The Red Dahlia

Chapter Seven

The table in the lounge was laid for dinner; she didn't have a dining room. It was no candlelit romantic setting; though she did have candles, she had no intention of making this evening pleasant. She had the TV still on, the plates warming and everything ready to serve at eight-fifteen. At nine-fifteen Reynolds still had not shown. She was about to eat by herself when the intercom went.

He came charging up the stairs with a large bouquet of cheapo supermarket roses and a bottle of red wine.

'Sorry I'm late, but something cropped up. I was going to call but thought you might have blown me out.' He grinned and handed over his gifts.

'I might well have done,' she said, moving away from him as he went to kiss her cheek. 'Go on through into the lounge. I'll dish up straight away. I am starving.'

'Me too,' he said, shrugging out of his suede coat and tossing it onto the floor by the front door. 'Do you want me to open the wine?'

'Bottle open on the table,' she said, banging around the kitchen as she put the garlic bread into the oven.

He did at least wait to start eating before she sat down, though he had consumed a glass of wine and was already pouring another. 'Cheers, and I'm sorry to be so late.'

'That's all right.' They touched their glasses and he then tucked in with relish.

'This is delicious,' he said, with his mouth full.

She responded by serving him some salad on a side plate.

'Do I detect a slight frost in the air?'

'You do, but let's finish eating.'

'I think I know what it's about,' he said, winding the spaghetti round his fork.

'I should think you do. It's made things very difficult for me.'

'How come?'

She put down her fork and sat back. 'You were asked not to go to press on the Red Dahlia note or the package. I was told tonight that, despite being warned that it would be detrimental to our enquiry, you are going to press regardless: so how do you think I feel? Especially as DCI Langton is more than aware that we are friends, from seeing us together in that restaurant. He actually thinks we have some kind of relationship; he had a right go at me.'

'Did he?' Reynolds wiped his plate with a piece of garlic bread.

'Do you have any idea what repercussions this could have? We have maintained a low profile for a bloody good reason.'

'Tell me about it.' He wasn't smiling any more.

'We have a suspect, one we believe is a very dangerous man—'

'Or not,' he interrupted arrogantly.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Well you may have a suspect, but from what I gather, you are nowhere near identifying him.'

'You gather incorrectly!' she snapped.

'Then I apologise. Who is he?'

She pushed her plate aside and wiped her mouth with her napkin. 'You really imagine I'd disclose that kind of information? Our investigation has nothing whatsoever to do with you!'

'Really?'

'Yes, really!' She was beginning to lose her cool.

'So the conversation I had with your possible suspect was no help? And the package that was sent to me, that I could have chosen not to contact you about? I was, if you recall, witness to the contents.'

'Yes you were and, as I recall, you were also requested not to go to press on either. I have told you: this killer is very dangerous.'

'I am aware of that; I have read up on the Black Dahlia.'

She whipped his plate away, picked up her own and stalked into the kitchen. 'DCI Langton warned you. He'll be coming down on you tomorrow like a ton of—' She dropped the top plate and swore.

Reynolds came into the kitchen as she was picking up the pieces of plate. 'So you think this is all down to me, do you?'

She threw the broken china into the bin. 'Of course I do!'

She opened the fridge and took out some pieces of cheese, then dumped them, still in the wrappers, onto a cheeseboard. 'Can you take this through for me?'

He snatched the board and walked out. She turned the coffee percolator on and carried a biscuit tin after him into the lounge. She banged it down on the table. 'Help yourself.'

'Thank you. Entertain often, do you?'

'This is not funny.' Anna drained her glass of wine and poured another.

'Do you want cheese?' he asked, delving around to find a cracker he liked.

'No.'

Anna watched as he munched his cheese. He was a very good-looking man; right now, however, the expression in his intensely blue eyes was icy.

'You calmed down?'

'Yes,' she said, grudgingly.

'Right.' He refilled his glass and took a sip before carefully placing it down. 'I had nothing to do with the article that will be coming out at the weekend. Just as you have a boss, a.k.a. DCI Langton, I also have a boss: the editor of the paper. She's a very strong-willed woman. She was at some big function for all the bigwigs the day we were at the forensic lab: politicians and crimebusters. Their guest speaker was a Professor Marshe.'

Anna stopped sulking and started listening.

'It appears that your esteemed United States profiler had a lengthy conversation with my editor. Apparently, she even mentioned the fact that we had met at the forensic lab; seemed quite taken with me!' He smiled but Anna was not amused. His tone became more serious. 'I never let any cat out of the bag, Anna. I had a furious editor giving me a lengthy ticking off for sitting on what would be a centre-page spread, if not a headliner. I got another tirade for not telling her what was going on.'

