The Red Dahlia

Chapter Fifteen

The bowl of Edward Wickenham's glass rested between his fingers as he swirled his brandy round like liquid honey.

'I don't understand,' he said slowly, his face flushed.

Langton was leaning forward slightly, total concentration on his hawklike face. 'Do you want me to repeat myself? What don't you understand, Mr Wickenham?'

'You suspect my father of…?'

'Murder; yes, that is correct. The Red Dahlia murder, to be exact.'

'But I don't understand. I mean, do you have evidence? These are terrible accusations; to be honest, I can't quite take it in. Have you arrested him?'

'No, not yet; currently, he is just under suspicion of being involved.'

'Involved?'

His aristocratic tone was needling Langton. 'Yes, involved, and the reason we are here is that I would like you to answer some questions that may or may not prove my suspicions incorrect.'

Wickenham drained his glass, then looked across to the drinks cabinet again, but obviously thought better of having more to drink. Instead, he carefully placed the glass down. His hand was shaking and he looked perplexed.

'I am unsure what I should do.'

'Simply answer my questions.' Langton smiled.

Lewis inched further forwards in his seat. Wickenham was not reacting like any other man he had ever seen questioned; he just seemed dazed.

'But you've already questioned my father.'

'That is correct. Now we would like to talk to you.'

'But shouldn't I have a solicitor with me?'

'Why?'

'This is a very serious allegation.'

'We have not accused you of anything.' Langton opened the file and held up Louise Pennel's picture. 'Do you know this girl?'

'No, I don't.'

'How about this girl?' He showed Sharon Bilkin's picture.

Edward Wickenham shook his head. 'Sorry, no.'

Langton looked at Lewis and sighed. 'You have never seen either of these women here at your father's property?'

'No, I have not.'

Langton pursed his lips. 'Could you tell me where you were on the ninth of January this year?'

'Oh God, I can't remember. I'd have to look in my diary.'

Langton suggested that he do so. Wickenham stood up, turning this way and that, then said his diary was in the dining room. Lewis said he would go with him.

They returned a moment later. This time, Wickenham didn't duck and cracked his forehead against the doorframe. Swearing, he stood flicking through a small black diary. His hands were shaking badly.

'I was here with Gail; we were at home.'

'Good, and she will verify that, will she?'

'Yes, because she was ill. She has migraines; she was in bed, so I cooked dinner. Christ, I just can't believe this; it's beyond belief. I am standing here answering questions about…'

'Your father?'

'Yes, my father. You have to be mistaken.'

'Quite possibly, but in a murder enquiry, we have to explore every avenue. We have a sketch drawn from the descriptions of two witnesses. Would you like to see it?'

Without waiting for a response, Lewis showed it to Wickenham who stared at it and then shook his head.

'Looks very like your father, wouldn't you say?'

'I suppose it's similar.'

'Similar?'

'Well, yes.'

Langton pursed his lips and then asked if father and son had a good relationship.

'Yes, of course.'

'Would you say you were very close to your father?'

'Yes, I work for him.'

'And you also had a very close relationship with your stepmother, didn't you?'

'Pardon?'

'Dominique Wickenham.'

He had now become extremely nervous: his cheeks were flushed and he was sweating. 'They're divorced.'

'We know that, but before the divorce, you and your stepmother were very close, weren't you?'

'Why are you asking me about my stepmother?'

'Because we have been given some information — well, more than that. We have some explicit photographs.'

'What?'

Langton sighed; he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Let's stop playing games, Edward. We know an awful lot about you and your family. I would say you were a lot closer than would be considered normal: you had a sexual relationship with her, didn't you?'

Wickenham stood up. 'I refuse to answer any more of your questions.'

Langton also stood up, facing him. 'What about your half-sisters? Were you as close to them as to your stepmother?'

'I am not answering any more questions. This is not right. I want to talk to someone.'

'Why?'

'You are insinuating things.'

'Bit more than insinuating, Edward; a lot more, in fact. Why don't you sit down and start to explain what exactly…'

'I don't have to explain anything to you,' he snapped.

'Fine. If you don't want to do it now, we can always continue this discussion at the station.'

'But this has nothing to do with me!'

'What hasn't?'

'Whatever happens here in the privacy of my own home is my business. You have no right whatsoever to force me to implicate myself

'Implicate? What do you mean by that?'

