Barolli covered the mouthpiece. 'Turning tricks?'
Anna shook her head. 'If Louise had been working as a prostitute, Sharon would have known; so would Mrs Jenkins.'
'She had to have been getting money from somewhere; she moved out of the B&B after the job interview so the two must be linked.'
Just then, Lewis came steaming into the Incident Room. He held up a plastic bag. 'Two more, we've got two more.'
Anna turned to face him. 'Two more what?'
Lewis's face was flushed. 'Sent to the Incident Room, been downstairs since they arrived this morning. You won't bloody believe what they say. Where's the Gov?'
In front of everyone, Langton put on rubber gloves and unzipped the protective forensic bag.
The first note read:
Dahlia's Killer CraCkin. Wants terms?
The second:
To DCI James Langton. I will give up in Red Dahlia killing if I get ten years. DON'T TRY TO FIND ME.
Both notes were written in letters cut from newspapers. The constant ringing of telephones was the only sound in the room as Langton carefully replaced the notes, not wanting to contaminate them. He then crossed to the noticeboard.
'He's a day out on the Black Dahlia timeframe. The LA Examiner received almost identical letters to these on January the twenty-seventh.'
'So he is copycatting,' Anna said.
'That's pretty obvious,' snapped Langton. He looked to Barolli. 'Let's get over to the lab and see if these have anything. Like a fucking fingerprint would be useful!'
Langton and Barolli left the station. Anna was pouring a coffee for herself when Lewis joined her.
'If this nutter is copycatting the original Black Dahlia case, you know what comes next?'
'Yes, we get sent a photograph of a white male with a stocking pulled so tight over his face, he's unrecognisable.'
'Called him the Werewolf Killer,' Lewis said, pointing to the listings of the contacts made by the Black Dahlia killer in 1947.
Anna sipped her coffee; it was stale, and she pulled a face.
'This is getting hairy, isn't it?' Lewis remarked.
Anna nodded. 'On the old enquiry, they reckoned their killer was obsessed with Jack the Ripper; ours is obsessed with the Black Dahlia killer. Either way, they are both playing sick games. I doubt we'll get anything from the notes.'
Lewis nodded and returned to his desk. Anna was passing Barolli's when Bridget raised her hand.
'Excuse me, Anna, but I've got someone from BT on the line for Detective Sergeant Barolli; do you want to talk to him?'
Anna nodded and picked up Barolli's phone. She identified herself and then listened as an engineer gave her details of two calls answering the advert. They were made on land lines and so had been traceable; any call made using a mobile, however, they had no record of.
Anna could feel her heart pumping. If those two callers had responded to the same advert as Louise Pennel, this might be the first major step forward in tracing the tall dark-haired man.
Langton sat in a hard-backed chair at the lab at Lambeth. Around his feet were cigarette ends, above his head the NO SMOKING sign. He looked at his watch impatiently. Barolli came out of the gents' toilet.
'Still waiting?'
'What does it look like? I've never sat around like this on any other case. But I
Langton took out a rolled-up
'Do you think he's going to go all the way with this copycat scenario?'
'Maybe,' Langton muttered.
'So you think this sick bastard's going to grab some innocent kid, truss him up, put a stocking over his head and send in his photograph?'
'I don't think all that crap with the boy and stocking mask was from the killer; just some other sick fuck wanting publicity.'
'You think those notes are from him, though?' Barolli asked.
'I don't know; if they are, let's hope we get something off them.'
'Think we should we go to LA, Gov?'
Langton folded his paper and stuffed it back into his pocket. 'No, I fucking don't! This guy is
At that moment, the swing doors opened. The technicians had finished their tests on the latest notes.
Chapter Eight
Now that she and Lewis had two names to check out, Anna felt really energised. The women lived on different sides of London: one in Hampstead, the other in Putney. They had no luck in contacting Nicola Formby but they left an urgent message on her answerphone; however, Valerie Davis was at home and agreed rather nervously to see them. She asked if it was to do with a parking offence. Lewis said it was nothing for her to worry about; they simply needed to question her about something they would prefer to discuss personally.
Valerie lived in a basement flat close to Hampstead Heath. She was attractive, with shoulder-length blonde hair and the aristocratic tones of a debutante. She was wearing a wide baggy sweater over a very small miniskirt and big furry boots.
'Hi, do come in,' she said. Her cheeks were flushed pink.
It looked as if each of the untidy rooms in the flat was let out to someone or other.
'Sorry about the mess; we've got some friends staying, over from Australia.'
'How many of you live here?' Anna asked pleasantly.
'Four girls and one boy. Tea or coffee?'
They both refused either and sat in the equally untidy kitchen.
'Did you answer this advert?' Lewis went straight in. Anna would have taken more time.
Valerie glanced at the wording of the advert which had been typed out onto a sheet of paper. 'Yes; well, I think it was the same one, about eight months ago.'
Anna's stomach clenched. 'Could you tell us exactly what happened?'
'How do you mean?' Valerie crossed her endless legs. Such a short skirt didn't leave much to the imagination.
'Well, did you write a letter in response?'
'Yes, I sent in my CV, for what it's worth. I don't actually have shorthand, but it sounded like a great opportunity.'
'You sent in a photograph?'
'Yes, though not a very good one: I had to cut off people either side of me, because I didn't really have one that wasn't me fooling about. I was going to go to one of those passport thingies, but I didn't get a chance.'
'When was this?'
