The Red Dahlia

Chapter Three

Langton chucked the newspaper into the bin in his kitchen.

He snapped angrily into the phone. 'Yeah I just read it. No! Do nothing about it. I've never heard of this Black Dahlia woman, have you?'

Lewis said that he hadn't either.

'Doesn't really have anything to do with us, seeing as it was in the forties and in the bloody USA!'

Lewis wished he had never made the call. 'Right, just thought if you hadn't seen it.'

'Yeah, yeah; look, I'm tired out, sorry if I bit your head off. See you in the morning.' Langton was about to replace the receiver when he remembered. 'How's your son?'

'He's terrific; got over that bug, and he's got rows of teeth now,' Lewis said, affably.

'Great; goodnight then.'

"Night.'

It was after eleven. Langton retrieved the paper from the bin and pressed it out flat on his kitchen counter.

Elizabeth Short, though aged only twenty-two, had been a jaded beauty with raven-black hair, white face and dark-painted lips. The flower in her hair might have been a dahlia, but it wasn't black. In comparison, Louise Pennel looked younger and fresher, even though they were about the same age. Louise's eyes were dark brown and Elizabeth's green but, eerily, the dead girls had a similar expression. The half-smile on their pretty lips was sexual, teasing, yet the eyes had a solemnity and a sadness, as if they knew what fate had in store.

The next morning, Anna stopped off at a bookshop to buy her daily Guardian. Next to the till, there was a bookstand of half-price paperbacks, one of which was The Black Dahlia. Blazoned across the cover were the words 'TRUE LIFE CRIME'. She bought it. By the time she got to the Incident Room, the phones were jangling; the press release was in all the papers, as was the photograph of Louise with the red rose. Numerous other tabloids had picked up on the Sun's article and were also now calling Louise the Red Dahlia. A couple of articles referred to the original case in LA but most of them concentrated, as Langton had hoped they would, on the fact that the police were trying to trace the tall dark-haired stranger.

Eight days into the enquiry, for all Langton's snide remarks about Morgan he had got no further in tracing Louise's killer himself, though at least he did now have more facts to give the press. Although they had not been given all the details, the brutality of the murder, even tempered down, made shocking reading.

All the calls to the Incident Room regarding the Red Dahlia enquiry had to be monitored and checked out, so extra clerical staff had been shipped in. Of the many calls, seventy per cent were from either jokers or perverts; thirty per cent still needed investigating. It was a long day, with half the team interviewing Louise's friends, such as they were, or trying to trace the male companions pictured in her photograph albums. Meanwhile, forensics had removed all the dirty laundry and bed linen from Louise's flat to test for DNA. Langton was covering all areas but still felt like a headless chicken. He decided to go to Stringfellow's with Lewis to make enquiries. Barolli was checking out the other two clubs that Sharon had said Louise often went to, hoping that someone would be able to identify their tall dark stranger, or that someone would have witnessed Louise leaving the club. Taxis also had to be checked out; it was an endless, tedious slog, but it had to be done.

The officers who had been scouring the coffee bars local to Louise's workplace had various sightings of her confirmed; she was often alone, though she would sometimes pick someone up and go to the cinema in Baker Street. No one questioned could give a name or recall ever seeing her with the same person twice, let alone a tall dark stranger. She was always friendly and chatty; no one thought she was on the game, more that she needed company — preferably the sort who would pick up the bill.

Anna had not been asked to join the lads on their club crawl, but she didn't mind. Her head ached from monitoring call after call, still with nothing tangible at the end of the day. During her lunch break, she had begun reading the book about Elizabeth Short's murder. It had been written by a former Los Angeles Police Department officer, who had been attached for many years to the homicide division of LA County. He made some startling deductions and even put forward his own father as the killer. Anna continued reading once she was home. She didn't expect to be up still at two o'clock in the morning, but she had been unable to put the book down. Even when she finished it, sleep didn't come: all she could do was think about its nightmarish contents. Although Elizabeth Short had been murdered in the forties, there was nevertheless a sickening link beyond the similarities between her photograph and Louise's. The murders were virtually identical.

Langton and Lewis looked tired out. They had spent hours at the clubs with little result. Louise was remembered by two waiters at Stringfellow's, but so far as they could recall, she was always with a different man. They could not, from the vague description, identify any specific tall dark stranger who had been with her. Her male friends were often young rock singers who she picked up in the club. The last night she was there had been a big showbiz occasion, with many glitzy guests who had been to a film premiere. They had roped off private sections and the place was jumping. The doormen and bouncers were no help; it seemed Louise came and went without a trace.

