The Red Dahlia (34 page)

‘Must be quite hazardous,’ Anna said lightly.

Wickenham turned, frowning. ‘What?’

‘Being so tall.’

‘Ah, yes; well, after a few cracks over the head you get used to it. She’s in here.’ He tapped on a small, dark oak, studded door. ‘Sweetheart, the policewoman wants to talk to you.’ He turned back to Anna. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’

‘Anna, Anna Travis.’

He opened the door and stepped back so Anna could enter; he then leaned in and smiled.

‘I’ll be downstairs, darling. If it gets too much, just call me; I’ve said you are feeling poorly.’

Anna thanked him and waited for him to close the door. The bedroom was lovely: floral curtains fell in folds to the ground, framing the leaded windows. An old oak wardrobe with carved figures on the doors stood beside an equally old carved chest. There was a kidney-shaped dressing table, its frilled skirt matching the curtains, covered with bottles of perfume. Propped up on white pillows on the four-poster bed was Gail Harrington, her legs curled beneath her. Beside the bed was an old nursing chair. Anna gestured towards it.

‘May I sit down?’

‘Yes.’

Gail Harrington was very tall and slender; her pale face and dark hair made her seem fragile. There were dark circles beneath her wide-apart hazel eyes. Her cheekbones were like carved marble and her lips, devoid of make-up, were colourless. She was wearing a diamond ring on her engagement finger, a large single teardrop-shaped stone. It seemed too big for her slender fingers, and she constantly twisted it round and round.

‘Why do you want to see me?’

‘May I call you Gail?’

‘Of course.’

Anna placed her briefcase on her knee. ‘I think you know why.’

‘I really don’t.’

Anna looked at her and smiled. ‘I recognise your voice, Gail; I was the officer you spoke to when you called the Richmond Incident Room.’

‘No, you must be mistaken; I have never spoken to you.’

‘We have matched your voice, Gail. It will be far easier if you could just be honest with me. If, on the other hand, you maintain that you did not make any such calls, then I will have to ask you to come with me to the station, so we can do the interview there.’

‘No, no I can’t.’

‘So you do admit you called the station, specifically about the murder of a girl called Louise Pennel?’ Anna paused. Gail twisted her ring round and round, coiled up like a frightened child. ‘She is sometimes referred to as the Red Dahlia.’

‘I read about it.’

‘You said that we should talk to Doctor Charles Henry Wickenham.’

‘Yes, yes, I know; I did say that.’

‘I need to know why you gave us his name.’

‘It was a stupid thing to have done, I’m sorry.’

‘But you must have had a reason, unless you are saying that you did it for some ulterior motive. We take every call very seriously; if we find out that it was a silly prank, you have wasted valuable police time.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘There are repercussions for wasting police time, Gail. Would you like to tell me why you—’

‘No reason! There is no reason. I really am very very sorry. I did it because I was not well. If you want, I can get a doctor’s certificate to prove it. I have had a sort of nervous breakdown. All I can do is apologise.’

‘I will need your doctor’s name and contact number.’

Anna watched as Gail uncurled her legs and slid from the bed. She was at least five ten and stick thin, and she was trembling as she went to the dressing table and took out a diary. She sat down and wrote on a page, ripping it out and then passing it to Anna. ‘It’s Doctor Allard.’

‘Thank you.’ Anna placed the note into her briefcase. She held up the photograph of Louise Pennel. ‘Have you ever seen this girl here? As a guest, maybe?’

Gail sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the photograph. ‘No, no I have not seen her.’

‘What about this girl? Her name was Sharon Bilkin.’

Gail swallowed and then shook her head. ‘No, I have never seen her.’

Anna put the photographs back into the file and slowly took out one of the hideous mortuary photographs of Louise Pennel. ‘Louise Pennel’s body was drained of blood and severed in two. She suffered terrible injuries. Her lips were slashed from ear to ear…’

‘Please don’t! I don’t want to see. It’s terrible, it’s awful! I can’t look at it.’

‘Then look at Sharon Bilkin. She was found—’

‘No, I don’t want to see. I can’t stand it, I won’t look.’

Anna put the photographs down on the bed. Gail was really shaking, her hands twisting and the ring turning turning.