'Is this true?'

'For Chrissakes, Anna!' he snapped suddenly, pushing back his chair. 'You jumped to the wrong conclusions and you never even gave me the opportunity to tell you my side of the story before having a go at me.'

Anna took a deep breath. 'So Professor Marshe told your editor about the case?'

'That's what I've just told you, isn't it? She also said that she feels it is our public duty to let the readers know that we have a nightmare killer at large, and one it appears you are nowhere near even identifying at that.'

Anna took her glass and went to sit on the sofa. He followed, sitting in the large and only armchair opposite her.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

'So you should be. As for you getting into hot water about it, you should have a go at your DCI Langton; he brought her into the case, didn't he?'

Anna said nothing. He crossed his legs, dangling the glass from his hand. 'Shall I open the bottle I brought? It is a slightly better vintage than this one.'

She shrugged; he got up and walked into the kitchen. Anna was feeling foolish and wasn't sure what to say. He returned and filled his own glass, then went over and stood in front of her.

'Refill?'

'Yes please, thank you.'

'My pleasure.' He put the bottle onto the table and then sat beside her on the sofa. 'Forgiven?'

'Yes. I am sorry.'

He sipped his wine, and then looked up at the TV; it had remained on throughout dinner with the sound turned off.

'Is that your only means of entertainment?'

She gestured to the stereo and he got up, rifled through her CDs and put one on, then took out a box of matches and lit the candles on the bookcase. He turned the lights down, the TV off, and as the strains of Mozart began to fill the room, he sat back down beside her.

'This is better.'

'So's your wine,' she said, thawing out.

'So now you know why I was late. I am really sorry, but she wasn't going to let me out of there until I got the article out.' He leaned back. 'No wonder you don't want to talk about it. I logged onto the Black Dahlia website and found all the gory details: sickening. To think there is some maniac trying to emulate that is beyond belief. I know there are copycat killers, but this is freaky; why copycat a murder that happened in 1947?'

'Because the killer was never caught.'

'But the pre-planning — to drain Louise's blood before slicing her body in two—'

Anna closed her eyes and tensed.

He turned towards her. 'Do you get to sleep okay?'

'Usually; it depends. You get used to horror — it's the job, you know — but sometimes images creep into your mind and stay there.'

'You know the image that I can't get rid of?'

Anna didn't respond.

'The look in her eyes. I never knew that dead eyes held an expression; I thought they just blanked out when the heart stopped, but there is so much pain in her eyes. Terrible.'

'Yes.'

'Did Louise Pennel's face have the same expression as Elizabeth Short?'

'Yes.'

'Why would one human being want to inflict such agony on another? What makes them that way?'

'I don't know: a madness is all one can put it down to.'

'How come you are on a murder team?'

'Because I wanted to be.'

'You chose it?'

'Yes, my father was a homicide officer for thirty years.'

'You ever work with him?'

'No, he died almost three years ago.'

'I'm sorry. No doubt he would be very proud you had followed in his footsteps.'

'Yes; yes, I think he would.'

'What about your mother?'

'She died before Dad.'

He leaned closer, his head almost on her shoulder. 'So you are an orphan?'

'I never really thought about it, but I suppose I am.'

'You ever get lonely?'

'Well, I don't have any relatives that I'm close to.'

'What about friends?'

'Not many; mostly work colleagues. Why are you asking me all these questions?'

'To try and get to know you.'

'Well, as you can see, there's not much to know about.'

He smiled. 'From what I can see, you have a great CD collection, a neat little flat, and you are very pretty.'

She laughed. 'Rubbish.'

'You are. Well, I think so; I love that red curly hair. Did you know you have a ring of freckles over your nose?'

Anna's hand went to her face, involuntarily. 'I am always trying to cover them up, but I didn't do my makeup when I got home.'

'You have beautiful skin, and very pretty hands.' He reached out and caught her hand in his.

Anna was at a loss. She found him so attractive but she was so unused to the whole flirting thing. 'Am I supposed to say nice things about you now?' she asked softly.

'You could. I mean, it's been pretty one-sided up until now. You've not given me much indication that you find me interesting; attractive even.'

'You are both.'

'Good.'

He reached down and picked up his wine glass, drained it and got up for a refill.

'You should be careful; are you driving?'

He turned and cocked his head to one side. 'Are you trying to tell me that I should be leaving?'

'It's just that we've already had one bottle, so if you're in the car, you'll need some coffee. I'm a police officer, remember.'

He smiled as he picked up her glass and topped it up.

'So do you want coffee?' she asked.

'No, thanks.' He sat beside her again, and stretched out his legs in front so he leaned back again very close to her. 'Do you have a pet?'