'You know damned well what I mean! If you have spoken to my stepmother and she has said things, then that will be her word against mine! She is an unscrupulous woman: she is a liar and if you are here because of anything she may have told you, then I suggest you speak directly to my father.'

'Believe you me, we will be talking to him. I just wanted to give you an opportunity to extricate yourself.'

'From what?'

Langton paused. 'Were you also involved in one of these murders? Perhaps as an accomplice?'

Wickenham was really fighting to maintain control but could not stop himself from shaking and sweating. 'I swear before God, I do not know either of those women you showed me in those photos. I have never met them.'

'Do you think your father knew them?'

'I can't answer for him, but I very much doubt it. If you have any evidence, I am damned sure you would not be here talking to me — you would have had him arrested.'

Langton gave a long sigh and looked to Lewis. 'Can you see if DI Travis is ready to leave?' he asked, and Lewis nodded.

Left alone with Wickenham, Langton tapped the Persian carpet with the toe of his shoe.

'This is a very nice piece; silk, isn't it?'

Wickenham said nothing. Langton stared at him for what seemed like a very long time.

'Edward, don't protect him.'

'What?'

'I said, don't protect him. If he killed these two women, he is a monster. Do you know how we found their bodies?'

Langton showed him the horrific mortuary shots of Louise Pennel and Sharon Bilkin, with the red lipstick scrawled over her belly.

'Louise's mouth was slit from ear to ear, her body severed in two, her blood drained. We found her legs and torso on the banks of the Thames near Richmond. Sharon was discovered not that far from here, in a field, Louise's coat covering her naked body. It was a maroon red coat with a velvet collar; ring any bells?'

'Jesus Christ.' Edward Wickenham looked as if he was about to faint; he felt for a chair behind him and sat down.

'Your father was a doctor, a surgeon?'

'No. No, this is terrible. Please, I really think someone should be with me.'

'In case you implicate yourself?'

'No.'

'Implicate your father?'

'No!'

Langton paused, clicking his briefcase closed. 'I know about your stepsister Emily, but whether it was your child or your father's that was aborted…'

Edward's face was redder than ever and his fists clenched. 'I refuse to listen to another word. This is just disgusting and not true: it's all lies, my sister is mentally ill. She made these accusations when she was sick, she didn't know what she was saying. It is not true!'

'Your wife committed suicide, didn't she?'

At this, Wickenham caved in; he leaned forward, clutching his head as if it would break open. 'Stop this!'

Langton crossed over and rested his hand on Wickenham's shoulder. 'You stop it, Edward. Tell us what you know.'

With his hands covering his face he wept, gut-wrenching snorts, and repeated over and over, 'I can't, I can't take any more.'

Lewis appeared at the door and gestured for Langton to join him. They eased out of sight.

'If you think his sobbing is bad, you should go upstairs. His girlfriend's folded completely and Anna thinks she may need a doctor.'

'Shit!'

'But she's got something: a photograph of Gail Harrington on some modelling job; she's with Sharon Bilkin.'

'Fuck!'

Langton chewed his lips and then said he wanted to go over to the main house and talk to the housekeeper.

'What about the wailing wall here?'

'Let it howl. Get your shoes on and get Travis down here!'

The rain was still sheeting down, so they drove the short distance from the cottage to the Hall. Their car rocked and splashed through deep ruts and puddles before moving onto the tarmac road leading to the main house. By now, Anna had given Langton a full account of her talk with Gail Harrington, adding that she thought she was on some drug or other, maybe speed or other amphetamines.

'I bet you any money his son wishes he was,' quipped Lewis. 'We left him like a lump of jelly, shaking and crying. He may have had sex games going on with the entire fucking family, but somehow I just don't think he's an accomplice; unless he helped to move the bodies. I dunno; what do you think, Gov?'

Langton shrugged. 'They're all involved, whether as accomplices or not. They know what that bastard is, and they keep their mouths shut because of this place.' He nodded towards the house. 'I need to take a leak; stop the car.'

The driver pulled over on the grass verge. To their amazement, Langton got out, walked across the lawn to a shrubbery and took a piss. Both Lewis and Anna shook their heads in disgust.

'Christ, what does he think he's doing?'

'You tell me,' Anna said.

Lewis turned to face her. 'Well, for one, I think we should have a search warrant; for two, I don't think what went on in the cottage was kosher, even though we got a link to Sharon Bilkin. Haven't we got enough to pull the father in, and the son for that matter?'

