The Red Dahlia at-2

by Lynda La Plante

  'I've paged him, but he might have gone out with one of the horses. Can I get you some coffee?'

  'No thank you. Maybe you could walk us over to the stables?'

  He hesitated, looking at his watch. 'I suppose I could do, but as I said, I am not sure he is over there.'

  'Why don't we go and see?' Langton said firmly.

  Edward Wickenham opened a studded oak door leading to the kitchens and gave a rather apologetic smile.

  'It's a bit of a maze, but this is the quickest route; we'll go through the kitchen to the back door.'

  The kitchen was huge, with two Agas and a vast pine table with matching chairs. The stainless steel equipment was immaculate and the glass-fronted dressers were filled with china. The housekeeper was peeling potatoes at the sink; she smiled as they trooped past. They entered a small narrow corridor with a laundry room off to their left, then came to another studded door with an array of Wellington boots lined up beneath a set of old raincoats, hanging on hooks.

  The back yard was surrounded by a very high wall and still retained the sixteenth-century cobblestones. The gate at the end was painted green. Edward Wickenham pulled back the heavy bolts to open it.

  'We could have walked around the house; this way's far shorter but it might be a bit muddy on the other side. We've had such bad weather lately.' He gestured for them to follow.

  There was a vast barn with ivy covering the roof, old carts and rusted machinery resting against it. Edward Wickenham paused.

  'Let me check he's not in here; one moment.'

  Wickenham walked in, leaving the door open behind him. They could see an indoor pool with an electric cover; beyond the pool were steps leading to a gymnasium, with ultra-modern equipment and floor-to-ceiling mirrors, showers and changing rooms, all empty.

  'No; let's hope he's at the stables,' he said, as he shut the door behind him and checked his pager again.

  They followed him around the barn through another gate which led into a large stable with stalls for at least ten horses. Only three were occupied. Two men were mucking out, using hoses to swill down the yard.

  'Is my father around?' Wickenham called out. They shook their heads.

  'I'm sorry I have no idea where he could be. Unless …' He turned back to one of the men. 'Is he out on Bermarsh?'

  "Yes sir, he was over in the paddock, maybe gone up to the woods.'

  Wickenham waved his thanks and looked at his watch. 'Was he expecting you?'

  'No, he wasn't.' Langton was beginning to get tetchy.

  'I'm afraid I have to go out; in fact, I am going to be late, so I suggest we go back to the house.'

  'Let's just try the paddock,' Langton said.

  The ground was muddy and they all had to sidestep deep puddles as they followed Edward Wickenham who strode ahead, obviously annoyed.

  Almost on cue, a rider emerged from the wood that ringed the paddock, taking the fences on a seventeen-hand chestnut gelding. If he saw them waiting, he gave no indication, but continued to wheel the horse further away to take the jumps.

  Edward Wickenham waved and the rider pulled in the reins. They could not see his face as he was wearing a riding hat, the collar of his tweed jacket turned up. He wore cream jodhpurs and black boots. He leaned down to talk to Edward then sat bolt upright as he stared across to them. He nodded and heeled the horse forwards.

  They stood together in a line as the horse slowly approached. Charles Wickenham looked down at them. 'My son says you wished to see me.'

  Langton showed his ID and looked up into the man's face. Dark, dark eyes, a hooked nose and a thin, cruel mouth. He slid from the horse and handed the reins to his son.

  Langton introduced Anna and Lewis, but Charles Wickenham paid them hardly any attention, turning to his son. 'Get Walter to check him out: he's got a slight limp to his right foreleg; it may be just a shoe troubling him.' He patted the horse's rump. 'Getting on, but he was very slow this morning.'

  'Will do.' His son swung up into the saddle and kicked the horse forward.

  Wickenham eased one of his leather gloves loose as he stood in front of them, looking from one to the other. 'What's this about?'

  'Could we please return to the house?' Langton said, quite pleasantly.

  'Of course, but I would like a shower first, if you don't mind.'

  'It won't take a moment.'

  'Whatever; follow me then.'

