The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

  She felt confident that the advert, if it was traced, might just be the clue that would break the case. Reassured that it had not been an entirely wasted journey, Anna gave a small, satisfied smile: the dinner that evening might just be the cream.

  6

  It was eight fifteen. Dick Reynolds had said he would collect Anna at eight, so he was late. Anna had hesitated about giving him her home address: it was not really professional, but then again, nor was her eagerness to see him on a personal level. She was wearing a white cashmere pullover she had bought on sale, black trousers, and boots. She had washed and blow-dried her hair and taken more time and care over her makeup than her usual quick powder and bit of mascara required. She opened a bottle of Chablis and left it in the fridge. She wandered around her small flat, adjusting cushions and fiddling with the stereo. It was almost eight thirty when her doorbell rang.

  “Hi, I’m parked out front, so shall we just go straight out?”

  Anna hesitated; the wine, low lighting, and softly playing CD were about to go to waste.

  “There’s a nice Italian round the corner; I popped in and they have a table.”

  “Oh, that’ll be Ricardo’s. I don’t know if it’s any good; I’ve not eaten there.”

  “Well, it’s always useful to test out your local restaurants,” Dick said as he jangled his keys impatiently.

  “Do you own this or is it rented?” he asked as she locked the door behind them.

  “I own it.”

  He crossed the road to a badly parked green Morgan sports car. She had to bend low to get into the passenger seat. He waited before slamming her door and hurrying round to the driver’s side.

  The engine roared as it kicked into start, and he grinned, shouting, “Needs a bit of tuning, but I’ve not had the time. You hungry?”

  “Yes, I am. I spent most of the day in Bognor Regis.”

  “Nothing like sea air to work up an appetite.”

  He drove down the road like a lunatic and without fastening his seat belt; the one on her side was broken. She tried not to appear nervous as they screeched up to the restaurant.

  They had a very nice table at a booth, with no other table too close. He immediately buried himself in the menu and then tossed it aside.

  “Red or white?”

  “Erm…red, please.”

  He swiveled round to signal to a waiter as Anna took off her coat. “Bottle of merlot and I’ll have cannelloni to start and then veal marsala to follow. Anna?”

  She had hardly had time to read the menu, let alone make a choice, so, rather flustered, she ordered the specials at the waiter’s suggestion.

  The waiter brought the bottle of wine, uncorked it, and poured out a small amount for Dick to taste; he wafted his hand not to bother. Anna watched as the waiter filled their glasses.

  “To us; glad you could make it.”

  She took a sip; he drained half his glass and then leaned back. “I’ll chill out in a minute. I was late because we had a sudden breakthrough on this missing-kid story we’ve been headlining.”

  He picked up his glass and stared into it, then drank again. “They found his body in Highgate Cemetery.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yep. Stuffed into a half-dug grave.”

  Anna winced. “It’s always hard to keep your distance emotionally when it’s a child.”

  “It’s the peripheral things that go on that take it out of you. His poor mother was just in total shock. She couldn’t speak, just sat there with these big wide eyes and tears streaming down her face. ‘Get her to talk about how she feels!’—my editor on the mobile—and I am looking at these tragic people. You don’t need to get them to explain how they feel, you can see it.”

  He broke some bread and slathered butter over it, then took such a huge mouthful he couldn’t speak for a few moments.

  “So, how’s your case going?”

  “Slowly. I actually wanted to ask your advice about something. How would I go about tracing an advert, placed about nine months ago?”

  “Advert for what?”

  “A job: a PA, with travel.”

  Dick ruffled his hair. “Which paper?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, it won’t be easy; there must be thousands of jobs advertised: Times, Time Out, Evening Standard. They’re all computerized, but if that’s all you’ve got to go on, it’ll take someone a lot of…” He mimed holding a telephone to his ear. “Unless you know more?”

  “I think it’s put in by a male.”

  He grinned. “Do you have the exact date?”

  “It would have been around the sixteenth of May last year.”

  Dick looked around for the waiter. “Be like looking for a needle in a haystack. What’s so important about it?”

  Anna hesitated and then shrugged. “Maybe a link, maybe not.”

  “Link to what?”

  Again she hesitated, not wanting to say too much. In fact, she shouldn’t have been talking about it all. “Oh, something that was said. It’ll probably mean nothing.”

  He finished his glass of wine. “You mean you won’t tell me,” he said, not unkindly.

  “Yes.” She smiled.

  “Look, Anna, we’re having a friendly dinner. I’ve not come here with you to pump you for any information. I know it wouldn’t be ethical, okay? But you have no need to worry about anything you might be telling me being used against you. M’lud.”

  Anna grinned as the waiter topped up their glasses; again, Dick drank half the glass in one go.

  “I don’t suppose you have had any more anonymous letters?” she said.

  “Nope, and your boss man—Langton, is it?—gave us stern warnings that if we did, we go straight to him first. Do you think my note was from the killer?”

