The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

  “Talk to your fucking boyfriend.”

  Langton slammed into his office. Anna had no idea what he was talking about. She hurried over to DI Lewis. “What’s going on?”

  Lewis shrugged. “All I know is, the editor of your pal’s newspaper has some very heavy-duty friends. The gov gets the commander on his back, and even with Professor Marshe batting for him, they’ve given him the order to go public and he doesn’t like it.”

  “It’s nothing to do with me!”

  Lewis turned away. “Your boyfriend is going to break the story, be headlined this weekend.”

  Anna returned to her desk. She sat for a moment and then packed her briefcase. She called Dick Reynolds and asked if she could cook dinner for him that evening. He said he would be there by eight. Neither of them mentioned anything about the Dahlia story. Anna went up to the duty sergeant and asked if it was okay for her to leave, as she had a migraine. He looked at her and grinned.

  “If you haven’t got one, you will have. Is it true your boyfriend’s the journalist Dick Reynolds?”

  “He is not my boyfriend!”

  Anna banged out of the incident room and sat in her car to cool down, then drove home, stopping on the way to buy some groceries. She had decided to make spaghetti bolognese, nothing special; well, she had decided Mr. Reynolds didn’t warrant her best culinary offering. She would really like to wring his neck; he had now placed her in a very difficult situation, but it was one she was determined she would rectify, otherwise working alongside Langton would be impossible. Truth was, she had hardly ever thought of Langton over the past eighteen months, but when he had walked into the incident room to take over the case, it was as if it was hours ago, not that he had ever acknowledged their history. Anna Travis was not the usual type that DCI James Langton was known to fall for. They were more like the long-legged Professor Marshe. He had a terrible reputation and she had not been prepared to be another notch on his belt, but that didn’t mean she didn’t still have feelings for him; she did, very strong ones, and it annoyed the hell out of her that she should be thinking of them.

  “Christ,” she muttered to herself as she dumped her shopping down on the draining board. “I fucking hate him!”

  As she chopped up the onions and began to make the spaghetti sauce, she calmed down. If Reynolds had used her to get more details of the case, this could prove embarrassing. She prepared the dinner, and then took a shower. She got into an old sweater and jeans and didn’t even bother redoing her makeup; she was getting ready to tear a strip off Reynolds.

  “Thank Christ I didn’t sleep with him,” she muttered as she opened a cheap bottle of plonk. She filled her glass and sat watching the TV.

  “Bastard,” she muttered. Then she checked her watch: he was due any minute, so she returned to the kitchen. The sauce was bubbling away. She was ready for Mr. Reynolds.

  7

  The table in the lounge was laid for dinner; she didn’t have a dining room. It was no candlelit romantic setting; though she did have candles, she had no intention of making this evening pleasant. She had the TV still on, the plates warming, and everything ready to serve at eight fifteen. At nine fifteen Reynolds still had not shown. She was about to eat by herself when the intercom went.

  He came charging up the stairs with a large bouquet of cheap supermarket roses and a bottle of red wine.

  “Sorry I’m late, but something cropped up. I was going to call but thought you might have blown me out.” He grinned and handed over his gifts.

  “I might well have done,” she said, moving away from him as he went to kiss her cheek. “Go on through into the lounge. I’ll dish up straightaway. I am starving.”

  “Me too,” he said, shrugging out of his suede coat and tossing it onto the floor by the front door. “Do you want me to open the wine?”

  “Bottle open on the table,” she said, banging around the kitchen as she put the garlic bread into the oven.

  He did at least wait to start eating before she sat down, though he had consumed a glass of wine and was already pouring another. “Cheers, and I’m sorry to be so late.”

  “That’s all right.” They touched their glasses and he then tucked in with relish.

  “This is delicious,” he said, with his mouth full.

  She responded by serving him some salad on a side plate.

  “Do I detect a slight frost in the air?”

  “You do, but let’s finish eating.”

  “I think I know what it’s about,” he said, winding the spaghetti around his fork.

  “I should think you do. It’s made things very difficult for me.”

  “How come?”

  She put down her fork and sat back. “You were asked not to go to press on the Red Dahlia note or the package. I was told tonight that, despite being warned that it would be detrimental to our inquiry, you are going to press regardless: so how do you think I feel? Especially as DCI Langton is more than aware that we are friends, from seeing us together in that restaurant. He actually thinks we have some kind of relationship; he had a right go at me.”

  “Did he?” Reynolds wiped his plate with a piece of garlic bread.

  “Do you have any idea what repercussions this could have? We have maintained a low profile for a bloody good reason.”

  “Tell me about it.” He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “We have a suspect, one we believe is a very dangerous man—”

  “Or not,” he interrupted arrogantly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, you may have a suspect, but from what I gather, you are nowhere near identifying him.”

  “You gather incorrectly!” she snapped.

  “Then I apologize. Who is he?”

  She pushed her plate aside and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “You really imagine I’d disclose that kind of information? Our investigation has nothing whatsoever to do with you!”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really!” She was beginning to lose her cool.

