The Red Dahlia

The handwriting expert deduced that their writer had taken great pains to disguise his or her personality by printing the message and endeavouring to appear illiterate; however, the style and formation of the handwriting betrayed the writer as an educated person. He loathed being put under such pressure but he said that the sender was, in his opinion, an egomaniac and possibly a musician.

Langton tried to contain his impatience. 'Musician? What do you mean? I mean, what gives you that he was a musician from these notes?'

'The highlighting of certain letters is as if he is giving a musical weight to them.'

'Really? How about if he's just trying to disguise his writing?' Langton said edgily

'That's also quite possible.' The expert added that the letter was feeding the writer's ego and that the writer would be unable to keep a secret; in his estimation, what had been written was the truth.

Langton and Anna went next to the Suns offices. Barolli confirmed to Anna over the phone that the wording of the letters was almost identical to notes sent by the Black Dahlia killer, the only difference that, unlike the LA killer, their sender had not named his next victim.

Anna could see the pressure coming down on Langton: these contacts said so much but held no clue as to the sender. The team had no fingerprints, just the handwriting and the expert's opinion that all contacts to date had been sent by the same person.

Reynolds was waiting in the reception; as he handed over the note in a plastic bag, his mobile rang. He listened and then looked shocked.

'We've got another one; it's in the mail room.'

It was after two when Langton and Anna returned to the Incident Room. The team were stunned to be told that Reynolds had had a second contact. Langton read the message out loud.

Go slow. Mankiller says Red Dahlia Case is cold.

Langton was handed yet another letter by Lewis:

I have decided not to surrender. Too much fun fooling police. Red Dahlia Avenger

Langton looked around the team and then shook his head. 'This is bloody unbelievable. Four contacts from the crazy bastard, and we can't keep the fucking journalist Reynolds quiet. He's going to print his letters!'

'What do we get from them?' Lewis asked.

Langton glared at him. 'That he's playing silly buggers with us — with me — and that if we are to believe him he's going to kill again!'

'But he says someone is squealing: who does he mean by that?' Barolli asked.

'I don't bloody know!' Langton snapped. 'I think he's just goading me.'

Anna watched as he headed towards his office. Everything about him was crumpled; he still had not had time to take a shower. She felt sorry for him. 'Are you coming to the club?' she asked.

'No, I've got my work cut out here; you get off there. Take Barolli with you.'

He slammed the door behind him. Anna was on her way to Stringfellow's with Barolli fifteen minutes later. They were driven in an unmarked patrol car, both sitting in the back with a driver up front. Anna explained to Barolli about the reordering of the CCTV footage.

'It's possible; do you know how many tapes we had to wade through? It's not my fault if we got it wrong.'

'Nobody is blaming you,' she said, quietly.

'Fifteen hours I had to sit through, fifteen!'

'Yes I know. By the way, did you check if Louise ever had a mobile phone?'

'Yes, and we don't think so. But at the same time, she could have bought one of those ten-quid, pay-as-you- go things which doesn't have to be registered.'

'Did you also check all the calls made from Sharon's land line?'

'Yes, don't you read the reports? Hairdressers, agent, nail extensions, hair extensions, gym classes! I bloody checked them all. No calls to our suspect, unless he runs a salon — that girl spends a fortune! So maybe one of them that did her beauty treatment is a suspect. I don't bloody know!'

Barolli huffed and puffed almost the entire way to the club. They had been under pressure for some time without a breakthrough, and it didn't look as if one was coming.

Anna and Barolli were met by the club's manager, an impatient man eager to get on with his day. He had arranged for both doormen and the two bartenders to come in early to talk to them, but none had arrived. He led them through a maze of Hoover cables past the cleaners who were putting broken glasses, cigarette packs and stubs from the previous evening into large black bin liners. None paid any attention to Anna or Barolli as they waited in a velvet-covered booth. Anna looked across to where Louise Pennel had sat and crossed to the bar. Anna sat on a stool, surveying the vast dance floor. She had a clear view of the entire club via the mirrors behind the bar. If Louise Pennel was, as she suspected, waiting for someone, it was a very good position: she could see the main entrance from reception into the disco area. She swivelled on the stool, then slid off to cross to the ladies' room. It also was in the process of being cleaned: by a group of girls who jabbered away to each other in Portuguese as they swept away the mounds of tissues and toilet paper strewn around the floor.

Barolli was drinking a cup of coffee when she returned to the booth.

'Did anyone question the cloakroom attendant?'

'No.'

'Well, we see Louise with no coat on, then with her coat off and over her arm, so she must have left it there.'

Barolli looked at his watch impatiently. 'I'll ask the manager if he can contact whoever was on duty that night.'

Ten minutes later, a heavy-set man with a crew cut, wearing a bomber jacket and jeans, strolled over. 'You wanted to see me?' he said begrudgingly.

'Yes; you want to sit down?' Anna gestured to her side.

'Okay, but I'm off duty you know. I don't usually come in until just before we open.' He slid into the booth. His chest was so wide that he nudged Anna.

'I really appreciate your time,' she said sweetly, and opened her file to take out the photographs of Louise Pennel.

'I've been shown them before,' he said.

'I know, but I would appreciate it if you looked at them again.'

He sighed. 'