The Red Dahlia (23 page)

He gave a shrug. ‘Look, I’m a journalist.’

‘Don’t give me your bullshit; this was highly confidential!’

‘Now, wait a minute; a lot of it’s public domain.’

‘Some of this isn’t and you know it. How could you do this to me?’

‘Anna, like I said, I’m a journalist. This is a big story.’

‘You knew what I told you was confidential! And what I didn’t tell you, you got out of my notebook. What did you do? Wait until you’d got me drunk? Until I had fallen asleep, so you could creep out of my bed to filch it?’

‘Anna.’ He took hold of her arm; their confrontation was exciting a lot of interest among the other journalists at their desks.

She swiped his hand away. ‘I have been kicked off the case. I probably have no career left, but that wouldn’t interest you, would it? You got your story and to hell with any consequences or trouble you might have got me into — and I am in big trouble. I think you are despicable!’

Reynolds pursed his lips, then reached over his desk and picked up the Black Dahlia book. ‘There was an LA journalist who broke the news about the Black Dahlia suspect. All I was doing was following what happened in the original murder enquiry.’

‘None of what I told you was ever connected to that.’

‘Yes it was. What you had not told me was what your victim had been subjected to, and it is the same as the Black Dahlia, so even though you are trying to disconnect the two…’

‘I’d like you to eat shit!’ she snapped. Reynolds knew she was referring to what Louise Pennel had been forced into doing and it angered him.

‘Don’t be so crass. What you might not realise is that I work for the Sun, and although we are part of the same group that publish the News of the World, it’s a different bloody newspaper.’

‘So what did you do? Sell the information? It had to come from you, so don’t try and say you had nothing to do with it!’

‘Don’t you understand? The News of the World filched their article from mine!’

Anna continued, her voice rising. ‘We had not allowed that information to be leaked, because if we did bring in a suspect—’

‘You have one. You told me.’

‘I also told you that it was highly unlikely he was the killer. Now you’ve blasted it out.’

Reynolds looked around at the people listening and again tried to draw her away, but she wouldn’t budge.

‘Let’s go and have a coffee, talk in private about it,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to be in your company longer than it takes to say what I have come to tell you. I want nothing more to do with you. If this has hampered the enquiry, then you will have DCI Langton to deal with. This is just for my personal satisfaction. You are a creep and a two-faced bastard.’ She picked up the coffee he had left on his desk and threw it in his face. It was a good hit: his hair was soaked and his face dripping.

‘That’s very childish.’

‘Maybe, but it’s made me feel better.’ She turned and walked away as he tried to mop up the coffee from his face and his sopping shirt.

By the time she got back to her car, she was shaking with nerves. She drove home, hardly able to think straight, and her anger was unabated as she parked and let herself into the flat. She almost broke down in tears again, but refused to allow herself to. She tipped out her briefcase and searched through The Black Dahlia for the section that Reynolds had mentioned. She carried it into the kitchen and sat reading it over and over.

The original article had been written by a screenwriter and sent to the LA Herald Express. As Reynolds had said, it covered much the same ground as his article, describing the gruesome injuries of the victim and revealing that a suspect was being held in custody. Its publication had prompted the real killer to admit the murder, wanting recognition for his hideous crime and to claim the publicity he had earned.

Anna’s mouth was dry as she drove to the station. She walked slowly up the stone steps and approached the Incident Room. She stood for a few moments outside the double doors, listening to jangling phones and muted voices, before mustering the guts to push them open.

The room fell silent as everyone turned to stare at her. She walked to her desk and took off her coat, folding it over the back of her chair. She could see the glances passing back and forth, and knew her cheeks would be pink with embarrassment, but she kept going. Taking from her briefcase her notebook and pencil, she proceeded to the front of the room to stand by the white crime board. There were a lot of copies of the newspaper article lying around. It was Lewis who spoke to her first.

‘You’ve got a lot of bottle, Travis.’

‘Not really, but I need to say something to everyone.’

‘Floor’s yours.’ He gestured to the room; everyone was listening.

