The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

  “These were taken about two and a half years ago. I started to do some good sessions; before that, as I said, I’d mostly been doing catalog work. It’s actually really tough, as you have to do so many pictures per day with so many changes, but the money is very good. I did a lot of country-styled clothes: me with dogs, me standing by fences in a tweed coat and brogues…I didn’t really have the figure for doing lingerie.” Flicking through the pictures, Gail seemed to take a childlike pleasure in showing herself off.

  “Do you have a family?” asked Anna.

  “What, you mean children?”

  “No, parents? Sisters?”

  Gail gave a rueful smile. “My parents both died years ago. I have a sister, but we don’t really see much of each other; she has a brood of children and a very boring husband.”

  “Do you want children?” Anna asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the reason she was there.

  “Yes; do you?”

  Anna smiled. “Yes, I do, very much. When are you getting married?”

  Gail looked at her massive diamond and then wafted her hand. “Whenever my prospective father-in-law allows Edward some time off. He works him terribly hard and pays him a pittance.”

  “But this estate will all be his one day,” Anna said, glancing at the continuing display of Gail’s modeling work.

  “Yes, yes, it will.”

  Anna, who had not really been paying attention to the pictures, had to catch her breath. “This is a good picture of you,” she said, hoping that she had not given Gail any indication of what she was actually looking at.

  “Oh, it’s from two years ago, maybe. It’s for a big leisurewear catalog: lots of ghastly velvet tracksuits.” As Gail was about to turn over, Anna placed her hand flat on the page to stop her.

  “The blonde girl, the one standing by the saddle.”

  “It was supposed to be a stable, but they just put down some fake grass and a bit of fence and stuck the saddle over it.”

  The blonde girl was Sharon Bilkin. Anna remembered Sharon saying that she did catalog modeling. “Do you know who she is?” Anna asked quietly.

  Gail shrugged and stood up to put the book away.

  Anna opened her briefcase and took out the picture of Sharon Bilkin. “This is the same girl, isn’t it?”

  Gail blinked rapidly, then turned away, kneeling down to put the album away again. Anna moved fast to stand directly behind her.

  “I need to take that, Gail. Please just move away from the wardrobe and let me take it.”

  Gail sprang to her feet and pushed Anna in the chest so hard that she banged into the corner of the four-poster bed.

  “Leave me alone! I won’t talk about it; you don’t know what will happen. You have to go, I want you to go.”

  Gail, for all her skinny frame, was incredibly strong; her bony arms squeezed the breath out of Anna as she hauled her toward the door. She tried to break loose, but Gail wouldn’t let go.

  “He will kill me, he will make my life hell if he ever found out what I have done!” Gail held Anna in her viselike grip, their faces so close they were virtually touching.

  “Let go of me,” Anna said, forcing herself to be calm.

  “I’ll end up in a madhouse!”

  Anna managed to struggle free. All of a sudden, it was as if all Gail’s strength had evaporated. She slowly sank to her knees, then let her body fall forward and sobbed.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God; what have I done?”

  15

  The bowl of Edward Wickenham’s glass rested between his fingers as he swirled his brandy around like liquid honey.

  “I don’t understand,” he said slowly, his face flushed. Langton was leaning forward slightly, total concentration on his hawklike face. “Do you want me to repeat myself? What don’t you understand, Mr. Wickenham?”

  “You suspect my father of…?”

  “Murder; yes, that is correct. The Red Dahlia murder, to be exact.”

  “But I don’t understand. I mean, do you have evidence? These are terrible accusations; to be honest, I can’t quite take it in. Have you arrested him?”

  “No, not yet; currently, he is just under suspicion of being involved.”

  “Involved?”

  His aristocratic tone was needling Langton. “Yes, involved, and the reason we are here is that I would like you to answer some questions that may or may not prove my suspicions incorrect.”

  Wickenham drained his glass, then looked across to the drinks cabinet again, but obviously thought better of having more to drink. Instead, he carefully placed the glass down. His hand was shaking and he looked perplexed.

  “I am unsure what I should do.”

  “Simply answer my questions.” Langton smiled.

  Lewis inched further forward in his seat. Wickenham was not reacting like any other man he had ever seen questioned; he just seemed dazed.

  “But you’ve already questioned my father.”

  “That is correct. Now we would like to talk to you.”

  “But shouldn’t I have a solicitor with me?”

  “Why?”

  “This is a very serious allegation.”

  “We have not accused you of anything.” Langton opened the file and held up Louise Pennel’s picture. “Do you know this girl?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “How about this girl?” He showed Sharon Bilkin’s picture.

  Edward Wickenham shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

  Langton looked at Lewis and sighed. “You have never seen either of these women here at your father’s property?”

  “No, I have not.”

  Langton pursed his lips. “Could you tell me where you were on the ninth of January this year?”

  “Oh God, I can’t remember. I’d have to look in my diary.”

  Langton suggested that he do so. Wickenham stood up, turning this way and that, then said his diary was in the dining room. Lewis said he would go with him.