  “So the conversation I had with your possible suspect was no help? And the package that was sent to me, that I could have chosen not to contact you about? I was, if you recall, witness to the contents.”

  “Yes, you were and, as I recall, you were also requested not to go to press on them either. I have told you: this killer is very dangerous.”

  “I am aware of that; I have read up on the Black Dahlia.”

  She whipped his plate away, picked up her own, and stalked into the kitchen. “DCI Langton warned you. He’ll be coming down on you tomorrow like a ton of—” She dropped the top plate and swore.

  Reynolds came into the kitchen as she was picking up the pieces of plate. “So you think this is all down to me, do you?”

  She threw the broken china into the bin. “Of course I do!”

  She opened the fridge and took out some pieces of cheese, then dumped them, still in the wrappers, onto a cheeseboard. “Can you take this through for me?”

  He snatched the board and walked out. She turned the coffee percolator on and carried a biscuit tin after him into the lounge. She banged it down on the table. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank you. Entertain often, do you?”

  “This is not funny.” Anna drained her glass of wine and poured another.

  “Do you want cheese?” he asked, delving around to find a cracker he liked.

  “No.”

  Anna watched as he munched his cheese. He was a very good-looking man; right now, however, the expression in his intensely blue eyes was icy.

  “You calmed down?”

  “Yes,” she said grudgingly.

  “Right.” He refilled his glass and took a sip before carefully placing it down. “I had nothing to do with the article that will be coming out at the weekend. Just as you have a boss, aka DCI Langton, I also have a boss: the editor of the paper. She’s a very strong-willed woman. She was at some big function for all the bigwigs the day we were at the forensic lab: politicians and c
rime-busters. Their guest speaker was a Professor Marshe.”

  Anna stopped sulking and started listening.

  “It appears that your esteemed United States profiler had a lengthy conversation with my editor. Apparently, she even mentioned the fact that we had met at the forensic lab; seemed quite taken with me!” He smiled but Anna was not amused. His tone became more serious. “I never let any cat out of the bag, Anna. I had a furious editor giving me a lengthy ticking-off for sitting on what would be a center-page spread, if not a headliner. I got another tirade for not telling her what was going on.”

  “Is this true?”

  “For Chrissakes, Anna!” he snapped suddenly, pushing back his chair. “You jumped to the wrong conclusions and you never even gave me the opportunity to tell you my side of the story before having a go at me.”

  Anna took a deep breath. “So Professor Marshe told your editor about the case?”

  “That’s what I’ve just told you, isn’t it? She also said that she feels it is our public duty to let the readers know that we have a nightmare killer at large, and one it appears you are nowhere near even identifying at that.”

  Anna took her glass and went to sit on the sofa. He followed, sitting in the large and only armchair opposite her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “So you should be. As for you getting into hot water about it, you should have a go at your DCI Langton; he brought her into the case, didn’t he?”

  Anna said nothing. He crossed his legs, dangling the glass from his hand. “Shall I open the bottle I brought? It is a slightly better vintage than this one.”

  She shrugged; he got up and walked into the kitchen. Anna was feeling foolish and wasn’t sure what to say. He returned and filled his own glass, then went over and stood in front of her.

  “Refill?”

  “Yes please, thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He put the bottle onto the table and then sat beside her on the sofa. “Forgiven?”

  “Yes. I am sorry.”

  He sipped his wine, and then looked up at the TV; it had remained on throughout dinner with the sound turned off.

  “Is that your only means of entertainment?”

  She gestured to the stereo and he got up, rifled through her CDs and put one on, then took out a box of matches and lit the candles on the bookcase. He turned the lights down, the TV off, and as the strains of Mozart began to fill the room, he sat back down beside her.

  “This is better.”

  “So’s your wine,” she said, thawing out.

  “So now you know why I was late. I am really sorry, but she wasn’t going to let me out of there until I got the article out.” He leaned back. “No wonder you don’t want to talk about it. I logged onto the Black Dahlia website and found all the gory details: sickening. To think there is some maniac trying to emulate that is beyond belief. I know there are copycat killers, but this is freaky; why copycat a murder that happened in 1947?”

  “Because the killer was never caught.”

  “But the preplanning—to drain Louise’s blood before slicing her body in two—”

  Anna closed her eyes and tensed.

  He turned toward her. “Do you get to sleep okay?”

  “Usually; it depends. You get used to horror—it’s the job, you know—but sometimes images creep into your mind and stay there.”

  “You know the image that I can’t get rid of?”

  Anna didn’t respond.

  “The look in her eyes. I never knew that dead eyes held an expression; I thought they just blanked out when the heart stopped, but there is so much pain in her eyes. Terrible.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Louise Pennel’s face have the same expression as Elizabeth Short?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would one human being want to inflict such agony on another? What makes them that way?”

  “I don’t know: a madness is all one can put it down to.”

  “How come you are on a murder team?”

  “Because I wanted to be.”

  “You chose it?”

