The Red Dahlia at-2

by Lynda La Plante

  Like schoolkids at the Natural History Museum, they moved along to the end of the table.

  HeRe ArE tHe Red DaHLia's belOnGingS. LettEr to follow.

  'The note is made up from letters cut from newspapers: no prints, so I am afraid it gives us nothing. The notepaper is very common and sells in bulk.'

  While Reynolds was taken to have his fingerprints done, the others moved to another table in a section of the lab where a young scientist with sprouting black hair and thick glasses was waiting. Before him lay Louise's clothes and underwear taken from her wardrobe and laundry basket, divided into two sections: the very expensive lace thongs and matching bras in pale pinks and greens, and the well-worn, cheap underwear, greyish in colour.

  'We split them up because it seems to us that the lady wore the more tasteful items on special occasions, so perhaps took better care of them. We have some body fluids on the thongs but no semen. However, the stains on the other selection are menstrual and identified as belonging to your victim, as are the pubic hairs. We have two different semen stains, but we are unable to ascertain when they were deposited. They can still be visible even after washing, but I doubt this section has been washed recently.'

  They moved along the table to see a few more items: a white blouse that was stained beneath the armpits and a petticoat and a nightdress. It was as depressing as seeing the tired contents of Louise's handbag. Anna was relieved when Langton suggested they return to the station.

  Langton was impatient to get back to the Incident Room to begin checking over Louise's address book. From the patrol car window, Anna watched him thank Professor Marshe, who had remained silent throughout, kissing her on the cheek and helping her into the chauffeur-driven Mercedes that was waiting for her in the lab's car park. He slammed into the front passenger seat. 'She'll give us an update on what we looked at in the lab, either this evening or in the morning.'

  Anna would have liked to say something sarcastic: to date, the glamorous Professor Marshe had given little or no insight into their killer that they hadn't all pieced together themselves; however, she kept quiet. Langton flicked through the small address book in moody silence. Anna stared out of the window, thinking about a girl she had once shared a room with at training college who had always looked very respectable but was, in fact, far from it. Not only was she promiscuous, she had very distasteful habits. Whenever she was out of clean underwear, she just tipped her laundry upside down and wore whatever had been discarded first. Anna knew that for the past six months, when Louise had lived with Sharon, she had appeared to have only the one secret admirer: their one and only suspect so far. According to Sharon, Louise stayed in unless meeting the tall dark stranger. Had Louise led a very different life before? Anna leaned forwards in her seat.

  'Gov, was Lewis checking out any previous boyfriends?'

  'We've traced one: a student from the bed-and-breakfast hotel. He's in the clear, as he now lives in Scotland; another boy from the hostel was interviewed, but he works at a pub in Putney and had not seen Louise for eighteen months, but we've a shedload of other names we are still checking out, so we'll need another visit to the hostel and the B&B. The hotel is run by a Lebanese woman; she says Louise was hardly ever there. She wasn't very helpful.'

  'Do you think the dentist or anyone from where she worked was seeing her?'

  'Not as far as I know.'

  'If we go on what we saw in the lab, maybe she had been putting it about more than we think.'

  Langton shrugged. 'Two semen stains and grubby underwear does not give us much to go on.'

  Anna rested back in her seat and got out her notebook. She spent the rest of the journey flicking back and forth. She remembered that, at her visit to Florence Pennel, the housekeeper had described Louise as looking scruffy with lank hair; she made a note to call Mrs Hughes when she got to the station.

  Langton marched ahead of her as usual. She was expecting to have the door slammed in her face as usual, but he surprised her by waiting. 'What is ticking in that little head, Travis?'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'You always chew your lip, and you were buried in your notebook for fifteen minutes. What? Well, spit it out; what's got to you?'

  Anna sat opposite Langton in his office, stirring her coffee.

  'This suspect, the tall dark man; I think he puts an advert into the paper for a PA, making it a very inviting job to any applicant.'

  'Yes yes, we've been through that. You or anyone else had any joy tracing this advert?'

  'Not as yet, but we do have Louise, broke, working for a pittance at the dentist's, hating her job; she was always late and, according to one of the nurses there, often hungover.'

  'Can you get to the point, Travis?' Langton snapped as he spooned sugar into his coffee. He then opened a drawer and took out a bottle of brandy, pouring a heavy measure into the cup.

  'If we have a man wanting to do a copycat kill of the Black Dahlia, he could have used the advert to find the right girl. Louise Pennel, desperate, bored, broke and sexually permissive, wants to make a big impression; she even goes to visit her grandmother, who she's never met, to borrow money for some clothes to go to the appointment.'

  'This is just you surmising.'

  'I know, but hear me out; the point is—'

  'I am, Travis; can you get to it?'

  'The French underwear, the good clothes, she kept clean; so maybe this tall dark stranger had become a sort of Svengali. He's found the right victim: my God, she even chewed her nails like Elizabeth Short. He also had months to work on her; during that time she moves out of the hostel into a B&B and then Sharon's rented flat. The cashmere sweaters, the suit, the shoes: all expensive. It's like we have two women: one, the old Louise in her cheap and dirty used knickers, and the new model.'

