“I beg your pardon!” She gave an almost theatrical impression of being shocked.
“Your father-in-law was well-known for sending his chauffeur to Soho in London and bringing back numerous girls.”
“I never knew my father-in-law or his chauffeur!”
“I just wondered if his son, your ex-husband, carried on this enjoyable tradition of wining and dining these girls.”
“No, he did not!”
“Could you tell me why you got divorced?”
“I don’t think it is any of your business!”
“Yes, it is. You see, Mrs. Wickenham, although our witnesses described the man last seen with the victim so clearly that our artist could produce this likeness, that was not the reason we made contact with your ex-husband. We received a phone call naming him as the killer of Louise Pennel.”
She got up and went to get another cigarette, this time lighting it from the butt of her previous one.
“This call could have been from your daughter Emily.”
Anna watched Langton closely as he upped the pressure a notch. She knew as well as he did that Emily Wickenham was not the caller, nor was her sister, Justine.
“Why would Emily do such a terrible thing?” She stubbed out her cigarette, leaving the fresh one in her mouth. Anna began to see that although Dominique Wickenham had the appearance of a very obviously wealthy, pampered woman, she lacked class.
“That brings me to the possibility of her own father performing an abortion on her.”
“No! I have already told you that did not happen! I think perhaps you should really speak to me through my solicitor. Your questions are of a very personal nature and I do not feel inclined to answer any more.”
“I do apologize,” Langton said, stubbing out his cigarette but making no sign of leaving. He leaned back in his chair. “I am leading an inquiry into a really horrific murder. Louise Pennel, known as the Red Dahlia, was sliced in two. We are certain that the torture and humiliation forced upon her before she died was more than likely committed by a qualified surgeon.”
Dominique wafted her hand and said she was certain that there would be many other ex-surgeons, or even practicing ones, that could fall under suspicion. She was adamant that her ex-husband could have had no part in these murders, just as she was certain that he had never made sexual advances to her daughter. She was tight-lipped with anger as she insisted that he would not have performed any kind of illegal operation. She went on to say that, although they were divorced, they still respected each other and maintained a loving friendship that helped both their daughters.
Langton was becoming frustrated. His foot began to shake, a sign of a gathering storm. He leaned forward and clasped his hands.
“Mrs. Wickenham, I really am trying to make sense of everything you say. You had an amicable divorce and you have maintained a loving friendship for the benefit of your daughters. Correct?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I have said.”
“So, I am confused as to why you would have two dysfunctional girls: one suffering from bulimia and in therapy, the other openly antagonistic toward her father. In fact, she stated that she hated him! And neither spoke well of your stepson.”
“I can’t speak for them,” she said, looking at her watch.
“Surely you can? You are their mother: they spend most of their free time with you.”
“Yes, yes, they do.”
“Does your ex-husband also spend time here with you?”
“No, he does not.”
“But you remain very fond of him?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“And fond of his son and heir, Edward.”
“Yes. Really, why are you asking me these ridiculous questions? I do not know these poor girls you say were murdered; I cannot help you in any way. You are making me feel very uncomfortable, as if you are trying to make me say slanderous things about my ex-husband that would be completely untrue.”
“I apologize if it seems that way.”
Anna coughed and they both turned toward her as if they had forgotten her existence. “May I use your bathroom?”
Dominique got up and crossed to the double doors. She opened one and her charm bracelet tinkled as she pointed down the corridor.
“First on your left.”
“Thank you.”
Anna closed the door behind her. She didn’t need to use the bathroom but was hoping to have a private conversation with the maid, Danielle, who she was certain had been listening outside the door. She stood in the expansive hall, trying to work out where the kitchen was, when she heard the clink of dishes from behind a door at the far end of the hallway. She gave a very light tap and opened it. The maid was unloading the dishwasher; she turned, startled.
“I wondered if I could talk to you for a moment?”
Danielle crossed to a cabinet to put away some glasses. She closed the cabinet and returned to the dishwasher.
“Do you speak English?”
Danielle gathered up some dinner plates, stacking them neatly. She wouldn’t look at Anna, but continued moving back and forth to the dishwasher. Anna wondered if she was deaf. She asked again if she understood English and, at last, got a response.
“I cannot talk to you, please excuse me. Thank you.”
“It is very important: we need to ask you some questions.”
“No, please.”
“It’s about Emily and Justine; they stay here a lot, don’t they?”
Danielle nodded and then sat down. “I love them like my own children. I love them.” She bowed her head as she started to cry, taking a handkerchief from her apron pocket. “I know why you are here. Is Emily all right?”
Langton lit another cigarette and stared at Dominique with slanted eyes. The smoke drifted up toward the air-conditioning vents. He slowly appraised the room and then fixed his gaze on her once more. She was standing in front of the fake log fire, with one elbow resting on the white marble mantelpiece.
“He doesn’t speak very highly of you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your ex-husband referred to you as moneygrubbing; he implied that you were putting pressure on him to pay you more alimony.”
