The Red Dahlia (19 page)

‘I’ve been asked about this girl before,’ he said, as he sat down.

‘Yes I know, but we are just hoping that something might jog your memory.’

‘Right, I understand. I’ve been reading about her, but you know, I said before, I don’t recall ever seeing her; we get hundreds a night in.’

Anna’s patience was being tried. ‘Yes I know, but could you just look over the photographs again, please?’

It was virtually the same response as from the previous doorman. Anna was relieved when he left; his cologne was making her feel sick.

Barolli returned and hovered. ‘No luck?’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, like I said, I have questioned them, and all the taxi cabs that work the club.’

‘Did you get any joy with the cloakroom attendant?’

‘Yeah, she’s coming in; should be another half hour.’

Anna sighed; it was feeling like a waste of time.

‘This is the barman,’ Barolli said, nodding over to the reception, as a tall handsome man headed towards them. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with trainers. He smiled.

‘Hi, I’m Jim Carter. I’d have been here earlier but I had a problem with my car.’ He slid in beside Anna.

Anna introduced herself as Barolli wandered off, looking bored.

She laid out the photographs and drawing. ‘Do you recall her at all?’

He shook his head. ‘Nope, and this guy isn’t familiar.’

Anna pointed across to the bar. ‘She sat on that stool for some considerable time. Can we walk over there?’

‘Sure, anything to help.’

Anna sat on the stool used by Louise Pennel, and Jim Carter moved behind the bar.

‘She was sitting here for a good while on the night she went missing. She had two beers, glasses not bottles.’

Jim nodded. ‘If I’m serving, I’m on the go; we do a lot of cocktails, so it’s shake and serve, shake and serve.’

‘She paid for her drinks in coins, counting them out on the counter.’

Anna swivelled on the stool and leaned on the bar with her elbows. Jim stood with his hands on his hips, still no memory.

‘She was constantly looking to the doorway into the reception area, as if she was waiting for someone.’

Yet again he shrugged. Anna described what Louise was wearing, and he still looked vague.

‘I’d like to help you, but I’m sorry. I mean, she was very attractive, obviously, but when I’m working, you hardly get time to think, never mind remember anyone specifically.’

Anna thanked him and sat alone as he walked out into the reception area. She saw him chat to the two doormen still hanging around; they looked as if they were discussing the waste of their time as they turned back to look at her.

Barolli passed them with another cup of coffee. Anna watched him via the mirror behind the bar. He crossed to the booth and slumped inside. She watched as he tapped his foot, looked at his watch, and slurped his coffee. He leaned back and caught her eye, shrugged, then pointed to his coffee; she shook her head.

It was another ten minutes before Doreen Sharpe arrived. She was the cloakroom attendant, a single mother in her early thirties.

‘This shouldn’t take long.’ Anna once again laid out the photographs of Louise Pennel. ‘Her coat was maroon with a velvet collar,’ she said and described the rest of Louise’s outfit.

Doreen took her time; she looked from one photograph to the next and licked her lips. ‘I’ve been reading about the murder,’ she said, softly. ‘Terrible thing; they call her the Red Dahlia, don’t they?’

‘Yes, that is correct.’

‘She didn’t leave me a tip.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Anna leaned forwards.

‘She left her coat. I put it on a hanger for her, gave her the ticket; it’s sort of a courtesy thing the club has, you know: they don’t charge you for leaving your coats, but you make it up in tips.’

‘You remember Louise Pennel?’

‘The coat didn’t fit what she was wearing underneath it — very low-cut top and short skirt — it was more a coat worn by a rich teenager in the fifties. I used to have a second-hand one but it was green, vented collar and six velvet-covered buttons, but hers was red, dark maroon, and came from Harrods. I saw the label.’

Anna was flabbergasted.

‘I put it on a hanger for her and gave her a ticket. It was quite early on. I have a system, you know; the early birds I put on the back rail because as the evening goes on, they are the ones that leave late. Don’t ask me why, but they do; we get a big rush between eleven and two, people coming in from shows or dinner, and they usually stay only an hour or so, you have to have a system or you’d be searching through the racks like a demented idiot.’

‘So you took her coat?’

