The Red Dahlia (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 2)

by Lynda La Plante

  Wickenham leaned even closer. “Of me?”

  “Yes, of you, Mr. Wickenham.”

  “Could you explain to me why you are showing me these photographs and that…drawing, is it?”

  “We have made many requests via the press and television for this man to come forward. He does look very similar to you.”

  “I do apologize. If I had seen it, quite frankly I would not have thought that it was me, so I would have had no reason to make contact.”

  “Did you ever visit Louise Pennel? The girl in the photograph I first showed you?” Again Langton held up the photograph.

  Wickenham drained his glass and shook his head. “As I have said, I do not know her, so it would not really be logical for me to have visited her.”

  Langton persisted, returning to Sharon Bilkin’s photograph. “Did you ever visit this girl?”

  Wickenham sighed. “No.”

  Langton shuffled his photographs and sketch like a pack of cards. “Do you have any idea how we came to have this drawing of a person who does, even if you do not agree, bear a very strong resemblance to yourself?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “A witness, two witnesses in fact, working with a police artist and a PhotoFit expert, and without conferring with each other, produced this profile: tall, hook-nosed, dark eyes, dark-haired, with slight graying at the temples. Contrary to what you say, I think it is an exceptional likeness; perhaps the best solution is if you agree to take part in an identity parade.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Dr. Wickenham, you. Would you agree to assist our inquiry? This way, it will eliminate you or, conversely, prove that you did, on numerous occasions, visit the victim, Louise Pennel.”

  “When am I supposed to have been calling on this woman?”

  Before Anna could refer to her notebook for the exact dates given by Louise Pennel’s landlady, without any hesitation Langton replied, “The ninth of January.”

  “The ninth of January? Would that be this year?”

  Langton nodded. Wickenham got up.

  “Let me get my diary; it’s in my study.”

  He walked out. Lewis watched for a moment as Langton put the photographs back in the file.

  “What do you think?”

  Langton’s reply was hardly audible. “He’s wearing the signet ring described. Right, Anna?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, he’s a bloody cool customer,” Lewis muttered.

  Langton crossed to the piano and looked at the photographs. He turned as Wickenham walked back in with a large leather desk diary.

  “The ninth of January, you say? I had meetings with my solicitors in Cavendish Square. It was quite a lengthy meeting, as my ex-wife has started to become even greedier than she was when we were married. I had lunch at my club, the St. James, and then I returned home. I had guests for dinner that evening.” He closed the book. “What time of day am I supposed to have met this girl?”

  “Can these meetings be verified?” Langton asked, keeping his voice steady.

  “Of course; if you wish, I can contact everyone and they will get in touch with you.”

  “Thank you. You were a surgeon; is that correct?”

  “Yes, I was, almost in a past life. I retired ten years ago; I had grown tired of traveling, tired of army life, really.” He gestured expansively to the room. “I did not need the salary and I decided that I would prefer to spend more time here, and with my children. To be honest, it was never a career I enjoyed, but then peer pressure is not something you do ever enjoy. My father’s death sort of coincided; I inherited the Hall and wanted to get it back into more of a habitable place. It required a lot of work, not to mention money.”

  Langton smiled. “Thank you very much. You have been very helpful. I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

  Anna was astonished but got to her feet, as did Lewis.

  “I’ll show you out.” Wickenham smiled and gestured for them to go ahead of him.

  As they walked down the front steps, Langton turned, smiling pleasantly. “I will arrange a lineup and, if necessary, I can send a car to collect you.”

  For the first time, Wickenham’s eyes flickered slightly; he covered up fast. “By all means, but I doubt when my diary has been verified it will be necessary.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Langton headed over to the waiting car and yanked open the passenger door. They hurried after him and got into the backseat. Wickenham even had the audacity to give them a slight wave of his hand before he went back inside.

  “Fuck me, he’s a piece of work,” Lewis said.

