The Red Dahlia (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 2)

by Lynda La Plante

  He must have thought he had destroyed everything that could implicate him, but scientific developments had him trapped. They were also beginning to piece together how he had made the notes sent to the journalists and Langton at the Richmond station. They discovered in his shredding machine old newspapers that he had cut the pasted letters from. They also discovered charred sections of a receipt made out by The Times for running an advert; a box number scrawled on the back of an envelope and thrown into a wastepaper basket was possibly the one he had used to advertise for a personal assistant. Meanwhile, the labs had begun testing Wickenham’s computer and hard drive. They were able to ascertain that Wickenham logged onto the Black Dahlia website two hundred and fifty times.

  They found many pictures cut from the Black Dahlia books, sickeningly placed in an innocent-looking family album. The entire quest by the author of The Black Dahlia to expose his father as the killer had derived from the discovery of two hitherto unknown photographs of Elizabeth Short at his house. One photograph showed Elizabeth Short with her eyes closed and her head tilted back like a death mask. In the other, she rested her cheek against her hand with a soft, sweet smile to the camera. Photographs of Louise and Sharon, identically posed, were placed alongside copies of those pictures, between the innocent photographs of his own children. As the evidence mounted, the fact their prime suspect was on the loose fueled an undercurrent of panic.

  Press releases continued to be issued and news bulletins showing Charles Wickenham’s photograph were being pumped out. The public was asked for any information and warned that they should not confront Wickenham but report directly to the police. No sightings of Wickenham had been confirmed at any airport, train station, or bus depot. He still remained at large: it was Langton’s nightmare.

  Edward Wickenham’s solicitor was demanding that Langton either charge his client or release him. Gail Harrington’s solicitor was on firmer ground, yet Langton insisted both remain in custody, as he was certain that if Wickenham was hiding out, he would contact his son for help. Justine was informed of the situation, though it was unnecessary: every newspaper headlined that the Red Dahlia killer was being hunted.

  It was early afternoon when Langton had Edward Wickenham brought up from the cells to be questioned again. One night holed up at the station in a cold, stinking cell had made him tense with pent-up anger. His solicitor tried to placate him, but Edward was implying that if he didn’t do something about the situation, he would replace him. Langton sat with Lewis, ignoring the tirade from the sweating young man, and read him his rights again. Yet again he displayed the sickening photographs of Louise Pennel and Sharon Bilkin.

  Edward screeched that he had nothing to do with the victims’ deaths; he had never met either of them. He was so agitated, spittle formed at the corners of his mouth as he repeated over and over again that he was innocent.

  Langton leaned forward, keeping his voice low, forcing Edward to shut up and listen to him. He described the cellar and then went on to list the evidence they had now discovered: the clogged drains, blocked by coagulated blood that had been drained from Louise Pennel’s body; the sickening array of saws and knives; the video pornography that also featured the prime suspect’s son. His monologue began to take effect.

  “We have two hundred tapes of sexual perversion; your own sisters feature, so I am certain we will get to you, Mr. Wickenham. So why don’t you try and help yourself?”

  “I swear before God, I did not have anything to do with those girls, I did not!” He was starting to blubber, twisting his body as he attempted to extricate himself from any connection to the murders.

  Edward Wickenham was returned to the cells a little later. He was to be charged with obstructing the police inquiries and with aiding and abetting the depositing of Louise Pennel’s body and Sharon Bilkin’s body. He would be taken before the magistrate.

  Langton stood before the team to give them a brief rundown of the contents of the interview. Lewis had been shaken by what had taken place and was sitting quietly, checking over the interview tape.

  Langton touched Louise Pennel’s photograph. She had, as Anna had thought, answered an advert for the position of personal assistant to Charles Wickenham. According to his son, Charles had interviewed a number of young girls and had shown him some of their photographs and CVs. Louise Pennel was the girl he chose. He had subsequently acted like some kind of Svengali, buying her expensive clothes and giving her gifts, mostly cash. She was a very willing partner to his sexual advances, but when he became more perverse he had encouraged her to take drugs, or he had slipped them into her drinks. His son said she was not seen at the Hall itself but would be driven direct to the barn. He swore that he had not had any kind of sexual relationship with her, as his father appeared to be very enamored of her. It had confused him because, although she was very pretty, “she was rather a common girl.” He had never heard of the Black Dahlia; his father had never mentioned the case. He was aware that at times his father would have sex sessions in the cellar, but this area was always off-limits to him. Often his father, fueled by drugs, would remain closeted down there for days and nights on end. It was always locked; only a few of his father’s friends were ever allowed inside.

  Edward Wickenham listed his father’s friends. These were men who had the same perversions; they were all into sadomasochistic sex acts. His father had attempted to draw his son into his sadistic sexual activities but he wimped out, deliberately becoming too drunk to perform. Charles had been a brutal and sadistic father, laughing when discovered by his son screwing his young wife. She had been given Rohypnol and had not known what she was doing; she had found out when Charles Wickenham arranged for a family viewing of the tapes. She had been forced to watch herself having sex with her father-in-law and four of his friends. She committed suicide three weeks later.