She arched one eyebrow and did not reply, but looked pointedly at her watch.
“Has he agreed to pay you a substantial amount more?”
She pursed her lips. “You have no right to ask me personal questions. I would like you to leave, please.”
“I can very easily check it out, Mrs. Wickenham. Have you recently been paid more money by your ex-husband?”
“No.”
“Are you expecting to be paid for being such an admirable and caring ex-wife?”
“That is enough!”
Dominique stalked over to the double closed doors; she was just reaching for the handle when Anna walked in.
“I’m sorry.”
“You are just leaving,” she said icily, looking at Langton with distaste as he stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.
“Yes, thank you for your time, Mrs. Wickenham. Oh, just one more thing; before your marriage, what did you do?”
She blinked and then shrugged, smiling. “What on earth do you want to know that for?”
Langton laughed; he leaned over and took her hand. “I just wanted to hear what you would say. I obviously know, but you lie so beautifully, madame.”
She snatched back her hand and slapped the door closed. She went so red, her eyes bulged.
“You dare to come here, asking me questions and insinuating things about my family! Then you accuse me of lying!”
“You were an exotic dancer.”
Anna thought Dominique was going to slap Langton’s face but she controlled her temper, clenching her hands into fists.
“Who have you been asking about me?” she spat.
“It wasn’t too difficult; you have a police record, madame. You are still on record in Marseilles. Now, I don’t know if your husband is, or was
, aware of your rather colorful past.”
“My husband knew everything about me.”
“Did he hire you; is that how you met? I know he has a predilection for very young prostitutes. I also suspect that he couldn’t keep his hands off his own daughter.”
Her face was now white with fury. “Get out. Get out!” She gasped, yanking the door open so hard it banged against the pristine white wall.
Langton nodded to Anna to move into the hall ahead of him. He passed the shaken Dominique, close enough to be almost touching her.
“He must be paying you a lot of money,” he said very quietly.
She shouted for her maid, but there was no sign of the elderly woman. She pointed to the front door. “Please go, please go.”
Anna could see that Langton was not finished; he had that glint in his eyes. He reached the front door and was about to turn the handle and walk out when he paused, instead snapping open his briefcase. He took a moment to select the exact picture he wanted: the mortuary shot of the mutilated Louise Pennel.
“Take a look, Mrs. Wickenham: this is the Red Dahlia.”
Dominique averted her eyes.
“Look at it.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“You should know what this monster did to this young woman. I came to see you specifically to—”
“You came here because you wanted me to implicate my ex-husband in this horror. Well, I do not believe for a second he is involved. I have never seen either of those two girls you showed me; you seem to be intent on shocking me into—”
“I just want the truth, Mrs. Wickenham; but you seem to be incapable of being honest,” Langton interrupted, clicking his briefcase closed. “You cited in your divorce hearing abusive and threatening behavior, your husband’s sexual demands and constant infidelities. You also gained custody of both your daughters, because you stated that living with their father was not a healthy environment for young girls.”
“I never saw either of those women you showed me, and what one states in a divorce hearing is not necessarily—”
“The whole truth and nothing but the truth?” Langton interjected.
“I wasn’t going to say that; at the time, I had to protect myself and my future. We have now made very amicable arrangements. It’s quite common, you know, to be unable to live with someone and yet still care for them after separation.”
She seemed to be back in control. Danielle appeared and Dominique asked her to show the “guests” to the elevator. Langton snapped that it would not be necessary.
Reflected in the elevator’s gilt edging, he could see Mrs. Dominique Wickenham still staring after them, composed and elegant; she slowly closed her front door.
Langton was in a foul mood on the way back to their hotel. They had really gained very little from the trip. His extensive knowledge of Mrs. Wickenham’s past had fazed Anna but had not brought any results.
“She was a whore,” Langton said as they went into the hotel lobby.
“Must have been quite young,” Anna said.
“She was. I traced two arrests for soliciting in Paris. No way is she going to give us anything on Wickenham, because he pays out a fortune to her in alimony. That apartment must cost a bomb, and like he said himself, the lady likes to shop.”
“So what’s the next move?”
“We do as Professor Marshe suggested: weed out any known associates of Wickenham’s and see if they can enlighten us.”
“If they were involved in any of these parties, then they are unlikely to be that helpful. I think we concentrate on the old housekeeper and the son and track down the girlfriend at her health farm.”
“Is that what you think, Travis?”
“Yes.”
“I detect a slight frisson; what’s the matter?”
“It would be helpful if you had enlightened me with what you know, as maybe I could have had some input. I had to sit there just watching as you came out with the fact she was an exotic dancer, details of her divorce, and her record for prostitution.” She asked for her key at the reception desk, warming up to have a row with him. “I know you like to play things close to your chest, it’s the way you work, but sometimes you should share information. I couldn’t give you very much help.”
“Do you think you could have?”