'Maybe, but you know Langton.'

'Obviously not as well as you do,' Lewis said, with a snide smile.

Anna decided not to reply. She did not want to discuss Langton, especially not with Lewis, who had a big yapping mouth. Gossip had probably already done the rounds of the Incident Room, but at least no one had mentioned anything to her.

They both looked over to Langton who was having a conversation on his mobile as he strode across the lawn. He stopped a moment to listen and then slapped his phone shut.

'Right, that's better,' he said, getting back in and slamming the door. He leaned his arm along the back of the seat.

'Maybe you should chat with the old housekeeper, Anna; you seem to have a way with the women.'

'Okay.'

'We need further confirmation about whether or not Louise Pennel was a visitor, and Sharon. I want to take another look at the family snapshots on their grand piano. We still have not identified the other sickos off the photographs from Milan, so show her those as well.'

'Will do.'

'Shouldn't we have a search warrant, Gov?' Lewis asked.

'Yeah, but we need more. This way, it looks like we are still floundering around. The fact we think our victims came here is not enough evidence to make an arrest — yet! When we come in to search, I want warrants for all the premises, plus the vehicles: get a bloody army backing us up, because this is a massive place. There are outhouses, the barns, the cottage, the staff cottage and we will need a warrant for each building: that's the law. When they started to suspect Fred West, they only had a warrant to search his garden, did you know that? It was West himself who suggested they were digging in the wrong place.'

Langton stopped speaking as the car pulled into the horseshoe drive. Standing at the studded front door was Charles Wickenham. 'There he is,' Langton said, softly. 'Look at him! There's got to be someplace here that he uses for those sex games: cellar, maybe in the barn somewhere. He maybe had an alibi for the ninth of January when Louise Pennel was last seen, but not for the twelfth when her body was discovered. So check out if the ponce over there was at home.'

'He did give us a pretty thorough alibi for that date, Gov, and it all checked out, his club and his…'

'Yeah yeah and that's another reason we don't charge in with the warrant. It's slowly slowly catchee monster!'

They all got out of the car. Anna and Lewis walked behind Langton as he headed over to Wickenham.

'Good morning.' Langton stretched out his hand and shook Wickenham's.

'Not weather-wise: the rain's not stopped. Though I suppose it is good for the crops.' He smiled and nodded to Anna, and then stepped back. 'Well, there must be some reason for this visit, so please come in. I was expecting you.'

'Your son called?'

'Yes, he did. I have to get the doctor to see his poor fianc�e: she's exceedingly distressed.' He glanced coldly at Langton. 'All rather unethical, isn't it?'

'What is?'

'Questioning Gail. She has been very ill; surely she should have had someone with her?'

'She could have asked for anyone to be there; it was just a routine visit to ask her a few questions.'

'Routine or not, we should have been given notice.' He strode ahead, leading them back into the sumptuous drawing room.

Wickenham gave no polite offers of tea or coffee, nor did he ask them to sit. He walked to the fireplace and, with his hands in the pockets of his immaculate fawn trousers, turned to face them.

'So what is this all about?'

'Do you mind if we sit down?'

'Not at all, go ahead. Do you mind if I remain standing?'

'Not at all,' Langton replied archly, sitting in a wing-backed chair. He opened his briefcase, as Lewis hovered beside him.

'DI Travis would like to talk to your housekeeper, if that is all right.'

'Why?'

'Just to corroborate a few things. She is here, isn't she?'

'Yes, do you want me to call her in?'

Anna smiled and said she remembered the way to the kitchen.

Wickenham shrugged. 'Go ahead, but remember she is in her seventies. May have all her marbles in the culinary department, but otherwise, she is very vague.'

'Thank you.' Anna again smiled and walked out.

She walked along the stone-flagged corridor, passing the laundry room, and then entered the vast kitchen without knocking. Mrs Hedges was sitting at the pine table with an array of silverware laid out on an old towel.

'Mrs Hedges?'

She paid no attention, but continued to polish away with some rolled-up newspaper. Anna raised her voice and the plump, friendly woman looked up, surprised.

'I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in. I'm a wee bit deaf in my right ear.' She took off her rubber gloves.

'Please don't let me interrupt you. I just wanted to have a word.' Anna drew out a chair and sat midway down the table.

'Does Mr Wickenham know?'

