The Red Dahlia

Chapter Six

It was eight-fifteen. Dick Reynolds had said he would collect Anna at eight, so he was late. Anna had hesitated about giving him her home address: it was not really professional, but then again, nor was her eagerness to see him on a personal level. She was wearing a white cashmere pullover she had bought in the sales, black trousers and boots. She had washed and blow-dried her hair and taken more time and care over her make-up than her usual quick powder and bit of mascara required. She opened a bottle of Chablis and left it in the fridge. She wandered around her small flat, adjusting cushions and fiddling with the stereo. It was almost eight-thirty when her doorbell rang.

'Hi, I'm parked out front, so shall we just go straight out?'

Anna hesitated; the wine, low lighting and softly playing CD were about to go to waste.

'There's a nice Italian round the corner; I popped in and they have a table.'

'Oh that'll be Ricardo's. I don't know if it's any good, I've not eaten there.'

'Well, it's always useful to test out your local restaurants,' Dick said, as he jangled his keys impatiently.

'Do you own this or is it rented?' he asked as she locked the door behind them.

'I own it.'

He crossed the road to a badly parked green Morgan sports car. She had to bend low to get into the passenger seat. He waited before slamming her door and hurrying round to the driver's side.

The engine roared as it kicked into start, and he grinned, shouting, 'Needs a bit of tuning, but I've not had the time. You hungry?'

'Yes, I am. I spent most of the day in Bognor Regis.'

'Nothing like sea air to work up an appetite.'

He drove down the road like a lunatic and without fastening his seat belt; the one on her side was broken. She tried not to appear nervous as they screeched up to the restaurant.

They had a very nice table at a booth, with no other table too close. He immediately buried himself in the menu and then tossed it aside.

'Red or white?'

'Erm… red please.'

He swivelled round to signal to a waiter, as Anna took off her coat. 'Bottle of merlot and I'll have cannelloni to start and then veal marsala to follow. Anna?'

She had hardly had time to read the menu, let alone make a choice so, rather flustered, she ordered the specials at the waiter's suggestion.

The waiter brought the bottle of wine, uncorked it and poured out a small amount for Dick to taste; he wafted his hand not to bother. Anna watched as the waiter filled their glasses.

'To us; glad you could make it.'

She took a sip; he drained half his glass and then leaned back. 'I'll chill out in a minute. I was late because we had a sudden breakthrough on this missing kid story we've been headlining.'

He picked up his glass and stared into it, then drank again. 'They found his body in Highgate cemetery.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Yep. Stuffed into a half-dug grave.'

Anna winced. 'It's always hard to keep your distance emotionally when it's a child.'

'It's the peripheral things that go on that take it out of you. His poor mother was just in total shock. She couldn't speak, just sat there with these big wide eyes and tears streaming down her face. Get her to talk about how she feels! — my editor on the mobile — and I am looking at these tragic people. You don't need to get them to explain how they feel, you can see it.'

He broke some bread and slathered butter over it, then took such a huge mouthful he couldn't speak for a few moments.

'So, how's your case going?'

'Slowly I actually wanted to ask your advice about something. How would I go about tracing an advert, placed about nine months ago?'

'Advert for what?'

'A job: a PA, with travel.'

Dick ruffled his hair. 'Which paper?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, it won't be easy; there must be thousands of jobs advertised: Times, Time Out, Evening Standard. They're all computerised, but if that's all you've got to go on, it'll take someone a lot of…' He mimed holding a telephone to his ear. 'Unless you know more?'

'I think it's put in by a male.'

He grinned. 'Do you have the exact date?'

'It would have been around the sixteenth of May last year.'

Dick looked around for the waiter. 'Be like looking for a needle in a haystack. What's so important about it?'

Anna hesitated and then shrugged. 'Maybe a link, maybe not.'

'Link to what?'

Again she hesitated, not wanting to say too much. In fact, she shouldn't have been talking about it all. 'Oh, something that was said. It'll probably mean nothing.'

He finished his glass of wine. 'You mean you won't tell me,' he said, not unkindly.

