The Red Dahlia (24 page)

‘Well, she sounded distressed enough that it could be real; on the other hand, how many of these have we had?’

‘A lot. But no one else keeps calling back.’

Anna shrugged; they would just have to wait to see if she called again.

The mail to the Incident Room was being checked over for further anonymous notes. They had been sent several. By mid-afternoon, three had been singled out by their expert as written by the same hand as the ones previously sent to DCI Langton. Again, an attempt had been made to alter the writing, and some words were crudely misspelled.

IF HE CONFESSES, YOU WON’T NEED ME

THE PERSON SENDING THOSE OTER NOTES OUGHT TO BE ARESTED FOR FORGERY HA HA!

ASK THE NEWSPAPER JOURNALIST FOR A CLUE, WHY NOT LET THAT NUT GO, YOU HAVE THE WRONG MAN.

Anna stood in front of the board with the rest of the team.

‘They are almost identical to the notes received in the Black Dahlia murder,’ Anna said to Bridget. As she spoke, copies were being pinned up alongside the other contacts by the killer. ‘Maybe the article has pushed him into sending them, but he’s still left no fingerprints and we can’t trace the paper. Anything on the postmarks?’

‘No, from all over London: Kilburn, Hampstead and Richmond. They were all sent on the same day as well. We’ve got people out there, hoping someone saw whoever posted them, but it’s a long shot.’ Bridget gave an open-handed gesture. ‘It’s crazy, isn’t it?’

Justin Collins was not expecting the two officers who turned up to speak to him at the Chelsea antique market. He was very nervous when Lewis and Barolli showed him their ID. He was a tall, thin-faced man with a flamboyant necktie and tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. Mr Collins specialised in Art Deco figures, paintings and crockery. He thought at first that they had come about the handling of hot items, but when told it was about money, he looked confused. He admitted he had withdrawn a thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes from Coutts in the Strand. He opened his ledger to check when he had paid out the money. He had bought numerous items, but none for a round sum of a thousand. Lewis asked if he could check out any items costing more. He was sweating as he looked from page to page, saying that he often bought on an ad hoc basis from dealers and customers who walked into the shop with goods for sale. He also went to many antique fairs up and down the country.

Lewis showed him the drawing of their suspect. He glanced at it and shrugged.

‘To be honest, that could be any one of a few customers I have dealt with over the years. Is he in the business?’

‘He is a suspect.’

‘Ah well, I wish I could be of more assistance.’

‘We hope so too, Mr Collins. You see, that money we have traced to you was found in a victim’s flat; this is a murder enquiry.’

‘Oh Christ. Let me get my other glasses and check my sales books.’

They waited silently as he sat thumbing through one book after another. Lewis sighed; he was pretty sure what he was witnessing was one set of accounts for the taxman and another that never saw the light of day.

‘This could be it.’ Collins tapped a page. ‘It was at the Kensington Town Hall antique fair; over three months ago, I had a stall there. Yes, this could be it, but I paid more than a thousand: it was actually two and a half thousand.’

‘Do you have the address of the person who sold you the item?’

‘No no, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m also afraid I don’t have the brooch. I sold it.’

He flicked through another book and then pointed. ‘Yes, I sold it to an American dealer; it was an Art Deco diamond-and-emerald brooch, a very nice piece, in good condition. I have the address of the buyer here.’

Lewis chewed his lip and waited as Collins jotted down the name and address of a woman in Chicago. Terrific!

Barolli was becoming impatient and leaned forwards. ‘Okay Mr Collins, what’s important to us is who sold you the brooch.’

‘A young woman; she said she had inherited it from her grandmother.’

‘Do you have her name?’

Collins became more flustered. ‘No, as I said, it was brought to the fair. I looked at it, then went over to a friend of mine who deals in jewellery and he said it was a very good price; in fact, an exceptionally good price.’

‘Can you describe the woman who sold it?’

‘Yes, yes: young, blonde, quite attractive.’

Lewis took out the photograph of Sharon Bilkin. ‘This woman?’

‘Yes, yes that’s her. I’m certain of it.’

Langton sat at his desk as Lewis explained what they had discovered from the antique dealer.