Barolli had not fared any better; a few people recalled seeing Louise, but not recently. He had tramped from one rather seedy nightclub to the next, showing her photograph. They had all recognised her; some knew she was dead, others didn't. She was often alone, and would chat to the barmen about waiting for a modelling agent to contact her. It appeared she never drank too much and was always polite and friendly; if she was on the game, it was not obvious. Not one person questioned remembered seeing her with an older man; the clubs were mainly for people her age. She was known, but not known; they all thought of her as being a very attractive girl but something about her was not quite right. One barman said it was as if she was always waiting for someone, often looking to the club's entrance expectantly.

Langton had asked for the cashmere sweaters they had taken from Louise's flat to be traced. They were part of a large special deal for Harrods' January sales the previous year, but none of the assistants could recall any tall dark stranger buying one, either with cash or a credit card. The perfume, although costly, could have been sold to any one of hundreds of customers in a range of department stores. The search for Louise's maroon coat also drew a blank. Sharon had made an attempt at describing Louise's handbag, but 'large black leather with a wide strap' was not much use. She also said that Louise sometimes used smaller clutch bags, but could not describe any in much detail. A search of the area where the body was found also yielded nothing. They were back almost to square one.

Anna placed a call to the crime desk at both the Mirror and the Sun. She then went into the ladies to refresh her make-up. Running a comb through her hair, she stared at her reflection and took a deep breath. Langton might laugh her out of his office but, then again, he might not.

'Well, this is another fucking fruitless day,' he muttered as she tapped and entered his office.

'I wanted to have a quick chat.'

'I'm all ears.' He wasn't; he was doodling on a notepad, his face set in anger.

'I just want to run something by you,' she said.

He sighed, impatiently. 'Well, bloody get on with it.'

She put the book on his desk. 'It's about the Black Dahlia murder.'

Langton swore, fed up with the constant references to a girl just because she had a flower in her hair, but Anna continued. 'Elizabeth Short was murdered in 1947 in the United States; her killer was never caught. This book is written by a former police officer who believes that his father was the man who killed her.'

Langton stopped doodling and stared at the cover of the book.

'If you flick through to the middle part, I've put a yellow sticker on the relevant pages. There are also mortuary photographs you should look at.'

He sniffed and began turning over the pages. 'What am I looking at?'

'The body: look how she was found.'

Langton frowned, turning the book this way and that to look at the black-and-white photographs. 'Jesus Christ.'

'There's a website.'

'What?'

'There's a website; it contains more detailed photographs of the way the victim was discovered.'

'Holy shit. I don't believe this.'

'I read it last night and I couldn't believe it either. If you look at the pages marked with blue stickers, they are also relevant, I think.'

Langton sat back and began reading. He read in silence for about ten minutes, then he slowly lowered the book.

'So what are you suggesting? That the same guy killed Louise? He'd have to be in his nineties, for God's sake!'

'No, no: the police officer's father has been dead more than five years. Another possible suspect died in a fire in the sixties. Look at the next set of stickers.'

'What colour?' He looked up and gave her that smile.

'Green. The man they hunted for Elizabeth's murder was never traced; he is described as a "tall dark stranger". There are also some sketches of him.'

'Fuck me!' Langton said, then snapped the book closed. 'So?'

'So, I think we might have a copycat killer. I called both the Mirror and the Sun and spoke to their crime reporters. The Sun described Louise as the Red Dahlia. We thought it was just due to the flowers in the two victims' hair. But they were both contacted.'

Langton leaned forwards. 'And?'

'In both cases they received an anonymous letter; neither thought anything of it, you know possible crank, murder aficionado…'

'Yeah yeah, and?'

'They destroyed them.'

'Fuck!'

'But look at the yellow stickers again. The LA killer sent many letters to the police and the newspapers, always gloating about how clever he was and that they'd never catch him…'

'I'm reading, I'm reading!' Langton snapped.

Anna waited until he had finished.

'The anonymous note to the journalist at the Mirror, as far as he could remember, said something about Louise's mouth being slit in two. The one sent to the other journalist, Richard Reynolds at the Sun, mentioned the Black Dahlia case and called Louise the Red Dahlia. Until then, Reynolds had never even heard of the murder of Elizabeth Short.'

Langton flicked back and forwards over the relevant photographs in the book.

Anna continued. 'The first note was sent to the Mirror journalist after his article had been published.'