‘The man we are hunting for in connection with these murders was possibly a trained surgeon or doctor. We have a drawing of him made up from witnesses’ descriptions. Will you please look at it for me?’

Gail slipped open a drawer and took out a small bottle of pills. She tipped a few into her hand, picked up a glass of water from her bedside table and gulped them down. Then she turned to stare at the sketch Anna was holding up. Eventually, she shook her head.

‘Do you recognise this man?’

‘No.’

‘Are you certain? Doesn’t he remind you of someone?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I think he does look very similar to the man you named, who is also a doctor. You told us to question Charles Wickenham, didn’t you? So you must have had a reason other than being unwell.’

Gail bowed her head. ‘I make things up; my doctor will tell you.’

Anna now made a great show of putting the photographs back into her briefcase as if the conversation was over. ‘We’ll obviously talk to your doctor.’

‘He will confirm everything I have told you.’

Anna smiled. ‘I’m sorry you have been ill.’ She snapped her case closed and placed it beside her chair. ‘Were you a model?’

Gail lifted her head and blinked, surprised by the question. ‘Yes, yes I was; not very successful, but I did a lot of catalogue work.’ She smiled.

‘I would have thought with your looks you’d have been on a par with Naomi Campbell; you must be what, five eight?’

‘Five ten, but modelling is a very tough career; they want the girls so young. When I worked in Paris, there were girls there as young as sixteen, plucked straight from school; they have such confidence.’

Anna nodded. Now that she had changed the subject, Gail was becoming less tense and nervous. ‘But you must be very photogenic with those cheekbones.’

Gail put her hand over her mouth and gave an odd laugh. ‘I had them helped a bit.’

‘No!’

‘Yes, it is very common now, they just put something into the cheek.’

‘I would love to see your photographs.’

Gail hesitated and then crossed to open the wardrobe; she bent down and took out a large professional portfolio and some loose photographs. ‘I haven’t worked for a couple of years now; well, not since I’ve been living with Edward.’

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Oh, two years, maybe more.’ She was searching through the album.

‘Did you know his first wife?’

Gail stared resolutely at the pictures. ‘Not well, but yes, I did know her.’

‘It was suicide, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it was. I am trying to find you some of my better pictures.’

‘Why did she do it? Do you know?’

Gail looked up sharply. ‘Who knows what makes people do the things they do? She was depressed, I suppose; we don’t talk about it.’

‘It must have been very shocking for Edward.’

‘Well, more so for his father, as he was the one who found her; Edward was away.’

‘Do you get along with Mr Wickenham?’

Gail laughed and turned over a laminated page. ‘I don’t really have much choice.’

‘How does Edward get along with him?’

Gail sighed and plopped the book on the bed. ‘He has to get along with him: Charles is his father and Edward’s the heir, so I don’t know if that answers your question. His sisters don’t have a good relationship with him; they very rarely come here any more, but then that’s because of Dominique. She’s not very pleasant, and that is putting it nicely.’ She turned over a page, and then moved the book round for Anna to see clearly. ‘These are some of my last pictures. I haven’t had a job since I met Edward; he doesn’t approve. Well, he wouldn’t really mind, it’s his father. He’s a snob, you know: we are treated like the poor relatives; but then, I suppose we are.’ She gave an odd shrill laugh.

Anna leaned forward to look at the photograph. From the transformation taking place before her eyes, she was wondering if the pills she’d seen Gail gulp down were some kind of speed: from being so shaken and nervous, she was now talking quite animatedly and even sat closer to Anna to show her more photographs. She was certainly very photogenic and, although they were not Vogue quality, in some shots she looked stunningly beautiful.

‘These were taken about two and a half years ago. I started to do some good sessions; before that, as I said, I’d mostly been doing catalogue work. It’s actually really tough, as you have to do so many pictures per day with so many changes, but the money is very good. I did a lot of country-styled clothes: me with dogs, me standing by fences in a tweed coat and brogues… I didn’t really have the figure for doing lingerie.’ Flicking through the pictures, Gail seemed to take a childlike pleasure in showing herself off.

‘Do you have a family?’ asked Anna.

‘What, you mean children?’

‘No, parents? Sisters?’

