The Red Dahlia (44 page)

‘I don’t understand. I have nothing whatsoever to do with either of them.’

Langton pressed on; all the while, he knew he was jumping the gun. He was desperate to get the forensic evidence to back up his accusations. After two hours, he decided to end the interview. He still refused to release either Edward or Gail because of their relationship with his prime suspect, much to the anger of their solicitors.

It was eight o’clock when Langton called a briefing. He was looking very tired, as they all were. He said to call it quits for the night, and reconvene first thing in the morning.

The team started to pack up. Anna could sense the depression and just wanted to get home. They had issued a press release and photographs of Charles Wickenham, asking for the public to be on the alert. The Red Dahlia yet again featured in all the papers.

Anna let herself into her flat. They should have some forensic evidence by the morning; she knew they all had pinned their hopes on it confirming that they had the right man. That in itself was a farce: they might have named him, but they did not have him. Her phone rang just as she was heading into the bathroom.

‘Anna, it’s me, it’s Dick Reynolds.’

She said nothing.

‘Are you still there?’

Anna took a deep breath. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Come on, let’s just forget the coffee in the face and have a talk. I mean, these new press releases!’

‘Piss off!’ she said and hung up.

The phone rang again. She picked it up and dropped it straight back onto the cradle — so much for his cheek, she thought.

Anna had a shower, did some clearing up and was putting some laundry on when her front door went. She physically jumped, and was glad of her double locks and safety chain.

She picked up the intercom. ‘Hello?’

If it was Justine Wickenham, no way would she let her in. Then she thought it could be Dick Reynolds.

‘Hi, it’s me; it’s James.’

She was surprised, but eager to talk to him, sure he must have some new evidence. She buzzed him in.

Anna unlocked the door and swung it open. He headed up the stairs; his feet sounded leaden. He appeared at the top of the stairs and she knew he was drunk.

‘You’d better come in.’

‘Thank you,’ he said and walked slowly towards her. She could smell the alcohol; he looked as if he was about to crash out. He was unshaven and his eyes were red-rimmed. As he passed her, he rested an arm heavily on her shoulder.

‘Well, I fucked up, didn’t I?’

She shut the door and almost keeled over as his dead weight leaning on her made her stumble. ‘Come on through, I’ll make some coffee.’

He staggered down her small hall into her bedroom. She followed and watched as he flopped down on her bed. She helped him off with his coat; he was like a child, holding one arm out, then the other.

‘How could he fucking walk out; how could he just disappear? It’s fucking madness!’

She folded his coat and placed it on a chair.

‘I’m going to have to release his son, and that stupid bitch of a fiancée, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but we’ve not had the results in yet.’

‘I know, I know, but if they come in, and we get to know what the fucker did, we are going to look like prize fucking idiots, because he walked out right under our noses. How in Christ’s name did he do it? And you know who’s gonna get the bollocking — me! Me: because I should have put more officers on the bastard, but I reckoned with his handcuffs on he wasn’t going to try anything. Shit! Why didn’t I bang him up and take him in when we knew it was him? I’ll tell you why: because I wanted to prolong his agony. I wanted him to know we’d got him cornered. My vanity, my stupid fucking ego!’

‘He had every right to remain at the house while we searched: be it a good or bad decision, everyone went along with it.’

Langton gave a lopsided grin, and then lifted his hands in a helpless gesture of defeat. ‘I’ve lost my way, Travis.’

‘You mean lost your way home or in life?’

‘Come here.’

‘No, we’ve been there once already, and this is not the right time to go there again.’

‘Jesus Christ, I just wanted to hold you.’

‘I’m going to put some coffee on.’

‘I really care about you, Travis; why don’t you get into bed with me?’

‘Let me get you some coffee.’

‘Fuck the coffee. Come here; let me hold you.’