  Langton nudged the driver. “Go left, down the drive beside the house, would you?”

  Around the side of the house were garages. A Range Rover was having thick mud hosed off its wheels. Parked beside it was a gleaming new Jaguar saloon. Langton stared at the car and then at Lewis and Anna.

  “We get that lineup organized; let’s hope to Christ that landlady can identify him.”

  “I have my doubts, you know,” Anna said uneasily. “She did say that he kept his face hidden.”

  “She described his fucking ring, didn’t she? His hook nose? If need be, he can keep his hand over part of his face. I need him to be identified, because we have fuck all else on the bastard.”

  The driver asked if he should turn around, but Langton pointed to the lane running beside the garage. “See if we can get out that way, take a look at his estate!”

  They drove onto a gravel lane that led them past a small thatched cottage. It was immaculate, with lead windows and an abundance of flowers around the quaint former stable door, the top half of which was open.

  “Staff quarters, do you think?” ventured Lewis.

  “No, too nice by far. They’ll be stuck somewhere out of sight,” Langton replied, just as Edward Wickenham appeared at the stable door. He looked at them and then disappeared inside, closing the door behind him.

  “Must be the son ’n’ heir’s place,” Lewis said as they drove past.

  “You remember what Professor Marshe said?” Anna leaned toward Langton. “Killer might be having some friction with his wife? Well, he told us she was trying for more money, reason he was at his solicitors’.”

  “Mmm.” Langton nodded. He looked down into the foot well and picked up the elastic band.

  “You know, something we’ve not really delved into is what if it’s two of them: father and son?” Lewis asked.

  Langton pinged his elastic band. “What I think is we just met the killer. He might use his son, probably has some hold over him, but I think Charles Henry Wickenham is the sick bastard we’ve been looking for.”

  Anna licked her lips, uncertain, and said nothing.

  They drove back into the village and Langton suggested they have a drink and some lunch at the pub.

  They all ordered beer and sandwiches. Anna and Lewis sat at a table close to a window overlooking the village’s main road. Langton sat on a bar stool and began a lengthy conversation with the young barman.

  Lewis and Anna didn’t say much as they ate, but watched Langton hardly touch his sandwich as he talked. He did order a scotch, though, and it looked like a large one. Anna and Lewis waited impatiently, but he seemed in no hurry to leave.

  Langton eventually joined them, looking as if he had knocked back a few more large ones. He was ebullient, grinning as they got back into the car. They stopped at the local village grocery shop as Langton said he wanted cigarettes; he disappeared inside for over half an hour and was grinning again when he came out. He slammed the door so hard the car rocked, and then pushed his seat back so far that it was against Anna’s legs, then lowered the headrest and slept for the rest of the journey.

  Langton went straight into his office, then emerged, rolling up his shirtsleeves, to take the briefing. He was about to start when the double doors opened and the commander and her DI walked in. Langton hurried across and had a brief conversation with them; then
they drew up chairs and sat down. Bridget went over to offer coffee, raising her eyebrows at Anna on her way past. It felt like they were back at school and the head teacher had appeared in the classroom unannounced.

  Langton clapped his hands and the room grew quiet. The top brass looked on expectantly as he pointed to the sketch of the tall, dark stranger.

  “Charles Henry Wickenham could have sat for that; he’s got everything, including the gold signet ring.”

  He wanted a lineup arranged fast: the next day, if possible. Someone joked that he could stand in line.