Gail gave a rueful smile. ‘My parents both died years ago. I have a sister, but we don’t really see much of each other; she has a brood of children and a very boring husband.’

‘Do you want children?’ Anna asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the reason she was there.

‘Yes; do you?’

Anna smiled. ‘Yes I do, very much. When are you getting married?’

Gail looked at her massive diamond, and then wafted her hand. ‘Whenever my prospective father-in-law allows Edward some time off. He works him terribly hard and pays him a pittance.’

‘But this estate will all be his one day,’ Anna said, glancing at the continuing display of Gail’s modelling work.

‘Yes, yes it will.’

Anna, who had not really been paying attention to the pictures, had to catch her breath. ‘This is a good picture of you,’ she said, hoping that she had not given Gail any indication of what she was actually looking at.

‘Oh, it’s from two years ago, maybe. It’s for a big leisurewear catalogue: lots of ghastly velvet tracksuits.’ As Gail was about to turn over, Anna placed her hand flat on the page to stop her.

‘The blonde girl, the one standing by the saddle.’

‘It was supposed to be a stable, but they just put down some fake grass and a bit offence and stuck the saddle over it.’

The blonde girl was Sharon Bilkin. Anna remembered Sharon saying that she did catalogue modelling. ‘Do you know who she is?’ Anna asked, quietly.

Gail shrugged and stood up to put the book away.

Anna opened her briefcase and took out the picture of Sharon Bilkin. ‘This is the same girl, isn’t it?’

Gail blinked rapidly then turned away, kneeling down to put the album away again. Anna moved fast to stand directly behind her.

‘I need to take that, Gail. Please just move away from the wardrobe and let me take it.’

Gail sprang to her feet and pushed Anna in the chest so hard that she banged into the corner of the four-poster bed.

‘Leave me alone! I won’t talk about it; you don’t know what will happen. You have to go, I want you to go.’

Gail, for all her skinny frame, was incredibly strong; her bony arms squeezed the breath out of Anna as she hauled her towards the door. She tried to break loose, but Gail wouldn’t let go.

‘He will kill me, he will make my life hell if he ever found out what I have done!’ Gail held Anna in her vice-like grip, their faces so close they were virtually touching.

‘Let go of me,’ Anna said, forcing herself to be calm.

‘I’ll end up in a madhouse!’

Anna managed to struggle free. All of a sudden, it was as if all Gail’s strength had evaporated. She slowly sank to her knees, then let her body fall forwards and sobbed.

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God; what have I done?’

Chapter Fifteen

The bowl of Edward Wickenham’s glass rested between his fingers as he swirled his brandy round like liquid honey.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said slowly, his face flushed.

Langton was leaning forward slightly, total concentration on his hawklike face. ‘Do you want me to repeat myself? What don’t you understand, Mr Wickenham?’

‘You suspect my father of…?’

‘Murder; yes, that is correct. The Red Dahlia murder, to be exact.’

‘But I don’t understand. I mean, do you have evidence? These are terrible accusations; to be honest, I can’t quite take it in. Have you arrested him?’

‘No, not yet; currently, he is just under suspicion of being involved.’

‘Involved?’

His aristocratic tone was needling Langton. ‘Yes, involved, and the reason we are here is that I would like you to answer some questions that may or may not prove my suspicions incorrect.’

Wickenham drained his glass, then looked across to the drinks cabinet again, but obviously thought better of having more to drink. Instead, he carefully placed the glass down. His hand was shaking and he looked perplexed.

‘I am unsure what I should do.’

‘Simply answer my questions.’ Langton smiled.

Lewis inched further forwards in his seat. Wickenham was not reacting like any other man he had ever seen questioned; he just seemed dazed.

‘But you’ve already questioned my father.’

‘That is correct. Now we would like to talk to you.’

‘But shouldn’t I have a solicitor with me?’

‘Why?’

‘This is a very serious allegation.’

‘We have not accused you of anything.’ Langton opened the file and held up Louise Pennel’s picture. ‘Do you know this girl?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘How about this girl?’ He showed Sharon Bilkin’s picture.

Edward Wickenham shook his head. ‘Sorry, no.’

Langton looked at Lewis and sighed. ‘You have never seen either of these women here at your father’s property?’