Anna coughed and then lifted her head to stare at a small spot on the wall directly in front and across from where she was standing.

‘I really fouled up, and I am here to apologise to everyone. I had too much to drink and I foolishly trusted Richard Reynolds, the journalist. When I told him that what I was saying was highly confidential and not for publication, he promised me that it would go no further. I have no excuse, bar the fact I had that afternoon been through the hideous autopsy report on Louise Pennel and then seeing Sharon Bilkin’s body. I can only apologise and, if what has happened as a result of my stupidity creates problems for this enquiry, I am ashamed and deeply sorry. That’s all; again, please accept my apologies for my unprofessional and very naive conduct.’

Anna returned to her desk, leaving everyone unsure how to deal with what she had said. It was almost as if they wanted to give her a round of applause for standing up to them. Anna had been so nervous that she had not seen Langton appear, listen and walk back into his office. She packed up her desk, and was reaching for her raincoat when Barolli came over and handed her a coffee.

‘I’d just let him brood a few more hours, I’m sure this won’t—’

‘Travis!’ came the bellow before he could finish.

Anna turned to see Langton holding the blinds of his office window open; he gestured for her to join him and then let them flip closed again. She tapped on his door and waited a beat before she went in.

‘You’ve got a lot of nerve,’ he said, standing in front of his desk with his thumbs caught in his braces.

‘I meant everything I said.’

‘I bloody hope you did, but it doesn’t alter the facts.’

There was a pause as he glared at her. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl standing in front of her teacher; she had to bite the inside of her mouth hard to stop the tears welling up.

‘What do you think your father would have to say?’

‘He would be ashamed.’

He nodded, and then checked his watch. ‘Go home.’

‘I was intending to do that.’

As she walked to the door, she paused a moment. ‘Did we get anything from the cash found at Sharon’s flat?’

‘Not yet; it’s Sunday, remember?’

‘Oh, I know what day it is, and one I won’t forget.’

She walked out and closed the door quietly behind her. Passing through the Incident Room, she got a few glances and smiles, but they didn’t make her feel any better. She went up to Lewis, who was printing serial numbers on the board.

‘We might get some luck with these. There’s over a thousand pounds in new notes; the rest are all odd numbers.’

Anna hovered and then asked if she could speak to him in private. He looked nonplussed and then gestured to the corridor.

Anna gathered her things and went to wait for Lewis. It was a few minutes before he joined her.

‘I spoke to Reynolds this morning; his excuse for what he had done was that in the Black Dahlia case, a screenwriter wrote a similar article—’

‘Yeah, yeah, I have read the book.’

‘Then you know what happened after the article was written: the killer was so angry about this suspect that was held claiming all the credit—’

Lewis interrupted her, impatient. ‘We released our suspect this morning; we sent him back to where he walked out from, an institution over in Tooting: it was another time waster.’

‘Yes I know that, we suspected it from the moment he walked in. What I am saying is, the article on the old Black Dahlia case was in actual fact a ruse, made up by the journalist to try and flush out the real killer.’

Lewis sighed, even more impatient. ‘Anna, I know: we’ve all read the book; the time waster we just released had also read the book! You’re not telling me anything we haven’t discussed this morning. Unless I am hearing you wrong and you are trying to tell me that you gave all the information to this prick at the Sun because you were trying to flush out the real killer?’

‘No, I am not saying that.’

‘Then what exactly are you trying to tell me?’

She hesitated. It was obvious she never intended for it all to happen, but what if it did do some good? ‘Listen: what if such a big article, and in all the Sundays, might be enough to dent the real killer’s ego? He’ll want to make sure we know we are holding the wrong man.’

‘The Gov’s already reasoned that might happen, so he’s been in touch with your boyfriend, seeing if he can repair some of the damage.’

Anna was taken aback. Langton never ceased to surprise her.

‘You should thank him, because if he does go down that route, it’ll get you off the hook. He’ll be saying that the whole nasty episode was a ruse to flush the bastard out. It depends on whether or not we get a result.’

