She laughed, and said maybe it would be a good idea.
Reynolds insisted he get everything ready. He had brought two bottles of very good merlot and she sat curled up on the sofa with a glass, watching TV, as he busied himself in the kitchen. They ate sitting side by side at her small breakfast bar. As they pasted on the plum sauce and rolled the shredded meat and crisp green spring onions inside the pancakes, Anna realised that she hadn't eaten all day. It was just a takeaway, but was nevertheless delicious. The food and wine, and Reynolds's easy conversation, made Anna relax, taking her mind off the Red Dahlia case for a while.
They were halfway down the second bottle when he asked her how the case was going. It was like a floodgate had opened: Anna couldn't stop talking, first about the discovery of Sharon's body and then the awful autopsy report. It might have been down to the wine, but in any event, Anna became very upset when she described what had been forced on Louise. She repeated a couple of times that Louise had been alive when it happened and then she knew she had said too much.
'Listen, none of this is going to be released, Dick; I shouldn't have told you any of it, so promise me this is all off the record.'
'You don't have to make me promise,' he said, drawing her close. His arm around her felt comforting.
He asked about their suspects; Anna told him they had questioned several men who had insisted they had killed Louise Pennel and currently had one young soldier in custody, but it was believed that he was yet another time-waster.
'Why are you holding him then?' Reynolds asked.
'Well he was a medical student, then joined the army and was chucked out a few months ago; he has mental problems. We have to go down every avenue to make sure he isn't our killer before he's released.'
'But you don't think it's him?'
'No, none of us do, but we have to check him out.'
'How do you think the real killer would feel if he read about you having a suspect in custody?'
'He'd hate it; anything that takes the spotlight off him.'
'There doesn't seem to be much of that; there was hardly any press last week.'
'Because we can't trace this monster! We have no weapons, no DNA, nothing. He sends in these notes and we still have nothing; even with all the scientific skills we have these days, we can't get a result. He's ahead of us, playing with us: no saliva on the envelopes, postmarks from all over England, and if anyone saw him posting the letters to my Gov, no one has come forward.'
'How can you make them?'
'I don't know. I've said too much. I'm drunk.'
He tilted her chin up and kissed her. 'Okay if I stay tonight?'
'I'd like that.'
Anna had had too much to drink. If Reynolds had, it didn't show; far from it. He was gentle and caring and very affectionate. Afterwards, she slept in the crook of his arm: a deep, dreamless sleep. He, however, was wide awake. What he had learned had appalled and disgusted him, and made him angry. Anna didn't stir when he gently eased her out of his arms and went into the bathroom. He washed his face and was fully intending to go back to bed, until he saw her notebook in her open briefcase on the lounge table.
DAY NINETEEN
Showered and wrapped in a robe, Anna had made some breakfast while Reynolds took a shower. His hair still wet, he nuzzled her neck as she ate her toast. She offered him more coffee but he needed to get going, as he wanted to go home to get a clean shirt.
'Nope, I'm on my way.' He put his cup and plate neatly into the sink, kissed her, and was heading into the hall as the intercom went.
'It might be the postman!' she called out as he lifted the intercom handset. It was seven-thirty.
Reynolds stood at the front door as Langton headed up the stairs. 'Morning.'
Langton stared at him, then nodded his head. 'Morning. Is she up?'
'Yes, she's in the kitchen.'
'Thanks.'
Langton watched Reynolds head down the stairs before shutting the door behind him.
'Boyfriend's gone,' he said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe, looking smart and clean-shaven in a pinstriped suit.
Anna blushed. 'Is something up?' she asked.
'I put pressure on the lab; they said they would talk to me first thing, so here I am. You can drive us in.'
'Do you want a coffee?'
'You go get dressed. I know where everything is.'
'Give me a few minutes,' she said, as she squeezed past him.
By the time Anna came back, he had made himself some toast and was sitting on a high stool at her small breakfast bar, mug in hand, reading his newspaper: very much at home.