  Charles Wickenham did not lead them back through the kitchen gardens but round the entire house and back to the front of the Hall. He eased off his riding boots using a grille by the front door. He glanced down at their muddy shoes but said nothing as he opened the door and walked inside.

  'Please go through. I'll just take my jacket and hat off.'

  He walked off towards the kitchen, removing his riding hat.

  They stood in the drawing room waiting; after about five minutes, Charles Wickenham returned. He had combed his hair and his riding hat had left a red rim across his forehead. He was wearing a checked shirt beneath a pale yellow cashmere sweater, and monogrammed velvet slippers.

  His cheekbones were high and his hooded eyes were unfathomable, but his white, even smile made him more attractive. His hair was greying at the temples. He bore a close resemblance to their drawings of the tall dark stranger.

  'I don't know about you, but I need a drink. Can I offer you something?'

  'No, thank you,' Langton said.

  Wickenham ambled over to a heavy oak chest on top of which stood a high top cupboard, and swung open the doors to reveal that it had been made into a drinks cabinet. He picked up a cut-glass decanter and poured a measure of whisky into a tumbler, then turned casually towards them and raised his glass.

  'So what's all this about? Please, please do sit down.' He settled himself in a chair.

  Anna could see on the little finger of his left hand a large gold and cornelian signet ring. She went and sat down on one of the velvet chairs, opened her briefcase and took out her notebook to jot this down. She showed her pad to Langton, who had sat on the arm of her chair, but he made no acknowledgement.

  'I am leading an enquiry into the murder of a young girl called Louise Pennel.'

  Wickenham didn't seem to be listening; he was frowning at a cushion cover which he flicked at with his fingernails and then tossed aside.

  'The newspapers have given her the nickname of the Red Dahlia,' Langton continued.

  Wickenham nodded and sipped his drink.

  'We are also investigating the murder of another girl, Sharon Bilkin, possibly killed by the same person.'

  Wickenham suddenly stood up, placed his glass down on a side table and walked over to the door; he called down the hallway to the kitchen. 'Hylda, I won't want a big lunch, just something fight!'

  Anna looked at Langton who gave a half-smile, shaking his head. Wickenham strolled back in and sat down again, picking up his scotch.

  'Sorry, but if I don't warn her, it's a meat and potatoes job.'

  Langton held up the photograph of Louise Pennel. 'Do you know this girl?'

  Wickenham leaned forward and stared at the photograph. 'No.'

  'What about this girl?' Langton held up a photograph of Sharon Bilkin.

  Wickenham stared, cocked his head to one side and then smiled. 'Sorry, no, I do not.'

  Langton didn't appear to be in any way put out; next, he selected the drawing that had been made of their suspect. 'Would you say this is a good likeness?'

  Wickenham leaned even closer. 'Of me?'

  'Yes, of you, Mr Wickenham.'

  'Could you explain to me why you are showing me these photographs and that… drawing, is it?'

  'We have made many requests via the press and television for this man to come forward. He does look very similar to you.'

  'I do apologise. If I had seen it, quite frankly I would not have thought that it was me, so I would have had no reason to make contact.'

  'Did you ever visit Louise Pennel? The girl in the photograph
I first showed you?' Again Langton held up the photograph.

  Wickenham drained his glass and shook his head. 'As I have said, I do not know her, so it would not really be logical for me to have visited her.'

  Langton persisted, returning to Sharon Bilkin's photograph. 'Did you ever visit this girl?'

  Wickenham sighed. 'No.'

  Langton shuffled his photographs and sketch like a pack of cards. 'Do you have any idea how we came to have this drawing of a person who does, even if you do not agree, bear a very strong resemblance to yourself?'

  'None whatsoever.'

  'A witness, two witnesses in fact, working with a police artist and a Photofit expert, and without conferring with each other, produced this profile: tall, hooknosed, dark eyes, dark-haired, with slight greying at the temples. Contrary to what you say, I think it is an exceptional likeness; perhaps the best solution is if you agree to take part in an identity parade.'

  'Me?'

