'Advert for what?'
'A job: a PA, with travel.'
Dick ruffled his hair. 'Which paper?'
'I don't know.'
'Well, it won't be easy; there must be thousands of jobs advertised: Times, Time Out, Evening Standard. They're all computerised, but if that's all you've got to go on, it'll take someone a lot of…' He mimed holding a telephone to his ear. 'Unless you know more?'
'I think it's put in by a male.'
He grinned. 'Do you have the exact date?'
'It would have been around the sixteenth of May last year.'
Dick looked around for the waiter. 'Be like looking for a needle in a haystack. What's so important about it?'
Anna hesitated and then shrugged. 'Maybe a link, maybe not.'
'Link to what?'
Again she hesitated, not wanting to say too much. In fact, she shouldn't have been talking about it all. 'Oh, something that was said. It'll probably mean nothing.'
He finished his glass of wine. 'You mean you won't tell me,' he said, not unkindly.
'Yes,' she smiled.
'Look, Anna, we're having a friendly dinner. I've not come here with you to pump you for any information. I know it wouldn't be ethical, okay? But you have no need to worry about anything you might be telling me being used against you. M'Lud.'
Anna grinned as the waiter topped up their glasses; again, Dick drank half the glass in one go.
'I don't suppose you have had any more anonymous letters?' she said.
'Nope, and your boss man — Langton, is it? — gave us stern warnings that if we did, we go straight to him first. Do you think my note was from the killer?'
'Possibly.'
'God, there are some sick people around. Let's change the subject: tell me about you.'
Anna sipped her wine. 'I'm a detective inspector, so I can be attached to any murder team that requires an officer of my capabilities! That's a joke. I'm still very raw around the edges.'
'Really?' He had the most amazing, penetrating blue eyes. 'So, are you married?'
'Good heavens, no! Otherwise I wouldn't have agreed to have dinner with you.'
'What about a partner?'
'No, there's no one. What about you?' She leaned forwards.
'Me? Unmarried these days; we broke up about a year ago. She's living in Spain with a karate instructor; actually, one I introduced her to.'
'Do you have children?'
'She had a parrot, but her mother took it.'
At that moment, the waiter appeared with their starters. Dick had become much less hyper, and she was starting to enjoy his company. He was very open and witty, and had her laughing over a story about when he first started as a journalist. By the time their main course had been served, they were chatting about all and sundry; in fact, they ended up talking about their different relationships with their fathers. Dick had been very much a black sheep: his father a doctor and man of letters, his mother a very educated linguist. They had wanted him to follow in his father's footsteps, but instead he had left university and gone into journalism; however, his elder sister was now a qualified doctor. It was not until he was talking about her that he referred back to the Louise Pennel case.
'Do you think your killer would have had medical training? I know we've been asked to put a press embargo on the grisly details, not that we've been given much, but I looked up the Elizabeth Short murder on the internet. Mind-blowing; shocking to think they never caught the guy.'
Anna tensed up, suddenly nervous. She didn't reply, giving just a small shrug of her shoulders.
He twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. 'So if this Louise Pennel case is similar, it kind of makes the hair stand on end. Dismembering her like that had to have been done by someone with surgical experience or, at the very least, someone with medical training. It's not easy to cut someone in two and drain their blood; well, it isn't according to my sister.'
Anna was just about to reiterate the fact that she could not discuss the case when DCI Langton walked into the restaurant, accompanied by Professor Marshe. It was not that much of a coincidence as Langton didn't live too far away, but seeing him made her blush. She watched him talking intently to Professor Marshe as the maitre d' led them to the table virtually opposite theirs.
Dick turned to see where she was looking and then looked back. 'What's up?'
'It's my boss; he's with a profiler that has been brought in from the States.'
Langton was waiting for Professor Marshe to sit down when he noticed Anna. He hesitated and then approached. 'Hi, surprise; not really I suppose, as this is your local. I've not been here before,' he said, quite affably.
'Nor me. This is Richard Reynolds.'
Dick turned, half-rising. 'Dick Reynolds, nice to meet you.'
Langton gave a tight nod; he recognised the name, but said nothing. 'Enjoy your dinner.' He gave a cold smile and headed back to his table.
Though Langton sat with his back to Anna, she still felt very self-conscious. Dick leaned across the table. 'Why don't we have coffee back at your place?'
Anna was still feeling uneasy when they walked up to her flat. Dick looked at his watch. 'Listen, I have to be up at the crack of dawn; maybe leave coffee until another time?'
'Whatever,' she said, opening her front door.
'Okay, well, I'll call you,' he said, hovering.
'I'd like that. Thank you for dinner.'
'My pleasure.' He leaned forwards and kissed her cheek. He stepped back and looked at her with his head cocked to one side. 'Are you okay?'
'I'd just have preferred not to have been clocked by my boss.'
'Why?'
'Well, he's very… I don't know, forget it.'
'If you need any help trying to track down that advert, just give me a ring; maybe I can call in a few favours for you.'
'Thank you, I will. Goodnight.'
