The Red Dahlia Read online

  The phone clicked dead. Langton rubbed his head and gestured for the call to be replayed. It was, three times. Everyone listened in silence.

  “Thank you for bringing this in to us, Mr. Reynolds,” Langton said, and ejected the tape. “You said you had not made a copy.”

  “No. But it must be obvious that I’d like one.”

  “I have to ask that you do nothing with this. I do not want this call to be made public until I give you permission.”

  “Hang on a second—”

  “Mr. Reynolds, this is very serious. I do not want the contents of this call printed in your paper or used for any other reason. We will need to have it sent over to the lab and see what they make of it. It will be vital evidence if the killer is arrested, as we will be able to do a voice match.”

  Anna went over to her desk to double-check the contacts made by the original Black Dahlia killer, and then returned to Langton’s office. She passed over her memo, comparing his original call to the one that Reynolds had received. It was almost word for word.

  “I know,” Langton said quietly.

  “So what do we do now?” she asked.

  “Exactly what I said: we get the lab to test and see what they can give us. The journalist in the LA case didn’t tape the call, so at least we are making some fucking progress. Also, if he has her belongings, he will send them to your friend. The original killer did, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he sent the contents of her handbag.”

  Langton drummed his fingers on his desk. “Christ Almighty, this is unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  She said nothing.

  “I hope to God he doesn’t play silly buggers and go to print on it, especially after talking with Professor Marshe; she was very sure that if we kept no publicity, the killer would make contact. She’s been right so far.”

  “Yes, you said.” Anna felt irritated. “I’m sure Mr. Reynolds won’t do anything that would harm the investigation.”

  “We have to make bloody sure he doesn’t,” Langton snapped.

  The tape was treated and tested. It did not appear that the caller had been trying to disguise his voice. The lab determined that it was a middle-aged man, well spoken and well educated, with a distinct aristocratic tone, exuding confidence. They felt it would be problematic to try to match it because of the muffled and often indistinct sound. There was no distinctive background noise that would help to pinpoint a probable location, but, given time, they could strip the tape down to get more information.

  Langton sighed with frustration. He had smoked throughout the briefing. “Right, outcome: despite the portrayals by the media and the entertainment industry, there are serious limitations for the experts. They seriously doubt being able to identify taped voices; it’s looking not very positive.”

  There was a unanimous moan.

  “I know, I know, but we only have a minute’s worth and they need more. They kept on saying that this type of phonetic analysis is very time-consuming; it requires painstaking preparation of speech samples and close observation of their acoustic and other characteristics. So, in the meantime, we stick our thumbs up our arses because it could take weeks. To match an unknown taped voice with another—should we be so lucky to bloody get one—is not a matter of simply making voiceprints, which can be compared in the same way as fingerprints. They reject this in court as evidence, because it can create an erroneous picture in people’s minds: so, in other words, the chaps at the lab are dicking around, trying to bring us something, so that if—if!—we do get a friggin’ suspect, we might be able to match it. But this would only give us a lead, nothing more conclusive.”

  Disappointed, the team had little to do but continue covering old ground. There was nothing new to work on apart from trying to trace the advert Louise Pennel might have answered. They had so far been unsuccessful, despite contacting virtually every newspaper and magazine, not helped by the fact that they did not know the exact wording; all they could do was to check out anyone advertising for a PA on or around May sixteenth.

  That night Anna couldn’t sleep; the call to Reynolds kept on replaying in her mind. They all knew that they were clutching at straws, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that this latest contact had to be significant.

  DAY THIRTEEN

  The next morning, Anna called Sharon and asked if she would be available to meet. She was evasive and said she had an appointment at nine fifteen, but would more than likely be at home beforehand.

  Anna was outside her flat by nine, but when she rang the doorbell, she got no reply. Frustrated, she kept her hand on the bell, but Sharon did not appear. She was just turning away when the door opened.

  “She’s not in.”

  The woman was wearing a tweed skirt and pink twinset with a string of pearls. “She left about five minutes ago.”

  Anna showed her ID and asked who she was speaking to.

  “I’m Coral Jenkins; I live on the ground floor.”

  “Ah yes, you must be the landlady.”

  “Yes; I did get a note to say someone from the police wished to talk to me, but I’ve been away at my sister’s; she’s been ill.”

  “That was from me. I am DI Anna Travis.”

  “I know what it’s about. Sharon told me what had happened to her flatmate; it was a shock, not that I knew her. Do you want to come in? I can talk to you now: I don’t go to work until eleven today.”

  Anna was led into the ground-floor flat, which was crammed with antique furniture.

  Mrs. Jenkins noticed Anna looking round. “I run an antique stall in Alfie’s Market over in Paddington.”

  Anna smiled. “I can tell you have some lovely pieces.”

  “I had a lot more, but I had a very unpleasant divorce. I used to live over in St. John’s Wood but I had to sell the house to pay him off. It was a lump settlement, so I bought this place. It was already divided up into flats, so I didn’t have to do anything to it, and it’s close to my work.”