'Yes,' she smiled.

'Look, Anna, we're having a friendly dinner. I've not come here with you to pump you for any information. I know it wouldn't be ethical, okay? But you have no need to worry about anything you might be telling me being used against you. M'Lud.'

Anna grinned as the waiter topped up their glasses; again, Dick drank half the glass in one go.

'I don't suppose you have had any more anonymous letters?' she said.

'Nope, and your boss man — Langton, is it? — gave us stern warnings that if we did, we go straight to him first. Do you think my note was from the killer?'

'Possibly.'

'God, there are some sick people around. Let's change the subject: tell me about you.'

Anna sipped her wine. 'I'm a detective inspector, so I can be attached to any murder team that requires an officer of my capabilities! That's a joke. I'm still very raw around the edges.'

'Really?' He had the most amazing, penetrating blue eyes. 'So, are you married?'

'Good heavens, no! Otherwise I wouldn't have agreed to have dinner with you.'

'What about a partner?'

'No, there's no one. What about you?' She leaned forwards.

'Me? Unmarried these days; we broke up about a year ago. She's living in Spain with a karate instructor; actually, one I introduced her to.'

'Do you have children?'

'She had a parrot, but her mother took it.'

At that moment, the waiter appeared with their starters. Dick had become much less hyper, and she was starting to enjoy his company. He was very open and witty, and had her laughing over a story about when he first started as a journalist. By the time their main course had been served, they were chatting about all and sundry; in fact, they ended up talking about their different relationships with their fathers. Dick had been very much a black sheep: his father a doctor and man of letters, his mother a very educated linguist. They had wanted him to follow in his father's footsteps, but instead he had left university and gone into journalism; however, his elder sister was now a qualified doctor. It was not until he was talking about her that he referred back to the Louise Pennel case.

'Do you think your killer would have had medical training? I know we've been asked to put a press embargo on the grisly details, not that we've been given much, but I looked up the Elizabeth Short murder on the internet. Mind-blowing; shocking to think they never caught the guy.'

Anna tensed up, suddenly nervous. She didn't reply, giving just a small shrug of her shoulders.

He twisted the stem of his glass between his fingers. 'So if this Louise Pennel case is similar, it kind of makes the hair stand on end. Dismembering her like that had to have been done by someone with surgical experience or, at the very least, someone with medical training. It's not easy to cut someone in two and drain their blood; well, it isn't according to my sister.'

Anna was just about to reiterate the fact that she could not discuss the case when DCI Langton walked into the restaurant, accompanied by Professor Marshe. It was not that much of a coincidence as Langton didn't live too far away, but seeing him made her blush. She watched him talking intently to Professor Marshe as the maitre d' led them to the table virtually opposite theirs.

Dick turned to see where she was looking and then looked back. 'What's up?'

'It's my boss; he's with a profiler that has been brought in from the States.'

Langton was waiting for Professor Marshe to sit down when he noticed Anna. He hesitated and then approached. 'Hi, surprise; not really I suppose, as this is your local. I've not been here before,' he said, quite affably.

'Nor me. This is Richard Reynolds.'

Dick turned, half-rising. 'Dick Reynolds, nice to meet you.'

Langton gave a tight nod; he recognised the name, but said nothing. 'Enjoy your dinner.' He gave a cold smile and headed back to his table.

Though Langton sat with his back to Anna, she still felt very self-conscious. Dick leaned across the table. 'Why don't we have coffee back at your place?'

Anna was still feeling uneasy when they walked up to her flat. Dick looked at his watch. 'Listen, I have to be up at the crack of dawn; maybe leave coffee until another time?'

'Whatever,' she said, opening her front door.

'Okay, well, I'll call you,' he said, hovering.

'I'd like that. Thank you for dinner.'

'My pleasure.' He leaned forwards and kissed her cheek. He stepped back and looked at her with his head cocked to one side. 'Are you okay?'

'I'd just have preferred not to have been clocked by my boss.'

'Why?'

'Well, he's very… I don't know, forget it.'

'If you need any help trying to track down that advert, just give me a ring; maybe I can call in a few favours for you.'

