The Red Dahlia

by Lynda La Plante

  Anna excused herself to get her own notebook. Langton was sitting with Barolli and Lewis in the incident room.

  “Keep her out of my hair, Travis: be aware she’s very pally with the commander, so anything you do say to her will be repeated.”

  “Yes, will do.”

  Langton weaved through the desks to come to her side. “We’re still getting the lineup organized for this afternoon but don’t tell her that; just see if she can bring anything to the table.”

  “Okay.” Anna hesitated; she could smell alcohol on his breath.

  “What?” he said, glaring at her.

  “There’s a packet of mints in my drawer if you want one.”

  He frowned and then walked back to join Lewis and Barolli. Anna returned to his office. He was beginning to really concern her; it was still only nine o’clock.

  It was after eleven when, accompanied by Professor Marshe, she went back into the incident room. Anna had felt at times that she was being interrogated, but by the end she was impressed. She watched Marshe go up to Langton and talk quietly with him for a while before he called for everyone to pay attention. They did not exactly jump to it, but the room eventually fell quiet.

  “Charles Wickenham, I believe, is now your prime suspect. When I was first brought in, I mentioned that your killer’s marital status would be an important factor. I think it is imperative that you interview his ex-wife: the profile I have been compiling for you underlines that your killer has a hatred of women. This is very deep-rooted and would have begun in his early childhood.”

  She continued, repeating virtually all that Langton had discovered from the locals about Wickenham and his father; although it was still only hearsay, it appeared to be the focus of her profile. As she talked, some of the officers continued to double-check Wickenham’s alibis for January ninth. Langton paid little attention, constantly sending and receiving text messages. The rest of the team was also becoming impatient: they were already privy to so much of what she was saying. Then there was a pause. She twisted a lock of her blonde hair round and round her manicured index finger before she eventually spoke. Her voice had changed; she spoke quietly and calmly.

  “I have discussed a sociopathic tendency; it is quite rare for them to become violent.”

  Anna glanced at Langton, who was looking at his watch impatiently.

  “However, in this case I think you are dealing with a very, very dangerous specimen. I do not doubt that you have the right man. Everything I have discussed is a profile of someone with a compulsion to create terrible pain. His own self-loathing is so deep that he can go to horrendous lengths and feel no remorse whatsoever. This man enjoys the act of torture, of mutilation, and of watching his victims die. I would say he was addicted to drugs, probably amphetamines to get high and, I think, something to iron his hyperactive side down: it could be grass, even morphine. He will have access to these drugs due to his background, and this is where you have to tread carefully, as he is also quite likely to commit suicide: not due to any kind of remorse, but one, to escape from incarceration, and two, fueled by his fury at being caught.

  “His ego is such that he believes he is above suspicion. He thinks his intellect is above that of any of the officers leading the inquiry. I would say he will have arranged his alibis and be very confident that he is safe from prosecution. You have no witnesses. You have no weapons. His tools of torture will, I am certain, be close to him; he will enjoy cleaning and inspecting them. He will also enjoy the fact he is under suspicion, because he is certain he can outwit you. The key will be to allow him to think that is the case; the more you give this man rope, the more he will move toward placing the noose around his neck and hanging himself. But tread carefully, because he will even enjoy hanging!”

  Langton was still texting, but the rest of the team were now listening very attentively. He did look up when she started on how they should proceed.

  “I have spent some time with the pathologist that completed the autopsies on both of your victims. I also had a close friend, a police surgeon, discuss the mutilations. He told me that surgeons make very bold, clean incisions through each layer of tissue with the correct amount of pressure to divide only the tissues. An amateur cutting would more than likely underestimate the amount of pressure it takes to divide the skin, let alone cut the intervertebral disc. The surgeon’s procedure often results in cuts that are serrated at the ends from going over the tissues repeatedly. This is known as staging laparoscopies—going through the skin in stages—but with an amateur wielding the knife, the wound would look as if it had been skived. The professional cuts through the skin at an angle to the horizontal plane, so that one edge is feathered, the other peeled. He suggested that our killer was educated enough not to attempt to cut through the bones of the lumbar spine and was professional enough to locate and divide at the disc space. It takes tremendous skill and a very sharp instrument to divide the spinous ligaments and the thick paravertebral muscles. An amateur would no doubt leave hacking wounds.”

  She closed her notebook. “My associate said he believed without doubt it had to be a professional surgeon to have been able to prolong the torture without killing his victim prematurely. Your suspect is a qualified surgeon, therefore very much to my mind the killer. He will no doubt be as abusive to his son, Edward, as his own father was to him. Anyone around him, close to him, as I said before—his ex-wife, his daughters—go to them first. It will infuriate him because he is unable to control these interviews; not being privy to what is said might easily push him into your laps, but again I must impress upon you that you must tread very carefully with this man. He has spent many hours planning how to kill the Red Dahlia, even giving her that name to the press. No one was ever arrested for the murder of the Black Dahlia, so he will have been very diligent in covering his tracks, just as the original killer was. His obsession with the Elizabeth Short murder will be a sort of guide for him. He will believe he can never be arrested or charged, because he associates himself with her killer. I would advise you to let him think that he is getting away with his crime as you maneuver behind his back. I know you do not have enough evidence to make a formal arrest. However, do not let this man out of your sight because I think he is preparing to kill again.”