  'Yes, Doctor Wickenham, you. Would you agree to assist our enquiry? This way, it will eliminate you or, conversely, prove that you did, on numerous occasions, visit the victim, Louise Pennel.'

  'When am I supposed to have been calling on this woman?'

  Before Anna could refer to her notebook for the exact dates given by Louise Pennel's landlady, without any hesitation Langton replied, 'The ninth of January.'

  'The ninth of January? Would that be this year?'

  Langton nodded. Wickenham got up.

  'Let me get my diary; it's in my study.'

  He walked out. Lewis watched for a moment as Langton put the photographs back in the file.

  'What do you think?'

  Langton's reply was hardly audible. 'He's wearing the signet ring described. Right, Anna?'

  She nodded.

  'Well, he's a bloody cool customer,' Lewis muttered.

  Langton crossed to the piano and looked at the photographs. He turned as Wickenham walked back in with a large leather desk diary.

  'The ninth of January, you say? I had meetings with my solicitors in Cavendish Square. It was quite a lengthy meeting, as my ex-wife has started to become even greedier than she was when we were married. I had lunch at my club, the St James, and then I returned home. I had guests for dinner that evening.' He closed the book. 'What time of day am I supposed to have met this girl?'

  'Can these meetings be verified?' Langton asked, keeping his voice steady.

  'Of course; if you wish, I can contact everyone and they will get in touch with you.'

  'Thank you. You were a surgeon; is that correct?'

  'Yes I was, almost in a past life. I retired ten years ago; I had grown tired of travelling, tired of army life, really.' He gestured expansively to the room. 'I did not need the salary and I decided that I would prefer to spend more time here, and with my children. To be honest, it was never a career I enjoyed, but then peer pressure is not something you do ever enjoy. My father's death sort of coincided; I inherited the Hall and wanted to get it back into more of a habitable place. It required a lot of work, not to mention money.'

  Langton smiled. 'Thank you very much. You have been very helpful. I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time.'

  Anna was astonished but got to her feet, as did Lewis.

  'I'll show you out.' Wickenham smiled and gestured for them to go ahead of him.

  As they walked down the front steps, Langton turned, smiling pleasantly. 'I will arrange a line-up and, if necessary, I can send a car to collect you.'

  For the first time, Wickenham's eyes flickered slightly; he covered up fast. 'By all means, but I doubt when my diary has been verified it will be necessary.'

  'I'll be in touch.'

  Langton headed over to the waiting car and yanked open the passenger door. They hurried after him and got into the back seat. Wickenham even had the audacity to give them a slight wave of his hand before he went back inside.

  'Fuck me, he's a piece of work,' Lewis said.

  Langton nudged the driver. 'Go left, down the drive beside the house, would you?'

  Around the side of the house were garages. A Range Rover was having thick mud hosed off its wheels. Parked beside it was a gleaming new Jaguar saloon. Langton stared at the car and then at Lewis and Anna.

  'We get that line-up organised; let's hope to Christ that landlady can identify him.'

  'I have my doubts, you know,' Anna said, uneasily. 'She did say that he kept his face hidden.'

  'She described his fucking ring, didn't she? His hook nose? If needs be, he can keep his hand over part of his face. I need him to be identified, because we have fuck all else on the bastard.'

  The driver asked if he should turn around, but Langton pointed to the lane running beside the garage. 'See if we can get out that way, take a look at his estate!'

  They drove onto a gravel lane that led them past a small thatched cottage. It was immaculate, with lead windows and an abundance of flowers around the quaint former stable door, the top half of which was open.

  'Staff quarters, do you think?' ventured Lewis.

  'No, too nice by far. They'll be stuck somewhere out of sight,' Langton replied, just as Edward Wickenham appeared at the stable door. He looked at them and then disappeared inside, closing the door behind him.

  'Must be the son 'n' heir's place,' Lewis said, as they drove past.

  'You remember what Professor Marshe said?' Anna leaned towards Langton. 'Killer might be having some friction with his wife? Well, he told us she was trying for more money, reason he was at his solicitors.'

  'Mmm.' Langton nodded. He looked down into the footwell and picked up the elastic band.

