The Red Dahlia at-2

by Lynda La Plante

  Barolli covered the mouthpiece. 'Turning tricks?'

  Anna shook her head. 'If Louise had been working as a prostitute, Sharon would have known; so would Mrs Jenkins.'

  'She had to have been getting money from somewhere; she moved out of the B&B after the job interview so the two must be linked.'

  Just then, Lewis came steaming into the Incident Room. He held up a plastic bag. 'Two more, we've got two more.'

  Anna turned to face him. 'Two more what?'

  Lewis's face was flushed. 'Sent to the Incident Room, been downstairs since they arrived this morning. You won't bloody believe what they say. Where's the Gov?'

  In front of everyone, Langton put on rubber gloves and unzipped the protective forensic bag.

  The first note read:

  Dahlia's Killer CraCkin. Wants terms?

  The second:

  To DCI James Langton. I will give up in Red Dahlia killing if I get ten years. DON'T TRY TO FIND ME.

  Both notes were written in letters cut from newspapers. The constant ringing of telephones was the only sound in the room as Langton carefully replaced the notes, not wanting to contaminate them. He then crossed to the noticeboard.

  'He's a day out on the Black Dahlia timeframe. The LA Examiner received almost identical letters to these on January the twenty-seventh.'

  'So he is copycatting,' Anna said.

  'That's pretty obvious,' snapped Langton. He looked to Barolli. 'Let's get over to the lab and see if these have anything. Like a fucking fingerprint would be useful!'

  Langton and Barolli left the station. Anna was pouring a coffee for herself when Lewis joined her.

  'If this nutter is copycatting the original Black Dahlia case, you know what comes next?'

  'Yes, we get sent a photograph of a white male with a stocking pulled so tight over his face, he's unrecognisable.'

  'Called him the Werewolf Killer,' Lewis said, pointing to the listings of the contacts made by the Black Dahlia killer in 1947.

  Anna sipped her coffee; it was stale, and she pulled a face.

  'This is getting hairy, isn't it?' Lewis remarked.

  Anna nodded. 'On the old enquiry, they reckoned their killer was obsessed with Jack the Ripper; ours is obsessed with the Black Dahlia killer. Either way, they are both playing sick games. I doubt we'll get anything from the notes.'

  Lewis nodded and returned to his desk. Anna was passing Barolli's when Bridget raised her hand.

  'Excuse me, Anna, but I've got someone from BT on the line for Detective Sergeant Barolli; do you want to talk to him?'

  Anna nodded and picked up Barolli's phone. She identified herself and then listened as an engineer gave her details of two calls answering the advert. They were made on land lines and so had been traceable; any call made using a mobile, however, they had no record of.

  Anna could feel her heart pumping. If those two callers had responded to the same advert as Louise Pennel, this might be the first major step forward in tracing the tall dark-haired man.

  Langton sat in a hard-backed chair at the lab at Lambeth. Around his feet were cigarette ends, above his head the NO SMOKING sign. He looked at his watch impatiently. Barolli came out of the gents' toilet.

  'Still waiting?'

  'What does it look like? I've never sat around like this on any other case. But I want these lab reports.'

  Langton took out a rolled-up Evening Standard from his pocket, and started to read.

  'Do you think he's going to go all the way with this copycat scenario?'

  'Maybe,' Langton muttered.

  'So you think this sick bastard's going to grab some innocent kid, truss him up, put a stocking over his head and send in his photograph?'

  'I don't think all that crap with the boy and stocking mask was from the killer; just some other sick fuck wanting publicity.'

  'You think those notes are from him, though?' Barolli asked.

  'I don't know; if they are, let's hope we get something off them.'

  'Think we should we go to LA, Gov?'

  Langton folded his paper and stuffed it back into his pocket. 'No, I fucking don't! This guy is here, not in LA. He's in London somewhere and we will find him. I am getting sick to death of this Black or Red Dahlia shit. We have a twisted killer with a sadistic mind, and someone somewhere knows who he is.'

  At that moment, the swing doors opened. The technicians had finished their tests on the latest notes.

