DAhliA AvEnger.
Barolli copied it out on the board in thick red letters; everyone knew there was pressure coming down on Langton. After ten minutes, the 'big noise' departed and Langton came out of his office. His five-o'clock shadow looked as dark as a beard; his tie was hanging loose and he had a cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth.
He didn't have to ask for quiet as he stood in front of the killer's message. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out in an old ashtray on the side of Lewis's desk.
'I have been instructed by the big shots to respond to this message. Professor Marshe also agrees that, as this maniac is attempting to copycat the killer of Elizabeth Short, we should now feed his ego and play his game. The killer of the Black Dahlia sent a virtually identical message to the LA Examiner. Against my own gut feeling, I am to give the following message in a press release.' Langton dug his hands deep into his pockets and recited without emotion, 'If you want to surrender, as indicated by your postcard, I will meet you at any public location at any time; please give details to the Incident Room at Richmond police station.'
Langton nodded to indicate the briefing was over and headed back into his office. He passed Anna and gave her a cold, dismissive look. She stood up.
'What are you looking at me like that for?'
'Talk to your fucking boyfriend.'
Langton slammed into his office. Anna had no idea what he was talking about. She hurried over to DI Lewis. 'What's going on?'
Lewis shrugged. 'All I know is, the editor of your pal's newspaper has some very heavy-duty friends. The Gov gets the Commander on his back, and even with Professor Marshe batting for him, they've given him the order to go public and he doesn't like it.'
'It's nothing to do with me!'
Lewis turned away. 'Your boyfriend is going to break the story; be headlined this weekend.'
Anna returned to her desk. She sat for a moment and then packed her briefcase. She called Dick Reynolds and asked if she could cook dinner for him that evening. He said he would be there by eight. Neither of them mentioned anything about the Dahlia story. Anna went up to the duty sergeant and asked if it was okay for her to leave as she had a migraine. He looked at her and grinned.
'If you haven't got one, you will have. Is it true your boyfriend's the journalist Dick Reynolds?'
'He is not my boyfriend!'
Anna banged out of the Incident Room and sat in her car to cool down, then drove home, stopping on the way to buy some groceries. She had decided to make spaghetti bolognaise, nothing special; well, she had decided Mr Reynolds didn't warrant her best culinary offering. She would really like to wring his neck; he had now placed her in a very difficult situation, but it was one she was determined she would rectify, otherwise working alongside Langton would be impossible. Truth was, she had hardly ever thought of Langton over the past eighteen months, but when he had walked into the Incident Room to take over the case, it was as if it was hours ago, not that he had ever acknowledged their history. Anna Travis was not the usual type that DCI James Langton was known to fall for. They were more like the long-legged Professor Marshe. He had a terrible reputation and she had not been prepared to be another notch on his belt, but that didn't mean she didn't still have feelings for him; she did, very strong ones, and it annoyed the hell out of her that she should be thinking of them.
'Christ,' she muttered to herself, as she dumped her shopping down on the draining board. 'I fucking hate him!'
As she chopped up the onions and began to make the spaghetti sauce, she calmed down. If Reynolds had used her to get more details of the case, this could prove embarrassing. She prepared the dinner, and then took a shower. She got into an old sweater and jeans and didn't even bother re-doing her make-up; she was getting ready to tear a strip off Reynolds.
'Thank Christ I didn't sleep with him,' she muttered, as she opened a cheap bottle of plonk. She filled her glass and sat watching the TV.
'Bastard,' she muttered. Then she checked her watch: he was due any minute, so she returned to the kitchen. The sauce was bubbling away. She was ready for Mr Reynolds.
Chapter Seven
The table in the lounge was laid for dinner; she didn't have a dining room. It was no candlelit romantic setting; though she did have candles, she had no intention of making this evening pleasant. She had the TV still on, the plates warming and everything ready to serve at eight-fifteen. At nine-fifteen Reynolds still had not shown. She was about to eat by herself when the intercom went.
He came charging up the stairs with a large bouquet of cheapo supermarket roses and a bottle of red wine.
'Sorry I'm late, but something cropped up. I was going to call but thought you might have blown me out.' He grinned and handed over his gifts.
'I might well have done,' she said, moving away from him as he went to kiss her cheek. 'Go on through into the lounge. I'll dish up straight away. I am starving.'
'Me too,' he said, shrugging out of his suede coat and tossing it onto the floor by the front door. 'Do you want me to open the wine?'
'Bottle open on the table,' she said, banging around the kitchen as she put the garlic bread into the oven.
He did at least wait to start eating before she sat down, though he had consumed a glass of wine and was already pouring another. 'Cheers, and I'm sorry to be so late.'
'That's all right.' They touched their glasses and he then tucked in with relish.
'This is delicious,' he said, with his mouth full.
She responded by serving him some salad on a side plate.
'Do I detect a slight frost in the air?'
'You do, but let's finish eating.'
'I think I know what it's about,' he said, winding the spaghetti round his fork.
'I should think you do. It's made things very difficult for me.'
'How come?'
She put down her fork and sat back. 'You were asked not to go to press on the Red Dahlia note or the package. I was told tonight that, despite being warned that it would be detrimental to our enquiry, you are going to press regardless: so how do you think I feel? Especially as DCI Langton is more than aware that we are friends, from seeing us together in that restaurant. He actually thinks we have some kind of relationship; he had a right go at me.'
'Did he?' Reynolds wiped his plate with a piece of garlic bread.
'Do you have any idea what repercussions this could have? We have maintained a low profile for a bloody good reason.'
'Tell me about it.' He wasn't smiling any more.
'We have a suspect, one we believe is a very dangerous man—'
'Or not,' he interrupted arrogantly.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Well you may have a suspect, but from what I gather, you are nowhere near identifying him.'
'You gather incorrectly!' she snapped.
'Then I apologise. Who is he?'
She pushed her plate aside and wiped her mouth with her napkin. 'You really imagine I'd disclose that kind of information? Our investigation has nothing whatsoever to do with you!'
'Really?'
'Yes, really!' She was beginning to lose her cool.