  “Yes, my father was a homicide officer for thirty years.”

  “You ever work with him?”

  “No, he died almost three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. No doubt he would be very proud you had followed in his footsteps.”

  “Yes; yes, I think he would.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She died before Dad.”

  He leaned closer, his head almost on her shoulder. “So you are an orphan?”

  “I never really thought about it, but I suppose I am.”

  “You ever get lonely?”

  “Well, I don’t have any relatives that I’m close to.”

  “What about friends?”

  “Not many, mostly work colleagues. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “To try and get to know you.”

  “Well, as you can see, there’s not much to know about.”

  He smiled. “From what I can see, you have a great CD collection, a neat little flat, and you are very pretty.”

  She laughed. “Rubbish.”

  “You are. Well, I think so; I love that red curly hair. Did you know you have a ring of freckles over your nose?”

  Anna’s hand went to her face involuntarily. “I am always trying to cover them up, but I didn’t do my makeup when I got home.”

  “You have beautiful skin, and very pretty hands.” He reached out and caught her hand in his.

  Anna was at a loss. She found him so attractive but she was so unused to the whole flirting thing. “Am I supposed to say nice things about you now?” she asked softly.

  “You could. I mean, it’s been pretty one-sided up until now. You’ve not given me much indication that you find me interesting, attractive even.”

  “You are both.”

  “Good.”

  He reached down and picked up his wineglass, drained it, and got up for a refill.

  “You should be careful; are you driving?”

  He turned and cocked his head to one side. “Are you trying to tell me that I should be leaving?”

  “It’s just that we’ve already had one bottle, so if you’re in the car, you’ll need some coffee. I’m a police officer, remember.”

  He smiled as he picked up her glass and topped it up.

  “So do you want coffee?” she asked.

  “No, thanks.” He sat beside her again and stretched out his legs in front so he was leaning back again very close to her. “Do you have a pet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there is this disgusting moggy that’s sort of moved in with me, her name is Blott: she’s a sort of tabby cross with what could be a hamster; she has this very odd, uncatlike face that I think may be from someone having kicked her; it’s sort of squashed. Can we go to bed?”

  DAY SIXTEEN

  It was no good making the excuse that she was drunk. She was a little tipsy, but she knew what she was getting into, though the wine had made her a lot less inhibited. She had never actually slept with anyone who had just suggested bed without any physical preamble; her previous experiences had begun with unbuttoning shirts and blouses and escalated from there. Langton had been a very tender and experienced lover, so totally at ease the morning after; it was a night that she knew had been special. She had not been in a sexual relationship since. It was not that she had been unable to consider anyone else as a lover; it was simply there hadn’t been anyone who appeared to find her attractive, let alone make a play for her. Now there was Mr. Reynolds. The world had not exactly moved when they had made love, but he was sweet and considerate, and made her laugh during and after sex; in the morning, however, when he had woken her with kisses, it had been more passionate.

  He brought her a cup of coffee in bed and then went for a shower. Unfortunately, the coffee was dreadful: it was the stewed brew that had been percolating all night. Anna smiled but said nothing when he came ba
ck in, pulling on his suede jacket and smelling of her moisturizer and shampoo. She loved it when he knelt on the bed to kiss her again.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  Then he was gone. She stood on tiptoe in the kitchen, watching him speed off in his Morgan.

  She scrambled some eggs and made some fresh coffee. She hummed to herself as she showered, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  Brimming with confidence, she parked her Mini at the station. She saw Langton’s beat-up Rover taking up two spaces; typically inconsiderate, she thought.

  As she walked into the incident room, the hubbub of voices lowered as the officers glanced over.

  “Morning,” she said cheerfully, and crossed to her desk.

  Lewis propped up the headline: COPYCAT BLACK DAHLIA KILLER.

  She said nothing as she took the paper and glanced over it. It was exactly what they had hoped would not happen. The article compared the old case and the new, complete with photographs of the two victims side by side, and gory details of the murder of Louise Pennel.

  “Your boyfriend’s got the gov in a white-hot rage.”

  Anna slapped the paper down on her desk. “My relationship has nothing to do with this article. I resent everyone in this station giving me snide glances and implying that this has something to do with me: it hasn’t!”

  “He certainly knows a hell of a lot about the cases, so if you didn’t brief him, who did?” Lewis said nastily.

  “He probably checked on the Elizabeth Short website.”

  Anna got up and walked past Lewis to get herself a coffee, not that she wanted one; she could sense all the ears wigging at their conversation. She stood by the board and read the press release that the commander had instructed Langton to issue when he received the postcard; it requested that the killer should make contact at any location of his choice.

  “Have we heard anything back from this?” she asked Barolli, who shook his head. “Anything from her address book?”

  “You mean apart from damage to the eardrums? We’ve arranged meetings with all the ones we’ve been able to trace so far. There’s a list on your desk.”

  Anna had been given five addresses and contact numbers: two girls and one man who had lived in the hostel with Louise, and two men who had known her a couple of years ago. They were scattered all over London.