'Yes, he's in the drawing room with my superior officer.'

'Oh, well, if he said it's all right.'

Anna opened her briefcase and took out her notebook and the thick file of photographs, which was beginning to get slightly dog-eared.

'Do you want a cup of tea?'

'No, thank you.'

'There's one made; I've just had a cup myself.' Mrs Hedges fussed around, taking down a cup and saucer, crossing to the fridge for the milk and then back over to the Aga where a teapot was sitting on the side, a knitted teacosy keeping its contents warm.

'I can't think what you want to talk to me about,' she said as she poured the tea, using a silver tea strainer. She then held up the milk and Anna nodded; next she held up a sugar bowl and Anna smiled.

'No thank you, no sugar.'

Mrs Hedges took a white napkin and placed it down beside Anna with the tea. She sat back down and Anna could see that she was unsure whether or not to carry on polishing.

'Please, don't let me stop you.'

Mrs Hedges nodded and put her rubber gloves back on. 'I used not to wear them, but it's the newsprint, it gets my hands so dirty and it's hard to wash off.' She picked up some scrunched-up newspaper, and dipped it into a bowl. 'Trick of the trade. I never have to use silver polish, just water and a drop of vinegar, it's amazing what a shine you can get.'

Anna smiled, but kept her attention on her notebook, not wanting to get into any further discussions about polishing. 'Do you recall the ninth of January this year?'

'Oh I couldn't say; what day would that be?'

Anna spent a good five minutes waiting as Mrs Hedges yet again removed her gloves and went to a wall calendar. She huffed and puffed, patting her pockets, then taking out a pair of glasses. 'I was here, as usual.'

'Could you tell me about the day itself, if there were any visitors, if Mr Wickenham was here?'

'Which one? Mr Charles or Edward?'

Anna sipped her tea as Mrs Hedges went through her day's routine: how she planned each menu ahead, when the cleaners came in, when the linen was changed, etcetera etcetera. She could not recall anything out of the ordinary happening on that specific day, or any house guests staying, as it was mid-week. She said she did not cook as Charles Wickenham was dining in London. She could not recall what time she saw him return, as she was usually in bed by nine-thirty.

'Unless we have guests and there's dinner, but we get help in for me, you know, to serve and clear. I mostly just run the house day to day. I have done for fifteen years. Before him I worked for his father, so all in all I've been here for forty years.'

'So Mr Wickenham entertains a lot?'

'Yes he certainly does; well, a lot more so in the past, when Mrs Wickenham was here. It was most weekends then, and we needed extra help most of the time. She liked to have big dinners. They used the barn when it was converted: there's a big entertaining room there now. The dining hall here is not that big and really only seats twelve comfortably.'

'So these dinner parties were a regular weekend occurrence?'

'Oh yes, we've eight bedrooms. The guests would arrive on a Friday afternoon, leave sometimes on Sundays or even Monday morning.'

'And the extra help, did they stay as well?'

'Yes, in a staff flat above the stables.'

'Did you serve the guests?'

'No, well, I'm getting on; like I said, I go to bed early. My room is right at the back of the house. It's very quiet; well, if it wasn't, I'd not get much sleep.'

'Why is that?'

'Well all the comings and goings and the music, and in summer they use the pool and the spa, and then there's the stable boys, they have to exercise the horses, and that's always around seven in the morning when they start arriving.'

'So they don't live in?'

'No no, they're local lads, they do all the mucking out and grooming. Mr Charles is very particular.'

Anna nodded, and then opened her file. 'I am going to show you some photographs to see if you recognise anyone. Would you look at them for me?'

'Yes dear but, you know, I don't get to meet his guests. Like I said, I prepare the food sometimes then I'm off to my bed.'

'But not when Mrs Wickenham was here?'

For the first time there was just a flicker of unease. 'No, well, she was quite a handful; she was very keen on getting in caterers. She didn't like my offerings — said they were "meat and potatoes" — they wanted this nuvo cuisine. Well, to be honest, I was happier cooking for the children than running around after the people she had down here.'

'You didn't like them?'

'I never said that; they were just not my type of people. The children were always my priority, and Mr Charles. You see, before I worked for him, I was cook for his father. I've been working at the Hall since I was in my thirties, and I'm seventy-two years old now.'

'That's a long time.'