  Chapter Eight

  Now that she and Lewis had two names to check out, Anna felt really energised. The women lived on different sides of London: one in Hampstead, the other in Putney. They had no luck in contacting Nicola Formby but they left an urgent message on her answerphone; however, Valerie Davis was at home and agreed rather nervously to see them. She asked if it was to do with a parking offence. Lewis said it was nothing for her to worry about; they simply needed to question her about something they would prefer to discuss personally.

  Valerie lived in a basement flat close to Hampstead Heath. She was attractive, with shoulder-length blonde hair and the aristocratic tones of a debutante. She was wearing a wide baggy sweater over a very small miniskirt and big furry boots.

  'Hi, do come in,' she said. Her cheeks were flushed pink.

  It looked as if each of the untidy rooms in the flat was let out to someone or other.

  'Sorry about the mess; we've got some friends staying, over from Australia.'

  'How many of you live here?' Anna asked pleasantly.

  'Four girls and one boy. Tea or coffee?'

  They both refused either and sat in the equally untidy kitchen.

  'Did you answer this advert?' Lewis went straight in. Anna would have taken more time.

  Valerie glanced at the wording of the advert which had been typed out onto a sheet of paper. 'Yes; well, I think it was the same one, about eight months ago.'

  Anna's stomach clenched. 'Could you tell us exactly what happened?'

  'How do you mean?' Valerie crossed her endless legs. Such a short skirt didn't leave much to the imagination.

  'Well, did you write a letter in response?'

  'Yes, I sent in my CV, for what it's worth. I don't actually have shorthand, but it sounded like a great opportunity.'

  'You sent in a photograph?'

  'Yes, though not a very good one: I had to cut off people either side of me, because I didn't really have one that wasn't me fooling about. I was going to go to one of those passport thingies, but I didn't get a chance.'

  'When was this?'

  Valerie screwed up her face, and then rubbed her nose with the cuff of her sweater. 'Oh gosh, let me think. Be about… early June?'

  'Did you get a reply?'

  'Not a letter; I got a phone call.'

  Anna leaned forwards. 'To here?'

  'No, I gave my mobile number and this man asked if I would come for an interview. He wanted to see me straight away. But it was granny's birthday, so I told him I was going to the country and he asked something like when would I be available. I wasn't sure, so I said I'd call him when I got back to London, which I did.'

  Anna was itching to direct the conversation, but Lewis was the more experienced officer.

  'And you arranged to meet him?' Lewis continued.

  Valerie nodded, as Lewis made a note and then looked back to her. 'Where was this?'

  'At Kensington Park Hotel, just next to Hyde Park Gardens'

  'What date was this?'

  Valerie looked up to the ceiling as she wound a strand of her hair round her finger. 'It was a Tuesday, about the fourteenth of June. I was to be there at two-fifteen.'

  Lewis carefully wrote down the information. 'Can you describe the person you went to meet?'

  Valerie shook her head. 'No, because he never showed up. There's a large, well, it's a massive long room, with the hotel reception, a coffee bar and lots of seating areas. I was late; not too much, 'bout ten minutes. I went to the reception desk and asked if anyone had left a message for me,
but no one had. I sat on a sofa for a while and then went and had a coffee.'

  'So you never met up with the man you had made the appointment with?'

  'No.'

  Lewis leaned back, frustrated.

  'Did he give you a name?'

  'Yes, he said his name was John Edwards.'

  He turned to an equally disappointed Anna, who asked if Valerie had seen anyone that might have been Mr Edwards. Valerie said she didn't know what he looked like. She was shown the drawing of their suspect, but she did not remember seeing anyone that resembled him.

  Lewis stood up, but Anna was not ready to go. She asked Valerie if she could describe Mr Edwards's voice.

  'Describe the way he spoke, you mean?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, he sounded a bit like my father: quite pompous, upper-crust, but nice at the same time.'

  'Could you repeat the conversation you had with him?'

  'Well we didn't really have much of a conversation; he just asked me what previous work I had been doing, and if I had a CV he could check. He wanted to know if he could contact anyone to check me out, I suppose. He asked me about my shorthand speed and I said it was a bit rusty, but that I'd worked in a film production office as a runner.'