‘No, let me get you some coffee.’ She went into the kitchen. This was exactly what she had wanted: for him to want to hold her and make love to her, but not drunk and certainly not in the mood he was in. So she brewed up a pot of fresh coffee; by the time she carried it into the bedroom, he was out cold. She pulled off his shoes and left him to sleep it off. She would sleep on the sofa. It had been yet another long day, and the frustration of losing Wickenham had got to them all. She could only think that, just like the suspect in the original Black Dahlia case, their killer had escaped justice. It would be something that they would all have to face unless he was caught, and the more time that elapsed, the less likely it was they would find him.

Chapter Nineteen

DAY THIRTY-ONE

Anna woke; her neck was stiff from sleeping crunched up on the sofa. She could hear her shower running and smell bacon frying.

She went into the kitchen and turned down the grill as the bacon was getting charred.

‘Morning,’ he said as he wandered into the kitchen, a bath towel slung around his hips.

‘Morning; how’s your head?’

‘Swollen, but I’m starving hungry.’

‘Me too; let me take a shower.’

‘Sure, I’ll get the eggs on. Coffee?’

She could hardly believe it. He wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest; seeing his clothes strewn all over her bedroom made her even more amazed at his cheek.

By the time she went into the kitchen, his eggs and bacon had been wolfed down and her plate was under the grill, about to crack any second.

‘You eat while I get dressed.’

‘Fine, thank you.’

He smiled, and then put his arms out; she went into them and held him tight. He smelt of her shampoo.

‘Thank you for last night, Travis.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘Yes it was; I didn’t know who else I could go to.’

‘I’m glad you came to me.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, a light sweet kiss, and then he was gone.

‘Oh Christ,’ she muttered. She wasn’t sure how to handle it and could hardly eat a thing. He came back in, dressed, all smiles.

‘Right, get dressed. Let’s get out of here.’

She gave a mute nod; it was as if it was his apartment. He even started washing up the dirty dishes.

She drove them to the station. His good mood had already started to evaporate.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he said, gruffly.

‘That’s okay; it’s over and done with.’

‘Yeah, but I have to start watching it, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Boozing; you know you’re in trouble when you blank out. It’s a sign.’

‘Well, if you know you drink too much, then you know what to do.’

‘Yeah, yeah; did I do anything I shouldn’t have?’

She laughed.

‘I’m serious; I don’t even remember getting to your place.’

She kept on driving, not looking at him.

‘Did we screw?’

‘No, we did not!’

‘Ah! Just wondered.’

‘You passed out.’

‘So I didn’t manhandle you?’

‘No, you were the perfect drunk.’

He gave her a sidelong glance, then rested his arm along the back of her seat, his hand on her neck. ‘I love you, Travis.’

She smiled, wishing that he meant it.

He fell silent, his hand still touching the nape of her neck. ‘What if we’ve lost him? It’ll be a repeat performance of the Black Dahlia case, and my career will be in the shit.’

She shook her head, and he took it that she didn’t like him touching her. ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly, and moved his hand.

‘We’ll find him,’ she said.

In the Incident Room, things were moving fast. Forensics had worked their butts off and information was coming in at a rate of knots. The scientists were still at work and even more damning evidence was being found. Masked and rubber-suited scientists with breathing apparatus were wading through the filth. Charles Wickenham had tried to wash the evidence away, but by removing the drainage pipes and going down into the sewer system, they discovered even more clogged blood.

He must have thought he had destroyed everything that could implicate him, but scientific developments had him trapped. They were also beginning to piece together how he had made the notes sent to the journalists and Langton at the Richmond station. They discovered in his shredding machine old newspapers that he had cut the pasted letters from. They also discovered charred sections of a receipt made out by The Times for running an advert; a box number scrawled on the back of an envelope and thrown into a wastepaper basket was possibly the one he had used to advertise for a personal assistant. Meanwhile, the labs had begun testing Wickenham’s computer and hard drive. They were able to ascertain that Wickenham logged onto the Black Dahlia website two hundred and fifty times.

They found many pictures cut from the Black Dahlia books, sickeningly placed in an innocent-looking family album. The entire quest by the author of The Black Dahlia to expose his father as the killer had derived from the discovery of two hitherto unknown photographs of Elizabeth Short at his house. One photograph showed Elizabeth Short with her eyes closed and her head tilted back like a death mask. In the other, she rested her cheek against her hand with a soft sweet smile to camera. Photographs of Louise and Sharon, identically posed, were placed alongside copies of those pictures, between the innocent photographs of his own children. As the evidence mounted, the fact their prime suspect was on the loose fuelled an undercurrent of panic.