  “Sorry, but I’ve got blue eyes.” He grinned, sharing the joke; his humor did not last for long. “Right, I had a long chat with the barman at the St. George pub; he was a mine of information. His father had worked at the Hall as a gardener for thirty-odd years. He said that our suspect’s father was a nasty old sod that went after everything in a skirt; it got so bad that the local girls wouldn’t go near the Hall. He was also a doctor, not medical as we first thought, but of philosophy; he never actually held down any kind of a job. He ran the Hall. At one time, most of the land around it belonged to the Wickenhams; it was our suspect’s father who made a mint selling it off to housing projects, et cetera. He was loathed by the locals as he destroyed a lot of the woods and sold up pastures for houses that none could afford. Anyway, he was, for all intents and purposes, a mean and vicious man, and his only son, our suspect, was terrified of him. His mother, Annabelle Wickenham, died in childbirth, leaving Charles as the only heir. The old boy never married again but was known to bring in prostitutes: he was well-known for sending his Rolls to Soho so his chauffeur could load up the girls and bring them back.

  “When he died ten years ago, his son, Charles Wickenham, had not been living at the Hall but traveling around the world as an army surgeon. The old boy had spent a lot of money on poor investments and he had let the place go to rot. Charles Wickenham began by infuriating the local community by doing exactly what his father had done before him, i.e., selling up their grazing land. His first wife died of cancer; his son, Edward, is their only child. Charles’s second wife, Dominique, is French and she had two daughters. Dominique Wickenham got a heavy settlement and lives off the alimony; Wickenham said himself she was after more money. We need to trace her and see what she can give us.”

  Langton hardly paused for breath. Anna sat in awe: all this he had gathered in front of their noses, in the pub, and yet he had not said a word to them. She was even more amazed when he began to relate the conversation he had had while buying cigarettes.

  “The son is possibly involved. Edward Wickenham’s wife committed suicide: her body was found in the barn. This was before it was converted into a spa, swimming pool, and gymnasium. There was a police inquiry; nothing came of it, but the rumors from the locals were that she may have had some assistance tying the knot! But nothing could be proved. She had a high level of alcohol and traces of cocaine in her bloodstream, and statements from staff had said she was of a very nervous disposition.”

  Langton pushed his chair back. “The lady in the shop implied that there was a lot of sexual activity at the Hall, a lot of all-night, all-week parties and drugs, though no one has ever been arrested. Wickenham used to bring in local girls, but the gossip festered, so he now hires in from different companies. I want them checked out. Okay, now we come to Edward Wickenham’s girlfriend. She is the daughter of the late Sir Arthur Harrington, northern industrialist; mother was Constance, also deceased. That’s about all we know, apart from that she’s not been seen for weeks. Check her out, she’s maybe the caller—she’s apparently at a health spa right now.”

  Anna sat back in her chair as Langton paused, frowning, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

  “Okay, you can say none of this adds up to any evidence against Charles Wickenham, or even against his son—because they may be in this together; then again, they might not be. However, my gut feeling is that we have at long last found our killer. Now we have to draw him in and tread very carefully. Even if it transpires that he lied and did know Louise Pennel and Sharon Bilkin, it is still not enough to arrest him. I don’t want to scare this creature off before we have that search warrant granted and we check out that sumptuous place he lives in. I need the names of people that went to parties at the Hall. If our caller is telling the truth, Louise Pennel was a guest at that ancestral pile; he might also have cut her body up there. I want to interview the local uniforms at the village. I want to know what this son of a bitch eats for breakfast. I want to talk to Edward Wickenham’s girlfriend, track back to Wickenham Sr.’s army days; in fact, we need to talk to anyone who knows him now, who knew him then. We leave no stone unturned. So let’s get moving.”

  Langton went into his office, accompanied by the commander and her DI, leaving everyone breathless.

  As Anna sat writing copious notes, Lewis came and sat on the edge of her desk. “He never ceases to screw me up! I mean, why not let us in on this when we were in the patrol car?”

  “He keeps things close to his chest,” Anna said, though she felt the same way.

  “I mean, he’s damned sure it’s Wickenham, but we can’t prove it, so all that big speech was for what? To impress the commander?”

  “Hang on to this case, more like it,” said Barolli, joining them.

  Anna was surprised: she had never heard either of them deride their governor before. She kept her mouth shut.

