The Red Dahlia (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 2)

by Lynda La Plante

  “I think there was some jealousy going on between them. I mean, as I said, I didn’t hear exactly what they were saying, but it was quite a nasty squabble; the dead girl was very upset afterward. She went into the ladies’, then next minute she’s wanting her coat!”

  Doreen was about to repeat everything she had told them about her methods of running the cloakroom, but Anna cut her short. “You have been really very helpful, Doreen, thank you.”

  “Is there a reward?”

  Barolli glanced at Anna as he headed out.

  “No, I’m sorry, there isn’t.”

  Barolli already had the engine ticking over as Anna joined him.

  “Don’t bloody believe this,” he muttered.

  “What, you think she’s lying?” Anna said, slamming her door closed.

  “No, just the one person I didn’t question, and bingo! Not that we got too much out of it.”

  “You want to bet? I think that little cow Sharon has been holding out on us, so I want to get to see her ASAP. I know it would be too much luck, but can you check if a traffic warden saw the car parked up? She said they stick tickets on anything parked in that road.”

  Barolli nodded and made a call on his mobile as Anna tried to contact Sharon on hers. There was no reply. By the time they returned to the station, it was after twelve. As Anna was updating Langton, they were interrupted with a message to say that there had been no ticket issued to a black Rover; all the other vehicles parked in the road behind the club would now be checked, in case one of them proved to be their suspect’s car. Two steps forward, one back, and by three o’clock, Anna still had not been able to contact Sharon.

  The team was all gathered for a briefing; Langton had received yet another contact from their suspect. It read,

  LP deserved to die, another victimm will pay the same price

  Partly in cutout newspaper letters and partly handwritten in ink, it was signed “The Dahlia Killer.” The forensic experts felt this latest note was from the same person, deliberate spelling mistakes and all.

  The press office was becoming agitated, wanting an update on what they could or could not release. Langton, with no suspect, was at his wit’s end. It seemed, as the killer said, that the police could not catch him; despite the audacity of actually sending the notes to the incident room, the postmarks were from so many different locations that tracing the sender was impossible. The cheap lined notepaper and manila envelopes were both sold in bulk. Whoever had sent them had not licked the envelope, leaving no DNA, nor even a single fingerprint.

  Langton maintained a calm front but he was looking worn out. Even with the latest information from the nightclub, they still were no closer to identifying the tall, dark-haired man. The sketch had been in the papers over three consecutive days; he could not believe that no one had come forward. The commander and her team were putting the pressure on and considering bringing in backup; to Langton, this meant he could be removed from the case.

  Anna had assumed that after Professor Marshe had tripped up with the newspaper editor, she would not be called on again. Anna was wrong. Professor Marshe, looking her usual sophisticated self, arrived as the briefing ended and went straight into Langton’s office.

  While everyone waited for them to emerge, Anna yet again called Sharon Bilkin. There was still no reply; this time, her answering machine did not click on but made a whirring sound. Anna called Mrs. Jenkins, the landlady, also without success. She felt as disillusioned as the other members of the team. They talked quietly to one another, mulling over statements and the nonstop phone calls coming in to the station. To date, they had had three “confessors”: three men of various ages appearing at the station to admit to the murder. It was a known hazard of any murder inquiry; some were even known to the police because they were persistent “I done it” time wasters. The three were all questioned and released.

  Langton returned to the incident room at almost five forty-five, accompanied by Professor Marshe. He did not seem in any way attentive to her; if anything, he was cold and aloof, gesturing for her to sit. She produced notes and files and laid them out, then sat, straight-backed, in the chair.

  “I have been studying the original case history of the Elizabeth Short murder, obviously, as you have all been doing, matching the notes and threats alongside your Red Dahlia.” She held up the two women’s photographs. “If we are to believe our killer has an obsession with the Los Angeles murder, and is now making a sickening mirror of it, then we have to take very seriously the threat to kill again.”

  Anna gave a sidelong glance to Lewis to see him rolling his eyes at Barolli.

  The professor continued, laying out details of the LA victims, all purported to have been murdered by the same man. The first had been killed before Elizabeth Short: she had been an heiress, and had been found brutally killed in the bathtub of her own apartment. “If this was his first kill, although it was messy and brutal, it did not have the same hallmarks as the murder of Elizabeth Short; the third victim, however…”

  She held up a photograph of a woman called Jeanne Axford French. “She had been kicked and stomped, which was similar to victim one, but this girl also had almost the identical slash wounds to her mouth as the Black Dahlia. The killer used the victim’s own lipstick to write obscenities on her naked body: he printed “fuck you” on her chest. As with your victim, Louise Pennel, and as with the Black Dahlia, her underwear and clothes were missing. The killer struck four weeks after he killed Elizabeth Short, and possibly again another month later. No one was ever charged with these murders and it was surmised the killer either left LA or became dormant.”

  Langton coughed and she turned toward him.

  “I don’t mean to sound impatient, Professor Marshe, but this has been in the papers! We are all privy to these cases, we’ve not exactly got the T-shirt but we’ve read the case history, the books, etcetera.”