  Langton sighed, impatiently.

  'We need to check where that underwear came from; in fact, check every expensive item Louise Pennel had in her wardrobe. Most important, we need to put more energy into tracking down that advert.' He was drumming his fingers on the desktop; however, she continued, defiantly. 'We do have a bit more to go on.'

  'You mean that we now know he wore a ring on his pinky finger? That's a very big lead, Travis!'

  He was beginning to really annoy her. 'Add it to the drawing, which got the result from the landlady. We have a tall dark-haired man; the ring might help us.'

  'To do what exactly? If we put it in print, it might also tip him off to remove it!' Langton leaned back and lit a cigarette; he squinted at her as the smoke trailed from his lips. 'If we are to go with the copycat theory, then the next person our killer will contact will be me! After sending the package to the LA journalist, he then wrote to what they called the Examiner. In our case it will be me as I am heading up the enquiry, and the letter should be here tomorrow.'

  Langton always surprised her. She hadn't realised that he was paying that much attention to the Black Dahlia copycat theory. There was a long pause as he inhaled deeply, and then wafted his hand to get rid of the cigarette smoke. She hesitated for a moment; he looked up and stared at her. 'What?'

  'Do you think we should put out more press? Keeping silent has not really worked, has it? I mean, I know you are being guided by Professor Marshe, but this is not LA in 1947. We have far more chance of him entrapping himself if we give him enough rope. There's been nothing in the papers for days.'

  Langton stubbed out his cigarette. 'You don't rate her, is that it?'

  'I didn't say that. I just mean that the risk we are taking is that he might be forced into proving himself by killing again, simply because he has not been able to read about how clever he is.'

  Lewis tapped and poked his head round the door.

  'The address book; you want to come in and give us a rap on what you want us to do? We maybe need some more help if you want every address checked out.'

  Lewis left the door open. As Langton left his desk and passed Anna, he swung it open wider. 'After you.'

  Anna collect
ed her briefcase and notebook. 'Thank you. Professor Marshe is obviously working on your social skills.'

  'What?'

  Anna scooted out ahead of him, pretending that she hadn't heard.

  Pasted up along a board were the pages blown up from Louise Pennel's address book. The first page had her name in looped writing, like a child's. As they had been told at the lab, different pens had been used — sometimes a Biro, sometimes a felt-tip pen — other names and addresses were written in pencil and some even in a red crayon. They were not in alphabetical order, but jotted haphazardly. Some had been crossed out; others were scribbled over. They had also blown up the jagged edges where pages had been torn out from the back of the book; these would have been the most recent, and more than likely had the killer's name and address.

  Questioning all those people listed would mean hours of legwork, tracing them and taking statements. A number of names and addresses would turn out to be obsolete, people having moved on elsewhere. Everyone would have their work cut out; it would be tedious and painstaking. Anna moved along the board, doubtful they would gain anything: she was certain the most relevant pages were the ones missing. After they had discussed who was doing what, a tetchy Langton drew up further instructions on how they should go about tracing the advert they believed their killer had placed. They had asked Sharon what papers Louise had read, but she couldn't recall ever having seen her with one. Langton suggested they check out the waiting room at the dental surgery where Louise had worked.

  It felt like the killer was looking over their shoulders and laughing at their lack of results; however, by the end of the day they knew that Louise would often sit in the reception area of the dentist's and read the newspapers. The surgery only had The Times delivered, as the dentist read it himself. They had tracked down twenty-five per cent of the people whose names and addresses were in Louise Pennel's book, and the phones were hopping as the detectives prepared to meet every single one of them. Anna had also contacted Mrs Hughes, who agreed without hesitation that the clutch bag with the suede flower motif was the one she had given to Louise Pennel.

  DAY FIFTEEN

  Anna arrived at her desk the following morning to a flurry of excitement. It was obvious something was going down: the Commander was in with Langton.

  He had received a postcard, sent care of the station. It was bagged immediately and sent over to the lab for them to check out. It was a mixture of handwriting and cut-out newspaper letters.

  18 days. I Was haVinG My fuN witH the MeTroPoliTan Police, but noW GettinG very Bored. Signed, the Red DAhliA AvEnger.

  Barolli copied it out on the board in thick red letters; everyone knew there was pressure coming down on Langton. After ten minutes, the 'big noise' departed and Langton came out of his office. His five-o'clock shadow looked as dark as a beard; his tie was hanging loose and he had a cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth.

  He didn't have to ask for quiet as he stood in front of the killer's message. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out in an old ashtray on the side of Lewis's desk.

  'I have been instructed by the big shots to respond to this message. Professor Marshe also agrees that, as this maniac is attempting to copycat the killer of Elizabeth Short, we should now feed his ego and play his game. The killer of the Black Dahlia sent a virtually identical message to the LA Examiner. Against my own gut feeling, I am to give the following message in a press release.' Langton dug his hands deep into his pockets and recited without emotion, 'If you want to surrender, as indicated by your postcard, I will meet you at any public location at any time; please give details to the Incident Room at Richmond police station.'

  Langton nodded to indicate the briefing was over and headed back into his office. He passed Anna and gave her a cold, dismissive look. She stood up.