‘Yes, and hung it on the back rail. She took her ticket and went into the bar area, I think.’

Anna could hardly believe what she was hearing.

‘It would be about eleven-thirty, maybe a bit after when she came back. I said to her that she was leaving early and she said that she had to go, so I got her coat. I passed it over and she walked off, without so much as a thank-you, let alone a tip!’

Anna showed her the sketch of their suspect. ‘This is just a drawing of the man we think Louise might have been waiting for; did you see him?’

‘I’ve been thinking about him,’ Doreen said, tapping the sketch.

Anna could hardly contain herself. ‘You saw him?’

‘Well I think I might have; I couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure.’

‘In the club?’

‘No, outside.’

‘Outside the club?’

‘Yes, by the fire escape doors, they lead into an alley; when we need a cigarette break, we nip out there. At the end of the alley is the road that runs behind the club. It’s only a few feet away, and the parking attendants have a field day because punters think they can park out there, but they hand out tickets like confetti!’

‘You saw this man?’

‘Like I said, I am not one hundred per cent sure; it could have been him. I didn’t get that much of a good look, what I saw was him sitting inside his car.’

‘Do you know what make of car it was?’

‘Black, very shiny, caught the lights, maybe the new Rover? I’m not good with cars, but my boss on the other job has one and it was similar to his, which is why I remember it.’

‘He was sitting inside the car?’

‘Yes, then he got out and walked round to the passenger side as she came up to the car. He opened the door and she sort of hung back; then he pulled her towards him and they looked like they were having some kind of argument, but from where I was standing I couldn’t hear what they were saying. She pulled away from him and then he gripped her by the arm and pushed her into the car; he slammed the door so hard, it rocked the car. The reason I remember it was I saw her coat and I wondered if he was maybe her father, because I thought she was very over made-up. I mean she was only twenty-two, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Anna nodded, glancing at Barolli who stared at Doreen in total silence. ‘And he looked like this sketch?’ Anna persisted.

‘Yes, thin-faced, short hair, and he had this long dark coat on. It could be him; quite tall as well, but not well built.’

‘Can you recall anything else?’

‘No, I went back in, in fact before they drove off. I can only take a few minutes out there or there would be coats up the ying-yang, and I got to get someone to look after the tickets. I usually get one of the girls from the toilets: they have two on duty because people make such a mess in there.’

Just as Anna was about to thank Doreen for coming in, she dropped another jewel in their lap. ‘She had a friend with her, blonde girl, she’s often at the club; she’s a naughty one. She didn’t stay more than an hour.’

Anna closed her eyes; this had to be Sharon.

‘So I had to get her wrap, it was one of those bits of fur; you know, sort of a collar thing that’s in fashion at the moment: you can’t really hang them up on the hangers, you’ve got to tie them or they slip off. She was quite a little madam: she said for me not to tie a knot in the ribbon; anyways, she came back and she was with her.’

‘I’m sorry, who was with her?’

‘Your dead girl, she was with her; they were arguing and then the blonde girl opened her bag and gave her some money.’

Anna opened her file, searched around and brought out the photograph used by the newspapers of Sharon. ‘Is this the blonde girl?’

‘Yes, that’s her. I mean, I don’t know her, but I saw her picture in the newspaper as well, I recognised them both. The blonde has quite a mouth on her, and they was really having a row, and then she almost threw this money at her and screeched out something, then sort of pushed her; you know, like a smack, but it was a push.’

As Anna put the photographs back in the file, Barolli beat her to the next question.

‘Why haven’t you come forward with this information?’

Doreen looked startled. ‘Well I didn’t think it was anything interesting, you know. I didn’t think it meant anything, really; it doesn’t, does it?’

‘It’s a great help to us.’ Anna smiled, though she didn’t feel happy at all. She was furious that Sharon had not told them the truth about her last night with Louise. Doreen led them to the alleyway and fire exit. The road was not that far from the doorway and, as Doreen pointed out, it was very well lit. As they returned to the club, Doreen, who by now fancied herself as some kind of detective, stopped to show them the cloakroom.