  The team remained silent. Professor Marshe asked if anyone had any questions. Langton told her that they were preparing a lineup and asked what she felt about it. She nodded over to the details on the board.

  “Well, if he is identified by the landlady, it will mean he has been caught out in a lie, but she never saw his face clearly.”

  “She described his signet ring,” Langton said.

  “I know, but so many men of his class wear them.” She shrugged.

  The meeting broke up, and Professor Marshe went into Langton’s office. The team was fazed by her speech. She obviously believed Charles Wickenham was their killer; any doubts they may have had were not even mentioned. It yet again gave the team an added energy, as the hunt that had taken so long to get under way was now closing in on the man they all now suspected was their killer.

  A car was sent for the landlady to be at the station for two p.m. At the same time, Wickenham himself was called and he agreed to be present. A car was also sent to collect him, even though he offered to drive himself. He did not ask for a solicitor to be present. He had been asked to wear a long, dark coat; he was told that if he did not possess one, then one would be provided.

  At one forty-five, Langton, accompanied by Anna and Lewis, drove to the purpose-built identity suite, with its two-way glass for officers to watch the interaction and the one-way window for witnesses to walk alongside as they viewed the nine men. An officer unconnected to the case would brief the landlady on what she should do. Langton and his team would not be allowed to discuss anything with her.

  When Wickenham arrived, he was relaxed and appeared to be as helpful as possible. He had brought in a long, dark navy, cashmere draped coat and asked if it was suitable. He wa
s asked to draw the collar up, as were all the other men. He chose position number five. Anna and Langton watched the way he smiled at the other men. He was told to hold the numbered card up with both hands.

  Mrs. Jenkins was very nervous. She kept on saying that it had been a long time ago, and that she doubted she would be able to pick anyone out. She was calmed down and given a cup of tea by the officer who explained that she should take her time; if she wanted, she could ask him to ask the men to turn right or left or look full face toward her. He repeated numerous times that the lineup of men could not see her through the one-way glass.

  Langton and Anna waited patiently as the viewing began. Mrs. Jenkins did take her time; she walked back and forth and then paused in the center exactly opposite Wickenham. She asked if they could all turn to their left, then right. She asked if they could place their left hand up across the lower part of their faces. This they did, and she walked the length of the window again. She paused for a second time opposite Wickenham.

  “Do you recognize the man that called at your house on the ninth of January this year?” asked the officer.

  Mrs. Jenkins licked her lips. Langton took a deep breath.

  “He is not wearing the signet ring,” Anna said quietly.

  “I know; hang on.”

  Langton turned up the sound. She had now asked if the men could say something. When asked what she wanted them to say, she said something like, “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  The men repeated the line one after another; again, she stood in front of Wickenham.

  “Come on, come on,” Langton hissed, under his breath.

  They both watched as Mrs. Jenkins hesitated and then turned to the officer.

  “I think it’s number five, but he had a ring on his little finger when I saw him; he sounds like him, I just can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

  Langton looked at Anna. “Shit; not good enough.”

  “Close, though. She picked him out.”

  “Yeah, I know, but it’s not one hundred percent. I’m going to let him go.”

  Anna nodded and they went out into the interview room allocated for suspects. Wickenham was staring out of the window, his back to them, as they entered.

  “Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Wickenham. We really appreciate you coming in to see us. The car will drive you back to your home.”

  Wickenham slowly turned to face them. “I knew it would be a waste of time. I do apologize for not getting back to you with all the contact numbers for you to check out, but I no longer have a secretary. Will later this afternoon be acceptable?”

  “Yes, sir, thank you very much.”

  Langton forced himself to be cordial through gritted teeth as Wickenham shook his hand and then gave Anna a smile. “Nice to see you again. It was really rather inconvenient, but I suppose you have to do what you have to do.”

  “Yes,” she said, pasting on a smile like Langton.

  Langton then asked if Wickenham could provide contact addresses for his ex-wife and children, as they needed to interview them. Anna was looking directly at Wickenham and saw his eyes narrow and his jaw tighten.

  “My family? What on earth for?”

  “Just procedure, sir. If you would like to accompany us to the incident room, we can make it as fast and as convenient for you as possible.”

  Wickenham gave a sigh and sat down, taking from his jacket pocket an electronic personal organizer. “I’ll do it now, so as not to waste any more of my time.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Anna copied down the addresses and phone numbers of his son, his daughters, and his ex-wife. She didn’t react when it transpired that one of his daughters lived in Richmond.

  “Dominique is in Milan, but she does come back and forth to London to see the girls. They spend most of their holidays with her. Emily is a student and Justine runs a stables. My son, as you know, lives on the estate with his partner, Gail Harrington.”

  Throughout he was affable and helpful, even joking that they might find it difficult to interview his ex-wife, as she was constantly traveling.