  “Possibly.”

  “God, there are some sick people around. Let’s change the subject: tell me about you.”

  Anna sipped her wine. “I’m a detective inspector, so I can be attached to any murder team that requires an officer of my capabilities! That’s a joke. I’m still very raw around the edges.”

  “Really?” He had the most amazing, penetrating blue eyes. “So, are you married?”

  “Good heavens, no! Otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to have dinner with you.”

  “What about a partner?”

  “No, there’s no one. What about you?” She leaned forward.

  “Me? Unmarried these days; we broke up about a year ago. She’s living in Spain with a karate instructor; actually, one I introduced her to.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “She had a parrot, but her mother took it.”

  At that moment, the waiter appeared with their starters. Dick had become much less hyper, and she was starting to enjoy his company. He was very open and witty, and had her laughing over a story about when he first started as a journalist. By the time their main course had been served, they were chatting about all and sundry; in fact, they ended up talking about their different relationships with their fathers. Dick had been very much a black sheep: his father a doctor and man of letters, his mother a very educated linguist. They had wanted him to follow in his father’s footsteps, but instead he had left university and gone into journalism; however, his elder sister was now a qualified doctor. It was not until he was talking about her that he referred back to the Louise Pennel case.

  “Do you think your killer would have had medical training? I know we’ve been asked to put a press embargo on the grisly details, not that we’ve been given much, but I looked up the Elizabeth Short murder on the Internet. Mind-blowing; shocking to think they never caught the guy.”

  Anna tensed up, suddenly nervous. She didn’t reply, giving just a small shrug of her shoulders.

  He twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. “So if this Louise Pennel case is similar, it kind of makes the hair stand on end. Dismembering her like that had to have been done by someone with surgical experience or, at the very
least, someone with medical training. It’s not easy to cut someone in two and drain their blood; well, it isn’t according to my sister.”

  Anna was just about to reiterate the fact that she could not discuss the case when DCI Langton walked into the restaurant, accompanied by Professor Marshe. It was not that much of a coincidence, as Langton didn’t live too far away, but seeing him made her blush. She watched him talking intently to Professor Marshe as the maître d’ led them to the table virtually opposite theirs.

  Dick turned to see where she was looking and then looked back. “What’s up?”

  “It’s my boss; he’s with a profiler that has been brought in from the States.”

  Langton was waiting for Professor Marshe to sit down when he noticed Anna. He hesitated and then approached. “Hi, surprise; not really, I suppose, as this is your local. I’ve not been here before,” he said, quite affably.

  “Nor me. This is Richard Reynolds.”

  Dick turned, half rising. “Dick Reynolds, nice to meet you.”

  Langton gave a tight nod; he recognized the name but said nothing. “Enjoy your dinner.” He gave a cold smile and headed back to his table.

  Though Langton sat with his back to Anna, she still felt very self-conscious. Dick leaned across the table. “Why don’t we have coffee back at your place?”

  Anna was still feeling uneasy when they walked up to her flat. Dick looked at his watch. “Listen, I have to be up at the crack of dawn; maybe leave coffee until another time?”

  “Whatever,” she said, opening her front door.

  “Okay, well, I’ll call you,” he said, hovering.

  “I’d like that. Thank you for dinner.”

  “My pleasure.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. He stepped back and looked at her with his head cocked to one side. “Are you okay?”

  “I’d just have preferred not to have been clocked by my boss.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he’s very…I don’t know, forget it.”

  “If you need any help trying to track down that advert, just give me a ring; maybe I can call in a few favors for you.”

  “Thank you, I will. Good night.”

  Dick gave her a lovely smile and then was gone. She shut the door and leaned against it. Why had it rattled her so, seeing Langton? Was it just seeing him, or was it the way he was behaving with Professor Marshe? And exactly how was he behaving? she asked herself sharply; well, truth was that he was being courteous. He had looked very smart; handsome, if she was being honest. There had been no one else since she had ended their affair until Dick Reynolds, but she was unsure how that would work out. She wasn’t even sure if he felt anything toward her. It hadn’t appeared as if he had fancied her; moreover, did she fancy him? Though Langton had wanted to continue seeing her after the Alan Daniels case, she had not wanted to jeopardize her career; she felt that, as a very junior officer, it would have become common gossip. She was now wondering, however, if she should have let the relationship run its course…

  DAY TWELVE

  Langton leaned back in his chair. “Let me get this straight; you want to check every advert for a PA from nine months ago, but you don’t know which newspaper or magazine she might have seen it in? And just how many people do you think I can free up to do this?”

  “It’s a long shot, I know,” she said sheepishly.

  “Long? It’s the bloody M1 motorway, Travis! For Chrissakes, see if you can at the very least narrow it down to a couple of possible papers; go back to the dentist, back to that silly cow Sharon—we can’t get stuck tracking down every fucking advert for a PA!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That journalist you were with last night?”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope he wasn’t pumping you for information.”