'Thank you, I will. Goodnight.'

Dick gave her a lovely smile and then was gone. She shut the door and leaned against it. Why had it rattled her so, seeing Langton? Was it just seeing him, or was it the way he was behaving with Professor Marshe? And exactly how was he behaving? she asked herself sharply; well, truth was that he was being courteous. He had looked very smart; handsome, if she was being honest. There had been no one else since she had ended their affair until Dick Reynolds, but she was unsure how that would work out. She wasn't even sure if he felt anything towards her. It hadn't appeared as if he had fancied her; moreover, did she fancy him? Though Langton had wanted to continue seeing her after the Alan Daniels case, she had not wanted to jeopardise her career; she felt that, as a very junior officer, it would have become common gossip. She was now wondering, however, if she should have let the relationship run its course…

Langton leaned back in his chair. 'Let me get this straight; you want to check every advert for a PA from nine months ago, but you don't know which newspaper or magazine she might have seen it in? And just how many people do you think I can free up to do this?'

'It's a long shot, I know,' she said, sheepishly.

'Long? It's the bloody Ml motorway, Travis! For Chrissakes, see if you can at the very least narrow it down to a couple of possible papers; go back to the dentist, back to that silly cow Sharon — we can't get stuck tracking down every fucking advert for a PA!'

'Yes sir.'

'That journalist you were with last night?'

'Yes?'

'I hope he wasn't pumping you for information.'

'No, he's just an old friend,' she lied.

'Really. Well, keep your mouth shut around him; when we want the press involved, we will rope them in. Don't go spilling any beans they are not supposed to be privy to.'

'I wouldn't do that.'

'Good, I hope not. So how old a friend is he?'

'Oh, we've known each other for quite a while.' The fib made her blush and she was unable to meet his eyes.

He looked at her, then gave a tight, unfriendly smile. 'They're all the same as far as I'm concerned: I hate them; they're like leeches, sucking on blood. You watch what you say to him.'

'I will; thank you for the advice.'

'And don't you be shirty with me, Travis!'

'I wasn't aware that I was!'

He laughed and wafted his hand for her to leave his office. He flicked open her lengthy report on her day at Bognor Regis.

There had been no further press reports about the case; if, as Professor Marshe had suggested, their killer would be eager to read about their lack of progress, he would not have been getting any satisfaction. He was not alone: the rest of the team were still not making any headway. Checking out every doctor in the area past and present, paying particular attention to any allegations of malpractice, was time-consuming and, to date, had yielded no result.

Langton slammed out of his office and paused as he passed Anna's desk.

'Do you make a habit of retaining local taxis to chauffeur you around? The Bognor Regis taxi receipt is ridiculous. Why didn't you get in touch with the local cop shop and use one of their patrol cars?'

'I'm sorry. I didn't expect to be at Mrs Pennel's for so long.'

'You have to anticipate these kind of things, Travis: we're not a bloody charity!'

He took up his usual position at the front of the room for a briefing. He was surly and had his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets as he paced up and down.

'I had another meet with Professor Marshe; we discussed our mystery man, the tall dark stranger we have so far been unable to trace. His description matches the killer of Elizabeth Short. This is what the LA homicide reckoned their suspect looked like.'

Langton turned over a blank page on the big drawing board to reveal a drawing of the Los Angeles suspect, drawn in 1947.

'The only description we have of our killer is from Sharon, so let's see how we match up. It could, at a pinch, be the same man: long dark coat, collar turned up; tall, about six feet; dark, close-cropped hair, a touch of grey at the temples. Our guy has no moustache, but he might have grown one if he's as obsessed with copycatting the Elizabeth Short case as we think he is. We can put this drawing out alongside a request for anyone with any information about him to come forward.'

Anna's desk phone rang; it was Dick Reynolds. She was irritated that he had called her at work until he said, 'I've just had a phone call; I think it was your killer.'

Anna sat bolt upright. 'What?'

'I've just got off the phone; he called the crime desk and asked to speak to me.'

'Did you tape it?'

