The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

  Langton coughed and gave a twist of his hand for her to get on with it; she flipped through her notes.

  “When shown the photographs of Sharon Bilkin and Louise Pennel, she denied ever seeing or meeting either of them. You will recall that Sharon Bilkin was a model, doing mostly catalog work. Gail Harrington was also a model and, in an attempt to get her to be more at ease with me, I asked about her work. The press cuttings and her CV model pictures took some plowing through, but in one photograph, the other model with Gail Harrington was Sharon Bilkin.”

  There was a low murmur. Anna asked for a glass of water, and Langton handed her one.

  “My next interview was with Mrs. Hedges, the housekeeper.”

  Again Anna referred to her notes, explaining that it had taken some considerable time for Mrs. Hedges to open up. Langton was looking at his watch, his foot tapping.

  “I did not really get to the nitty-gritty until she told me about looking after Charles Wickenham’s father. She said he was a really bad-tempered man with a vicious temper. He was, however, very generous to her, which was one of the main reasons she remained with the family. She described how the old man would not just ridicule his only son, but was also very violent toward him. The boy was subjected to terrible punishments; at times, he was unable to go to school due to his beatings. Mrs. Hedges said she always tried to protect Charles from his father, but eventually he was sent away to boarding school. During his vacations, the punishments would begin again; as he got older, they would result in even worse physical violence. He would tie him up and leave him in the old barn; this was before it was renovated into the playground it is now. When Charles Wickenham grew old enough to retaliate, the old man introduced him to sexual perversion. Every weekend, there would be a carload of prostitutes shared between father and son. Mrs. Hedges never even attempted to do anything about what she knew was going on, and there was no mother around to intervene. She did, however, tell me that there was a punishment room, beneath the barn; it had been an old wine cellar.”

  Anna sketched out the main house, barn, and stables in big square blocks and indicated on her rather crude drawings where this cellar would have been, pointing out that it might have been demolished as part of the renovations to the barn. Langton was now leaning forward; he stared intently at Anna and then at her drawings.

  “Charles Wickenham went to Cambridge and qualified as a doctor. He spent two years working as a houseman in Bridge East Hospital before he joined the army. He rarely, if ever, returned home, as he was traveling the world; for a lengthy period he was stationed in the Far East. He married Una Martin. Her father was a major in the same regiment, but Mrs. Hedges could not recall which one it was. She was Edward Wickenham’s mother.”

  Anna now began to draw out the family tree, and although she had everyone’s attention, they were beginning to get restless.

  “Una Wickenham died of cancer shortly after they returned from abroad; Charles Wickenham had quit the army to take over the running of the estate. His father was dying and had lost a considerable amount of money; he had also sold off vast areas of land. By the time his father died, Charles Wickenham was running the estate full-time. Like his father, he angered the locals by selling off vast tracts of land and some of the farms that bordered onto their property. He subsequently married Dominique Dupres: as we know from our time in Milan, the new Mrs. Wickenham had quite a past. The parties that had been part of the old man’s lifestyle now began again. Like father, like son. So much so that by now, Edward Wickenham was being subjected to a punishment regime similar to that his father had suffered. He married a local girl and they lived in the thatched cottage he still occupies.

  “The new Mrs. Wickenham gave birth to two daughters, Justine and Emily. As soon as Mrs. Hedges began to talk about the girls, her manner changed and she became very distressed. She referred to the suicide of Edward’s wife as being a tragic cry for help: she had been detested by her father-in-law and scared of what she knew was going on. Mrs. Hedges said she was constantly bedridden and became very frail; she could easily have been describing Gail Harrington!”

  Anna took a sip of her water. Everyone was focused on her again.

  “Mrs. Hedges knew that Charles Wickenham was molesting both girls, and from a very early age. She said that Dominique had to be aware of what was going on, but did nothing; to quote Mrs. Hedges, “The detestable woman was too busy doing dirty things with all these houseguests, even her stepson”: the sex sessions were taking place virtually every weekend. I asked about the abuse, and if she had ever witnessed the girls being sexually used by their own father. She was very tearful and shook her head, saying that she did not need to see, it was obvious, especially with the youngest child. I asked if she knew if Emily Wickenham had been pregnant. She refused to answer, and then began to cry. When I persisted, asking her again, she still refused to answer and kept on telling me how much she loved the girls. Just as I was thinking about calling it quits, she said, ‘Justine was tougher: she could handle him; she was like her mother, but little Emily was too young. He did a terrible thing and when she tried to make him stop, they sectioned her.’ ” Anna closed her notebook. “That’s it.”

  She frowned. “Sorry, not quite. Just as I was leaving, I asked Mrs. Hedges if Charles Wickenham had ever had a secretary. This goes back to the advert we think Louise Pennel answered and therefore how she came to meet him. She said there had been a number of girls that came and went; none stayed long. He was a hard taskmaster and they were always too young and inexperienced. But if Wickenham is a serial killer, as Professor Marshe suggested, he would probably have killed before the Red Dahlia, so perhaps this is something we should follow up.”

  The room was quiet as Anna returned to sit down. Lewis got up next and gave them the details from the stable boy. When he told them that he had seen Louise Pennel lying naked in the barn on January eighth, the room erupted—they all knew that was the day before she was murdered.

  Langton then stepped back up. First, he moved to Louise Pennel’s photograph. “He lied about Louise.” He moved to Sharon Bilkin. “We can assume he also lied about Sharon. It is quite possible she came to see him; if we question Gail Harrington further, we can find out if she had been at the house as one of those weekend guests. We have one guest identified but I’d like to press on to get more ID on the other men.”

  Langton paused, frowning, then sighed. “Do we have enough to bring him in? Without doubt, yes, we have, but we still do not have any DNA evidence that links him directly to the murders. The fact that they had visited at his property does not mean he killed them: we know he had a truckload of tarts down most weekends, so these two girls could have just been there and left. Our killer could also be one or other of his houseguests—it could even be his own son, Edward—but Wickenham is our prime suspect. The fact that this piece of scum had sexual intercourse with his own daughters has already been brought to the attention of the police and the case dismissed. He can prove that Emily is mentally unstable; what we have to prove without doubt is that Charles Wickenham is the Red Dahlia killer. Although it might look as if we have a shedload of damning evidence against him, it’s still circumstantial. We have no weapon, no bloodstains, nothing that pinpoints Charles Wickenham as our killer. We do not know if he and his son are in this together. We do not know if the houseguests also played a part in the torture and murder of our two victims.”

  Langton took a deep breath. “What we do have are warrants. We now have enough to gain access and search their properties: that’s the barn, the main house, the stables, the thatched cottage, and the cars. I intend going in with a fucking army. If there is a torture chamber in the old cellar, we’ll find it. There may have been other victims, but we can’t at this point in time open up more inquiries: we concentrate on our Red Dahlia. We also keep in mind that the original killer of the Black Dahlia was never brought to justice. Wickenham will have covered his tracks, but we’ll derail him!”

  Barolli wafted h
is hand and Langton smiled over at him.

  “The taped call made to the journalist: can we still use it?”

  “We can try, but even if he is the voice on tape, sick thing is, he could claim to be a pervert getting kicks out of wasting police time; we get enough calls every day from the sickos.”

  Langton glanced at Lewis, who held up a small tape recorder. “I taped him today, so we’ll get a match or not anyway.”

  Langton chuckled and wiped his shirt front. “No flies on me!”

  Lewis and Langton were closeted in his office, working on “the hit,” when they would search Wickenham’s estate. It had to be carefully orchestrated, and they needed a lot of extra hands to ensure nothing was overlooked.