  “I’m aware of that,” she said tetchily. “I’m sorry if this is something you are aware of already, but I think it is necessary for me to explain the reasons for my grave concerns. You have a very dangerous killer on the loose, and one I believe has killed again. You must not think that the letters written are just threats, a ploy to get into the press. As well as enjoying himself playing games, he has to make sure that you are aware of the pattern of murders in the Black Dahlia case.”

  Langton interrupted. “Professor Marshe, we have taken every contact made very seriously. If he does intend to kill again, what we need is a profile that will help us catch him; so far we have the one suspect.”

  “That you have been unable to trace,” she said brusquely.

  “Not for want of trying,” Langton said, tight-lipped.

  “If he is intending to kill again, then it has to be someone that would have known Louise Pennel; his last note said that she deserved to die, that she betrayed him, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes,” Langton said quietly.

  “Then it is imperative you understand that his intention is to prove himself cleverer than you.”

  “Me?” Langton said; it was as if he was mocking her.

  “Yes, you. This game, although directed at the police as a whole, is a personal cat-and-mouse with the person heading the hunt for him, which is you, right? His notes have been addressed to you personally, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the Black Dahlia case, the killer wrote copious notes to the press. When they actually made an arrest, he became enraged, saying that they were a forgery and that he would kill whoever sent them. What I am trying to make clear to you is that right now, your killer is out of control. His rage will manifest itself in another kill and it will be someone either that he knows, or that we know.”

  Lewis had raised his hand to speak, but she chose to ignore him.

  “It will be someone close to this inquiry, someone who will have information as to who he is.”

  “We have not interviewed anyone who even knew him, let alone could give us a
ny clue to his identity.”

  “Go back and check. I truly believe his threat is very real and someone who knew Louise holds a clue.”

  As Anna watched Langton interact with Professor Marshe, her mind ranged over anything that she might have missed. If what Marshe was saying was true, then none of them would get home tonight.

  Professor Marshe held court for another half hour, discussing each note in detail, but gave them nothing new to grasp, other than the concern that they might have overlooked some clue.

  Anna went over to Lewis’s desk; he was chatting to Barolli.

  “I think she’s a bullshitter. I mean, she started off telling us what we all knew and continued rabbiting on.”

  Anna tapped his shoulder. “Listen, if she is right, and it is someone we have interviewed, what about Sharon Bilkin?”

  “What about her?” Lewis said, looking at his watch.

  “Well, we got some more details today from the nightclub: it looks like Sharon lied about what exactly happened at the club between her and Louise, so maybe she’s lied about other things.”

  Barolli yawned. “So we talk to her again?”

  “I’ve been trying to contact her, but I’ve had no reply. Now her answering machine sounds like it’s full. I’ve also tried to contact her landlady, but no answer.”

  “Let’s haul her in tomorrow,” Lewis said, yet again looking at his watch.

  “But I’ve not been able to get in touch with her!” Anna persisted. Barolli hesitated.

  “You want to go over there?”

  Anna nodded.

  “Okay, I’ll get a car arranged; you okay it with the gov.”

  Anna returned to her desk, packed up her briefcase, and then went toward Langton’s office. As she approached, she could hear raised voices.

  “It is still just your submission; you don’t have anything that will help me catch the fucker. We sat there listening to most of what you said, having known it before you even came onto the bloody case! If you think we haven’t taken seriously these letters from this lunatic, then…”

  “I never said you had not taken them seriously; what I did say was you have to take them as a real threat.”

  “We have, but without a clue as to this fucker’s identity and with no DNA, nothing from the letters, nothing from the package he sent, there’s not a lot we can do. Right now, I’ve got the team sifting through every statement we’ve taken, because you think we’ve missed something. Well, it would be a bloody good move if you had something that would help; so far, all you’ve done is hamper the inquiry by gossiping to that editor.”

  The door was flung open and an irate Professor Marshe almost bumped into Anna. She turned back into the room to look at Langton. “I have apologized for that, but I am not staying here another second for you to swear at me!”

  “I am almost begging you to give us something we can work on.”

  “I have; I did; and that is as much as I can do,” she said as she stormed past Anna.

  Anna hovered a moment before she edged into the open doorway. “I want to go and talk to Sharon Bilkin,” she said quietly.

  Langton lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray.

  “I have been trying to contact her all afternoon.”

  “Fine, if you think she has the clue we have missed, all the better.” He took out a hip flask and poured a measure, a very large one, into a coffee beaker. Anna closed the door, leaving him to drink alone. She suspected he was doing a lot more of the tippling; he had been, to her mind, very unlike himself during Professor Marshe’s presentation. Whatever he might think, he usually was able to keep his temper under control, but he had been rude, and pointedly so. Perhaps he wasn’t having an affair with her after all.

  In the patrol car, she asked Barolli if there was anything going on between Langton and Marshe.

  Barolli shrugged. “She talked to us as if we were all fresh out of training school, and she’s a bloody Yank! I don’t know why he brought her to see us in the first place, I think she’s been ruddy useless. Maybe he is getting the leg over. I wouldn’t, frosty bitch.”