'Of course.'

'Oh my God, can you bring it to us?'

'Can't you come to me?'

'Hold on.'

Anna put up her hand and Langton, who had continued discussing the drawings, looked over to her, visibly displeased at the interruption.

'Yes?'

'The crime desk at the Sun just had a call they think is from the killer.'

Langton almost jumped along the desks to snatch the phone. 'Who am I speaking to?'

'Richard Reynolds.'

Langton took a moment to steady himself. 'Mr Reynolds, I would be most grateful if you could bring over the tape of the call immediately.' Langton listened for another few moments, and then nodded. 'Thank you.' He replaced the receiver and looked to Anna. 'He's coming in directly.'

Langton then looked to the team. 'Professor Marshe was right. Our killer just made verbal contact with the press.'

Twenty-five minutes later, Dick Reynolds was ushered into Langton's office. Lewis, Barolli and Anna were there waiting.

Reynolds took a miniature cassette from one pocket and then, from the other, a small tape recorder with an attachment for plugging into a telephone.

'I've not made copies because I don't have another tape this size. It was lucky I'd got this in my desk drawer. I did miss a section as I was plugging it in.'

Langton gestured for Lewis to insert the tape into the machine. Reynolds was introduced to Lewis and Barolli.

'You know Anna Travis.'

Reynolds smiled at Anna who smiled back politely.

'So what happened was, I was at the crime desk and the call was transferred from the switchboard. It came straight to me as I was the only person there at the time. That machine's a bit old and dodgy, so some of his dialogue isn't that clear.'

'Right,' Langton said, pressing Start. There were a few moments of silence.

The voice was crisp and to the point.

'Well Mr Reynolds, I congratulate you on what your newspaper has done on the Red Dahlia case.'

'Er, thank you.'

'But you seem to have gone silent on it; have you run out of material?'

'You could say that.'

'Maybe I can be of some assistance. 'This was muffled, with a lot of crackling.

'Well we need it, or the police do.'

'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll send you some of Louise Pennel's things that she had with her when she, shall we say, disappeared.'

'When will I get them?'

'Oh, within the next day or so. See how far you can get with them. Now I have to say goodbye. You may be trying to trace the call'

'Wait a minute—'

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 16 May.

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.

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 recognise 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 recognise 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 moustache, 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 cancelled 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 recognise 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 cancelled. He was determined to push the case forward.

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 travelled across London to the newspaper offices at breakneck speed, sirens wailing. Reynolds 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 towards 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 enquiry, 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 towards 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 towards her. 'How long do we have to wait?'

'They'll be checking everything; it might have fingerprints.'

'Interesting; plus the postmark might be useful.'

'I doubt he'll leave anything we can trace, but that's just my opinion.'

He stared at her. 'Are you okay?'

'Yes.'

'Just, you seem a bit distant with me?'

She smiled. Truth was, she felt slightly awkward. 'Working,' she said.

'You free for dinner this week?'

'I'll have to check my schedule; I may be on nights.'

'Ah, I thought you meant your social calendar.'

She laughed. 'No, I'm not doing anything; maybe you'd like me to cook us dinner one night?'

'That would be good; why don't we say this weekend?'

'I might have to work.'

'Well, call me.'

Langton came back and sat down. He, too, checked his watch.

'While we're here, we should check on the work they have been doing on her clothes,' he said, his foot tapping up and down.

'What clothes?' Reynolds asked.

Langton ignored him. Anna hesitated. 'We took items belonging to the victim for analysis.'

'Oh right: DNA, stuff like that,' Reynolds said. He couldn't think of anything to make conversation with so he took out his mobile and began checking his messages.

Langton glared at him, and then at Anna.

They all turned to the double doors as they swung open and Professor Marshe hurried towards them. Anna was taken aback; the woman certainly loved making an entrance.

'James, I'm sorry; I got here as soon as I could. I can't stay too long: I am on my way to give a lecture.'

Langton rose to his feet and greeted her with a kiss on her cheek; he then introduced her to Reynolds, who stood up to shake her hand. Anna remained seated as Professor Marshe smiled at her. 'Nice to see you again, Hannah.'