'It is. My husband died in an accident on one of the farms, so I came to work here. No children of my own, so I really enjoyed…' There was a strange unease about her body language: she seemed to twist and turn in her chair as she rubbed at the silver. 'I loved them like they were my own.'

'So you know Danielle, Mrs Wickenham's maid?'

'Yes, yes I do, she was here for years and thank God she was, because I couldn't have run after her ladyship the way she had to. Mrs Wickenham had a right temper on her, she could be a handful to deal with.'

Anna first showed Louise Pennel's picture. Mrs Hedges shook her head; she also didn't recognise Sharon Bilkin. Anna was disappointed. She took out the photographs of the sex games in the sauna, which had been doctored so that only the faces of the men they were trying to identify were visible. Although Mrs Hedges was unable to recall his name, she said she thought that one of them was Spanish, a well-known artist.

'He was not a very nice man; he used to stay many times, always over at the barn. He used to paint there sometimes.'

'Was this before it was converted?'

Mrs Hedges hesitated.

'Edward Wickenham's wife committed suicide in the barn, didn't she?'

Mrs Hedges took a deep breath and then wafted her hand. 'Yes yes, terrible, very sad.'

Anna was not expecting Mrs Hedges to continue, as the mention of the suicide had obviously distressed her very much, but she leaned forward and lowered her voice. 'Things have gone on in the house. I've learned over the years to do my job and go to my room. What the eyes don't see…'

'But if you thought these things were bad, why did you stay?'

Mrs Hedges picked up a polishing cloth and started buffing up a silver goblet. 'My husband died young, he left me in some financial trouble and old Mr Wickenham helped me out. This is, I suppose, the only real security I have ever had. I've no family, so the girls and even Edward have been like my own. They look after me, treat me very well.'

'So you must have been very concerned about Emily?'

Bingo. At last Anna had hit a target that Mrs Hedges could not polish away, and she became tearful.

'I made excuses, because of the way he was treated. But not over Emily; that was unforgivable.' Her voice was hardly audible. 'I knew there had to be a reason why you were here. If I tell you what I know, and Mr Charles finds out, then God knows what he'll do to me. But I've saved all my money, I can go somewhere.'

Anna reached out and gently stroked the elderly woman's hand, encouraging her to continue. She clasped Anna's hand tightly. 'I should have done something when I knew what was going on.'

Charles Wickenham was fending off every question like a master duellist. He parried and queried and never at any time appeared fazed or ashamed when asked about his sexual proclivities; in fact, he seemed to relish discussing his house parties. When Langton brought up the accusation of his relationship with his own daughters, he dismissed it with a waft of his hand.

'Not this again. I have already discussed my daughter's problems and her overactive imagination; we have doctors and therapists who can also verify that Emily is a dreadful little liar. I did not have a sexual relationship with my daughter.'

'What about the pregnancy?'

Langton watched Wickenham closely. There was not so much as a flicker.

'It was all in her mind. Of course, I questioned the staff: you know, the stable boys and gardeners, whether any of them had been having sexual intercourse with her, obviously I did, as she was underage, but there was no truth in it; all in her addled little mind.'

'She claims that she had an abortion.'

He sighed, shaking his head. 'Claims! Well, if you have any evidence of this abortion then I would dearly like to know about it, because it is a total fiction!'

'So you did not operate on your daughter?'

'Me! Good God, what do you take me for? I am her father! This is a very serious allegation. You know, I really do think that I should have someone here to listen to all this.'

'It is just an enquiry at this stage,' Langton said quietly.

'An enquiry into what, for God's sake? That I had intercourse with my daughter and operated on her, when I have told you repeatedly that she has mental problems, and you cannot trust a word she says? Next, you ask me for times and dates relating to a murder enquiry, a double murder enquiry: well, this is all rather preposterous, isn't it? I mean, are you scouring all the unsolved crimes to give yourselves an excuse to make a pleasant trip out to the country rather than do the work you are paid to do in London?'

'I do not find any of this pleasant, Mr Wickenham.'

'Nor do I, Detective Chief Inspector Langton, nor do I, and I will consider making a formal complaint to the Commissioner.'

'That is your prerogative.' Langton was finding it difficult to maintain control: he wanted to wrap his hands around the audacious, posturing man's throat. Wickenham stood in front of them, leaning one elbow against the mantelpiece or tucking his hands into his pockets. He kept touching his tie and patting down his collar. He picked off tiny balls of fluff from his pale yellow cashmere sweater, but not one gesture gave any indication that he was unnerved or even worried by the questions.