  Even when he talked about his own debauchery and the rape of his wife, Edward was not emotional; if anything, he had become very calm. He never looked at Langton or Lewis; he kept his head bowed, speaking softly. He had occasionally sipped water and a couple of times he had coughed, as if he needed to clear his throat, but it was as if he was talking about someone else.

  Langton described to the team how Charles Wickenham had called his son and told him to come round to the house. It was after eleven at night. He said he needed some help in moving some equipment. Edward had helped put the body of Louise Pennel into the back of the Range Rover. He said he did not know what it was, but when he lifted one of the black plastic bags, he could feel beneath the plastic what appeared to be a human hand. They had both driven to his sister’s flat in Richmond. Edward was told to wait and make some coffee. His sister was in Milan visiting her mother, but they had a key. He recalled it was about two in the morning when his father left in the Range Rover; he returned about half an hour later. That was all the time it took to dump the two halves of Louise Pennel’s dismembered body.

  The body bags, which his father had still had from when he worked in the army as a surgeon, were tossed into a skip as they returned home.

  Langton broke for a coffee and sent out for some sandwiches, then continued. Sharon Bilkin had called Edward from the local railway station, asking to be picked up. She had met his fiancée, Gail, at a hairdressing salon. She had the audacity to tell him that she had come to see not him, but his father. He saw her knocking on the front door as he returned to the cottage. He was then called about two hours later to drop her back at the railway station. After his return, his father was standing on the drive, waiting to speak to him in a fury. He said that Gail was a stupid bitch because she had brought that trash into their lives and he was going to have to deal with it. Edward swore he had not seen Sharon again, but just under three weeks later, at two o’clock in the morning, his father turned up outside his cottage.

  Sharon’s body was already zipped into a bag and already in the Range Rover. His father said he had hurt his back and needed him to help. Edward had tried to refuse and Cha
rles had slapped his face. Charles had threatened that if he did not do exactly as he was told, then he and his fiancée could get the hell out.

  Edward said they had driven around until they came upon a field that they could drive into, via a slip road. He had helped carry her body across a dirt track and through a double-fenced gate. His father then instructed Edward to return to the Range Rover. Edward again swore that he did not see his father tipping the dead woman out of the body bag, but he did recall that he was bending over her for a long time. Charles returned to the Range Rover and then started swearing when he found a reddish coat on the backseat. He returned to the field but was back after only a few minutes. They went home and, as if nothing had happened, Edward was told to get an early ride set up for the morning.

  The room was quiet as Langton finished. He gave a long sigh. “They rode out at seven and passed close to the field where her body was dumped because he, Edward Wickenham, recalled seeing the dark maroon coat!” He gave a shrug. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. I am going before the magistrates and I want bail refused. I’d say we’ll get it.”

  The headline of the final edition of the Evening Standard screamed out RED DAHLIA KILLER SOUGHT.

  Anna was at her desk when her mobile rang: it was Richard Reynolds.

  “Hi, how’s things?”

  Anna couldn’t believe his audacity. He asked if there was any chance of an “exclusive” interview with Justine Wickenham.

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Well, considering you’ve lost your man, it looks to me as if you need all the help you can get in tracing him. If you could put me in touch with her, you never know what—”

  “Piss off,” she snapped.

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that to me. It’s not very nice.”

  “It wasn’t intended to be.”

  “It’s almost like the original case, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The killer of the Black Dahlia was never caught, right?”

  She suddenly had a gut feeling he might be taping her so she hung up. She was so concerned that she went to see Langton. His door was ajar. He was on the phone and gestured for her to come in.

  “He’s being taken to the magistrates’ court. I suggest if you want to speak to him, you should contact his solicitor. Pardon?” He listened and then covered the phone with his hand. “Justine Wickenham.” He returned to the call. “I’ll give you five minutes, but I will have to have someone present.” He listened again and then said that he’d wait. He put the phone down. “She wants a short conversation with her brother! Something to do with her sister. It’s a bit unorthodox but…”

  Anna nodded and repeated the conversation she had just had with Reynolds.

  “Listen, those two-faced bastards are like hornets outside the station. He was just trying it on, don’t worry about it.”

  He reached for his jacket. “He’s bloody right, though, isn’t he? And the longer Wickenham’s at large, the less likely we are to track him down. We don’t know if he had fake passports; we know he has money. I’ve contacted Special Branch to get flight manifests, so they’re checking on potential foreign travel. We’ve also checked with his ex-wife in Milan, and he’s not there. Christ only knows where he is.”

  As Justine only lived a short distance from the station, she made an appearance five minutes later. Anna was with Langton in the station reception. Justine gave a brief nod to Anna and then showed them a document.

  “I want to get my brother’s signature; it’s giving me the right to see if I can get Emily home. I need to be there to look after the horses. Old Mrs. Hedges is in a bit of a state.”

  Anna was surprised at her calmness; she made no mention of the hunt for her father.

  “Don’t you think under the circumstances that taking Emily there wouldn’t be that good an idea?”

  Justine gave a sardonic smile. “Well, our father’s not going to be there, is he? So she won’t have to worry.”