  Lewis yawned. “Well, we’ve got our work cut out schlepping around, but if he’s right, then we should crack on.”

  “What did you think?” Barolli asked Anna.

  “I didn’t like him; like the gov said, he was wearing the signet ring, so he was maybe lying about not knowing Louise Pennel; if he knew her, then he would also have known Sharon Bilkin.”

  Anna was grateful when the case manager interrupted their gossip, calling them over to break down Langton’s requests. Whatever anyone felt, there was now a renewed energy in the incident room. They at long last had a suspect, and with the commander being privy to the briefing, it was pretty certain that Langton would not be replaced.

  12

  DAY TWENTY-THREE

  Anna arrived at the station early the next morning. She was about to head up to the canteen for breakfast when she saw Professor Marshe arrive by taxi. Anna gave a small nod of acknowledgment and continued into the station.

  She was midway up the stairs when Professor Marshe called out. “Excuse me; it’s Detective Travis, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is DCI Langton in?”

  “I think so; his car’s outside.”

  “Good, I need to speak to him.”

  Anna hesitated. “I’ll tell him you are here if you’d like to wait.”

  “It’s all right, I know the way.”

  “I’m sorry, but the incident room is only for officers connected to the case.”

  Professor Marshe gave her a cold, arrogant glance. “In case you have forgotten, I was brought in on the case by DCI Langton. Excuse me.”

  Anna stood patiently on the stairs, watching her pass. Today, she was not wearing her hair in a chignon but loose, held back with a velvet alice band. It made her look a lot younger and prettier, if rather old-fashioned. She was wearing a chic, tailored suit in pink and black tweed.

  Anna changed her mind about going up another floor to the canteen and instead followed Professor Marshe into the incident room, eager to see the reactions.

  Professor Marshe headed straight into Langton’s office, leaving a waft of perfume behind her.

  Lewis looked over to Anna and raised an eyebrow. “She’s a pushy piece, isn’t she?”

  Anna watched Bridget put two coffees on a tray and head toward Langton’s office.

  “I’ll take that in, Bridget; I need a quick word with the gov.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  Anna balanced the tray on her forearm and was about to knock on Langton’s door when she heard his familiar bark. “It’
s none of your business!”

  “Of course it is. You brought me onto the case and you haven’t even got the decency to call me and give me an update. I wouldn’t even have known that you had a suspect, but I saw the commander last night and she told me. I felt like a total idiot.”

  “After what happened with you and the press, I presumed you would have been too embarrassed to discuss it, let alone with the commander.”

  “I am not embarrassed in the slightest; if you want my input, then I am prepared to give it. The commander felt that I would be invaluable: that’s why I am here.”

  “Why? Do you need another chapter in your book of exploits, capturing serial killers that no one could have arrested without your help?”

  “Don’t be crass.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was being crass, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t call me sweetheart! Just tell me straight: do you want my advice or not?”

  “As you are here, why not? But don’t let’s waste time: if you have anything to say about our suspect, do it in front of the team.”

  “I need time to read the update on who he is.”

  Anna nearly dropped the tray as Langton opened the door. “Ah, Travis; can you sit with Professor Marshe and give her an update on Wickenham? You might as well have my coffee. I’ll be in the incident room.”

  He passed Anna, leaving his office door ajar. Anna carried the tray in and placed it down on his desk. Professor Marshe was sitting cross-legged in the straight-backed chair, one leg swinging back and forth in irritation. “Christ, he’s a chauvinistic bastard,” she muttered.

  Anna smiled sweetly and proffered the coffee. Professor Marshe reached for the cup and looked into it. “Do you have any cream?”

  “No, but I can get you milk if you want.”

  “Forget it.” Professor Marshe took a bottle of water out of her briefcase. “So tell me about this Winchester character.”

  “Wickenham,” Anna corrected, and hesitated before sitting in the chair behind Langton’s desk. Professor Marshe opened her notebook, clicked on her pen, and tapped the page.