'No.'

'Well, there is this disgusting moggy that's sort of moved in with me, her name is Blott: she's a sort of tabby cross with what could be a hamster; she has this very odd, uncatlike face that I think may be from someone having kicked her; it's sort of squashed. Can we go to bed?'

It was no good making the excuse that she was drunk. She was a little tipsy, but she knew what she was getting into, though the wine had made her a lot less inhibited. She had never actually slept with anyone who had just suggested bed without any physical preamble; her previous experiences had begun with unbuttoning shirts and blouses and escalated from there. Langton had been a very tender and experienced lover, so totally at ease the morning after; it was a night that she knew had been special. She had not been in a sexual relationship since. It was not that she had been unable to consider anyone else as a lover; it was simply there hadn't been anyone who appeared to find her attractive, let alone make a play for her. Now there was Mr Reynolds. The world had not exactly moved when they had made love, but he was sweet and considerate, and made her laugh during and after sex; in the morning, however, when he had woken her with kisses, it had been more passionate. He brought her a cup of coffee in bed and then went for a shower. Unfortunately, the coffee was dreadful: it was the stewed brew that had been percolating all night. Anna smiled but said nothing when he came back in, pulling on his suede jacket and smelling of her moisturiser and shampoo. She loved it when he knelt on the bed to kiss her again.

'I'll call you later.'

Then he was gone. She stood on tiptoe in the kitchen, watching him speed off in his Morgan.

She scrambled some eggs and made some fresh coffee. She hummed to herself as she showered, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Brimming with confidence, she parked her Mini at the station. She saw Langton's beat-up Rover taking up two spaces; typically inconsiderate, she thought.

As she walked into the Incident Room, the hubbub of voices lowered as the officers glanced over.

'Morning,' she said cheerfully, and crossed to her desk.

Lewis propped up the headline — COPYCAT BLACK DAHLIA KILLER.

She said nothing as she took the paper and glanced over it. It was exactly what they had hoped would not happen. The article compared the old case and the new, complete with photographs of the two victims side by side, and gory details of the murder of Louise Pennel.

'Your boyfriend's got the Gov in a white-hot rage.'

Anna slapped the paper down on her desk. 'My relationship has nothing to do with this article. I resent everyone in this station giving me snide glances and implying that this has something to do with me: it hasn't!'

'He certainly knows a hell of a lot about the cases, so if you didn't brief him, who did?' Lewis said nastily.

'He probably checked on the Elizabeth Short website.'

Anna got up and walked past Lewis to get herself a coffee, not that she wanted one; she could sense all the ears wigging at their conversation. She stood by the board and read the press release that the Commander had instructed Langton to issue when he received the postcard; it requested that the killer should make contact at any location of his choice.

'Have we heard anything back from this?' she asked Barolli, who shook his head. 'Anything from her address book?'

'You mean apart from damage to the eardrums? We've arranged meetings with all the ones we've been able to trace so far. There's a list on your desk.'

Anna had been given four addresses and contact numbers: two girls and one man who had lived in the hostel with Louise, and two men who had known her a couple of years ago. They were scattered all over London.

Anna opened her desk drawer and took out her A to Z to work out which route would save her the most travelling time.

'Travis!' came the bellow from Langton's office. She'd been waiting for this and she was ready for him. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulled down her sweater and smoothed her skirt as she headed into his office.

'Sit down.'

She perched on the edge of her seat. He tossed the paper over to her. 'You read this fucking garbage?'

'Yes.'

'What did you give your boyfriend, our case file?'

'No.'

'So he just grasped all of this from thin air, did he?'

'He had to have inside information.'

'You bet your sweet arse he has! This has put us in a bloody awkward situation. The phones are hopping with nutters; we've had Yellow, Blue, Pink Dahlias — it's going to take up a lot of valuable time.'

'I know.'

'You know, do you? Well, for Chrissakes, use this as a lesson to keep your yapping mouth shut.'

'I don't like the way you are talking to me.'

'What?'

'I said, I don't like your tone of voice.'

'You don't like my tone of voice? It's the same one I use on everybody, Anna! Do you think I should treat you any differently?'

'No, but I do think you should show me some respect, and not jump automatically to the wrong conclusion.'

'What?'

'I did not discuss the Red Dahlia case with Richard Reynolds.'

'Christ, even his name is like some cartoon character!' he snapped.

'Professor Marshe discussed the case with Mr Reynolds's editor, who returned to the crime desk and hit the roof. She had not been privy to any contacts made, so when she found out what a newsworthy story it was, she insisted they publish an article comparing the old case and ours. As Mr Reynolds simply works for the crime section, he does not have the power to veto a story; even though he was attempting to honour the press embargo you requested, his editor paid short shrift to it and insisted it was in the public interest to release the facts that we have a nightmare murder and a maniac on the loose.'

