia murder investigation?”

  “Yes, I am. Who is this?”

  Silence. Anna waited a moment. “Can you give me your name? All calls are treated as highly confidential.”

  There was another pause. She could hear the woman breathing.

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, but I have to be anonymous.”

  “But you are calling about Louise Pennel?”

  “The Red Dahlia. She is the Red Dahlia, isn’t she?”

  “That is what the press call her.”

  Anna sighed, impatient; she had had so many calls like this. “Could you please give me your name and address?”

  “No, no, I can’t, but I think I know who he is. She stayed at his house.”

  “I’m sorry, but could you repeat that?”

  Anna signaled that she wanted a trace put on her call. The tracer team was set up in the incident room, ready and waiting, in case the killer himself made contact.

  “Oh God, this is terrible.”

  “I am sure it must be, but if you do have something that you think could be connected, it would really be appreciated. Could you give me your name?”

  “No, no, I can’t.”

  “That’s all right, just tell me what information you have. Hello?”

  Anna looked over to see if the call was being traced. They signaled for her to keep the caller on the line. Anna kept her voice low, trying to encourage the caller to give more details.

  “It is often very distressing, especially if you have suspicions regarding someone you know. Do you know this person?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was hardly audible.

  “And you say that the girl, Louise Pennel, was—”

  “The Red Dahlia,” the woman interjected. There was another pause, then an intake of breath, like a gasp. “I think she was at his house.”

  “Could you tell me his name?” Anna looked over again; the officer gestured for her to keep talking: they had not had enough time to trace it. “You know, anything you tell me will be in the strictest confidence.”

  “Oh God, this is awful, and I might be wrong, I don’t know what to do.”

&n
bsp; Anna again glanced over but the officer still shook his head.

  “I think it might really help you if you did tell me what you know.”

  Anna listened as the woman gave a dry sob.

  “You sound as if this is really distressing you. You said you may be wrong; if so, we could check it out for you and put your mind at rest.”

  The line went dead. Anna closed her eyes in frustration. They were only able to determine that the call was from a mobile phone; as yet they could not pinpoint the location.

  Bridget joined Anna. “What do you think?”

  “Well, she sounded distressed enough that it could be real; on the other hand, how many of these have we had?”

  “A lot. But no one else keeps calling back.”

  Anna shrugged; they would just have to wait to see if she called again.

  The mail to the incident room was being checked over for further anonymous notes. They had been sent several. By midafternoon, three had been singled out by their expert as written by the same hand as the ones previously sent to DCI Langton. Again, an attempt had been made to alter the writing, and some words were crudely misspelled.

  IF HE CONFESSES, YOU WON’T NEED ME

  THE PERSON SENDING THOSE OTER NOTES OUGHT TO BE ARESTED FOR FORGERY HA HA!

  ASK THE NEWSPAPER JOURNALIST FOR A CLUE, WHY NOT LET THAT NUT GO, YOU HAVE THE WRONG MAN.

  Anna stood in front of the board with the rest of the team.

  “They are almost identical to the notes received in the Black Dahlia murder,” Anna said to Bridget. As she spoke, copies were being pinned up alongside the other contacts by the killer. “Maybe the article has pushed him into sending them, but he’s still left no fingerprints and we can’t trace the paper. Anything on the postmarks?”

  “No, from all over London: Kilburn, Hampstead, and Richmond. They were all sent on the same day as well. We’ve got people out there, hoping someone saw whoever posted them, but it’s a long shot.” Bridget gave an open-handed gesture. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

  Justin Collins was not expecting the two officers who turned up to speak to him at the Chelsea antique market. He was very nervous when Lewis and Barolli showed him their ID. He was a tall, thin-faced man with a flamboyant necktie and tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Mr. Collins specialized in Art Deco figures, paintings, and crockery. He thought at first that they had come about the handling of hot items, but when told it was about money, he looked confused. He admitted he had withdrawn a thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes from Coutts in the Strand. He opened his ledger to check when he had paid out the money. He had bought numerous items, but none for a round sum of a thousand. Lewis asked if he could check out any items costing more. He was sweating as he looked from page to page, saying that he often bought on an ad hoc basis from dealers and customers who walked into the shop with goods for sale. He also went to many antique fairs up and down the country.

  Lewis showed him the drawing of their suspect. He glanced at it and shrugged.

  “To be honest, that could be any one of a few customers I have dealt with over the years. Is he in the business?”

  “He is a suspect.”

  “Ah well, I wish I could be of more assistance.”

  “We hope so too, Mr. Collins. You see, that money we have traced to you was found in a victim’s flat; this is a murder inquiry.”

  “Oh Christ. Let me get my other glasses and check my sales books.”

  They waited silently as he sat thumbing through one book after another. Lewis sighed; he was pretty sure what he was witnessing was one set of accounts for the taxman and another that never saw the light of day.

  “This could be it.” Collins tapped a page. “It was at the Kensington Town Hall antique fair; over three months ago, I had a stall there. Yes, this could be it, but I paid more than a thousand: it was actually two and a half thousand.”