Langton sprang to his feet and shoved his hands into his pockets. 'This is bloody good, Travis, bloody sick… but it's possible. Jesus Christ, can you leave this with me for a while and I'll chew it over? Don't mention it to anyone. Not yet.'

Anna nodded and walked out. Langton didn't come into the Incident Room until two hours later. He bent down to place the book on Anna's desk. He was so close she could smell his aftershave.

'Can you get the website up for me?'

'Sure.'

He stared at the grotesque images of the dismembered Elizabeth and then said, very quietly, 'Sick bastard, he even placed our body ten inches off the centre. It's bloody identical. My God, explain this one, huh?'

'Copycat,' Anna said, without emotion.

Langton ran his fingers through his hair so that it stood up on end. 'You think when this book was published it triggered…?' He used his hand to make a winding motion at the side of his head.

'Who knows? Something had to.'

Langton nodded, then patted her shoulder. 'Get over to the offices at the Mirror and the Sun, see what they tossed; meanwhile I'll bring this up with the team.'

'Okay,' she said, shutting down the computer, adding, 'It's a very popular website.'

'What does that say to you, Anna?'

She shrugged and again he leaned close to her.

'It says, Anna, that there's a lot of sick fuckers out there, that's what it says to me. Who the hell wants to see those mortuary photographs? It should be wiped off the web.'

'We have to find him,' she murmured.

'You think I don't know that!' he snapped.

'It's just that if he is a copycat murderer, there were two others: the police at the time reckoned they were done by the same killer. If he's copycatted Elizabeth Short, then what may happen is he'll go the whole nine yards and kill again.'

Langton stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. 'I hope to Christ you're wrong.'

He moved off and she was left feeling slightly depressed, not because he hadn't at any point praised her good work; it was his closeness. She had wanted some personal response from him, but had received none. It was as if their relationship from the last case had never existed. She mentally shook herself and told herself to get it together; after all, it had been her that had not wanted to continue seeing him. The truth was, there had been no one she had even been remotely interested in since Langton, and she chided herself for letting her old emotions seep back to the surface.

Langton stood in front of the team, holding up the Black Dahlia book. Anna was well on her way to the Mirrors offices by the time he mentioned that DI Travis had brought it to his attention.

'We have a very sick development,' he said.

He showed the mortuary photographs of Elizabeth Short to the team.

'This victim was killed in Los Angeles nearly sixty years ago, but pass the book around and look at the way her body had been dismembered. Pay close attention to the mortuary photographs: you will see they are virtually identical to the way we found Louise Pennel. In fact, the entire scenario is crossing over. Their main suspect was described as a tall man, thirty-five to forty-five years old, well dressed and dark-haired. Their suspect was known to have been driving a very expensive automobile!'

Langton pointed to the Incident board: under WANTED FOR ELIMINATION was their prime suspect. He had been described by Sharon and the dental nurse as tall, dark-haired and wearing an expensive draped coat. Neither woman was able to give the exact make of the car but they described it as large and black, possibly a BMW or a Rover.

Langton looked into the dregs of his coffee, drained the cup and placed it down. He watched as the officers passed the book around, glancing at his watch. Intermittent gasps punctuated the silence in the room. One detective after another saw the horror they were now investigating mirrored in the black-and-white pictures of the murder that had occurred nearly sixty years ago.

Langton continued. 'There were two further murders; both were suspected to be by the same killer. If we are to consider, which I think we have to, that there is some sicko out there emulating this Black Dahlia killer, then it is also possible that he may have already targeted his second victim. Let's hope to Christ we catch this bastard before he gets the opportunity for his next kill.'

A murmur erupted from the stunned team as Langton walked over to the coffee machine for a fresh cup. He turned back to the room as Lewis pinned up the old black-and-white picture of Elizabeth Short on the Incident board.

'The press have already compared the two victims, more or less due to the fact Louise Pennel had a flower in her hair on the photograph they used; they have not, as yet, discovered that the brutality of these murders is almost identical. I am going to ask for a complete press embargo on any further comparisons between the two cases. I don't want what was done to Elizabeth Short sparking a media frenzy of headlines. By withholding some of the details about the atrocities Louise suffered, we will be able to distinguish between the crackpot calls and a real tip-off, and it's a tip-off I am desperate for.'

Langton's mobile rang and he headed into his office to take the call in private. It was Anna, who was sitting in the canteen at the Mirrors offices. She had taken a statement from the journalist who had published the first photograph of Louise.