  “Or shopping! Milan is the Mecca for shoes.” He laughed.

  It was coming up on five o’clock when Langton returned to the incident room to update the team. The surveillance guys were already up and running. They would check out Wickenham’s alibis and begin the interviews the following morning. Of the family contacts to follow up, earmarked first was Justine Wickenham, as she lived in Richmond, not far from where Louise Pennel’s body had been discovered. They now had a direct link to the murder site.

  “He might not have been a one hundred percent ID, but it’s good enough for me, and we’ve done as Professor Marshe suggested: given him a lot of rope! So good work today; let’s keep it up. We go at eight tomorrow morning.”

  By now all the relatives had been contacted and agreed to meet the detectives. They were told simply that they needed to be questioned regarding an ongoing inquiry. Dominique Wickenham was in Paris, due to return to Milan the following day. Langton would be going over there to conduct the interview; by the time they broke up for the evening, everyone was still wondering who would be accompanying him.

  13

  Anna didn’t realize until she got home how much the tension of the day had exhausted her. She had a shower and a quick snack before she went to bed and crashed out. The next day, she and Barolli were to interview the younger daughter, Emily Wickenham, a student at the London School of Economics, living in a small flat close to Portobello Road. Langton and Lewis were to meet with Justine Wickenham; they would reconvene at the station and then go to interview Edward Wickenham at the Hall. The only person they had been unable to contact was Gail Harrington: they were told she was still away at a health farm. The alibi given by Wickenham for January ninth was still being verified, but so far those contacted had agreed that he had been with them as he had stated.

  DAY TWENTY-FOUR

  Barolli and Anna met up at the station the following morning so they could leave together for their meeting with Emily at eight thirty. She had said she had lectures at ten, so it would only be convenient that early in the morning. Her flat was above a shop at the less well heeled end of Portobello Road; the street was hopping with stalls, even on a weekday.

  They buzzed the intercom; two other girls were listed, presumably flatmates. The aristocratic, high-pitched voice asked them to keep walking up the stairs.

  The front door buzzed open. The staircase had threadbare carpet in an oak brown; the stair rods were loose. Barolli led the way as they got to the second floor.

  Emily Wickenham leaned against the open doorway. “Come on in. I’m eager to know what this is about; is it the break-in?”

  “No.” Barolli showed his ID, as did Anna, and they followed Emily into the rather scruffy rented flat. It was full of rock-and-roll posters; the seedy kitchen looked disgusting.

  “We don’t have a lounge, but we can use my bedroom. Do you want tea or anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s the second time in six months we’ve been broken into! This time they took all the CDs; it’s a real pain.”

  She gestured for them to sit on her unmade bed and curled up in an old wicker armchair.

  “It’s not about the break-in,” Barolli said, sitting gingerly on top of a bright orange duvet.

  Anna took a good look at the girl: she was very tall, at least five feet nine, with a skeletal frame. She was actually very pretty, but looked as if her hair needed washing; she wore no makeup and had badly bitten fingernails. She had her father’s dark coloring and the same deep-set eyes. Anna wondered if she had an eating disorder, she was so thin.

  Anna knew she must be very bright, as she was only seventeen, so she must have taken her A-levels a year early to be at university already.

  “Have you ever seen this girl?” Barolli brought out the photograph of Louise Pennel. Emily glanced at it and then shook her head. Next he showed her Sharon Bil
kin’s picture; again she shook her head.

  “Were you here on the ninth of January this year?”

  “Yes, I mean, I don’t remember if I was here, here if you understand, but I was in London.”

  “Do you go home frequently?”

  “What is this about?” she asked, chewing her fingers.

  “We are leading a murder inquiry; both the girls we have just shown you were murdered.”

  “Were they students?” she asked without much emotion.

  “No. Do you go back to your family home at weekends?” Anna asked, smiling pleasantly.

  “No, I go home as little as I possibly can. Why do you want to know?”

  “It is connected to our inquiry. Do you have a good relationship with your father?”

  “No. Why do you want to know about my father?”

  “Just for elimination purposes.” Barolli shifted his weight; sitting on the low bed was uncomfortable.

  “Do you have a good relationship with your brother?”

  “Not really; I hardly ever see him; he’s my half brother, actually.”

  “When was the last time you were at home?”

  “Oh God, I don’t know. I mostly spend any free time with my mother. Why are you asking me these questions? I don’t understand what you want to know about my family for.”

  “Do you know if your father or your brother entertains young girls, maybe like the ones we have shown you?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I mean, Daddy is always having weekend parties but I don’t go; we don’t really get along. Has he said something to you?”

  “About what?”

  “Well, that we don’t see a lot of each other. Mother says it’s because I am too like him, but it’s not that at all—we just don’t particularly like each other.”

  Barolli looked at Anna, unsure which way they should direct the conversation.

  “Any particular reason?” Anna asked innocently.

  “We just don’t get along. I don’t understand why you need to know about my relationship with my father. Is he—I mean, has he done something wrong?”