'Ready when you are,' she said, trying to sound light. She ran a glass of water and took two aspirin; she had drunk far too much last night.
'Headache?' Langton asked, folding his paper.
'Yes, bit of one.' Actually, her head felt terrible.
'Reynolds a regular visitor, is he?'
'Yes, you could say that.'
'Pumping you for information, I'll bet.'
'We do have other things on our minds,' she said tetchily. He grinned, slapped his thigh with his rolled-up newspaper, and then they were on their way, their dirty crockery abandoned on the breakfast bar.
They drove over to the mortuary. Langton fiddled with the radio then leaned back against the headrest. Anna's headache had got worse; she drove carefully. He had put the news channel on, but there was nothing about Sharon's murder.
'No press release on Sharon yet?'
'Nope. You still feel guilty about not going round there sooner?'
'Yes, but then I don't know if it would have done any good: we have no time of death as yet.'
She swerved to avoid a cyclist.
'I hate those bastards; that dewdrop hat makes him look like sort of some demented insect!' He turned to see the cyclist giving them a V-sign and laughed.
'You seem to be in a good mood this morning.'
'Yeah, well, I crashed out last night early and had a good eight hours' sleep. You look as if you could do with a bit more.'
'Thank you,' she said, flatly.
'So, this thing with the journalist is serious, is it?'
She hesitated, not wanting to discuss her private life with him.
'Sorry, don't mean to pry,' he said, smiling.
She could feel him watching her and it made her nervous: she shot a set of traffic lights, but he said nothing. In fact, they did not speak until they arrived at the mortuary.
They were gowned up and ready to view the corpse. Anna's head was throbbing; the small vein at the side of her temple felt ready to explode. Seeing Sharon with the hideous slashes to her lips, the bruises to her torso, and the red lipstick scrawled across her belly didn't help. The pair stood in silence as Smart told them that he had not had time to perform a full autopsy, but could confirm that Sharon had been dead for approximately forty-eight hours before she was discovered. Anna's guilt was somewhat eased; it meant that when she was trying to contact Sharon, she was already dead.
Two hours later, they were in the Incident Room. Langton told the team that it was almost a hundred per cent certain that Sharon Bilkin had been killed by the same man as Louise Pennel. Even the lipstick lettering matched the handwriting on the numerous cards and notes sent to Langton. The mutilations were not as horrific, but nevertheless Sharon had been subjected to torture and pain before she died.
The fact that she had been dead for forty-eight hours meant that, like Louise, Sharon had to have been killed somewhere else before being dumped in the field where she was found. The team were waiting for an update from forensics on whether they had managed to get anything from the maroon coat or the crime scene. Langton gave orders that, in the meantime, Sharon's flat should be re-examined and her phone calls double-checked: it was imperative to find out where Sharon had been before she was abducted. She might have accompanied her killer of her own free will, so they also needed to trace anyone who had seen her before she disappeared.
&n
bsp; Langton broke up the briefing, as he had a meeting with the Commander. He was hoping to retain control of both murder enquiries. So that's what the suit was all about, Anna thought.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and neither Anna nor Barolli wanted to be at Sharon Bilkin's flat; nor did the forensic team that arrived to dust for prints: they had already done a sweep of the flat for the Louise Pennel case and now they had to do everything again. Barolli was in a particularly bad mood as his local football team were playing. He and Anna were forced out of one small room and into the next to make way for the paper-suited scientists. In the kitchen, Anna found Sharon's diary, her childish writing giving details of her auditions and, far more frequently, her appointments for hair extensions, manicures and massages. She had had an appointment at a hair salon earlier that week to check over her hair extensions and replace those that had fallen out. The salon's receptionist told Anna that Sharon had not turned up. Next, Anna called an advertising company that Sharon was meant to be auditioning for; she had not turned up there either, so they had given the commercial to someone else.
Barolli was looking through Sharon's chequebooks and paying-in slips, which he'd found in the cutlery drawer.