'The journalist that received the typed note reckoned it was on schoolbook lined paper; the left-hand side was ripped.' She looked at her notebook and read the lines she had copied. 'Roses are red, violets are blue, who killed Louise and slit her mouth in two?'

'Shit!'

'It had to have come from the killer, because we hadn't given a full press release on the cuts to her mouth. I called Sharon and asked her if she had mentioned the wounds to the journalist and she said she hadn't: now for the twist, she also denies ever sending or being paid for the photograph.'

'Could she be lying?'

'I'm not sure; question is if she didn't get paid for the photograph, who did?'

'Where did it come from?'

'He said he paid a runner for it; you know, they have contacts who hang out, taking photographs at clubs. Sometimes they get lucky.'

'Did you get a name?'

'Yep, Kenneth Dunn; I'm tracking him down.'

'Good, okay; keep in touch.'

Anna had arranged to meet Kenneth Dunn at a Radio Shack where he worked part time. Dunn was very eager to speak to her, and broke off a conversation he was having as Anna showed him her ID. He led her through to the back of the shop into a small storage area. Anna showed him the newspaper.

'Did you sell this picture to the Mirror?'

'Yes, they've already paid me for it.'

'How did you come by this photograph?'

'I can't divulge my sources.'

'Why not?'

'Because I have to pay them, and we do a trade-off.'

'You didn't take this photograph, correct?'

'That's right.'

'So please tell me who gave it to you, or who you paid for it, or I will have you arrested for obstructing the police.'

'What?'

'It is imperative I know where this photograph came from and how it was passed to you, Mr Dunn. This girl was murdered and it could become a vital piece of evidence; so, where did you get this photograph from?'

He sighed. 'I was given it.'

'Who by?'

'Look, I don't want to get her into trouble; it wasn't her idea for me to sell it: it was mine. I make a few quid at weekends hanging out at clubs; you know, snapping the stars as they go in or out — especially out, they love shots of them boozed up and falling down — and their own photographers get bored hanging around. I mean, some nights, I've been there until four in the morning.'

'Who gave you this photograph, Mr Dunn?'

Again he hesitated, his greasy face shining; his dark hair was smothered in a glue-like gel which made it stick up in spikes.

'Was it Sharon Bilkin?'

Anna returned to her car and bleeped it open. She threw in her briefcase as she dialled Langton's mobile.

'She was lying: he got the picture from Sharon Bilkin on the promise he would try and get her some coverage, which he did, as she was featured in the same article. He didn't take the photograph and he also didn't know anything about the marks to our victim's mouth.'

Langton gave a long sigh, then there was silence.

'Are you still there?' Anna asked.

'Yeah, yeah, just trying to get the timeframe organised in my brain. The journalist is sent the photo, or it's passed to him by this Dunn character, who got it from Sharon, right?'

'Yes, that's what he said.'

'They buy it, release pictures; so when did this note roses are red, violets are blue shit come in?'

'Day the article appeared.'

'Go back to that silly little cow Sharon. She lied about this; see if she is lying about anything else.'

Anna was almost out of breath by the time she reached the top of the stairs. Either it really was a long way up or she was getting out of shape.

'It's open,' came Sharon's singsong voice.

Anna found Sharon in the kitchen, wearing yellow Marigolds.

'I couldn't face the dirty dishes any more, so I been doing the housework.'

Anna smiled; the kitchen did look a lot cleaner.

'We need to talk, Sharon.'

'Whatever. They come yesterday and took all her bedding and things from her wardrobe.'

Sharon pointed to the cards left on the table by the forensic team, pinned to a neatly written list of all the items removed. 'I said they could take whatever they wanted; I mean, I don't want her stuff and I don't really know what to do with it. And with no rent from her, I've got to find someone else.'

'Ah, so that's the reason for the house cleaning,' Anna said.

'Yeah, well, want the place to look nice, and no way am I going to say to a prospective tenant that the previous girl that shared with me was murdered. So, I don't want her stuff. They took a lot, even her dirty laundry, but there's still drawers full, and that old suitcase.'

'Is there no one she knew that would want her things?'

'I don't know anyone.'

'But you still have her photographs?'

Sharon blushed and began to wash down the draining board.

'Sharon, you said that you did not give that photograph to the press. It's very important, because if you did…'

'I didn't sell it,' she said, rinsing the cloth.

'But you did give it to Kenneth Dunn. Sharon, please stop wasting my time.'