‘If you do, does that mean I’m still on the case?’

‘Don’t ask me, I didn’t know you were off it. I suspected you’d be in deep trouble, but you know the Gov — he always protects his team.’

Lewis went back into the Incident Room leaving Anna in the corridor, a lump in her throat.

Chapter Ten

DAY TWENTY-ONE

Anna was watching the early-morning news when the phone rang. It was Barolli; he had been instructed to tell her they needed her to help man the phones. She was out of the flat and in the Incident Room in ten minutes. Langton wasn’t there; he had been called in for a big pow-wow with the top brass. No one said anything to her; it was just accepted that she was back.

The daily newspapers had all run articles based on the coverage in yesterday’s papers, unaware that the suspected Red Dahlia killer was no longer in custody, but correctly saying that the police had received many notes, apparently from the killer, and that each one had been authenticated as being written by the same person. Calls were coming in thick and fast, but by midday, there had been no contact from their killer. Barolli and Lewis were out, trying to trace the bank notes found at Sharon Bilkin’s flat; it was the only new development, apart from her tragic murder. Anna worked the phones alongside uniformed and clerical staff. It was Bridget who took the call, and she immediately came over to Anna.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a woman, and she’s very nervous. She’s called twice and hung up. I recognised her voice; this is the third time. She says she has information and needs to speak to someone on the enquiry.’

‘Put her through to me.’

By the time Bridget returned to her desk, the caller had hung up. They had hundreds of hang-ups along with time wasters, so Anna continued contending with the incoming calls. At three-fifteen, Bridget signalled to Anna. ‘It’s her again.’

Anna nodded, and Bridget said told the caller she was transferring her to a senior officer.

‘Good afternoon, this is DI Anna Travis speaking. Who is this?’

‘Are you on the murder?’ The woman’s voice was very faint. ‘The Red Dahlia murder investigation?’

‘Yes I am. Who is this?’

Silence. Anna waited a moment. ‘Can you give me your name? All calls are treated as highly confidential.’

There was another pause. She could hear the woman breathing.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, but I have to be anonymous.’

‘But you are calling about Louise Pennel?’

‘The Red Dahlia. She is the Red Dahlia, isn’t she?’

‘That is what the press call her.’

Anna sighed, impatient; she had had so many calls like this. ‘Could you please give me your name and address?’

‘No, no I can’t, but I think I know who he is. She stayed at his house.’

‘I’m sorry, but could you repeat that?’

Anna signalled that she wanted a trace put on her call. The tracer team were set up in the Incident Room, ready and waiting, in case the killer himself made contact.

‘Oh God, this is terrible.’

‘I am sure it must be, but if you do have something that you think could be connected, it would really be appreciated. Could you give me your name?’

‘No, no I can’t.’

‘That’s all right, just tell me what information you have. Hello?’

Anna looked over to see if the call was being traced. They signalled for her to keep the caller on the line. Anna kept her voice low, trying to encourage the caller to give more details.

‘It is often very distressing, especially if you have suspicions regarding someone you know. Do you know this person?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was hardly audible.

‘And you say that the girl, Louise Pennel, was…’

‘The Red Dahlia,’ the woman interjected. There was another pause, then an intake of breath, like a gasp. ‘I think she was at his house.’

‘Could you tell me his name?’ Anna looked over again; the officer gestured for her to keep talking: they had not had enough time to trace it. ‘You know, anything you tell me will be in the strictest confidence.’

‘Oh God, this is awful, and I might be wrong, I don’t know what to do.’

Anna again glanced over but the officer still shook his head.

‘I think it might really help you if you did tell me what you know.’

Anna listened as the woman gave a dry sob.

‘You sound as if this is really distressing you. You said you may be wrong; if so, we could check it out for you and put your mind at rest.’

The line went dead. Anna closed her eyes in frustration. They were only able to determine that the call was from a mobile phone; as yet they could not pinpoint the location.

Bridget joined Anna. ‘What do you think?’