  The woman hardly draws breath, Anna thought. “Mrs. Jenkins, you say Sharon told you about Louise Pennel?”

  “Oh yes, terrible, just terrible. I wasn’t here, you see. My sister was ill, so I had to go to Bradford, just after it happened, I think. Of course I read about it in the papers, but I didn’t recognize her from the photograph. I didn’t pay it much attention, so many terrible things happen.”

  Anna interrupted. “Mrs. Jenkins, did you ever see anyone with Louise?”

  “I didn’t really know her. I know she lived in the top flat. I only allow two to share up there: it’s very small.”

  “I know you don’t allow visitors to stay.”

  “House rule: they know when they move in. Reason is, these young girls get a steady boyfriend and the next minute, they’ve moved them in as well! So, I make it very obvious from the start: no overnight boyfriend full stop. If they want to do whatever they do, they can go and stay with them. Sharon has a new girl renting with her, and I told her straight away—”

  “Mrs. Jenkins!” Anna was now impatient. “Did you ever see Louise Pennel with a man friend?”

  “He rang the wrong bell once, quite a while back when she had just moved in, and so I answered the door.”

  “So you did see a man with Louise?”

  “No, dear, I said I never saw them together. I saw him, just the once. He rang my bell by mistake, so I answered the door.” Mrs. Jenkins got up and crossed to the window. “I have a clear view of the road outside, but you can’t see someone if they’re standing close to the front door.”

  Anna could feel her heart pounding. “Can you describe this man?”

  “I had no more than two words with him. I didn’t think it was a boyfriend, to be honest; he might have been a relative.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Oh, now you’re asking; well, he was tall, maybe six foot, slim build, very well dressed, very refined voice. He had on a long dark coat, I remember that, but I doubt if I’d recognize him again. He called here
for her a couple of times; never rang my bell again, though. He used to ring her bell and then go back to his car.”

  “What make of car was it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It was black, very polished, but I don’t know the make of it; nowadays the expensive ones all look alike to me, but it could have been a Mercedes or a BMW.”

  Anna opened her briefcase and brought out the sketch of the suspect wanted in the Black Dahlia case. “Did he look like this?”

  Mrs. Jenkins stared at the drawing, then frowned. “I don’t think he had a mustache, but yes, sort of thin-faced and with that hooked nose, but still good-looking.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “It would have been the day before I left for Bradford, so the eighth of January. He rang their bell. I looked out of the window, saw it was him, and then heard her running down the stairs. She slammed the front door, a bit too hard for my liking, and went across the road and got into his car.”

  “What time was this?”

  “It was about nine thirty; it was dark. They drove off.”

  “Thank you. You have been very helpful. I really appreciate your time. If there is anything else you can recall, I would be most grateful if you would contact me.”

  Anna sat in her car and called the incident room to relay what Mrs. Jenkins had told her. As she finished her call, she saw Sharon hurrying along the road with a carton of milk and got out of her Mini. Sharon could not help but see her.

  “Sorry, they canceled the audition, but we was out of milk so I went to the shop.”

  As Anna followed Sharon into the house, she saw the curtains at Mrs. Jenkins’s ground-floor window flick open and then close.

  Sharon sat opposite Anna.

  “The night before you went to Stringfellow’s with Louise, were you at home?”

  “No. I went to see a friend and I bought a dress from her.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if Louise had a date that night?”

  “Not really; she was in when I got back. She was making herself a cup of tea and I showed her my dress. She was upset about something.”

  “Do you know what she was upset about?”

  “She’d been crying but she didn’t say why, just went into her room and shut the door.”

  Sharon leaned closer. “I’ve got a new flatmate. She’s very nice and I’ve not mentioned anything about Louise or what happened to her; well, she is sleeping in her bed.”

  “I understand,” Anna said, without meaning it. “Can you just run over the night you went to Stringfellow’s with Louise?”

  “I’ve told you all about it.”

  “Yes, I know. Did you often go out together?”

  “No.”

  “So this night was unusual?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. She asked where I was going, so I told her and she said she’d like to come along; we’d been there a couple of times before, but not on a regular basis. I’ve been through all this, you know. Me and Louise were not close friends or anything like that; she didn’t talk about herself that much.”

  “Not even about this man she was seeing?”

  “No, you asked me that before.”

  “But you mentioned that you thought he was married.”

  “Only because of the way she acted, you know, very secretive; she never even told me his name, so I sort of presumed it was because he was older than her.”

  “So you saw him?”

  “No, but she said he didn’t like her wearing short skirts or skimpy tops; she once said he liked her to look very demure.”

  “So on the night you went to Stringfellow’s, how did she dress?”

  Sharon shrugged. “She had on her maroon coat, a black dress, and high-heeled shoes. She looked nice.”

  “Not demure?”

  “No, she could look very sexy if she wanted to.”

  “Did you think she was meeting someone at the club?”

  “I don’t think so. When we got there, it was heaving. I knew a few people, so she hung around with me till I went off dancing. Then I met up with this guy I knew. I went looking for her, to tell her I was going, but I couldn’t find her.”