Dick gave her a lovely smile and then was gone. She shut the door and leaned against it. Why had it rattled her so, seeing Langton? Was it just seeing him, or was it the way he was behaving with Professor Marshe? And exactly how was he behaving? she asked herself sharply; well, truth was that he was being courteous. He had looked very smart; handsome, if she was being honest. There had been no one else since she had ended their affair until Dick Reynolds, but she was unsure how that would work out. She wasn't even sure if he felt anything towards her. It hadn't appeared as if he had fancied her; moreover, did she fancy him? Though Langton had wanted to continue seeing her after the Alan Daniels case, she had not wanted to jeopardise her career; she felt that, as a very junior officer, it would have become common gossip. She was now wondering, however, if she should have let the relationship run its course…
DAY TWELVE
Langton leaned back in his chair. 'Let me get this straight; you want to check every advert for a PA from nine months ago, but you don't know which newspaper or magazine she might have seen it in? And just how many people do you think I can free up to do this?'
'It's a long shot, I know,' she said, sheepishly.
'Long? It's the bloody Ml motorway, Travis! For Chrissakes, see if you can at the very least narrow it down to a couple of possible papers; go back to the dentist, back to that silly cow Sharon — we can't get stuck tracking down every fucking advert for a PA!'
'Yes sir.'
'That journalist you were with last night?'
'Yes?'
'I hope he wasn't pumping you for information.'
'No, he's just an old friend,' she lied.
'Really. Well, keep your mouth shut around him; when we want the press involved, we will rope them in. Don't go spilling any beans they are not supposed to be privy to.'
'I wouldn't do that.'
'Good, I hope not. So how old a friend is he?'
'Oh, we've known each other for quite a while.' The fib made her blush and she was unable to meet his eyes.
He looked at her, then gave a tight, unfriendly smile. 'They're all the same as
far as I'm concerned: I hate them; they're like leeches, sucking on blood. You watch what you say to him.'
'I will; thank you for the advice.'
'And don't you be shirty with me, Travis!'
'I wasn't aware that I was!'
He laughed and wafted his hand for her to leave his office. He flicked open her lengthy report on her day at Bognor Regis.
There had been no further press reports about the case; if, as Professor Marshe had suggested, their killer would be eager to read about their lack of progress, he would not have been getting any satisfaction. He was not alone: the rest of the team were still not making any headway. Checking out every doctor in the area past and present, paying particular attention to any allegations of malpractice, was time-consuming and, to date, had yielded no result.
Langton slammed out of his office and paused as he passed Anna's desk.
'Do you make a habit of retaining local taxis to chauffeur you around? The Bognor Regis taxi receipt is ridiculous. Why didn't you get in touch with the local cop shop and use one of their patrol cars?'
'I'm sorry. I didn't expect to be at Mrs Pennel's for so long.'
'You have to anticipate these kind of things, Travis: we're not a bloody charity!'
He took up his usual position at the front of the room for a briefing. He was surly and had his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets as he paced up and down.
'I had another meet with Professor Marshe; we discussed our mystery man, the tall dark stranger we have so far been unable to trace. His description matches the killer of Elizabeth Short. This is what the LA homicide reckoned their suspect looked like.'
Langton turned over a blank page on the big drawing board to reveal a drawing of the Los Angeles suspect, drawn in 1947.
'The only description we have of our killer is from Sharon, so let's see how we match up. It could, at a pinch, be the same man: long dark coat, collar turned up; tall, about six feet; dark, close-cropped hair, a touch of grey at the temples. Our guy has no moustache, but he might have grown one if he's as obsessed with copycatting the Elizabeth Short case as we think he is. We can put this drawing out alongside a request for anyone with any information about him to come forward.'
Anna's desk phone rang; it was Dick Reynolds. She was irritated that he had called her at work until he said, 'I've just had a phone call; I think it was your killer.'
Anna sat bolt upright. 'What?'
'I've just got off the phone; he called the crime desk and asked to speak to me.'
'Did you tape it?'
'Of course.'
'Oh my God, can you bring it to us?'
'Can't you come to me?'
'Hold on.'
Anna put up her hand and Langton, who had continued discussing the drawings, looked over to her, visibly displeased at the interruption.
'Yes?'
'The crime desk at the Sun just had a call they think is from the killer.'
Langton almost jumped along the desks to snatch the phone. 'Who am I speaking to?'
'Richard Reynolds.'
Langton took a moment to steady himself. 'Mr Reynolds, I would be most grateful if you could bring over the tape of the call immediately.' Langton listened for another few moments, and then nodded. 'Thank you.' He replaced the receiver and looked to Anna. 'He's coming in directly.'
Langton then looked to the team. 'Professor Marshe was right. Our killer just made verbal contact with the press.'
Twenty-five minutes later, Dick Reynolds was ushered into Langton's office. Lewis, Barolli and Anna were there waiting.
Reynolds took a miniature cassette from one pocket and then, from the other, a small tape recorder with an attachment for plugging into a telephone.
'I've not made copies because I don't have another tape this size. It was lucky I'd got this in my desk drawer. I did miss a section as I was plugging it in.'
Langton gestured for Lewis to insert the tape into the machine. Reynolds was introduced to Lewis and Barolli.