'This is interesting: a week ago, she paid two thousand pounds in cash into her account.'
Anna looked up, frowning. The headache that had persisted throughout the day was still lurking.
'Is it rent?'
'I dunno; she has regular payments of two hundred going in that looks like rent.'
'Her tenants paid her, then she paid the landlady. What's the outgoing?'
'Shit!' He crossed to Anna. 'She's got twelve grand in her bank account!'
Anna flicked through the statements. As she had thought, at the end of each month, there was a regular payment out to the landlady. Two five-thousand-pound lump sums had also been paid in.
'We need to talk to her bank manager, and the landlady.'
Barolli nodded, slipping the chequebook and bank statements into plastic containers. He went back to searching through the kitchen drawer. As he pulled it further out, cutlery clattered out all over the floor. He swore and bent down to pick up the knives and forks, tossing them back into the drawer.
'I really need this on a Saturday afternoon,' he muttered.
Anna closed her eyes: forced to sit it out in the small kitchen, she felt as if the walls were closing in on her. She rubbed her temples to try to ease the pain, but nothing helped.
'I don't feel so good,' she said quietly.
'What?'
'I said I don't feel good. I think I've got a migraine.'
'You want to go home?' he said, banging the drawer shut. It stuck firmly, so he shook it out again. The clattering noise felt like needles going through her brain. Barolli was on his hands and knees, feeling around inside the unit.
'I'm going to be sick,' she said, and walked unsteadily to the kitchen sink.
'Christ, go into the bathroom; don't chuck up in here!' Barolli squinted into the drawer cavity. 'Something's caught between the drawers.' He reached further inside and then pulled out a brown manila envelope containing a bundle of fifty-pound notes.
'Don't handle the envelope too much,' Anna said and then hurried into the bathroom.
Anna filled a tumbler of water from the kitchen tap and sipped. She had not brought anything up, but her head was throbbing and she felt dizzy. Barolli had counted two and a half thousand pounds in cash into a plastic bag and he was keen to get back to the station to see if they could put a trace on the bank notes. When he suggested Anna go home, she didn't argue; she hadn't had such a bad migraine since she was a teenager.
Back in her bedroom, Anna drew the curtains and went straight to bed, an ice pack on her forehead. She lay with her eyes closed, wondering where Sharon had got all that money, but just thinking about it made her feel worse. She started taking slow deep breaths, trying to empty her mind, but she couldn't ignore the fact that they might have got something that would help their enquiry, perhaps even trace the killer. Eventually she got up and took a shower. She still felt very dizzy, so went to He down again. This time she slept, a deep dreamless sleep, until early morning.
DAY TWENTY
Anna made some mint tea and had a dry piece of toast. She was feeling a lot better, but the shrill ring of her phone at seven-thirty made her wince.
'Travis,' he snapped.
'Yes?'
'You feeling better?'
'Yes, thank you.'
'Well, soon you won't be.'
'I'm sorry?' She tensed: Langton sounded furious. 'I'm sorry about yesterday; it was a migraine. If you need me to come in today, I can make it.'
'I'm coming to see you.'
'What?'
'Now!' And he slammed the receiver down.
She was left holding the phone in confusion, and feeling almost as angry as he had sounded. She wasn't expecting sympathy, but he could have been a bit more understanding: she hadn't had a day off sick since she had got her promotion.
Fifteen minutes later, Anna buzzed the intercom and opened her front door, waiting for Langton to appear on the stairs. If he had sounded angry on the phone, it was nothing compared to the obvious fury with which he approached her, carrying an armful of newspapers.
'You are in deep shit,' he said coldly.
'For Chrissakes, I had a fucking migraine,' she said angrily, slamming the front door shut after him.
'You'll probably have another. Have you read it?'
'Read what?'
Langton slapped down a rolled-up edition of the Sun onto her kitchen counter.