Anna smiled, not bothering to correct her. Professor Marshe was wearing another tailored suit and high-heeled shoes. Anna would have loved to be able to wear similarly chic and expensive clothes, but she was nowhere near as tall and slender as Professor Marshe. Anna wished she'd worn something less dowdy and folded her legs to disguise her low-heeled scuffed court shoes.

The door to the lab opened, and Liz Hudson, the forensic scientist, gestured to them from the doorway.

'We're by no means through, but you can come in and see what we've got for you.'

Hudson led them to a table at the end of the lab, covered with white paper tacked down at the sides. Spread out, already dusted for prints and neatly numbered, were the contents of the package. There was a black leather clutch bag, with a suede flower motif and a tasselled zip. Laid out beside the bag were a cheap powder compact, two lipsticks, a small mirror, a used tissue with lipstick marks, and a black leather address book.

Anna noticed that Langton lightly touched Professor Marshes arm as she leaned closer and guessed that she had been the one calling his mobile earlier.

'Can I just say,' said Hudson, 'before we examine the purse etcetera, that everything here would have been carefully chosen by your suspect. If there was anything that could be of use to us, he would have discarded it. This is him playing out how clever he is.'

Anna nodded, although she had already guessed that. She was impatient to get hold of the address book, but none of them touched anything.

Hudson continued. 'The bag is good quality, but old; perhaps bought from a charity shop. It's got a residue of loose powder in one of the pockets. It also smells of an old-fashioned perfume called Chepre. My grandmother used to wear it; it's no longer in production. Another thing that makes the bag old is that the label inside is Chanel and I doubt if your girl would have bought this new. The lining is very worn, as is the suede inlay.'

They all moved a few inches down the table, staring intently at the items.

'Next the powder compact, Boots Number Seven; there is no powder puff, perhaps because we might have been able to get a skin test. The lipstick is a pink gloss and has been wiped; you can see by the head of the lipstick it has scrape marks. We have no prints off either. The second lipstick is Helena Rubenstein; it is a very deep red, not a common choice for a young girl. Oddly enough, it has not been used. It's also not sold any more, like the perfume.'

Anna made copious notes as she listened, then looked up as Hudson pointed to the address book.

'You will be able to take this as it's been dusted. There are pages torn out, there're numerous different inks and biro and the entries are in no specific order. Also, the pages are torn out in pairs. We had hoped that we might have been able to see an imprint of what had been written if the writer had pressed hard, but this means we will not be able to decipher anything.'

'We'll need that,' Langton said, and Hudson nodded.

'Not a lot, but you do at least have your victim's name printed in the front of the address book, so we are to presume that these items did belong to her.'

They moved further along the table to the brown paper that had been used to wrap the parcel.

'There is a smudged postmark; we are trying to get you something from it, but it is very faint, and we have so far found two sets of prints.'

'They could be mine,' Reynolds said.

'We'll need to take yours so we can eliminate them.'

'Plus there might be prints from the receptionist that brought it up to my desk.'

Hudson nodded. 'I would say whoever wrapped it used gloves, as there are no smudges. The adhesive tape is of a very common variety; we are going to see if, when we lift it off, there may be something beneath, but I doubt it. We have the time it was posted — six-thirty — and we think it was from the main post office at Charing Cross. It's a very busy central office, so I doubt if anyone saw the sender, or could remember him; there is also the possibility he used someone else to post it. Now we get to the note inside the package.'

Like schoolkids at the Natural History Museum, they moved along to the end of the table.

HeRe ArE tHe Red DaHLia's belOnGingS. LettEr to follow.

'The note is made up from letters cut from newspapers: no prints, so I am afraid it gives us nothing. The notepaper is very common and sells in bulk.'

While Reynolds was taken to have his fingerprints done, the others moved to another table in a section of the lab where a young scientist with sprouting black hair and thick glasses was waiting. Before him lay Louise's clothes and underwear taken from her wardrobe and laundry basket, divided into two sections: the very expensive lace thongs and matching bras in pale pinks and greens, and the well-worn, cheap underwear, greyish in colour.