‘What might have happened is that someone gave Sharon the brooch, she then takes it to the antique fair to sell. I think the dealer was telling us the truth. We can double-check with the guy who said the brooch was a good buy; maybe also verify it was Sharon Bilkin selling it.’

‘Go back and question any of Sharon’s associates; see if they know anything about how she got this brooch.’

‘Do you want us to try and find the woman that bought it?’

‘In Chicago? Do me a favour!’

‘Someone might recognise it,’ Lewis said, flatly.

‘Yeah, yeah, maybe try and give her a call. Do you have a number?’

‘No.’

‘Fucking brilliant! Did you get a description of it?’ Lewis shifted his weight. ‘Yeah, it was a diamond-and-emerald cluster, like a flower, Art Deco, platinum clasp and safety pin.’

Langton gave an open-handed gesture. ‘Get on to it.’

Lewis nodded and walked out, leaving Langton moodily checking over copies of the notes sent in by their suspected killer.

Anna was sifting through her notes and making a list of the people she had talked to about Sharon. She was about to print off a page of names and addresses when Bridget signalled to her from across the room.

‘It’s her again!’ she mouthed.

Anna reached for the phone. ‘Hello, this is DI Anna Travis. I am part of the Red Dahlia murder enquiry team. We really appreciate anyone calling who can give us any help.’

Anna listened; the woman was crying.

‘If whatever you have to say to us is worrying you, then just stay calm, take deep breaths. Your call will be treated with…’

‘This is the Red Dahlia murder, isn’t it?’ The caller’s voice was high-pitched and frightened.

‘Yes, that is correct. Would you like to give me your name and then I could come round and see you? It might be easier than talking on the phone.’

‘No, no, I can’t, I can’t do that. I don’t want you to know who I am.’

Anna kept her voice calm and steady. They were trying to get another trace on the call. ‘But you do have something you want to tell me?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was fainter, as if she was standing away from the phone.

‘And this is connected to the Red Dahlia murder?’

‘Yes, yes!’ She was close again now and her voice had become shrill.

‘So let’s just stay calm. My name is Anna, so if you would like to tell me, then I will deal with whatever it is.’

Pause.

Anna looked at Bridget, frustrated: it sounded like the caller was going to hang up again. ‘You have been very brave so far; it must have taken a lot of guts to call. If you have some information about someone you know — is that right?’

‘Oh, Christ. I can’t do this!’

‘Just tell me what it is; you’ll feel a lot calmer once it’s over and done with and… hello? Hello?’

Anna was furious; she’d lost her. But then the caller started to mutter something inaudible: she was still on the line.

‘I can’t hear what you’re saying.’

‘I think it’s him.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear what you said.’

‘I think I know who it is. Oh Christ, this is terrible, this is awful, and he’ll know it was me, he’ll find out and he’ll kill me, he’ll hurt me!’

Again Anna thought she was about to hang up, but she was still there, breathing erratically as she tried not to cry.

‘Who are you talking about? And if you are afraid of this person, then we can help you.’

‘No you can’t!’

‘We can protect you.’

‘No you can’t.’

‘Why don’t you just tell me what you know and then I will be able to help you. If you don’t want me to know who you are, then that’s all right; it’s just that if you do have information that can help us…’

It was like pulling teeth. The woman sounded stoned or drunk; her voice had grown more slurred during the call.

‘Hello? Are you still there?’ Anna listened.

She looked over to the guys tracing the call. They put their thumbs down and gave the signal for Anna to keep her talking.

There was a long pause and then the caller said very clearly: ‘His name is Charles Henry Wickenham; Doctor Charles Henry Wickenham.’

The phone went dead. Anna stared at the receiver.

Chapter Eleven

DAY TWENTY-TWO

The team tried not to get their hopes up over this new development: the caller could be a wife or a mistress with a grievance, wanting to create as much trouble as possible. Nevertheless, there was a real buzz in the Incident Room the next morning. Before they could even think of questioning Doctor Charles Henry Wickenham, they needed to find out who he was.