Sharon folded the dishcloth and hung it on the cooker rail, refusing to look at Anna.

'Sharon, this is very important. It may not seem as if you are withholding evidence, but I need to know exactly what happened.'

Sharon sat down. 'All right, I know him. He's done some snaps of me: a couple for a magazine called Buzz. He works up in Kilburn at a Radio Shack part time until he gets his career as a photographer off the ground. I just bumped into him by accident: I didn't arrange it; it was just a coincidence. We got talking and I told him about Louise, you know, what had happened to her, and we came back here for a coffee. I showed him some photographs and… I didn't think it would matter.'

Anna said nothing.

'Nobody told me not to do anything with them, and I'd already given you a whole lot. Anyways, Kenneth said he could get me some publicity as well, so I let him have the one of Louise with the flower in her hair and some pictures of me.'

'Did you give him anything else?'

'No, he gave me fifty quid. He said he only got a hundred, so we split it.'

'Did you tell Kenneth Dunn about the marks on Louise's mouth?'

'No, no I didn't, I swear I didn't. I haven't told anybody about them, I swear before God.'

'Did you give anything else to the journalist?'

'No, I never met him.'

'Has anyone called you, wanting to talk about Louise?'

'Only calls I've had are about the advert in Time Out; in fact, I've got a girl coming round this afternoon, so could you get Louise's stuff out, because I don't want it? It might sound awful, getting someone to move in, but I got to pay the rent and Louise owed me for a month.' Sharon smoothed her skirt with the back of her hand. 'She was always on the scrounge. She'd say "can I borrow five quid?", and I'd always have to ask for it back. She was always short of money, and she wouldn't buy groceries, she'd just eat my stuff. It wasn't just food: she'd take my Tampax and nail varnish remover. I know it sounds petty, but it really annoyed me.'

Sharon was agitated, her cheeks flushed pink. 'I know I shouldn't be talking about her like this, but it's the truth and she was such a liar. I'd say to her about paying me back, and she'd always plead poverty and that she'd pay me on her next week's wages. One time, I was so fed up that when she went to work, I went into her room. She had two hundred quid in a drawer! I faced her out when she came back and she just said that she'd forgotten about the cash!'

'So she did pay you back?'

'Yes, eventually, but the point is I always had to ask. Like I said, she didn't pay the rent on time, so I'm out four weeks. I often thought about asking her to leave.'

'But you didn't?'

She shook her head, then frowned. Anna could almost see Sharon's brain ticking over.

'What is it?' Anna said, encouragingly. 'Anything you think of might help me.'

'You know, there was something about her: I mean, she made you feel sorry for her. It was always as if she was waiting for something. Every time the phone rang, she'd give this expectant look towards it; never pick it up, though. I can't explain it; it was like she was always hoping for something to happen. We did have a few good times. She could be very funny and the blokes always came on to her; she was a big flirt — well, at first.'

'What do you mean, at first?'

Sharon sighed. 'When she first turned up, I rented the room to her because she was really sort of excited about her future, but after a couple of months, she was different, sneaking in and out, and she got very secretive. To be honest, I couldn't really make her out at all. If you asked her a question about what she'd done before, where she lived, anything personal at all really, she'd never give you a direct answer. I think, well, it was kind of my in-tu- …' She frowned.

'Intuition?' Anna suggested.

'Yeah. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what. Well, I'll never know now, will I?'

Anna put Louise's suitcase into the boot of her Mini. She'd helped Sharon pack up the rest of Louise's belongings. There wasn't that much: a few clothes and shoes, and some books. Anna was unsure what she would do with them. It was sad that this was all that was left of Louise's life and no one wanted them.

The forensic team began checking over Louise's garments. They were paying special attention to the dirty underwear, in case they found DNA that might be of use at a later date. The clothes were all tagged and listed and then pinned out on white paper, laid flat on a long trestle table. At the same time, the pathologist was completing his detailed autopsy. It had taken considerable time, due to the fact there were so many injuries; the dismembering and draining of her blood had hampered the usual tests. DCI Langton had called for an update and didn't like what he was told. If it was at all possible, Louise Pennel's murder was even more horrific than they had first thought. The pathologist said that it was without doubt the worst case he had ever had to work on, but that he would be able to give full disclosure within twenty-four hours.

A frustrated Langton sat in his office, brooding darkly. Nine days and they still had no suspect. Even with extra officers working alongside his team, they had not come up with a single witness who had seen Louise Pennel in those days before her body was discovered. He had an uneasy feeling that something was about to explode, and he would be at the receiving end of it.