  'Did you ask him what the job entailed?'

  Valerie nodded. 'He said it would be transcribing his novel. He said that it would also involve a lot of travel, because it was a book set all over the world, and that it was really very much a personal assistant requirement rather than a straight secretary. He asked if I had a passport and if I was married, as he needed someone that could travel at a moment's notice.'

  Anna smiled. 'It must have sounded like a really interesting job.'

  Valerie nodded, and then swung her foot in the big furry boot. 'There was something odd though, which is I suppose why you are asking me about him.'

  'What was odd?' Anna said quickly.

  'Well he asked if I had a boyfriend and did I look like my photograph. When I told my Dad about it, he said it all sounded a bit iffy to him.'

  'Did you try and make contact with Mr Edwards again?'

  Valerie shook her head. 'I couldn't be bothered.'

  On their way to Putney, Anna and Lewis stopped off at the Kensington Park Hotel. The vestibule was as Valerie had described it: very large, with many guests passing to and fro.

  'He could have been watching from any of these sofas or at the coffee bar. You can see anyone coming in or out of the hotel.'

  'She had too many people around her,' Lewis said, flatly.

  'She also doesn't look like the Black Dahlia victim,' Anna said, as they headed out of the hotel.

  Nicola Formby bore no physical resemblance to Elizabeth Short either, bar to her surname: she was not even as tall as Anna, who was only five feet two. Aside from the height issue, she also differed from Valerie in that she was quite highly qualified, having been a PA to a company director for three years; however, when they met Nicola at her flat, she described almost an identical scenario: she had been unable to meet the 'very pleasant, well-spoken man' straight away because of a migraine; she therefore asked if she could contact him when she was recovered. She had sent a photograph and CV care of the box number, and called a few days later to arrange to meet. She was to meet him in the lobby vestibule at two o'clock, this time at the Grosvenor Hotel in Park Lane.

  Nicola Formby had been on time, unlike Valerie three days earlier. She had waited over three quarters of an hour sitting in the reception. She had also gone up to the desk to ask if a Mr Edwards had left a message for her, but he had not. Nicola called the number she had taken from the advert but it had been disconnected so, disappointed, she decided to leave. She then realised that there was another entrance at the other side of the hotel and waited there for another ten minutes, but no one approached her. Nicola had neither seen nor spoken to a tall dark-haired man, with or without a long dark draped coat. When shown the drawing of the possible suspect, she was unable to recognise him.

  It was as disappointing as Valerie's interview and showed yet again how very carefully their suspect, if he was Mr Edwards, had targeted the hopeful applicants. He must have been able to see them clearly and discard them without ever having shown them his face.

  'What has he done?' Nicola asked, looking at the card Anna had given her.

  'We're not certain Mr Edwards has done anything,' Lewis said.

  'Is he a rapist or something like that?'

  Anna hesitated; she knew intuitively that Nicola could give them something more. Even though she and Lewis had agreed that they would not mention Louise's murder, she sat back down and opened her briefcase. 'We are actually investigating a murder. This is the victim; her name was Louise Pennel.'

  Lewis shot Anna a look as she handed over a photograph of Louise.

  'And you think this man I was supposed to see is connected to it?'

  'Possibly.'

  There was a sharp intake of breath as Nicola looked at the photograph.

  'There was another girl there, at the hotel. I can't be certain, but I think she was waiting for him too.'

  Anna could feel her blood rush. 'Do you recognise her?

  'I'm not sure, but it could have been her. She arrived at the hotel about twenty minutes after me. She kept on looking around as if she was waiting for someone, and I saw her go up to the desk.'

  Anna leaned forwards. 'The Grosvenor is a very big hotel, very exclusive and fashionable. Why do you think she might have been waiting for the same person as you?'

  'Because I saw the clerk at the desk point to me, as if to say, she's also waiting. The girl looked over to me then turned away and went further into the lobby. That's when I wondered if I'd got the wrong entrance, because a few years ago I came to a big ball and we came in another way.'

  Anna and Lewis almost held their breath. Nicola continued.