'We split them up because it seems to us that the lady wore the more tasteful items on special occasions, so perhaps took better care of them. We have some body fluids on the thongs but no semen. However, the stains on the other selection are menstrual and identified as belonging to your victim, as are the pubic hairs. We have two different semen stains, but we are unable to ascertain when they were deposited. They can still be visible even after washing, but I doubt this section has been washed recently.'

They moved along the table to see a few more items: a white blouse that was stained beneath the armpits and a petticoat and a nightdress. It was as depressing as seeing the tired contents of Louise's handbag. Anna was relieved when Langton suggested they return to the station.

Langton was impatient to get back to the Incident Room to begin checking over Louise's address book. From the patrol car window, Anna watched him thank Professor Marshe, who had remained silent throughout, kissing her on the cheek and helping her into the chauffeur-driven Mercedes that was waiting for her in the lab's car park. He slammed into the front passenger seat. 'She'll give us an update on what we looked at in the lab, either this evening or in the morning.'

Anna would have liked to say something sarcastic: to date, the glamorous Professor Marshe had given little or no insight into their killer that they hadn't all pieced together themselves; however, she kept quiet. Langton flicked through the small address book in moody silence. Anna stared out of the window, thinking about a girl she had once shared a room with at training college who had always looked very respectable but was, in fact, far from it. Not only was she promiscuous, she had very distasteful habits. Whenever she was out of clean underwear, she just tipped her laundry upside down and wore whatever had been discarded first. Anna knew that for the past six months, when Louise had lived with Sharon, she had appeared to have only the one secret admirer: their one and only suspect so far. According to Sharon, Louise stayed in unless meeting the tall dark stranger. Had Louise led a very different life before? Anna leaned forwards in her seat.

'Gov, was Lewis checking out any previous boyfriends?'

'We've traced one: a student from the bed-and-breakfast hotel. He's in the clear, as he now lives in Scotland; another boy from the hostel was interviewed, but he works at a pub in Putney and had not seen Louise for eighteen months, but we've a shedload of other names we are still checking out, so we'll need another visit to the hostel and the B&B. The hotel is run by a Lebanese woman; she says Louise was hardly ever there. She wasn't very helpful.'

'Do you think the dentist or anyone from where she worked was seeing her?'

'Not as far as I know.'

'If we go on what we saw in the lab, maybe she had been putting it about more than we think.'

Langton shrugged. 'Two semen stains and grubby underwear does not give us much to go on.'

Anna rested back in her seat and got out her notebook. She spent the rest of the journey flicking back and forth. She remembered that, at her visit to Florence Pennel, the housekeeper had described Louise as looking scruffy with lank hair; she made a note to call Mrs Hughes when she got to the station.

Langton marched ahead of her as usual. She was expecting to have the door slammed in her face as usual, but he surprised her by waiting. 'What is ticking in that little head, Travis?'

'I'm sorry?'

'You always chew your lip, and you were buried in your notebook for fifteen minutes. What? Well, spit it out; what's got to you?'

Anna sat opposite Langton in his office, stirring her coffee.

'This suspect, the tall dark man; I think he puts an advert into the paper for a PA, making it a very inviting job to any applicant.'

'Yes yes, we've been through that. You or anyone else had any joy tracing this advert?'

'Not as yet, but we do have Louise, broke, working for a pittance at the dentist's, hating her job; she was always late and, according to one of the nurses there, often hungover.'

'Can you get to the point, Travis?' Langton snapped as he spooned sugar into his coffee. He then opened a drawer and took out a bottle of brandy, pouring a heavy measure into the cup.

'If we have a man wanting to do a copycat kill of the Black Dahlia, he could have used the advert to find the right girl. Louise Pennel, desperate, bored, broke and sexually permissive, wants to make a big impression; she even goes to visit her grandmother, who she's never met, to borrow money for some clothes to go to the appointment.'

'This is just you surmising.'

'I know, but hear me out; the point is—'

'I am, Travis; can you get to it?'