  “No, he’s just an old friend,” she lied.

  “Really. Well, keep your mouth shut around him; when we want the press involved, we will rope them in. Don’t go spilling any beans they are not supposed to be privy to.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Good, I hope not. So how old a friend is he?”

  “Oh, we’ve known each other for quite a while.” The fib made her blush and she was unable to meet his eyes.

  He looked at her, then gave a tight, unfriendly smile. “They’re all the same as far as I’m concerned. I hate them; they’re like leeches, sucking on blood. You watch what you say to him.”

  “I will; thank you for the advice.”

  “And don’t you be shirty with me, Travis!”

  “I wasn’t aware that I was!”

  He laughed and wafted his hand for her to leave his office. He flicked open her lengthy report on her day at Bognor Regis.

  There had been no further press reports about the case; if, as Professor Marshe had suggested, their killer would be eager to read about their lack of progress, he would not have been getting any satisfaction. He was not alone: the rest of the team was still not making any headway. Checking out every doctor in the area past and present, paying particular attention to any allegations of malpractice, was time-consuming and, to date, had yielded no result.

  Langton slammed out of his office and paused as he passed Anna’s desk.

  “Do you make a habit of retaining local taxis to chauffeur you around? The Bognor Regis taxi receipt is ridiculous. Why didn’t you get in touch with the local cop shop and use one of their patrol cars?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to be at Mrs. Pennel’s for so long.”

  “You have to anticipate these kinds of things, Travis: we’re not a bloody charity!”

  He took up his usual position at the front of the room for a briefing. He was surly and had his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets as he paced up and down.

  “I had another meeting with Professor Marshe; we discussed our mystery man, the tall, dark stranger we have so far been unable to trace. His description matches the killer of Elizabeth Short. This is what the LA homicide reckoned their suspect looked like.”

  Langton turned over a blank page on the big drawing board to reveal a drawing of the Los Angeles suspect, drawn in 1947.

  “The only description we have of our killer is from Sharon, so let’s see how we match up. It could, at a pinch, be the same man: long dark coat, collar turned up; tall, about six feet; dark, close-cropped hair, a touch of gray at the temples. Our guy has no mustache, but he might have grown one if he’s as obsessed with copycatting the Elizabeth Short case as we think he is. We can put this drawing out alongside a request for anyone with any information about him to come forward.”

  Anna’s desk phone rang; it was Dick Reynolds. She was irritated that he had called her at work until he said, “I’ve just had a phone call; I think it was your killer.”

  Anna sat bolt upright. “What?”

  “I’ve just got off the phone; he called the crime desk and asked to speak to me.”

  “Did you tape it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh my God, can you bring it to us?”

  “Can’t you come to me?”

  “Hold on.”

  Anna put up her hand and Langton, who had continued discussing the drawings, looked over to her, visibly displeased at the interruption.

  “Yes?”

  “The crime desk at the Sun just had a call they think is from the killer.”

  Langton almost jumped along the desks to snatch the phone. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Richard Reynolds.”

  Langton took a moment to steady himself. “Mr. Reynolds, I would be most grateful if you could bring over the tape of the call immediately.” Langton listened for another few moments, and then nodded. “Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and looked to Anna. “He’s coming in directly.”

  Langton then looked to the team. “Professor Marshe was right. Our killer just made verbal contact with the press.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Dick Reynolds was ushered into Langton’s office.
Lewis, Barolli, and Anna were there waiting.

  Reynolds took a miniature cassette from one pocket and then, from the other, a small tape recorder with an attachment for plugging into a telephone.

  “I’ve not made copies because I don’t have another tape this size. It was lucky I had this in my desk drawer. I did miss a section as I was plugging it in.”

  Langton gestured for Lewis to insert the tape into the machine. Reynolds was introduced to Lewis and Barolli.

  “You know Anna Travis.”

  Reynolds smiled at Anna, who smiled back politely.

  “So what happened was, I was at the crime desk and the call was transferred from the switchboard. It came straight to me, as I was the only person there at the time. That machine’s a bit old and dodgy, so some of his dialogue isn’t that clear.”

  “Right,” Langton said, pressing Start. There were a few moments of silence.

  The voice was crisp and to the point.

  “Well, Mr. Reynolds, I congratulate you on what your newspaper has done on the Red Dahlia case.”

  “Er, thank you.”

  “But you seem to have gone silent on it; have you run out of material?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Maybe I can be of some assistance.” This was muffled, with a lot of crackling.

  “Well, we need it, or the police do.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send you some of Louise Pennel’s things that she had with her when she, shall we say, disappeared.”

  “When will I get them?”

  “Oh, within the next day or so. See how far you can get with them. Now I have to say good-bye. You may be trying to trace the call.”

  “Wait a minute—”