  'What are you looking at me like that for?'

  'Talk to your fucking boyfriend.'

  Langton slammed into his office. Anna had no idea what he was talking about. She hurried over to DI Lewis. 'What's going on?'

  Lewis shrugged. 'All I know is, the editor of your pal's newspaper has some very heavy-duty friends. The Gov gets the Commander on his back, and even with Professor Marshe batting for him, they've given him the order to go public and he doesn't like it.'

  'It's nothing to do with me!'

  Lewis turned away. 'Your boyfriend is going to break the story; be headlined this weekend.'

  Anna returned to her desk. She sat for a moment and then packed her briefcase. She called Dick Reynolds and asked if she could cook dinner for him that evening. He said he would be there by eight. Neither of them mentioned anything about the Dahlia story. Anna went up to the duty sergeant and asked if it was okay for her to leave as she had a migraine. He looked at her and grinned.

  'If you haven't got one, you will have. Is it true your boyfriend's the journalist Dick Reynolds?'

  'He is not my boyfriend!'

  Anna banged out of the Incident Room and sat in her car to cool down, then drove home, stopping on the way to buy some groceries. She had decided to make spaghetti bolognaise, nothing special; well, she had decided Mr Reynolds didn't warrant her best culinary offering. She would really like to wring his neck; he had now placed her in a very difficult situation, but it was one she was determined she would rectify, otherwise working alongside Langton would be impossible. Truth was, she had hardly ever thought of Langton over the past eighteen months, but when he had walked into the Incident Room to take over the case, it was as if it was hours ago, not that he had ever acknowledged their history. Anna Travis was not the usual type that DCI James Langton was known to fall for. They were more like the long-legged Professor Marshe. He had a terrible reputation and she had not been prepared to be another notch on his belt, but that didn't mean she didn't still have feelings for him; she did, very strong ones, and it annoyed the hell out of her that she should be thinking of them.

  'Christ,' she muttered to herself, as she dumped her shopping down on the draining board. 'I fucking hate him!'

  As she chopped up the onions and began to make the spaghetti sauce, she calmed down. If Reynolds had used her to get more details of the case, this could prove embarrassing. She prepared the dinner, and then took a shower. She got into an old sweater and jeans and didn't even bother re-doing her make-up; she was getting ready to tear a strip off Reynolds.

  'Thank Christ I didn't sleep with him,' she muttered, as she opened a cheap bottle of plonk. She filled her glass and sat watching the TV.

  'Bastard,' she muttered. Then she checked her watch: he was due any minute, so she returned to the kitchen. The sauce was bubbling away. She was ready for Mr Reynolds.

  Chapter Seven

  The table in the lounge was laid for dinner; she didn't have a dining room. It was no candlelit romantic setting; though she did have candles, she had no intention of making this evening pleasant. She had the TV still on, the plates warming and everything ready to serve at eight-fifteen. At nine-fifteen Reynolds still had not shown. She was about to eat by herself when the intercom went.

  He came charging up the stairs with a large bouquet of cheapo supermarket roses and a bottle of red wine.

  'Sorry I'm late, but something cropped up. I was going to call but thought you might have blown me out.' He grinned and handed over his gifts.

  'I might well have done,' she said, moving away from him as he went to kiss her cheek. 'Go on through into the lounge. I'll dish up straight away. I am starving.'

  'Me too,' he said, shrugging out of his suede coat and tossing it onto the floor by the front door. 'Do you want me to open the wine?'

  'Bottle open on the table,' she said, banging around the kitchen as she put the garlic bread into the oven.

  He did at least wait to start eating before she sat down, though he had consumed a glass of wine and was already pouring another. 'Cheers, and I'm sorry to be so late.'

  'That's all right.' They touched their glasses and he then tucked in with relish.
>
  'This is delicious,' he said, with his mouth full.

  She responded by serving him some salad on a side plate.

  'Do I detect a slight frost in the air?'

  'You do, but let's finish eating.'

  'I think I know what it's about,' he said, winding the spaghetti round his fork.

  'I should think you do. It's made things very difficult for me.'

  'How come?'

  She put down her fork and sat back. 'You were asked not to go to press on the Red Dahlia note or the package. I was told tonight that, despite being warned that it would be detrimental to our enquiry, you are going to press regardless: so how do you think I feel? Especially as DCI Langton is more than aware that we are friends, from seeing us together in that restaurant. He actually thinks we have some kind of relationship; he had a right go at me.'

  'Did he?' Reynolds wiped his plate with a piece of garlic bread.

  'Do you have any idea what repercussions this could have? We have maintained a low profile for a bloody good reason.'

  'Tell me about it.' He wasn't smiling any more.

  'We have a suspect, one we believe is a very dangerous man—'

  'Or not,' he interrupted arrogantly.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Well you may have a suspect, but from what I gather, you are nowhere near identifying him.'

  'You gather incorrectly!' she snapped.

  'Then I apologise. Who is he?'

  She pushed her plate aside and wiped her mouth with her napkin. 'You really imagine I'd disclose that kind of information? Our investigation has nothing whatsoever to do with you!'