  'When I got to the back entrance, I saw her heading up the escalator. She turned back and looked at me again and then carried on up to the next floor. That was when I thought maybe I was wrong, you know about her meeting the same person, this Mr Edwards.'

  Anna selected two more photographs and passed them to Nicola. 'Have another look, take your time. Do you think this is the girl you saw?'

  Nicola sighed apologetically. 'I'm sorry, I can't be certain. It looks like her, but I couldn't be one hundred per cent sure.'

  'Do you recall anything else; maybe what she was wearing?'

  'Oh yes I do, I remember that, because it was a very hot day and she was wearing a woollen coat. It was a deep maroon and it had a velvet collar. She also had high-heeled shoes on and she was carrying a small clutch bag under her arm.'

  Anna was astonished. 'How come you can remember all that so clearly?'

  'Part of my job when I worked for an advertising company was buying stuff for commercial shoots. I suppose it really was more like a glorified dresser, but it did teach me a lot about clothes. Maybe that's why I can't remember her face; I was looking at her coat.'

  It was almost six-thirty by the time Anna and Lewis returned to the station and past seven when they finished briefing Langton as to how the interviews had gone.

  'I'd say it was our victim and Anna agrees.' Lewis nodded towards her.

  Langton was tapping a pencil on the side of his desk. 'Did you enquire if this Mr Edwards booked a room in either of the hotels?'

  'Yep, and there was no one of that name.'

  'So, what, after all that schlepping around, do we have?'

  Anna flipped her notebook closed. 'That Louise Pennel met this Mr Edwards on 10th June and a couple of days later moved into Sharon's flat. Her wages from the dental clinic would not have covered the rent per week.'

  Langton ruffled his hair. 'So you think she was being paid by this Mr Edwards?'

  'Maybe; she got new clothes, some very expensive.'

  'But if she got the job working for him, why did she stay at the clinic?'

  Anna shrugged. 'Maybe this Mr Edwar
ds was just schooling her for his perversions. She was often late, often hung over at work and didn't seem to care even when she was warned she'd be fired. Sharon said at one time she had bad bruises on her arms. And a black eye, which Louise put down to falling at work.'

  Langton took a deep breath. 'And we are still no nearer to tracing this sadistic bastard.'

  'I think we are getting closer,' Anna said.

  'Do you?' Langton said, sarcastically. He stood up and stretched his arms above his head. 'There was nothing helpful from his last contact: no fingerprints, just letters cut out of newspapers stuck to the same notepaper, so we just sit and wait for his next missive. All we have is that the notes were more than likely compiled by the same person, whoever the hell he is, this Mr Edwards. I dunno; it's like we're going around in circles.'

  Anna felt slightly irritated as she thought that she had done a good day's work, but she said nothing, sitting with her notebook in hand.

  'How much was she paying out at the B&B?'

  Anna flicked over a page then looked up at Langton. 'Almost as much as at Sharon's, but she was making money turning tricks then; I am certain she wasn't once she moved.'

  'They both slept with guys for money — Sharon admitted it to me,' Langton snapped.

  'Occasionally she might have, but it was by no means regular. For six months, she paid rent, went out, dated the tall dark-haired man and kept up her job at the dental clinic.'

  Langton interrupted, wafting his hand. 'Yes, yes, we know all this. But I can't for the life of me think what all this gives us, Travis?'

  'That she was being paid by her lover. Now, what she was actually paid for, I don't know, I'd say sexual favours. Sharon has stated that Louise offered her drugs a few times — cocaine — and she was often very distressed.'

  Langton slapped the table with his hand. 'But what does this give us?'

  'For Chrissakes, it gives even more on the suspect!' Anna snapped back at him.

  Langton grimaced. 'In case you are unaware of it, we do not have, after two weeks, a clue as to who this suspect is. We are saying he might look like the drawing of the Black Dahlia killer, but he could not look anything like him. We have had not one positive identification or, even more important, one shred of evidence against this so-called lover of Louise Pennel. We don't even have any proof that he was screwing her, or that it was him that put the advert in The Times. We have fuck all, if the truth be known.'