She had to gasp for breath, she had spoken so quickly.

'That's enough,' he snapped, and glared. 'I get the picture, Travis.'

'An apology would be nice,' she said, tartly.

Langton glowered. 'I'm sorry; sorry I jumped down your throat and to the wrong conclusion.'

Anna stood up, and smiled primly at him. 'Thank you.'

She walked out, closing the door softly behind her.

She had arranged to meet all four people on her list by the time Langton came into the Incident Room. The phones had not stopped ringing and they had two extra clerks working the switchboard. Langton looked dishevelled: hair standing on end, unshaven as usual.

'We have not as yet had any response to my press release. We have got a stream of lunatics from the newspaper article, but we have to hope one might give us something. Using the victim's address book, we'll cover everyone she knew, see if they can throw any light on this suspect.'

Langton gestured to the drawing of the LA suspect, then he dug his hands into his pockets. 'All we can do is keep going. Now that the public are aware of the comparison between the LA case and ours, we will be inundated with calls, so I am giving a press conference later this afternoon. We will be disclosing our drawing, and expressing hope that someone will come forward, etcetera etcetera. What will not be disclosed is that the suspect may have made contact with Louise Pennel via an advert for a PA. We still do not have anything to back this up as yet, but keep going. We will also not disclose the fact that we have some DNA from the victim's underwear that may or may not help us if and when we catch this bastard!'

Langton covered old ground for another ten minutes and then the briefing broke up. The detectives who were to question the known associates of Louise Pennel prepared to leave.

Anna had been gone only five minutes when DS Barolli got a hit. As Anna had requested, The Times had made contact with a list of job adverts covering the period that Louise worked at the dental clinic. There were over a hundred and they had been slowly eliminating each one when Barolli came across something suspicious: a novelist, seeking a PA with shorthand and typing and a willingness to travel worldwide at a moment's notice, but requiring no previous experience: just that applicants should be between 24 and 30, attractive and well dressed. There was a box number only.

Barolli showed the advert to Langton. 'This could be the one: ran eight months ago. It was withdrawn five months ago. Payment was by postal order, and we have a box number to trace.'

Langton stared at it. 'If it's our man, he's covered his tracks, but see if they can give us where the postal order came from and check out the box number.' He smiled. 'Little Travis beavering away again. She's good.'

Barolli raised an eyebrow, 'But not that good if she raps to a bloody journalist about the case.'

'She didn't; it came from another source.'

'Like who?

Langton stood up. 'Someone who has a lot to answer for. I'll see you later.'

Anna's first interview was with Graham Dodds, who had lived in the same hostel in Brixton as Louise Pennel. He was waiting for Anna as she walked into a small, rather seedy hostel in Victoria. He was a small, wiry youth with a nervous tic; he wore torn jeans and a thick poloneck sweater. He looked and smelled like he needed a good wash; his hair and nails were filthy.

'Mr Dodds?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Thank you for seeing me. Is there anywhere we could talk?'

He gestured towards the TV room. 'We can go in there. It's usually empty at this time of day.'

The room reeked of stale cigarettes. Ashtrays overflowed on the arms of worn foam sofas and armchairs. The threadbare curtains were a dirty orange.

Anna sat down and smiled pleasantly as Mr Dodds twitched and hovered. 'I know what happened to Louise; I read about it in the paper, it was terrible. I've never known anyone that was murdered before. When you called here, it made me nervous, you know, and I didn't tell nobody what it was about, but I did know her.'

'Would you like to sit down, Graham? Do you mind if I call you Graham?'

'No.' He sat down opposite her and leaned forward intently.

'I am here to ask you about the time you lived in the same hostel as Louise Pennel.'

'Yes, I know, you said that on the phone, but I don't know what I can tell you. I mean, I've not seen her for a long time.'

'Can you tell me a little about the time you were there?'

He nodded. 'I was there for nine months. It was in Brixton; my social worker got me in there.'

'Did you know Louise?'

'Not really; I saw her the odd times she was in the recreational room. It was similar to this. She liked to watch the soaps. I wouldn't say that I got to know her; we just had a few chats. She was signing on at the Job Centre so I saw her there, and once we got a bus back to the hostel together. She was very nice. It's a terrible, terrible thing: I mean, she was only twenty, wasn't she?'

'Twenty-two. Did you meet any of her friends?'

'No, I never saw her with anybody outside the hostel.'

'When she left, did you maintain any contact with her?'