'The French underwear, the good clothes, she kept clean; so maybe this tall dark stranger had become a sort of Svengali. He's found the right victim: my God, she even chewed her nails like Elizabeth Short. He also had months to work on her; during that time she moves out of the hostel into a B&B and then Sharon's rented flat. The cashmere sweaters, the suit, the shoes: all expensive. It's like we have two women: one, the old Louise in her cheap and dirty used knickers, and the new model.'

Langton sighed, impatiently.

'We need to check where that underwear came from; in fact, check every expensive item Louise Pennel had in her wardrobe. Most important, we need to put more energy into tracking down that advert.' He was drumming his fingers on the desktop; however, she continued, defiantly. 'We do have a bit more to go on.'

'You mean that we now know he wore a ring on his pinky finger? That's a very big lead, Travis!'

He was beginning to really annoy her. 'Add it to the drawing, which got the result from the landlady. We have a tall dark-haired man; the ring might help us.'

'To do what exactly? If we put it in print, it might also tip him off to remove it!' Langton leaned back and lit a cigarette; he squinted at her as the smoke trailed from his lips. 'If we are to go with the copycat theory, then the next person our killer will contact will be me! After sending the package to the LA journalist, he then wrote to what they called the Examiner. In our case it will be me as I am heading up the enquiry, and the letter should be here tomorrow.'

Langton always surprised her. She hadn't realised that he was paying that much attention to the Black Dahlia copycat theory. There was a long pause as he inhaled deeply, and then wafted his hand to get rid of the cigarette smoke. She hesitated for a moment; he looked up and stared at her. 'What?'

'Do you think we should put out more press? Keeping silent has not really worked, has it? I mean, I know you are being guided by Professor Marshe, but this is not LA in 1947. We have far more chance of him entrapping himself if we give him enough rope. There's been nothing in the papers for days.'

Langton stubbed out his cigarette. 'You don't rate her, is that it?'

'I didn't say that. I just mean that the risk we are taking is that he might be forced into proving himself by killing again, simply because he has not been able to read about how clever he is.'

Lewis tapped and poked his head round the door.

'The address book; you want to come in and give us a rap on what you want us to do? We maybe need some more help if you want every address checked out.'

Lewis left the door open. As Langton left his desk and passed Anna, he swung it open wider. 'After you.'

Anna collected her briefcase and notebook. 'Thank you. Professor Marshe is obviously working on your social skills.'

'What?'

Anna scooted out ahead of him, pretending that she hadn't heard.

Pasted up along a board were the pages blown up from Louise Pennel's address book. The first page had her name in looped writing, like a child's. As they had been told at the lab, different pens had been used — sometimes a Biro, sometimes a felt-tip pen — other names and addresses were written in pencil and some even in a red crayon. They were not in alphabetical order, but jotted haphazardly. Some had been crossed out; others were scribbled over. They had also blown up the jagged edges where pages had been torn out from the back of the book; these would have been the most recent, and more than likely had the killer's name and address.

Questioning all those people listed would mean hours of legwork, tracing them and taking statements. A number of names and addresses would turn out to be obsolete, people having moved on elsewhere. Everyone would have their work cut out; it would be tedious and painstaking. Anna moved along the board, doubtful they would gain anything: she was certain the most relevant pages were the ones missing. After they had discussed who was doing what, a tetchy Langton drew up further instructions on how they should go about tracing the advert they believed their killer had placed. They had asked Sharon what papers Louise had read, but she couldn't recall ever having seen her with one. Langton suggested they check out the waiting room at the dental surgery where Louise had worked.

It felt like the killer was looking over their shoulders and laughing at their lack of results; however, by the end of the day they knew that Louise would often sit in the reception area of the dentist's and read the newspapers. The surgery only had The Times delivered, as the dentist read it himself. They had tracked down twenty-five per cent of the people whose names and addresses were in Louise Pennel's book, and the phones were hopping as the detectives prepared to meet every single one of them. Anna had also contacted Mrs Hughes, who agreed without hesitation that the clutch bag with the suede flower motif was the one she had given to Louise Pennel.