Press releases continued to be issued and news bulletins showing Charles Wickenham’s photograph were being pumped out. The public were asked for any information and warned that they should not confront Wickenham, but report directly to the police. No sightings of Wickenham had been confirmed at any airport, train station or bus depot. He still remained at large: it was Langton’s nightmare.

Edward Wickenham’s solicitor was demanding that Langton either charge his client or release him. Gail Harrington’s solicitor was on firmer ground, yet Langton insisted both remained in custody, as he was certain that if Wickenham was hiding out, he would contact his son for help. Justine was informed of the situation, though it was unnecessary: every newspaper headlined that the Red Dahlia killer was being hunted.

It was early afternoon when Langton had Edward Wickenham brought up from the cells to be questioned again. One night holed up at the station in a cold, stinking cell had made him tense with pent-up anger. His solicitor tried to placate him, but Edward was implying that if he didn’t do something about the situation, he would replace him. Langton sat with Lewis, ignoring the tirade from the sweating young man, and read him his rights again. Yet again he displayed the sickening photographs of Louise Pennel and Sharon Bilkin.

Edward screeched that he had nothing to do with the victims’ deaths; he had never met either of them. He was so agitated, spittle formed at the corners of his mouth as he repeated over and over again that he was innocent.

Langton leaned forward, keeping his voice low, forcing Edward to shut up and listen to him. He described the cellar and then went on to list the evidence they had now discovered: the clogged drains, blocked by coagulated blood that had been drained from Louise Pennel’s body; the sickening array of saws and knives; the video pornography that also featured the prime suspect’s son. His monologue began to take effect.

‘We have two hundred tapes of sexual perversion; your own sisters feature, so I am certain we will get to you, Mr Wickenham. So why don’t you try and help yourself?’

‘I swear before God, I did not have anything to do with those girls, I did not!’ He was starting to blubber, twisting his body as he attempted to extricate himself from any connection to the murders.

Edward Wickenham was returned to the cells a little later. He was to be charged with obstructing the police enquiries and with aiding and abetting the depositing of Louise Pennel’s body and Sharon Bilkin’s body. He would be taken before the magistrate.

Langton stood before the team to give them a brief rundown of the contents of the interview. Lewis had been shaken by what had taken place and was sitting quietly, checking over the interview tape.

Langton touched Louise Pennel’s photograph. She had, as Anna had thought, answered an advert for the position of personal assistant to Charles Wickenham. According to his son, Charles had interviewed a number of young girls, and had shown him some of their photographs and CVs. Louise Pennel was the girl he chose. He had subsequently acted like some kind of Svengali, buying her expensive clothes and giving her gifts, mostly cash. She was a very willing partner to his sexual advances, but when he became more perverse he had encouraged her to take drugs, or he had slipped them into her drinks. His son said she was not seen at the Hall itself but would be driven direct to the barn. He swore that he had not had any kind of sexual relationship with her, as his father appeared to be very enamoured of her. It had confused him because, although she was very pretty, ‘she was rather a common girl’. He had never heard of the Black Dahlia; his father had never mentioned the case. He was aware that at times his father would have sex sessions in the cellar, but this area was always off limits to him. Often his father, fuelled by drugs, would remain closeted down there for days and nights on end. It was always locked; only a few of his father’s friends were ever allowed inside.

Edward Wickenham listed his father’s friends. These were men that had the same perversions; they were all into sadomasochistic sex acts. His father had attempted to draw his son into his sadistic sexual activities but he wimped out, deliberately becoming too drunk to perform. Charles had been a brutal and sadistic father, laughing when discovered by his son screwing his young wife. She had been given Rohypnol and had not known what she was doing; she had found out when Charles Wickenham arranged for a family viewing of the tapes. She had been forced to watch herself having sex with her father-in-law and four of his friends. She committed suicide three weeks later.