'No, like I said, I didn't know her that well. She got work at some clinic, doctor's or dentist's, quite a distance from the hostel, which I suppose is why she left.'

Anna took out a photograph and showed it to him. 'Are you in this photograph?'

He stared at it for a moment, then nodded. 'Yes, the hostel organised a bus trip to the Regent's Park zoo one Bank Holiday. I'd forgotten about that.'

Anna leaned forward. 'Do you know anyone else in this photograph?'

'That's me; the other bloke is Colin someone or other: he was staying at the hostel as well.' He frowned. 'They didn't like each other, Colin and her. They had some kind of argument over something stupid, like who had ordered Coke or orange juice; he said something to her and she got really uptight: they had a bit of a slanging match and then she walked off, didn't come back with us. She got in really late and I think she got told off because the door closed at eleven.'

'Do you know where this Colin is living now?'

'No.'

'Is there anything else you can recall about Louise?'

'She put it about a bit.'

'What do you mean?'

He leaned back, embarrassed. Anna waited.

'I mean, I dunno for sure, but we used to sort of talk about it, because she didn't have a job; this was before she got work at the clinic, right? There was a bar across the street and she used to go in there, and sort of get blokes to pay for meals and other things.'

'Sex?'

'I dunno, but we reckoned she was on the game. Not seriously, though.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Well, she had to be in the hostel at eleven, so it wasn't as if she was out on the streets all night.'

'But you think she was picking up men?'

'Yeah.' He flushed.

'Did you actually see her doing this?'

He shook his head.

'When was the last time you saw Louise?'

'You mean apart from at the hostel?'

'Yes.'

'I never saw her again; she never even said goodbye to anyone.'

Anna returned to her car, the smell of nicotine in her nostrils and on her clothes. The hostel had been a forlorn place, almost on a par with the bed-and-breakfast hotel she next went to in Paddington. Louise had stayed here before moving to live at Sharon's flat. The residents were mostly travelling salesmen and she began to feel it was going to be another waste of time. The woman that managed the hotel was Lebanese, and not very friendly: Mrs Ashkar had already been questioned by DS Barolli and resented having to repeat herself to Anna. She glanced at the photographs and said she did not know anyone; the only person she did know was the victim Louise Pennel and she said that she was very sorry for what had happened to her.

'Did she ever bring back anyone to the hotel?'

'No, not that I knew of, but a couple of times she was with some of the guests at the bar.'

Anna listed a few names taken from Louise's address book. Again, there was no one Mrs Ashkar recognised as ever staying at the hotel, though she did at least flick perfunctorily through the hotel register, her red nail varnish chipped, before shaking her head. Anna next showed the drawing of their suspect.

'Did you ever see Louise with this man, or someone similar? He's tall, well dressed, sometimes wears a long draped black or charcoal grey coat.'

Mrs Ashkar shrugged. 'No.' She had a thick, guttural accent.

'Do you have someone at the bar I could talk to?'

'We don't have a full-time barman. Joe works at the bar and in the kitchens; she used to help sometimes.'

'I'm sorry?

'I said, she worked in the kitchens sometimes, washing up, cleaning; she was always short of money. Sometimes she would help the cleaner in the morning make up the beds.'

'So this helped pay her bills?'

'Yes, she was moved out of one of the bigger rooms to the boxroom at the back. Joe used to get her to wash the glasses at the bar. I told all this to the other man that came round asking.'

'Is Joe here? I'd like to speak to him.'

Mrs Ashkar gave a sigh and then spoke into an intercom phone in Arabic.

'Go through the double doors, he'll come out and see you.'

'Thank you,' Anna said, disliking the woman's attitude. The so-called bar-cum-lounge was dark and dingy with old maroon velvet curtains and an overpowering smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol. There were a couple of easy chairs and a sofa, all threadbare, and a maroon and yellow carpet whose swirls were heavily stained. The bar itself was a glass-fronted, kidney-shaped counter in the corner of the room. Glasses and bottles were stacked on a shelf behind it alongside packets of peanuts and crisps in open boxes.

Anna turned as Joe breezed in. He was broad-shouldered and unshaven in a stained T-shirt and jeans; his pitch-dark hair was oiled back from his swarthy face and he had a jaded, handsome look. He smiled warmly at Anna and shook her hand. His hands were big, square and rough.

Annie went through the photographs and the names from Louise's address book. No result. When he was asked if any of the customers were friendly with her, he shrugged.

'Sure; she was always in here and if they bought her drinks, she'd sometimes stay up until two in the morning.'

'Did she favour anyone special?'

He shook his head, then went behind the nasty little bar and opened a beer. He proffered one to Anna but she refused. He took a swig then placed the bottle on a stained beer mat.