  Langton checked his watch, and then stared at Justine. “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “No, but I told her.” She looked at Anna. “I told you, didn’t I? I said you’d never get him and I was right.”

  Both Langton and Anna were present when Justine confronted her brother. Langton did not want there to be any opportunity for another Wickenham to escape. He was hardly able to look at her, his face was shiny with sweat, and he stank of body odor.

  “Sign in two places.” Justine pointed calmly, and he dutifully signed.

  “Gail was released from custody. Did she return to the house?”

  Justine checked over his signature and folded the papers. “Mrs. Hedges said her aunt or someone came to collect her from the cottage. She took a load of suitcases; it didn’t look as if she was intending to come back.”

  “Did she leave a forwarding address?” Langton asked quickly. “We’ll need it when we go to trial.”

  “Yes, yes,” snapped Justine impatiently.

  Justine stood up and slipped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. She thanked Langton, then walked out without a backward glance to her dejected brother as he broke down sobbing. Fifteen minutes later, with a blanket over his head, he was led out of the station and into the wagon for his appearance at court. There were, as Langton had said, numerous reporters and cameras waiting outside the station. The cameras flashed as they drove out.

  Edward Wickenham was charged with perverting the course of justice and being an accessory to murder. He said only his name and address and that he would plead not guilty. Langton asked that no bail be granted, as his father was being hunted and he felt that Wickenham could be cajoled into helping him. Bail was refused and Edward Wickenham, again covered in a blanket, was taken to Brixton prison.

  It was late when Langton was informed that forensics would require still more time at the Hall. The police still had no sighting of Charles Wickenham. Langton had to give yet another press statement, asking the public for every assistance: the fact Wickenham had escaped was still headlined on all the TV news bulletins.

  Anna returned home and went to bed early, feeling depressed and tired out. She was well aware that, despite all their hard work, losing Wickenham would have severe repercussions. She had also half hoped that Langton would maybe say something about wanting to see her.

  DAY THIRTY-TWO

  The following morning, forensic tests identified blood, hair, and skin samples from the Hall as belonging to Louise Pennel. Hair and semen stains had been tested from the plastic-covered operating table, which also gave a DNA match for Sharon Bilkin. There were five other blood samples of unknown origin.

  Langton stood with his hands stuffed into his pockets as Lewis gave him the update.

  “Jesus Christ, how many women did that bastard kill down there?”

  Anna watched him taking in all the new evidence. If Charles Wickenham had not escaped, it would have been a very jubilant morning; as it was, depression hung in the air. Langton tried to make a joke of it, saying that they now had enough to arrest him ten times over. He held up a cartoon from the Daily Mail, showing loads of uniformed police officers and a pair of empty handcuffs, the suspect crawling through their legs.

  Langton had arranged for Anna and Lewis to accompany him back to the Hall, as the forensics chief was ready to pack up: he needed to make out the official report and have it signed off by Langton. The three drove in silence; it was pointless making light conversation, as there was nothing light about what they would have to face. The press had surrounded their car as they drove out from the station car park. Langton had wound down his window and told them that the police were not looking for any other suspect. He then wound his window back up and muttered, “We just can’t fucking find him.”

  All three tensed as they drove past the field where Sharon’s body had been discovered. The flapping police cordons were now even
more tattered. Langton pointed to a small hill beyond the field, ringed with elm trees.

  “Bastard rode out with his son. He must have got a kick out of seeing her lying there, with Louise Pennel’s coat draped over her naked body!”

  The atmosphere remained strained as they drove into the long winding lane that led to Mayerling Hall’s pathway; there were now hundreds of markers where the teams had searched and signaled clearance.

  Langton got out of the car and winced, his long legs had cramped up. More yellow crime-scene markers were all over the driveway, two white forensic vans being loaded up with equipment. Arc lamps were being carried out from the barn to be dismantled and packed up. Walking out of the front door was a tall, grizzle-haired scientist, John McDonald. He wore a tweed suit with a striped shirt and bright red braces. He carried his jacket in one hand and a large clipboard in the other.

  Anna watched as Langton shook his hand; they conferred for a few moments before Langton introduced Anna and Lewis. McDonald had been coordinating the forensic teams and listing their findings as they were sent to the lab; he was eager to walk Langton through the crime scene results. He said that, although they wouldn’t be ready to leave the premises for some considerable time, they had designated “signed off” areas that had been cleared. This meant that the officers could go through some parts of the house and grounds without protective suits. He had been there almost day and night for three consecutive days; some of his team had been staying at a local hotel.

  They all stood in the drawing room as McDonald listed the work that was still being carried out at the lab. “We have your suspect’s Range Rover being dismantled for evidence and his Jaguar; both are with a team in London.” In a rather tired voice, he ran through the items that had been taken and the evidence to date. “Eight saws of various sizes, two electric; ten surgical knives; eight scalpels; one operating table; handcuffs; leg irons; various chains; rubber suits; six black body bags, army issue; two bottles of morphine; six large containers of acid; two acid baths; gyneco-logical equipment; stirrups…”