  Anna gave a sidelong glance at the plump, sweaty detective; chance would be a fine thing. She gave a sigh as she looked out of the window: that was the difference between men and women: a woman would always have a clear assessment of who she could or couldn’t pull, but men! As her father had once said to her, every actor thinks he should play Hamlet. She sighed again.

  “You’re doing a lot of sighing,” Barolli said.

  “Am I? Maybe I’m just tired out; it’s been a long day.”

  “Yeah, for all of us, and another without a result. We carry on like this and old Langton will be replaced. I heard that the DCI he replaced is out of hospital, so they could bring him back; that’ll be a smack in the face.”

  “Yes,” she said, and sighed again, more quietly this time.

  They pulled up outside Sharon Bilkin’s flat and left the driver to wait as they rang the doorbell. No reply. Anna stepped back and looked up; there were no lights on. She rang Mrs. Jenkins’s bell. After a moment, her voice came through on the intercom.

  “Mrs. Jenkins, this is DI Anna Travis.”

  The door buzzed open before she could say that Detective Sergeant Barolli was also with her. Mrs. Jenkins hovered at her front door, wearing a toweling dressing gown.

  “I was just going to have a bath; this is very late.”

  “I’m sorry, but there is no reply from Sharon’s flat.”

  “I doubt she’s in; I’ve not seen her for days.”

  “Did she say she was going away?”

  “No, I hardly ever speak to her; I go out to work every day, so I wouldn’t really know what she’s doing.”

  “But doesn’t she have another tenant?”

  “No. She did have one, but she moved out; they didn’t get along.”

  “I see, well, thank you very much.”

  Anna turned to Barolli, who was checking his watch. It was getting late. “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  “Go home; we’ll try again in the morning.”

  Anna jotted down a note on her card and left it on a small side table in the narrow hallway. Like Barolli, she was ready to get home. Without a search warrant or any real reason to ask Mrs. Jenkins to open Sharon’s front door, there was not much more they could do. Mrs. Jenkins hovered by her own door, watching them leave.

  Anna decided not to return to the station to pick up her car but get a tube home. Barolli left her walking along the road toward Baker Street station. Midway, something made her stop and turn back to Sharon’s house. She rang Mrs. Jenkins’s bell again and had to wait for some considerable time before her voice answered on the intercom.

  Mrs. Jenkins was not pleased and took some persuading to let Anna into Sharon’s flat. “Is it still about the murder?” Mrs. Jenkins asked, gasping for breath as they climbed the stairs.

  “Yes.”

  “So nobody’s been arrested, then?”

  “No, not as yet.”

  “I would have thought you’d have got him by now; it’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes, it has.”

  Anna looked into one small room after another to the sound track of Mrs. Jenkins’s heavy breathing. Louise Pennel’s old room was extremely untidy and smelled stuffy; the bed was unmade, and a bag of laundry had been left in the middle of the floor with dirty sheets dumped beside it. Anna looked into the bathroom. Discarded underwear lay on the floor next to the half-full bath; when Anna tested the water, it was cold. In Sharon’s bedroom too the bed was unmade; clothes were strewn across the chair and the bed, and the tops were off the makeup bottles on the dressing table. In the kitchen, Anna found half a cup of cold coffee and a slice of toast; a bite had been taken out of the crust.

  “Looks like she left in a hurry,” Mrs. Jenkins said, peering over Anna’s shoulder. “Mind you, these young girls are so untidy. I don’t think she’s ever used the Hoover, you know
, let alone dusted.”

  Last, Anna checked the answering machine; as she had suspected, the message box was full. She took her handkerchief and pressed Play to listen to the calls that had been left. There were two calls from herself, a few from friends, and two girls answering the new advert Sharon must have put in to rent Louise Pennel’s room.

  “Well, my bath will be cold,” Mrs. Jenkins said as she locked Sharon’s front door. They headed down the stairs, and after thanking Mrs. Jenkins again, Anna started to walk back to the tube station.

  Relaxed after taking a long, hot soak herself, and wrapped in a big bath towel, Anna made some Horlicks. She jumped when her phone rang; it was by now eleven thirty.

  “What did you get from the blonde bimbo?” Langton said.

  “Nothing, she wasn’t home, but I had a look over her flat and it looked like she had left in a hurry.” Anna added that the landlady hadn’t seen her for a few days, but that wasn’t unusual.

  “Right, okay, I want you and Lewis with me at the lab for the full details. Maybe he’s got something, maybe not.”

  “What?”

  His voice was slurring, and she asked if he was still at the station. He said he was working over the statements.

  He continued talking without really making any sense and it was Anna who ended the call, having to repeat twice that she was going to bed. Unable to sleep, she lay there with her eyes open. The professor had said that their killer had made threats and they must take them very seriously because someone they had interviewed might know something that connected to him. She wondered what Sharon had not told her about the night at the club; did she know something? Had someone contacted her? The clothes strewn across her bedroom made Anna think that Sharon had been making up her mind what to wear. If she had run a bath and not got into it, made a coffee and toast but not consumed them, something had to have happened to make her leave. She sighed; thinking about what it might have been gave her a very uneasy feeling.