'She would sometimes go out to the station.'

'I'm sorry?

'I said she went round to the station, picked up men there.'

He gulped more beer, and then burped. 'Excuse me.'

'Did she bring them back here?'

'No way, not allowed: you get one tart and they come round like ants.'

'Did you ever see her with any regular man?'

'No, she was usually on her own; it always took a few drinks before she loosened up, then she'd be laughing and joking with us.'

Joe turned as the sour-faced Mrs Ashkar walked in, stared pointedly at them and walked out again.

'I better get back to work.' He drained his beer and tossed the bottle into a crate beneath the bar. 'I was sad to see her go, she was quite a fixture, but she'd found a flat over near Baker Street. She was excited about some new job prospect that was going to pay her a shedload of money.'

Anna at last felt she might be getting somewhere. 'Did she tell you anything about the job?'

'Not much; to be honest, I wasn't sure if it was true: she could spin some stories, especially after a few drinks.'

'Joe, it is very important that you try and remember anything she told you about this job.'

He shrugged. 'I only know she answered an advert. I think she worked in some dental clinic; she went out every day in the same clothes: white shirt and black skirt. I know she hated her job, they paid her peanuts, but she said she didn't have any qualifications. I think she was a receptionist, but she often didn't bother going; hung out here and helped change the sheets and stuff like that.'

'I know she worked for a dentist. This other job, can you remember anything she said about it?'

Mrs Ashkar walked in again; this time she said something to Joe and he looked at Anna.

'I got to go back to work.'

Anna whipped round and glared at Mrs Ashkar. 'A young girl that stayed here was murdered. I would appreciate it if you did not interrupt my conversation. I would hate to have to return here in a patrol car, with uniformed officers.'

It had the desired effect: Mrs Ashkar turned on her heel, the door swung open and shut behind her. Joe took a cloth, sprayed it with glass cleaner and began to wipe down the glass on top of the bar.

'Go on please, Joe.'

'Well, like I said, I knew she wanted to find other work; she even asked if we needed anyone here, you know, on a permanent basis, but we didn't. She was always skint and late paying her bill. One night, when she'd had a few too many, she started crying. She said she'd been to see some relative to borrow some money — she had a job interview and wanted to look good — but they'd refused to help her out. She'd called in sick at her work; she'd taken the day off to go somewhere.'

'Bognor Regis.'

He looked surprised. 'Yeah, right. I knew she'd been somewhere, because she had this big suitcase. In fact, I helped her take it up to her room. She had a couple of things she wanted me to buy.'

'Exactly what did she offer you?'

'Couple of little silver boxes and a candlestick.'

Anna asked how much he had given to Louise for the items. Joe hesitated.

'How much?'

'Twenty quid,' he said at last, somewhat embarrassed. Anna was certain the candlestick alone would have been worth a lot more, but did not pursue it.

'Was it after she came back with the suitcase that she told you about her new job?'

He nodded. 'She never said much about the job, just that she wanted to make an impression and needed money to get some new clothes. The next night she went out, probably to the station; I say that, because she had to have got money from somewhere: a few days later, she passed me in the reception and I hardly recognised her, she was so smart — a reddish coat, high-heeled shoes — when I said how good she looked, she laughed. She told me to keep my fingers crossed as she was going for the interview. I reckoned she must have got the job, because she moved out to this place she said she'd found in Baker Street a week or so later.'

Anna took a deep breath. 'Can you remember the exact date this job interview happened?'

Joe nodded and walked out. Anna heard a gabble of Arabic: Mrs Ashkar was obviously having another go at him. He returned with the hotel registry book and began to flick through it to find the date four days before Louise had left — it was 10 June.

Anna jotted the date down and smiled. 'Thank you. I really appreciate your help.'

'That's okay. I'm sorry about what happened to her.'

'Did you like her?'

He shrugged. 'She was very pretty, but there was something odd about her that sort of put you off.'

'Like what?'

'I dunno, like she was frightened of something, nervous, always biting her nails; sometimes she really needed a wash.'

'But she helped you around the bar and in the kitchens?'

'Yeah that's right; it's just me running the show. We serve full breakfast, no other meals, and then open the bar at night.'

'So who else works here?'

Joe gave a deep sigh. 'A cleaner and an old guy that helps me with the crates and stuff; we pay him in beer.'

'So you would have got to know Louise.'

Joe straightened up and smoothed back his hair. 'I am engaged to my girlfriend!'

'Really? Does that mean you and Louise were never …' She wafted her hand.

'Look, I don't want any trouble,' he said, and she could see the sweat on his forehead.

'Did you have sex with Louise?'