  'You know, something we've not really delved into is what if it's two of them: father and son?' Lewis asked.

  Langton pinged his elastic band. 'What I think is we just met the killer. He might use his son, probably has some hold over him, but I think Charles Henry Wickenham is the sick bastard we've been looking for.'

  Anna licked her lips, uncertain, and said nothing.

  They drove back into the village and Langton suggested they have a drink and some lunch at the pub.

  They all ordered beer and sandwiches. Anna and Lewis sat at a table close to a window overlooking the village's main road. Langton sat on a bar stool and began a lengthy conversation with the young barman.

  Lewis and Anna didn't say much as they ate, but watched Langton hardly touch his sandwich as he talked. He did order a scotch though, and it looked like a large one. Anna and Lewis waited impatiently, but he seemed in no hurry to leave.

  Langton eventually joined them, looking as if he had knocked back a few more large ones. He was ebullient, grinning as they got back into the car. They stopped at the local village grocery shop as Langton said he wanted cigarettes; he disappeared inside for over half an hour and was grinning again when he came out. He slammed the door so hard the car rocked and then pushed his seat back so far, it was against Anna's legs, then lowered the headrest and slept for the rest of the journey.

  Langton went straight into his office, then emerged, rolling up his shirt sleeves, to take the briefing. He was about to start when the double doors opened and the Commander and her DI walked in. Langton hurried across and had a brief conversation with them; then they drew up chairs and sat down. Bridget went over to offer coffee, raising her eyebrows at Anna on her way past. It felt like they were back at school and the head teacher had appeared in the classroom unannounced.

  Langton clapped his hands and the room grew quiet. The top brass looked on expectantly as he pointed to the sketch of the tall dark stranger.

  'Charles Henry Wickenham could have sat for that; he's got everything, including the gold signet ring.'

  He wanted a line-up arranged fast: the next day if possible. Someone joked that he could stand in line.

  'Sorry, but I've got blue eyes,' he grinned, sharing the joke; his humour did not last for long. 'Right, I had a long chat to the barman at the St George pub; he was a mine of information. His f
ather had worked at the Hall as a gardener for thirty-odd years. He said that our suspect's father was a nasty old sod that went after everything in a skirt; it got so bad that the local girls wouldn't go near the Hall. He was also a Doctor, not medical as we first thought, but of philosophy; he never actually held down any kind of a job. He ran the Hall. At one time, most of the land around it belonged to the Wickenhams; it was our suspect's father who made a mint selling it off to housing projects, etcetera. He was loathed by the locals as he destroyed a lot of the woods and sold up pastures for houses that none could afford. Anyway, he was, to all intents and purposes, a mean and vicious man and his only son, our suspect, was terrified of him. His mother, Annabelle Wickenham, died in childbirth, leaving Charles as the only heir. The old boy never married again but was known to bring in prostitutes: he was well known for sending his Rolls to Soho so his chauffeur could load up the girls and bring them back.

  'When he died ten years ago, his son, Charles Wickenham, had not been living at the Hall, but travelling around the world as an army surgeon. The old boy had spent a lot of money on poor investments and he had let the place go to rot. Charles Wickenham began by infuriating the local community by doing exactly what his father had done before him, i.e. selling up their grazing land. His first wife died of cancer; his son, Edward, is their only child. Charles's second wife, Dominique, is French and she had two daughters. Dominique Wickenham got a heavy settlement and lives off the alimony; Wickenham said himself she was after more money. We need to trace her and see what she can give us.'

  Langton hardly paused for breath. Anna sat in awe: all this he had gathered in front of their noses, in the pub, and yet he had not said a word to them. She was even more amazed when he began to relate the conversation he had had while buying cigarettes.

  'The son is possibly involved. Edward Wickenham's wife committed suicide: her body was found in the barn. This was before it was converted into a spa, swimming pool and gymnasium. There was a police enquiry; nothing came of it, but the rumours from the locals were that she may have had some assistance tying the knot! But nothing could be proved. She had a high level of alcohol and traces of cocaine in her bloodstream, and statements from staff had said she was of a very nervous disposition.'