Langton displayed the headshots of the men taken with Wickenham in his own hot tub. He casually glanced at each face, said he did know them and they were not close friends, more associates that he occasionally entertained.

'For sex parties?'

Wickenham shrugged. 'Here we go again. Yes, we do have fun here sometimes, but whatever goes on in the privacy of one's home is exactly that: private.'

'Your wife and son also enjoyed these fun times.'

'Yes, yes they did; again, they are consenting adults. Our sexual fun may not appeal to you, but again that is a matter of choice.'

'Your daughter Justine?'

Wickenham sighed with irritation. 'She could do whatever she liked. She was eighteen years old; if she chose to join in, that was her prerogative. Nobody ever forced anyone to do anything.'

'We have a witness who said Louise Pennel was here the weekend before her murder.'

Wickenham was some actor; he gave no visible reaction whatsoever, but closed his eyes. 'I'm sorry; say the name again?'

'Louise Pennel.'

'Ah yes, the Red Dahlia, I believe the papers are calling her.'

'Sharon Bilkin knew your son's fianc�e; did you know that?'

'Sharon who?'

Langton was getting tired of the game playing and stood up. 'Sharon Bilkin: her body was found just off the A3 in a field.'

'Not one of mine, I hope,' he smirked.

Langton knew that nothing he could throw at this man was going to produce the goods: he had an answer for everything. Wickenham had obviously intuited they were here on a fishing trip, and was determined that they would have to leave without a catch.

'Thank you for your time.'

Langton glanced at Lewis who had remained silent throughout. He stood up to join Langton and asked if he could use the cloakroom.

Wickenham gave a soft laugh. 'The cloakroom? He gestured to the door. 'Straight out and down the hall, second door.'

Lewis hurried out, leaving Langton standing opposite Wickenham. Langton stared hard but he was met with a steady eye contact.

'Bit of a wasted journey?'

'Not at all, it's been very informative. We will be checking on your associates to verify what you have said.'

Wickenham laughed, shaking his head. 'By all means, but you know, they are all very wealthy and well-connected people. I doubt if they would want to go into details about their sexual exploits here at the Hall.'

Langton turned away and looked over the photographs on top of the piano. Wickenham remained standing, watching him; he checked his watch. Neither man said another word until Lewis returned and stood at the open door. 'Sir, DI Travis is still with Mr Wickenham's housekeeper, she said she won't be a moment.'

'I suppose this will mean lunch is going to be delayed.' Wickenham opened a drawer and took out a cigar box; he proffered one to Langton, who shook his head.

'We'll wait for her in the car.'

'Okay I'll pass that on.' Lewis hovered for a moment and then disappeared.

'Cuban,' Wickenham said, holding one of his cigars up, then taking a silver clipper and snipping off the end. 'Can't beat a hand-rolled.' He bit on the cigar; the action gave him a grimace of a smile.

Langton walked past him, and then turned at the door. 'Thank you for your time, Mr Wickenham.'

'I wish I could say it was a pleasure. Let me show you out.'

Wickenham watched from the front door as Langton returned to the car. Lewis was not there.

'Where's Mike?'

'He went to get some air, round to the stables I think, sir,' said the driver.

Langton checked his watch again and then lit a cigarette, leaning against the side of the car. He turned when he heard the crunch of the gravel on the drive. Anna was walking towards him.

'I came out via the kitchen door,' she said.

'I gathered that. Have you seen Lewis?'

'No.'

Anna opened the passenger door and tossed in her briefcase. 'How did it go with Wickenham senior?'

'He knows we've not got enough on him.'

Anna gave a small smile. 'His housekeeper was not that forthcoming to start off with, but once I touched the right button, she didn't stop talking.'

'What was the button?'

'Emily Wickenham.'

There was another crunch of footsteps and they both turned. Lewis, his cheeks flushed, gestured for them to follow him. 'Can you bring the photographs?'

Anna looked to Langton; he bent into the car and took out his briefcase. They followed Lewis round the winding drive towards the stables.

Lewis was standing by an open stable door; inside was the big chestnut gelding. Langton was irritated. 'What, Lewis? You've brought us back to see the bloody horse?'

'No, you need to talk to the stable lad; he's just checking over something with the vet. He reckons he saw Louise Pennel. He reckons she was here on the eighth of January.'