“Yes! Well, I say yes; obviously, I’m not sure. I would have maybe taken it a bit calmer, teased it out of her.”
“Teased what out of her?” Langton asked.
Anna sighed; they had by now crossed to the elevators and were heading up to the third floor.
“Well, if she was what, eighteen, nineteen years of age when she married Wickenham?”
“Not that young; she was twenty-five.”
“Okay, about my age. She’s been arrested and she gets this rich-as-Croesus Englishman who must have brought her over from Paris; it’s not a brain surgeon you need to tell you that it was the sex. So she hooks him, marries him, has two children…”
The elevator stopped, but Langton didn’t get out; instead, he pressed to go to her floor.
“I think Dominique was not saying anything untoward about her ex-husband,” Anna continued, “because she must have played quite a part in these soirées, and here’s something else that’s quite freaky: when the Black Dahlia suspect was arrested, his wife made him out to be a loving and caring man, when he’d been accused of molesting his daughter.” She headed toward her room, Langton following. The bed had not been made, as she was checking out; her case was packed and ready for her to leave.
“If our suspect is Wickenham,” Langton responded, “he has an obsession with the Black Dahlia case. It would therefore stand to reason that he would have primed his ex-hooker wife to stand by him and instructed her to give no indication that there was anything dubious connected to his younger daughter. I would say the incentive is money. The Black Dahlia ex-wife was broke and couldn’t pay her rent; I don’t think Dominique is hurting for money, but she is greedy: Wickenham said so himself.” He sat in a chair by the window; he had one leg crossed over the other, his foot tapping.
“Whichever source you used to get the details you had on Dominique Wickenham, were they able to tell you how large her bank balance was?”
Langton said nothing, glaring at his shoe. He then swung his leg down and took a beer from her minibar. “I had some help from Professor Marshe; she has a lot of contacts.”
Anna shook her head. “How was she able to get this information?”
Langton opened the bottle. “She worked in Paris, she’s able to pull some strings, and she is also very well respected.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing. She was privy to a police record and to divorce statements.”
“I checked out the divorce. Just don’t ask too many questions, Travis. I’m sorry if I was like a bear with a sore arse, but I really hoped I’d be able to get that bitch to open up. Do you think I was too heavy-handed?”
“Slightly.”
“It was that bloody jangling charm bracelet, got on my nerves. She was lying to us from the moment we walked through the front door.” He swigged his beer from the bottle.
Anna sat opposite him. “How can a woman know that her ex-husband had made advances to their daughter and that, as a result, an abortion had been performed, possibly even by him, and not want him stripped naked and whipped?”
“My gut feeling is that Dominique Wickenham would sell her own daughters if the price was right. You know the old saying, don’t you, a whore is a whore…” He frowned. “I’ve forgotten the rest,” he said. He looked depressed. “Well, pretty wasted journey. Might as well get to the airport and catch an earlier flight.”
Langton half rose out of his chair as the phone rang. He plonked himself back down again as Anna answered. She listened, then said thank you before replacing the receiver.
“Package has just been delivered. Were you expecting one?”
Langton shook his head.
“Well, it�
�s on its way up.”
Anna opened the door and waited. A porter came out of the elevator carrying a brown manila envelope, addressed to them both but with their names misspelled. Anna tipped the porter, took the envelope, and handed it to Langton. The envelope had been used before and the flap had been taped down. He opened it and tipped the contents out onto the glass table. There were seven photographs.
“What have we got here?” he murmured.
As he arranged the photographs so that they faced upward on the table, Anna checked the envelope. A square white label had been stuck over the original address. Anna carefully eased as much away as possible without tearing it, to see that it had been mailed to Dominique Wickenham. There was a smudged date: it was March 2002. She called reception to ask if they could give a description of the person who had delivered the package.
Langton was staring at one photograph after another. “You think Dominique sent these over?”
“I think from what they said downstairs it was her maid. Apparently it was an elderly woman in a black coat.”
Langton handed her one of the photographs. “See what you make of that.”
Anna looked: it was a group of men and women lazing in a hot tub with glasses of champagne. “That’s Charles Wickenham center, his son, Edward, and I think that’s Dominique half turned toward camera. Is that Justine, the girl across from her?”
Langton nodded and looked at another photograph. “Same crowd; hot tubs seem to excite them. Let’s see if we can get an ID on the hairy-chested chaps. There’s three women in this one, but none look like family.”
Anna glanced at the group of sweating, laughing people, toasting the camera with raised glasses and smiles. The men had their arms wrapped around the naked girls. Anna found the seediness of the photograph repellent, the two middle-aged men leering at what looked like teenagers.
“It’s getting pornographic now: same men but different girls, blow-job time, and getting into costumes and bits of leather. Christ!”
Anna looked up.
“Jesus Christ, look at this! Just on the edge of the picture, on the right-hand side. Is that who I think it is?”
Anna got up and stood, looking over his shoulder. “Where are you looking?”
The Red Dahlia (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 2) Page 25