Anna arrived at her desk the following morning to a flurry of excitement. It was obvious something was going down: the Commander was in with Langton.

He had received a postcard, sent care of the station. It was bagged immediately and sent over to the lab for them to check out. It was a mixture of handwriting and cut-out newspaper letters.

18 days. I Was haVinG My fuN witH the MeTroPoliTan Police, but noW GettinG very Bored. Signed, the Red DAhliA AvEnger.

Barolli copied it out on the board in thick red letters; everyone knew there was pressure coming down on Langton. After ten minutes, the 'big noise' departed and Langton came out of his office. His five-o'clock shadow looked as dark as a beard; his tie was hanging loose and he had a cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth.

He didn't have to ask for quiet as he stood in front of the killer's message. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out in an old ashtray on the side of Lewis's desk.

'I have been instructed by the big shots to respond to this message. Professor Marshe also agrees that, as this maniac is attempting to copycat the killer of Elizabeth Short, we should now feed his ego and play his game. The killer of the Black Dahlia sent a virtually identical message to the LA Examiner. Against my own gut feeling, I am to give the following message in a press release.' Langton dug his hands deep into his pockets and recited without emotion, 'If you want to surrender, as indicated by your postcard, I will meet you at any public location at any time; please give details to the Incident Room at Richmond police station.'

Langton nodded to indicate the briefing was over and headed back into his office. He passed Anna and gave her a cold, dismissive look. She stood up.

'What are you looking at me like that for?'

'Talk to your fucking boyfriend.'

Langton slammed into his office. Anna had no idea what he was talking about. She hurried over to DI Lewis. 'What's going on?'

Lewis shrugged. 'All I know is, the editor of your pal's newspaper has some very heavy-duty friends. The Gov gets the Commander on his back, and even with Professor Marshe batting for him, they've given him the order to go public and he doesn't like it.'

'It's nothing to do with me!'

Lewis turned away. 'Your boyfriend is going to break the story; be headlined this weekend.'

Anna returned to her desk. She sat for a moment and then packed her briefcase. She called Dick Reynolds and asked if she could cook dinner for him that evening. He said he would be there by eight. Neither of them mentioned anything about the Dahlia story. Anna went up to the duty sergeant and asked if it was okay for her to leave as she had a migraine. He looked at her and grinned.

'If you haven't got one, you will have. Is it true your boyfriend's the journalist Dick Reynolds?'

'He is not my boyfriend!'

Anna banged out of the Incident Room and sat in her car to cool down, then drove home, stopping on the way to buy some groceries. She had decided to make spaghetti bolognaise, nothing special; well, she had decided Mr Reynolds didn't warrant her best culinary offering. She would really like to wring his neck; he had now placed her in a very difficult situation, but it was one she was determined she would rectify, otherwise working alongside Langton would be impossible. Truth was, she had hardly ever thought of Langton over the past eighteen months, but when he had walked into the Incident Room to take over the case, it was as if it was hours ago, not that he had ever acknowledged their history. Anna Travis was not the usual type that DCI James Langton was known to fall for. They were more like the long-legged Professor Marshe. He had a terrible reputation and she had not been prepared to be another notch on his belt, but that didn't mean she didn't still have feelings for him; she did, very strong ones, and it annoyed the hell out of her that she should be thinking of them.

'Christ,' she muttered to herself, as she dumped her shopping down on the draining board. 'I fucking hate him!'

As she chopped up the onions and began to make the spaghetti sauce, she calmed down. If Reynolds had used her to get more details of the case, this could prove embarrassing. She prepared the dinner, and then took a shower. She got into an old sweater and jeans and didn't even bother re-doing her make-up; she was getting ready to tear a strip off Reynolds.

'Thank Christ I didn't sleep with him,' she muttered, as she opened a cheap bottle of plonk. She filled her glass and sat watching the TV.

'Bastard,' she muttered. Then she checked her watch: he was due any minute, so she returned to the kitchen. The sauce was bubbling away. She was ready for Mr Reynolds.