  They returned a moment later. This time, Wickenham didn’t duck and cracked his forehead against the door frame. Swearing, he stood flicking through a small black diary. His hands were shaking badly.

  “I was here with Gail; we were at home.”

  “Good, and she will verify that, will she?”

  “Yes, because she was ill. She has migraines; she was in bed, so I cooked dinner. Christ, I just can’t believe this; it’s beyond belief. I am standing here answering questions about…”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes, my father. You have to be mistaken.”

  “Quite possibly, but in a murder inquiry, we have to explore every avenue. We have a sketch drawn from the descriptions of two witnesses. Would you like to see it?”

  Without waiting for a response, Lewis showed it to Wickenham, who stared at it and then shook his head.

  “Looks very like your father, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose it’s similar.”

  “Similar?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Langton pursed his lips and then asked if father and son had a good relationship.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Would you say you were very close to your father?”

  “Yes, I work for him.”

  “And you also had a very close relationship with your stepmother, didn’t you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Dominique Wickenham.”

  He had now become extremely nervous: his cheeks were flushed and he was sweating. “They’re divorced.”

  “We know that, but before the divorce, you and your stepmother were very close, weren’t you?”

  “Why are you asking me about my stepmother?”

  “Because we have been given some information—well, more than that. We have some explicit photographs.”

  “What?”

  Langton sighed; he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s stop playing games, Edward. We know an awful lot about you and your family. I would say you w
ere a lot closer than would be considered normal: you had a sexual relationship with her, didn’t you?”

  Wickenham stood up. “I refuse to answer any more of your questions.”

  Langton also stood up, facing him. “What about your half sisters? Were you as close to them as to your stepmother?”

  “I am not answering any more questions. This is not right. I want to talk to someone.”

  “Why?”

  “You are insinuating things.”

  “Bit more than insinuating, Edward; a lot more, in fact. Why don’t you sit down and start to explain what exactly—”

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you,” he snapped.

  “Fine. If you don’t want to do it now, we can always continue this discussion at the station.”

  “But this has nothing to do with me!”

  “What hasn’t?”

  “Whatever happens here in the privacy of my own home is my business. You have no right whatsoever to force me to implicate myself.”

  “Implicate? What do you mean by that?”

  “You know damned well what I mean! If you have spoken to my stepmother and she has said things, then that will be her word against mine! She is an unscrupulous woman: she is a liar and if you are here because of anything she may have told you, then I suggest you speak directly to my father.”

  “Believe you me, we will be talking to him. I just wanted to give you an opportunity to extricate yourself.”

  “From what?”

  Langton paused. “Were you also involved in one of these murders? Perhaps as an accomplice?”

  Wickenham was really fighting to maintain control but could not stop himself from shaking and sweating. “I swear before God, I do not know either of those women you showed me in those photos. I have never met them.”

  “Do you think your father knew them?”

  “I can’t answer for him, but I very much doubt it. If you have any evidence, I am damned sure you would not be here talking to me—you would have had him arrested.”

  Langton gave a long sigh and looked to Lewis. “Can you see if DI Travis is ready to leave?” he asked, and Lewis nodded.

  Left alone with Wickenham, Langton tapped the Persian carpet with the toe of his shoe.

  “This is a very nice piece; silk, isn’t it?”

  Wickenham said nothing. Langton stared at him for what seemed like a very long time.

  “Edward, don’t protect him.”

  “What?”

  “I said, don’t protect him. If he killed these two women, he is a monster. Do you know how we found their bodies?”

  Langton showed him the horrific mortuary shots of Louise Pennel and Sharon Bilkin, with the red lipstick scrawled over her belly.

  “Louise’s mouth was slit from ear to ear, her body severed in two, her blood drained. We found her legs and torso on the banks of the Thames near Richmond. Sharon was discovered not that far from here, in a field, Louise’s coat covering her naked body. It was a maroon coat with a velvet collar; ring any bells?”

  “Jesus Christ.” Edward Wickenham looked as if he was about to faint; he felt for a chair behind him and sat down.

  “Your father was a doctor, a surgeon?”

  “No. No, this is terrible. Please, I really think someone should be with me.”

  “In case you implicate yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Implicate your father?”

  “No!”

  Langton paused, clicking his briefcase closed. “I know about your stepsister Emily, but whether it was your child or your father’s that was aborted…”

  Edward’s face was redder than ever and his fists clenched. “I refuse to listen to another word. This is just disgusting and not true: it’s all lies, my sister is mentally ill. She made these accusations when she was sick, she didn’t know what she was saying. It is not true!”

  “Your wife committed suicide, didn’t she?”

  At this, Wickenham caved in; he leaned forward, clutching his head as if it would break open. “Stop this!”

  Langton crossed over and rested his hand on Wickenham’s shoulder. “You stop it, Edward. Tell us what you know.”

  With his hands covering his face he wept, gut-wrenching snorts, and repeated over and over, “I can’t, I can’t take anymore.”