'Your boyfriend's article, yesterday's late edition.' He pointed to the paper. 'And if that isn't bad enough, everyone else has run with it!' He threw down the other papers he was holding. 'Look at the bloody News of the World, Mail on Sunday, Sunday Times, Observer, Express … Exactly what I didn't want, Travis: a media frenzy.'
Anna could feel her body shaking as she picked up the Sun. Opening it, she read the headline on page seven — RED DAHLIA KILLER SUSPECT HELD.
Richard Reynolds's exclusive detailed virtually their entire conversation. The article stated that the suspect was a soldier with medical training and that he had admitted to the murder of Louise Pennel. It also gave details of the mutilations she had suffered and the autopsy results.
'He hasn't missed out a fucking thing, even down to the fact she was forced to eat her own shit!' Langton was like a caged animal; fists clenched, he paced up and down the small kitchen. 'What in Christ's name were you thinking?'
Anna wanted to burst into tears.
'I warned you! Talk about sleeping with the bloody enemy! Have you any idea what repercussions this is going to create for me — for the entire team?'
Anna sat on one of her kitchen stools. She was shaking.
'It's beyond belief that you could be so unprofessional, even after I warned you. Jesus Christ, Anna, how could you have been so stupid? Why did you do it?'
She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tight.
'Well? What have you got to say for yourself?'
She took a deep breath. 'I told him that whatever we discussed was…'
'Was what?' he snapped. 'Headline news?'
'I asked him — no, I told him — that whatever was said between us was private.'
Langton shook his head in despair. 'Private. Private? You are investigating a brutal murder; what do you mean, whatever you said to him had to be private? You are a detective, you know the law — you've broken the law, for Chrissakes, don't you understand? You have given highly confidential information to a journalist. What happened? You have a few too many drinks and couldn't hold your tongue? Is that why you had to leave the enquiry yesterday? Because you were so hung over?'
'That's ripe, corning from you.'
She regretted saying it instantly, but it was too late. His eyes bore into her with such hostility that she had to look away.
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.'
He rolled up the newspaper and tapped it on the edge of the counter. 'I don't know what I am going to do about this, Anna.'
She licked her lips; her mouth was bone dry. 'Do you want me off the team?'
'That's a possibility. I think, under the circumstances, at the very least you'll have to come off the case. I need a few days to think about it. This could have severe repercussions for me. As it is, I am hanging onto this investigation by my fingernails. This load of shit that's gone down today won't stop with just the one article: every paper has picked up on it and I am going to have to deal with it.'
'I'm so sorry.'
He nodded, then said very quietly. 'You should be.'
Anna heard the front door close behind him. She sat staring at the kitchen wall and began to sob. Every time she dried her eyes and told herself to get it together, she broke down again. She sat on the toilet and cried. She lay on her bed and wept. It was almost an hour later when she managed to close the floodgates, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. Now she really thought about the consequences, and she knew her error could end her career. As always, the photograph of Jack Travis, her beloved father, was on her bedside table. She stared at his strong face and his deep-set eyes. She hugged the frame.
'Well Pop, I screwed up and I got screwed. This is what it comes down to: the bastard used me.'
She sat up and put the photo back in its usual place. All the years of training, all her ambitions could be swiped aside if Langton so chose. She made her bed for something to do and then wandered into the kitchen. She brewed some coffee and sat feeling wretched, though at least the tears had dried up. She wondered what her father would have advised her to do. She was certain he would never have found himself in the same boat. Langton was right: she had been stupid.
As if on automatic pilot, she finished her coffee, washed up, cleaned the kitchen then tidied the lounge, until everything in the flat was in order; she even vacuumed the hall. She emptied the kitchen bin, the clank of empty bottles a reminder her of her night with Reynolds. They had drunk two bottles of red wine between them; usually, Anna's quota was no more than a couple of glasses, so it was no wonder she'd felt unwell the next morning. She flung the bag into the bin outside the flats. By the time she returned to slam her front door closed, she was angry. Hands on her hips, she stood in the hall and muttered to herself.
The Red Dahlia at-2 Page 17