  Anna spent the rest of the afternoon writing up her official report, and when it came to just after six, she decided to call it quits for the day. She had just packed up when Barolli called over to ask if she was going to interview Emily Wickenham as per the duty list for that day. Anna sighed.

  “I can do it on my way home, I suppose.”

  Anna called Emily Wickenham twice and hung up when her answering machine clicked on. She decided to do some grocery shopping and try again afterward, so she packed up her briefcase and left.

  She was driving out of the station car park when the call came in to the incident room from the forensic team. They had discovered blood spatterings in the bathroom of Justine Wickenham’s flat. They were taking the samples to the lab, but wanted one of the team over at the flat. As soon as Langton was told the update, he was eager to get over there himself; this was possibly the big break they had been waiting for.

  Langton and Barolli arrived at Justine Wickenham’s flat, which was owned by the woman who ran the riding school. Justine paid her a monthly rent for the small, rather scruffy flat on the middle floor of a house that backed onto the stable yard. By the time Langton and Barolli walked in, the forensic team had packed up, apart from Ken Gardner, who was sitting on the stairs having a quick cigarette.

  “What you got for me?” Langton said.

  “Not a lot, but it took a long time to find; the place may look like a tip, but somebody did a big cleaning job. We went through every room with a fine-tooth comb, as they say, and didn’t think we’d get a result.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette under his shoe and pocketed the stub. They followed him up the creaking narrow staircase, which was carpeted in hemp. Ken nodded to it. “This is a bugger: it’s rough and we had to go inch by inch; leaves a lot of fibers, but all we got was a face full of dust.”

  He led them into a small, untidy sitting room and pointed. “Lot of stale food left around, which is unpleasant; the young lady is not very hygienic. The bedroom sheets look as if they’ve not been changed for months; we’ve taken them in.”

  Langton said nothing as they looked into a dirty kitchen with a stack of pans piled in the sink.

  “We had a real stinky time in here; something’s wrong with the plumbing so, just in case, we took out the U-pipe—it was clogged with tea leaves and crap, but no body parts.”

  Langton checked his watch irritably. Ken liked the sound of his own voice. Langton asked him to get a move on.

  “Yeah, yeah; but I wanted you to know how many hours we’ve been holed up here; after the Dennis Neilson epic—you know they found a thumb in his drainpipe?—so we have to be diligent.”

  “How did Justine Wickenham react to you being here?”

  “Well, Miss Hoity-Toity made an appearance, said a few foul words, and then left. She kept on saying that it was all a fucking waste of time, as she was in Milan when the girl was murdered; she said that a couple of times. Anyway, she eventually left, slamming the door so hard it almost came off its hinges! Okay, the bathroom: now, we had to do a considerable amount in here, removing floorboards, etcetera. We tried to ease the bath out, but it broke a few tiles.”

  Langton sighed; this was all to cover themselves for the damage claim that would no doubt be coming in.

  Ken stood in the doorway. The bathroom was actually larger than Langton had expected. The toilet was on one side, the washbasin beside it. The cracked white tiles were dirty and the room had a moldy smell. “Water has leaked at some time beneath the bathtub and from the toilet, so it’s pretty dank in here.”

  Langton looked to the small red arrow stickers on the far side of the bath.

  “Between six tiles, we found very, and I mean very tiny droplets of blood, no seeping; it’s like a fine spray hit the back rest. It had, as you can see, been washed down; these tiles were a lot cleaner than any of the others. Tiny spots were on each tile and some of the cement in between also had a faint smear. We have them being tested.”

  Langton frowned. Louise Pennel’s body had been drained of blood; it seemed to him very unlikely that this was where it could have happened.

  “You know the victim’s blood had been drained,” he said to Ken.

  “Yes, I know; to be honest, I doubt if she could have been cut up here: I mean, that’s pints of blood. We’d have found traces in the drains. This was more like a spray, the tiny drops were only the size of a pinhead, and they were at an upward slant.”