  Lewis appeared at the door and gestured for Langton to join him. They eased out of sight.

  “If you think his sobbing is bad, you should go upstairs. His girlfriend’s folded completely and Anna thinks she may need a doctor.”

  “Shit!”

  “But she’s got something: a photograph of Gail Harrington on some modeling job; she’s with Sharon Bilkin.”

  “Fuck!”

  Langton chewed his lips and then said he wanted to go over to the main house and talk to the housekeeper.

  “What about the wailing wall here?”

  “Let it howl. Get your shoes on and get Travis down here!”

  The rain was still sheeting down, so they drove the short distance from the cottage to the Hall. Their car rocked and splashed through deep ruts and puddles before moving onto the tarmac road leading to the main house. By now, Anna had given Langton a full account of her talk with Gail Harrington, adding that she thought she was on some drug or other, maybe speed or other amphetamines.

  “I bet you any money his son wishes he was,” quipped Lewis. “We left him like a lump of jelly, shaking and crying. He may have had sex games going on with the entire fucking family, but somehow I just don’t think he’s an accomplice, unless he helped to move the bodies. I dunno; what do you think, Gov?”

  Langton shrugged. “They’re all involved, whether as accomplices or not. They know what that bastard is, and they keep their mouths shut because of this place.” He nodded toward the house. “I need to take a leak; stop the car.”

  The driver pulled over on the grass verge. To their amazement, Langton got out, walked across the lawn to a shrubbery, and took a piss. Both Lewis and Anna shook their heads in disgust.

  “Christ, what does he think he’s doing?”

  “You tell me,” Anna said.

  Lewis turned to face her. “Well, for one, I think we should have a search warrant; for two, I don’t think what went on in the cottage was kosher, even though we got a link to Sharon Bilkin. Haven’t we got enough to pull the father in, and the son for that matter?”

  “Maybe, but you know Langton.”

  “Obviously not as well as you do,” Lewis said, with a snide smile.

  Anna decided not to reply. She did not want to discuss Langton, especially not with Lewis, who had a big yapping mouth. Gossip had probably already done the rounds of the incident room, but at least no one had mentioned anything to her.

  They both looked over to Langton, who was having a conversation on his mobile as he strode across the lawn. He stopped a moment to listen and then slapped his phone shut.

  “Right, that’s better,” he said, getting back in and slamming the door. He leaned his arm along the back of the seat.

  “Maybe you should chat with the old housekeeper, Anna; you seem to have a way with the women.”

  “Okay.”

  “We need further confirmation about whether or not Louise Pennel was a visitor, and Sharon. I want to take another look at the family snapshots on their grand piano. We still have not identified the other sickos off the photographs from Milan, so show her those as well.”

  “Will do.”

  “Shouldn’t we have a search warrant, Gov?” Lewis asked.

  “Yeah, but we need more. This way, it looks like we are still floundering around. The fact we think our victims came here is not enough evidence to make an arrest—yet! When we come in to search, I want warrants for all the premises, plus the vehicles: get a bloody army backing us up, because this is a massive place. There are outhouses, the barns, the cottage, the staff cottage, and we will need a warrant for each building: that’s the law. When they started to suspect Fred West, they onl
y had a warrant to search his garden, did you know that? It was West himself who suggested they were digging in the wrong place.”

  Langton stopped speaking as the car pulled into the horseshoe drive. Standing at the studded front door was Charles Wickenham. “There he is,” Langton said softly. “Look at him! There’s got to be someplace here that he uses for those sex games: cellar, maybe in the barn somewhere. He maybe had an alibi for the ninth of January, when Louise Pennel was last seen, but not for the twelfth, when her body was discovered. So check out if the ponce over there was at home.”

  “He did give us a pretty thorough alibi for that date, Gov, and it all checked out, his club and his—”

  “Yeah, yeah, and that’s another reason we don’t charge in with the warrant. It’s slowly, slowly catchee monster!”

  They all got out of the car. Anna and Lewis walked behind Langton as he headed over to Wickenham.

  “Good morning.” Langton stretched out his hand and shook Wickenham’s.

  “Not weather-wise: the rain’s not stopped. Though I suppose it is good for the crops.” He smiled and nodded to Anna, and then stepped back. “Well, there must be some reason for this visit, so please come in. I was expecting you.”

  “Your son called?”

  “Yes, he did. I have to get the doctor to see his poor fiancée: she’s exceedingly distressed.” He glanced coldly at Langton. “All rather unethical, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Questioning Gail. She has been very ill; surely she should have had someone with her?”

  “She could have asked for anyone to be there; it was just a routine visit to ask her a few questions.”

  “Routine or not, we should have been given notice.” He strode ahead, leading them back into the sumptuous drawing room.

  Wickenham gave no polite offers of tea or coffee, nor did he ask them to sit. He walked to the fireplace and, with his hands in the pockets of his immaculate fawn trousers, turned to face them.