  “She didn’t mention that she was meeting this older boyfriend there?”

  “No, but maybe she knew he would be there.” Sharon leaned back and frowned. “You know, thinking about it, she was sort of angry, like she wanted to have a good time to prove something. She spent ages doing her hair, changed her dress a couple of times, kept on asking me what I thought.”

  Sharon frowned again. Anna could, as usual, almost see the wheels turning in her brain; then Sharon clicked her fingers. “I just remembered something. She was standing in the doorway there, hands on hips, and she laughed. Yes! Yes! I remember now. She said, ‘He won’t recognize me’!”

  Anna said nothing.

  Sharon patted the table with the flat of her hand. “That would mean she was expecting to see him there, don’t you think? And if he’d had this fight with her, and if he always wanted her to dress like a virgin and she was dressing in the exact opposite way to piss him off, then she was gonna see him!”

  “Thank you, Sharon, that’s very helpful; and should you remember anything else, no matter how small or inconsequential, please call me direct.”

  Anna headed down the stairs to the front door. Mrs. Jenkins came out of her flat.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been sitting thinking about everything you asked me.”

  Anna waited.

  “When I opened the door to him, the man you asked me about, I didn’t see his face that clearly, but I remember that on his left hand, little finger, he had a large signet ring. I think it had a cornelian stone; it was quite large. His hand was up and covering his face, you see: that’s why I saw it!”

  Anna smiled. “Thank you, that’s very helpful.”

  Mrs. Jenkins beamed, and then folded her arms. “And there’s something else: you remember I said I couldn’t remember what make of car he was driving?”

  “Yes?” Anna was eager now.

  “Well, you should ask the owner of the dry cleaner’s across the road, because I saw him bending down to look into the car as it was in the residents’ parking bay, so he might be able to tell you more.”

  Anna smiled; this was good.

  Anna made it back to the incident room in time for Langton’s update. She listened as Barolli gave details of the mass of CCTV footage that they were checking over from the nightclub. They usually recorded over the tapes covering the outside of the club, but there was extensive footage from the interior security camera. After much persuasion, they had been sent the tapes for the night in question, when there had been a lot of star guests. Barolli said they had not as yet seen any footage of Louise, but they were hopeful.

  DI Lewis was next up. He had the report from the forensic lab. They had finished work on the underwear taken from Louise’s laundry basket. They had found two different DNA samples, so they would have to request samples from friends and acquaintances and start running them through the database.

  Anna gave details of her morning at Sharon’s and her disappointment that the dry cleaning shop owner had been unable to give any further details about the car. He said that most nights, there was someone or other parked illegally; it was an ongoing frustration to the residents that there were never enough parking spaces.

  It was a depressing briefing, because no matter how much work they were all doing, they were making no progress. Langton reiterated that all weekend leave was canceled. He was determined to push the case forward.

  DAY FOURTEEN

  It was eleven fifteen on Saturday morning when Dick Reynolds called the incident room to speak to Langton directly.

  “Travis, with me; your boyfriend’s got a delivery.”

  A package had arrived; as per his instructions, Reynolds had not opened it but had placed it into a plastic bag. They traveled across London to the newspaper offices at breakneck speed, sirens wailing. Rey
nolds was loath to part with it and said that it might possibly be something for him personally.

  Langton snapped at him, holding his hand out. “We’ll let you know, Mr. Reynolds, but I am afraid you will have to wait to hear what the contents are.”

  “No way. I am keeping my end of the bargain; if you don’t want this released, then you take me with you.”

  Langton stared at him, then jerked his head toward the patrol car, where Anna sat in the back passenger seat. “Get in! And, Mr. Reynolds, there is no deal, no bargain; I’m doing this to keep you from making an ass of yourself, because this is a murder inquiry, not some fucking reality TV show. You have agreed to a press embargo along with all the other journalists; you break it and I’ll have you served with a warrant.”

  Reynolds held the plastic bag gingerly on his knee. He gave a sly glance to Anna, who didn’t respond, knowing full well that they couldn’t actually serve a warrant on him; Langton was just putting the frighteners on. No one spoke as they sped across London to the forensic lab.

  Langton asked how long would they need to wait; one of the white-coated scientists told them that it would be done as fast as possible.

  Anna sat beside Reynolds, Langton in a chair opposite.

  “Like a doctor’s waiting room.” Dick smiled.

  Langton glanced at him, not amused. His mobile rang and he moved away to take the call in private.

  “Pleasant bugger, isn’t he?” Reynolds said quietly.

  “He’s okay, just under a lot of strain,” Anna said.

  “Aren’t we all? My editor went apeshit when I told her what was going down; if she’d had her way, she’d have ripped open the package to see what was inside.”

  “Really?” Anna glanced toward Langton, who was some distance away with his shoulders hunched, leaning against a wall.

  “Well, for Chrissakes, it’s a blinding story, for starters; mind you, it could just be something not connected to your case at all.”

  “It would be too coincidental. Your caller said he would be sending a package, next minute you get one.”

  Anna checked her watch. Dick leaned toward her. “How long do we have to wait?”