The woman’s last call to the Incident Room was traced to a call box in Guildford, but the address listed for Dr Wickenham was for a very substantial property in a village ten miles outside Petworth. Mayerling Hall was a Grade II listed house with quite a history: King Henry VIII was said to have used it at one time as a hunting lodge. The team had been able to secure plans of the property from the council, as there had been many extensions built onto the original house over the years. The estate included stables, outhouses, a staff cottage, outdoor swimming pool, and a barn that had been converted into a fully equipped gymnasium.

Wickenham had no police record but was a doctor. A retired army surgeon, he had travelled the world and was a well-respected member of the community, playing a substantial part in village life in terms of local politics and environmental issues; he was a member of a local hunt, and his stables contained three hunters. He had been married twice, widowed once, and had paid substantial alimony in his second wife’s divorce. He had had children with both of his wives: two daughters and a son and heir, thirty-year-old Edward Charles Wickenham. The son lived in a cottage on the estate and had also been widowed, but has now living with a Gail Harrington. Edward had no children; his ex-wife had committed suicide four years ago.

Although the team had discovered so much about the man they now earmarked as a suspect, they still had not yet heard back from immigration or passport control with further details or photographs of either father or son.

Langton, dressed smartly in a grey suit, pale blue shirt and dark tie, paced around the Incident Room like a caged panther. He was eager not to waste any more time and he felt it was imperative they move as fast as possible, either to eliminate Wickenham or to bring him in for questioning. By midday, it was agreed that they would visit Wickenham rather than request he come into the station. Langton called Mayerling Hall, and ascertained from the housekeeper that their suspect was at home. Langton made no mention of who he was or the reason he was calling. To Anna’s surprise, Langton requested that Anna and Lewis accompany him, saying that she needed to come as she might meet the caller and recognise her voice. She was well pleased; it meant her indiscretions had been forgiven.

An unmarked squad car was waiting when the three left the Incident Room at one-thirty Anna sat in the back with Lewis, Langton up front with a uniformed driver. They headed out of London in silence, towards the A3; only another hour and they would be there.

‘We tread very softly softly,’ Langton said, twisting an elastic band round his fingers, twanging it, and then winding it round again. They could all feel how wired he was.

They drove past the field where Sharon Bilkin’s body had been discovered. Langton stared at the yellow crime scene ribbons still there; the others followed his gaze.

‘Could have dropped her body on his way home?’ Lewis asked.

There was a moment’s silence, then Langton spoke again. ‘We know what car he drives?’

Lewis leaned forward. ‘We’ve got a Range Rover, a Land Rover Jeep and two other vehicles: one is a Jaguar, the other’s a Mini.’

‘What colour is the Jag?’

‘Black.’

Langton gave a soft laugh. ‘I don’t know about you two, but I’ve got a gut feeling about this guy.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Lewis said and sat back.

Anna could feel her stomach churning.

‘We know how much he’s worth?’

Lewis leaned forward again. ‘Few million: his property must be up in the three or four millions and he’s got an estate in France. You don’t get all that from being a surgeon attached to the army.’

It was Anna’s turn to pipe up. ‘He was left a bundle by his father; the family have lived at Mayerling Hall for three generations, but they were originally farmers. They bought up a load of land after the war for peanuts and sold it for property development in the fifties and sixties, made a fortune.’

Langton shrugged. ‘All right for some, eh? My old man left me with a load of unpaid bills and a council house. I got sent the eviction order two weeks after we’d buried him!’

He checked the map and gave the driver directions. ‘Not long now before we find out whether this is a waste of time or not,’ he said.

The silence fell again; Langton still twisted the elastic band round and round. ‘Left now!’ he snapped, even though the driver already had his indicator on.

They travelled for another twenty minutes, bypassing Petworth and pressing on through a quaint picturesque village. There were a few shops, two olde worlde pubs, a restaurant and, further along, a Chinese takeaway. Langton laughed and said you had to hand it to the Chinese, then hit the dashboard with the flat of his hand.

‘Up ahead, left. Left!’

The driver said nothing; again, he had already been indicating. It was a narrow lane; two cars would have been unable to pass, were it not for the many verges. They drove for almost a mile and a half, passing farm gates leading into fields, but few houses. Twice they bumped over cattle grids, and they passed numerous signs that said SLOW - HORSES CROSSING.