'You know Anna Travis.'
Reynolds smiled at Anna who smiled back politely.
'So what happened was, I was at the crime desk and the call was transferred from the switchboard. It came straight to me as I was the only person there at the time. That machine's a bit old and dodgy, so some of his dialogue isn't that clear.'
'Right,' Langton said, pressing Start. There were a few moments of silence.
The voice was crisp and to the point.
'Well Mr Reynolds, I congratulate you on what your newspaper has done on the Red Dahlia case.'
'Er, thank you.'
'But you seem to have gone silent on it; have you run out of material?'
'You could say that.'
'Maybe I can be of some assistance. 'This was muffled, with a lot of crackling.
'Well we need it, or the police do.'
'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send you some of Louise Pennel's things that she had with her when she, shall we say, disappeared.'
'When will I get them?'
'Oh, within the next day or so. See how far you can get with them. Now I have to say goodbye. You may be trying to trace the call'
'Wait a minute—'
The phone clicked dead. Langton rubbed his head, and gestured for the call to be replayed. It was, three times. Everyone listened in silence.
'Thank you for bringing this in to us, Mr Reynolds,' Langton said and ejected the tape. 'You said you had not made a copy.'
'No. But it must be obvious that I'd like one.'
'I have to ask that you do nothing with this. I do not want this call to be made public until I give you permission.'
'Hang on a second—'
'Mr Reynolds, this is very serious. I do not want the contents of this call printed in your paper or used for any other reason. We will need to have it sent over to the lab and see what they make of it. It will be vital evidence if the killer is arrested, as we will be able to do a voice match.'
Anna went over to her desk to double-check the contacts made by the original Black Dahlia killer, and then returned to Langton's office. She passed over her memo, comparing his original call to the one that Reynolds had received. It was almost word for word.
'I know,' Langton said, quietly.
'So what do we do now?' she asked.
'Exactly what I said: we get the lab to test and see what they can give us. The journalist in the LA case didn't tape the call, so at least we are making some fucking progress. Also, if he has her belongings, he will send them to your friend. The original killer did, didn't he?'
'Yes, he sent the contents of her handbag.'
Langton drummed his fingers on his desk. 'Christ Almighty, this is unbelievable, isn't it?'
She said nothing.
'I hope to God he doesn't play silly buggers and go to print on it, especially after talking with Professor Marshe; she was very sure that if we kept no publicity the killer would make contact. She's been right so far.'
'Yes, you said,' Anna felt irritated. 'I'm sure Mr Reynolds won't do anything that would harm the investigation.'
'We have to make bloody sure he doesn't,' Langton snapped.
The tape was treated and tested. It did not appear that the caller had been trying to disguise his voice. The lab determined that it was a middle-aged man, well spoken and well educated, with a distinct aristocratic tone, exuding confidence. They felt it would be problematic to try to match it because of the muffled and often indistinct sound. There was no distinctive background noise that would help to pinpoint a probable location but, given time, they could strip the tape down to get more information.
Langton sighed with frustration. He had smoked throughout the briefing. 'Right, outcome: despite the portrayals by the media and the entertainment industry, there are serious limitations for the experts. They seriously doubt being able to identify taped voices; it's looking not very positive.'
There was a unanimous moan.
'I know, I know, but we only have a minute's
worth and they need more. They kept on saying that this type of phonetic analysis is very time-consuming; it requires painstaking preparation of speech samples and close observation of their acoustic and other characteristics. So, in the meantime, we stick our thumbs up our arses because it could take weeks. To match an unknown taped voice with another — should we be so lucky to bloody get one — is not a matter of simply making voiceprints which can be compared in the same way as fingerprints. They reject this in court as evidence, because it can create an erroneous picture in people's minds: so, in other words, the chaps at the lab are dicking around trying to bring us something, so that if — if! — we do get a friggin' suspect, we might be able to match it. But this would only give us a lead; nothing more conclusive.'
Disappointed, the team had little to do but continue covering old ground. There was nothing new to work on apart from trying to trace the advert Louise Pennel might have answered. They had so far been unsuccessful, despite contacting virtually every newspaper and magazine, not helped by the fact that they did not know the exact wording; all they could do was to check out anyone advertising for a PA on or around 16 May.
That night Anna couldn't sleep; the call to Reynolds kept on replaying in her mind. They all knew that they were clutching at straws, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this latest contact had to be significant.
DAY THIRTEEN
The next morning, Anna called Sharon and asked if she would be available to meet. She was evasive and said she had an appointment at nine-fifteen, but would more than likely be at home beforehand.
Anna was outside her flat by nine but when she rang the doorbell, she got no reply. Frustrated, she kept her hand on the bell, but Sharon did not appear. She was just turning away when the door opened.
'She's not in.'
The woman was wearing a tweed skirt and pink twinset with a string of pearls. 'She left about five minutes ago.'
Anna showed her ID and asked who she was speaking to.
'I'm Coral Jenkins; I live on the ground floor.'
'Ah yes, you must be the landlady.'
'Yes; I did get a note to say someone from the police wished to talk to me, but I've been away at my sister's; she's been ill.'
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