‘I think there was some jealousy going on between them. I mean, as I said, I didn’t hear exactly what they were saying, but it was quite a nasty squabble; the dead girl was very upset afterwards. She went into the ladies’, then next minute she’s wanting her coat!’

Doreen was about to repeat everything she had told them about her methods of running the cloakroom, but Anna cut her short. ‘You have been really very helpful, Doreen, thank you.’

‘Is there a reward?’

Barolli glanced at Anna as he headed out.

‘No, I’m sorry, there isn’t.’

Barolli already had the engine ticking over as Anna joined him.

‘Don’t bloody believe this,’ he muttered.

‘What, you think she’s lying?’ Anna said, slamming her door closed.

‘No, just the one person I didn’t question, and bingo! Not that we got too much out of it.’

‘You want to bet? I think that little cow Sharon has been holding out on us, so I want to get to see her a.s.a.p. I know it would be too much luck, but can you check if a traffic warden saw the car parked up? She said they stick tickets on anything parked in that road.’ Barolli nodded and made a call on his mobile as Anna tried to contact Sharon on hers. There was no reply. By the time they returned to the station, it was after twelve. As Anna was updating Langton, they were interrupted with a message to say that there had been no ticket issued to a black Rover; all the other vehicles parked in the road behind the club would now be checked, in case one of them proved to be their suspect’s car. Two steps forward, one back, and by three o’clock, Anna still had not been able to contact Sharon.

The team were all gathered for a briefing; Langton had received yet another contact from their suspect. It read,

LP derserved to die, another victimm will pay the same price

Partly in cut-out newspaper letters and partly handwritten in ink, it was signed The Dahlia Killer. The forensic experts felt this latest note was from the same person, deliberate spelling mistakes and all.

The press office was becoming agitated, wanting an update on what they could or could not release. Langton, with no suspect, was at his wits’ end. It seemed, as the killer said, that the police could not catch him; despite the audacity of actually sending the notes to the Incident Room, the postmarks were from so many different locations that tracing the sender was impossible. The cheap lined notepaper and manila envelopes were both sold in bulk. Whoever had sent them had not licked the envelope, leaving no DNA, nor even a single fingerprint.

Langton maintained a calm front but he was looking worn out. Even with the latest information from the nightclub, they still were no closer to identifying the tall, dark-haired man. The sketch had been in the papers over three consecutive days; he could not believe that no one had come forward. The Commander and her team were putting the pressure on and considering bringing in backup; to Langton, this meant he could be removed from the case.

Anna had assumed that after Professor Marshe had tripped up with the newspaper editor, she would not be called on again. Anna was wrong. Professor Marshe, looking her usual sophisticated self, arrived as the briefing ended and went straight into Langton’s office.

While everyone waited for them to emerge, Anna yet again called Sharon Bilkin. There was still no reply; this time, her answerphone did not click on but made a whirring sound. Anna called Mrs Jenkins, the landlady, also without success. She felt as disillusioned as the other members of the team. They talked quietly to each other, mulling over statements and the nonstop phone calls coming in to the station. To date, they had had three ‘confessors’: three men of various ages appearing at the station to admit to the murder. It was a known hazard of any murder enquiry; some were even known to the police because they were persistent ‘I done it’ time-wasters. The three were all questioned and released.

Langton returned to the Incident Room at almost five forty-five, accompanied by Professor Marshe. He did not seem in any way attentive to her; if anything, he was cold and aloof, gesturing for her to sit. She produced notes and files and laid them out, then sat, straight-backed, in the chair.

‘I have been studying the original case history of the Elizabeth Short murder, obviously, as you have all been doing, matching the notes and threats alongside your Red Dahlia.’ She held up the two women’s photographs. ‘If we are to believe our killer has an obsession with the Los Angeles murder, and is now making a sickening mirror of it, then we have to take very seriously the threat to kill again.’

Anna gave a sidelong glance to Lewis to see him rolling his eyes at Barolli.

The Professor continued, laying out details of the LA victims, all purported to have been murdered by the same man. The first had been killed before Elizabeth Short: she had been an heiress, and had been found brutally killed in the bathtub of her own apartment. ‘If this was his first kill, although it was messy and brutal, it did not have the same hallmarks as the murder of Elizabeth Short; the third victim, however…’