He gave a sigh. 'Yeah, kind of; I'd sometimes give her a few quid for a blow job, but it meant nothing. Like I said, I'm engaged; it was just that it was there and she was needy, you know what I mean?'

Anna said nothing; he looked at his watch.

'I got to go back to work.'

'If there is anything that you think of that might help my enquiry, this is my card and contact number.' She passed over her card. He took it and ran his thumb over the edge.

'I'm sorry. She was kind of sad, but she could be fun sometimes.'

Anna gave a prim smile. She disliked him intensely. 'Thank you for your help. Oh, there is just one thing — could I see her room?'

'What?'

'The room Louise Pennel stayed in while she was here, could I see it?'

Joe hesitated, and then shrugged. 'Sure; it's being used by the cleaner. It's not a regular hotel room.' They headed up three flights of stairs; the carpet was threadbare and the air reeked of stale cooking fat.

'It's from the Chinese restaurant next door,' Joe said as they passed a fire door and a bathroom before stopping at the end of the corridor. He opened the door and stepped back.

It was hardly large enough to be described as a room; a single bed and a dresser fought for space in the dank air. A torn net curtain covered the tiny window. The lino on the floor was filthy, as was what had once been a fluffy yellow bath mat. A picture of Christ on the Cross hung crooked, the frame chipped.

Anna drove back to the station, desperate for a shower, but there was no way she would have the time to take one until she went home that evening. She distracted herself with the thought that they now had the date when Louise went for her job interview, which would narrow down when the advert could have been placed. That Louise was selling herself to buy new clothes for the interview showed that she was desperate to make a good impression; Joe had described what sounded like Louise's missing maroon coat. Louise had moved into Sharon's flat after the job interview, but had continued working for the dental practice. She sighed, hating that all this might turn out to be a wild goose chase.

Anna joined Barolli at his desk. 'We have any luck with the advert Louise may have answered?'

'We're checking out a postal box; the number listed for applicants to call, we've drawn a blank on. It was a pay-as-you-go mobile number, so we can't trace any contract details.'

'Where was the postal box?'

Barolli passed over his report. The postal box and the mobile phone number had both been paid for with postal orders, purchased at different post offices: one in Slough and the other in Charing Cross. 'If it is our man, he covered his tracks. BT are checking out the line, but he could have used it for incoming calls only. Thousands of those phones are sold; using a very busy post office means there's little hope that anyone would remember who bought a cash order over eight months ago.'

Anna scanned through Barolli's report and then passed it back. 'One step forwards, two steps back. To be honest, I was beginning to wonder if it was a red herring, but we know Louise went for a job interview sometime in June.'

Anna told Barolli what she had learned that morning.

'Terrific; what do we do? Hang out at Paddington station and question every possible punter using the station!'

Anna pursed her lips; she got the feeling that Barolli felt he had wasted hours of his time. 'No, but if BT can trace calls made to that mobile number, we might find someone else who answered the advert.'

Barolli grinned and pointed. 'Good thinking. I'll crack on.'

Anna typed up her report of the morning's interviews. She then returned to Barolli's desk. 'We found no chequebook or bank account in Louise Pennel's name, right?'

'Yep. But she might have had one under a different name; we've found nothing to indicate that she had an account or credit card.'

'Do we know how her salary was paid?'

Barolli pulled at his pug nose and then checked his file. 'They paid her in cash. She was on thirteen thousand a year! By the time tax, National Insurance, etcetera had been deducted, she was taking home hardly enough to live on.'

Anna frowned and leaned closer. 'If she paid tax on a cash wage! What was the rent at Sharon's?'

Barolli shrugged. 'I don't know. No one asked me to check.'

'Don't worry, I'll find out. Thanks.'

Anna returned to her desk and rang Sharon; she left a message. Next, she called Mrs Hughes at Florence Pennel's house, trying to ascertain the exact dates of Louise's movements before she moved in at Sharon's.

Mrs Hughes was evasive to begin with, saying that she had done nothing wrong.

'Mrs Hughes, I am sure there will be no repercussions for you, but I need to know exactly what you gave to Louise.'

'Well, they were just some things that her grandmother had given me. I never needed them, and I felt sorry for the poor girl; she looked dreadful.'

'That was very kind of you. Could you tell me what the items were?'

As well as the clutch bag with the suede flower motif, there was a nightdress, a dressing gown and some slippers.

'As I said, they were just things that Mrs Pennel had given to me. They were not worth anything, and I didn't want them.'

'Did you give her any make-up?'

'No.'

'Did you give her any money at all?'

'No, I didn't!'

'Thank you very much.'

Anna put the phone down. She'd hoped for more items that might have been traceable. The date of Louise's visit to her grandmother coincided with her returning to the B&B with the suitcase. Anna tried Sharon again but there was still no answer so, impatient to find out what rent was being charged, she called the landlady direct.