  Langton was disappointed but thanked Ken for his diligence, and he and Barolli decided to go over to the nearest pub for a pint and a sandwich.

  Anna was parked on Portobello Road opposite Emily Wickenham’s flat, trying to call her. The answering machine came on again. Anna looked up at the window. The curtains were drawn and the lights were on.

  Anna locked her car and crossed the road. She was about to ring Emily’s doorbell when the front door opened and a young girl with her hair in dreadlocks came out.

  “Hi, is Emily in?” Anna asked, smiling.

  “Dunno; she’s the flat above mine, straight up the stairs.”

  “Thank you.” Anna smiled again as the girl walked off down the road in thick, heavy boots, her red skirt swirling.

  Anna headed up the stairs to Emily’s flat. She was about to knock when she noticed the door was off the latch; she heard raised voices.

  “I am telling you what is happening; they are at my flat, Em, the police. Now, you have said something? Because why else would they be there?”

  “I didn’t! I swear, I didn’t tell them anything!”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t remember one thing from the next! You must have said something. I can’t go to my own flat, for Chrissakes!”

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  “I hope to Christ you didn’t, because you know what he’ll do: he’ll stop my fucking allowance. He won’t listen to me. He won’t believe that I never said a fucking word and he’ll take it out on me! So tell me the truth, what did you tell them?”

  Emily’s voice screeched. “I keep on telling you, I didn’t say anything; they kept asking me but I never told them! I didn’t, I swear I didn’t!”

  “Well, why are they at my flat, then? I mean, why are they searching my flat? They all had white paper suits on: they were forensic cops, they were taking up my fucking carpet, Em!”

  “But they won’t find anything; you cleaned it all up!”

  “I know, but the fact they are there freaks me out. If he cuts off my allowance, he’ll do worse to you: he’ll make you go back home.”

  “I won’t go, I won’t go!”

  Anna was literally on the other side of the door; she could hear every word clearly. She was now in a quandary as to how to approach the girls. Should she walk straight in? She decided to go back down the stairs and call up: that way, they could never accuse her of breaking in.

  As Anna got to the bottom of the stairs, she heard Justine becoming even more angry, then a door slam. Anna took this as her cue to call out.

  “Hello! Hello!”

  Justine stood at the top of the stairs with a furious look on her face.

  “Hi, I am DI Travis; I was about to ring the bell when your friend from the flat below let me in. Your front door was open.”

  Justine moved
slowly down the stairs. “Then you can just turn around and get the hell out of here. This is private property, so fuck off!”

  “I just want to talk to Emily.”

  “She doesn’t want to see you, and you have no right to break in here! Get out!”

  “If I could just see your sister for a moment?”

  “You can’t; I just told you. She is not seeing anyone, so turn around and get the fuck out of her flat!”

  Justine was wearing jodhpurs and riding boots, and brandishing her riding crop. “Don’t make me use this, because I will. I also know the law; you have no right to come in without a warrant. This is private property, so I am giving you warning. Get out!”

  Emily’s frightened face now appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?”

  “Go back into the flat, Emily, and shut the door; this woman wants to talk to you and she can’t.”

  “Why not let me just speak to her? It will only take a few moments,” said Anna calmly.

  “No. If she talks to you, she wants a solicitor with her.”

  “Why don’t you stay with her?”

  “Because I don’t want to! I don’t want you here. I am going to make a formal complaint. Now go away.” She lifted the riding crop.

  Anna hesitated; she looked past Justine to the frightened Emily and shrugged. “Okay, you can contact your solicitor, and he can accompany you to the station. I was just hoping that this could be less formal.”

  “Why do you want to see me?” Emily asked in a high-pitched voice.

  “I am not prepared to discuss this on the stairs,” Anna said firmly.

  “I don’t want to go to the police station!”

  Justine turned toward her sister. “Go back and shut the door. Just do what I tell you to do; you will not be taken to any police station.”

  “Well, she very likely will be, if she doesn’t talk to me now.”