Anna was kept waiting, as Richard Reynolds was not at his desk. She sat in the reception area of the Sun's offices, reading back issues of the paper, for almost three quarters of an hour. She was just getting impatient when Reynolds strode over to the reception desk. He was tall, with a thatch of sandy hair and the most extraordinary blue eyes.

'Hi, I'm sorry to keep you waiting but I expected you earlier, so when you didn't show, I popped out to see someone. I'm Dick Reynolds.'

Anna stood up and shook his hand. 'Anna Travis.'

'Nice to meet you. Do you want to come through to the news desk?' He bent down to pick up her briefcase and gestured that she should follow him. 'If you'd prefer, we can bag someone's office, more private; crime section's a bit like Piccadilly Circus!' He held open a swing door, standing to one side to allow her to pass in front of him.

'Whatever,' she said, pleasantly. It made a nice change from the usual stride and swinging doors of Langton and his mob.

'Someone's office' turned out to be a cordoned-off corner with a desk cluttered with bright potted plants, stacks of papers and computer.

'Right, have a seat, and I'll get some coffee organised.'

Dick left her for only a moment before returning and giving her a lovely wide smile. 'On its way, Anna. Right, how can I help you?'

'It's about the article you wrote, which showed a photograph of the murder victim Louise Pennel.'

'Right, yes; what about it?'

'I need to know where you got the photograph from.'

'Well, that's easy: from a journalist that worked here.'

'You linked Louise Pennel's murder and another case?'

'Right, the Black Dahlia. To be honest, it was a bit far-fetched; I hadn't even heard of the old case, but as they both had a flower in their hair, it was just something to hook the story onto really. I didn't have much else to go on, as we hadn't had a press release.'

'Have you since read up on the Black Dahlia case?'

'No, I've been on the missing kid from Blackheath.'

'So the only similarity between the two cases, as far as you're concerned, was the flower?'

'Yep.'

'You said you got the photograph from another journalist; did he mention to you the Black Dahlia case?'

'No. I wouldn't have known anything about it, but I got an anonymous letter that likened your girl, Louise Pennel, to…' He frowned. 'Elizabeth Short was the other victim, wasn't she? Happened years ago in Los Angeles.'

'Yes; have you checked into any details of her case?'

'Nope; went on the internet to get a bit of info, but to be truthful, it was sort of sidelined by this young boy that's missing; he's only twelve.'

'Do you still have the letter?'

'No. I should maybe have kept it, because you are here and there's obviously something going on, but we get a shedload of crank letters every time we headline a murder story. I spoke to someone investigating the case, Richmond station. I did tell them I'd destroyed it. I'm sorry.'

'Can you recall exactly what it said?'

Dick looked to the door as a young secretary carried in a tray of coffee and a packet of biscuits. By the time he had offered milk and sugar and then leaned back in his chair, Anna was feeling very relaxed in his company.

'It didn't say much; just that the Black Dahlia killer was never caught. It also said that there was now another one, the Red Dahlia. In the photograph we had, the flower in Louise's hair looked like a rose to me, but it made a good header.'

'Was it handwritten?'

'No, it was typed. Not from a computer; well, I don't think it was, because it was quite heavy print. It was on a piece of cheap lined paper.'

'I have to ask you that if you do get any further contacts regarding the Louise Pennel case, you get in touch with me immediately. This is my direct line.' Anna handed him her card. He slipped it into his wallet as she put her coffee cup back into the saucer. 'Thank you very much for your time.'

'My pleasure. Have you had lunch?'

'Pardon?'

'I said, have you had lunch? Only I haven't, and there's a nice pub a few minutes away.'

She flushed and buttoned her coat, unable to look at him. 'I have to get back, but thank you for the invitation.'

By the time Dick Reynolds had led Anna back through the maze of corridors and out to her Mini, she had agreed to have dinner with him the following evening. She was feeling very pleased with herself; it had been a long time since she had been attracted to anyone and she had liked him from the moment she had set eyes on him.

Reynolds was soon back at his desk, logged onto the internet. As they had not had a press release detailing the exact similarities, he still believed it was a case of both victims being very pretty girls who wore flowers in their hair and who were only twenty-two when they were killed. He hadn't realised how much information there was: an entire website for the Elizabeth Short murder which detailed much more appalling similarities; with almost sixty years between the two murders, he decided to concentrate on his missing schoolboy story — for the time being, at any rate.