Mrs Jenkins was very guarded, saying that she paid income tax on her rentals. Anna gave her the same reassuring treatment as Mrs Hughes and eventually discovered that the rental for the top-floor flat in Balcombe Street was one hundred and fifty pounds a week, with a deposit of a thousand pounds.

Astonished, Anna returned to Barolli's desk. He was hanging on the line for information from BT. He looked to Anna and gestured that it was all right for her to talk.

'Louise Pennel was paying half of a hundred and fifty quid a week rent, so that's seventy-five pounds a week on her wages. It would have been impossible to even buy a cup of coffee.' Barolli nodded. 'So where did she get the cash?'

Barolli covered the mouthpiece. 'Turning tricks?'

Anna shook her head. 'If Louise had been working as a prostitute, Sharon would have known; so would Mrs Jenkins.'

'She had to have been getting money from somewhere; she moved out of the B&B after the job interview so the two must be linked.'

Just then, Lewis came steaming into the Incident Room. He held up a plastic bag. 'Two more, we've got two more.'

Anna turned to face him. 'Two more what?'

Lewis's face was flushed. 'Sent to the Incident Room, been downstairs since they arrived this morning. You won't bloody believe what they say. Where's the Gov?'

In front of everyone, Langton put on rubber gloves and unzipped the protective forensic bag.

The first note read:

Dahlia's Killer CraCkin. Wants terms?

The second:

To DCI James Langton. I will give up in Red Dahlia killing if I get ten years. DON'T TRY TO FIND ME.

Both notes were written in letters cut from newspapers. The constant ringing of telephones was the only sound in the room as Langton carefully replaced the notes, not wanting to contaminate them. He then crossed to the noticeboard.

'He's a day out on the Black Dahlia timeframe. The LA Examiner received almost identical letters to these on January the twenty-seventh.'

'So he is copycatting,' Anna said.

'That's pretty obvious,' snapped Langton. He looked to Barolli. 'Let's get over to the lab and see if these have anything. Like a fucking fingerprint would be useful!'

Langton and Barolli left the station. Anna was pouring a coffee for herself when Lewis joined her.

'If this nutter is copycatting the original Black Dahlia case, you know what comes next?'

'Yes, we get sent a photograph of a white male with a stocking pulled so tight over his face, he's unrecognisable.'

'Called him the Werewolf Killer,' Lewis said, pointing to the listings of the contacts made by the Black Dahlia killer in 1947.

Anna sipped her coffee; it was stale, and she pulled a face.

'This is getting hairy, isn't it?' Lewis remarked.

Anna nodded. 'On the old enquiry, they reckoned their killer was obsessed with Jack the Ripper; ours is obsessed with the Black Dahlia killer. Either way, they are both playing sick games. I doubt we'll get anything from the notes.'

Lewis nodded and returned to his desk. Anna was passing Barolli's when Bridget raised her hand.

'Excuse me, Anna, but I've got someone from BT on the line for Detective Sergeant Barolli; do you want to talk to him?'

Anna nodded and picked up Barolli's phone. She identified herself and then listened as an engineer gave her details of two calls answering the advert. They were made on land lines and so had been traceable; any call made using a mobile, however, they had no record of.

Anna could feel her heart pumping. If those two callers had responded to the same advert as Louise Pennel, this might be the first major step forward in tracing the tall dark-haired man.

Langton sat in a hard-backed chair at the lab at Lambeth. Around his feet were cigarette ends, above his head the NO SMOKING sign. He looked at his watch impatiently. Barolli came out of the gents' toilet.

'Still waiting?'

'What does it look like? I've never sat around like this on any other case. But I want these lab reports.'

Langton took out a rolled-up Evening Standard from his pocket, and started to read.

'Do you think he's going to go all the way with this copycat scenario?'

'Maybe,' Langton muttered.

'So you think this sick bastard's going to grab some innocent kid, truss him up, put a stocking over his head and send in his photograph?'

'I don't think all that crap with the boy and stocking mask was from the killer; just some other sick fuck wanting publicity.'

'You think those notes are from him, though?' Barolli asked.

'I don't know; if they are, let's hope we get something off them.'

'Think we should we go to LA, Gov?'

Langton folded his paper and stuffed it back into his pocket. 'No, I fucking don't! This guy is here, not in LA. He's in London somewhere and we will find him. I am getting sick to death of this Black or Red Dahlia shit. We have a twisted killer with a sadistic mind, and someone somewhere knows who he is.'

At that moment, the swing doors opened. The technicians had finished their tests on the latest notes.