  “Do you have the address of the person who sold you the item?”

  “No, no, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m also afraid I don’t have the brooch. I sold it.”

  He flicked through another book and then pointed. “Yes, I sold it to an American dealer; it was an Art Deco diamond-and-emerald brooch, a very nice piece, in good condition. I have the address of the buyer here.”

  Lewis chewed his lip and waited as Collins jotted down the name and address of a woman in Chicago. Terrific!

  Barolli was becoming impatient and leaned forward. “Okay, Mr. Collins, what’s important to us is who sold you the brooch.”

  “A young woman; she said she had inherited it from her grandmother.”

  “Do you have her name?”

  Collins became more flustered. “No, as I said, it was brought to the fair. I looked at it, then went over to a friend of mine who deals in jewelry and he said it was a very good price; in fact, an exceptionally good price.”

  “Can you describe the woman who sold it?”

  “Yes, yes: young, blonde, quite attractive.”

  Lewis took out the photograph of Sharon Bilkin. “This woman?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s her. I’m certain of it.”

  Langton sat at his desk as Lewis explained what they had discovered from the antique dealer.

  “What might have happened is that someone gave Sharon the brooch, she then takes it to the antique fair to sell. I think the dealer was telling us the truth. We can double-check with the guy who said the brooch was a good buy, maybe also verify it was Sharon Bilkin selling it.”

  “Go back and question any of Sharon’s associates; see if they know anything about how she got this brooch.”

  “Do you want us to try and find the woman that bought it?”

  “In Chicago? Do me a favor!”

  “Someone might recognize it,” Lewis said flatly.

  “Yeah, yeah, maybe try and give her a call. Do you have a number?”

  “No.”

  “Fucking brilliant! Did you get a description of it?”

  Lewis shifted his weight. “Yeah, it was a diamond-and-emerald cluster, like a flower, Art Deco, platinum clasp and safety pin.”

  Langton gave an open-handed gesture. “Get onto it.”

  Lewis nodded and walked out, leaving Langton moodily checking over copies of the notes sent in by their suspected killer.

  Anna was sifting through her notes and making a list of the people she had talked to about Sharon. She was about to print a page of names and addresses when Bridget signaled to her from across the room.

  “It’s her again!” she mouthed.

  Anna reached for the phone. “Hello, this is DI Anna Travis. I am part of the Red Dahlia murder inquiry team. We really appreciate anyone calling who can give us any help.”

  Anna listened; the woman was crying.

  “If whatever you have to say to us is worrying you, then just stay calm, take deep breaths. Your call will be treated with—”

  “This is the Red Dahlia murder, isn’t it?” The caller’s voice was high-pitched and frightened.

  “Yes, that is correct. Would you like to give me your name and then I could come round and see you? It might be easier than talking on the phone.”

  “No, no, I can’t, I can’t do that. I don’t want you to know who I am.”

  Anna kept her voice calm and steady. They were trying to get another trace on the call. “But you do have something you want to tell me?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was fainter, as if she was standing away from the phone.

  “And this is connected to the Red Dahlia murder?”

  “Yes, yes!” She was close again now and her voice had become shrill.

  “So let’s just stay calm. My name is Anna, so if you would like to tell me, then I will deal with whatever it is.”

  Pause.

  Anna looked at Bridget, frustrated: it sounded like the caller was going to hang up again. “You have been very brave so far; it must have taken a lot of guts to call. If you have some information about someone you know—is that right?”
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br />   “Oh, Christ. I can’t do this!”

  “Just tell me what it is; you’ll feel a lot calmer once it’s over and done with and…hello? Hello?”

  Anna was furious; she’d lost her. But then the caller started to mutter something inaudible: she was still on the line.

  “I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

  “I think it’s him.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

  “I think I know who it is. Oh Christ, this is terrible, this is awful, and he’ll know it was me, he’ll find out and he’ll kill me, he’ll hurt me!”

  Again Anna thought she was about to hang up, but she was still there, breathing erratically as she tried not to cry.

  “Who are you talking about? And if you are afraid of this person, then we can help you.”

  “No, you can’t!”

  “We can protect you.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you know and then I will be able to help you. If you don’t want me to know who you are, then that’s all right; it’s just that if you do have information that can help us…”

  It was like pulling teeth. The woman sounded stoned or drunk; her voice had grown more slurred during the call.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” Anna listened.

  She looked over to the guys tracing the call. They put their thumbs down and gave the signal for Anna to keep her talking.

  There was a long pause and then the caller said very clearly: “His name is Charles Henry Wickenham, Dr. Charles Henry Wickenham.”

  The phone went dead. Anna stared at the receiver.

  11

  DAY TWENTY-TWO

  The team tried not to get their hopes up over this new development: the caller could be a wife or a mistress with a grievance, wanting to create as much trouble as possible. Nevertheless, there was a real buzz in the incident room the next morning. Before they could even think of questioning Dr. Charles Henry Wickenham, they needed to find out who he was.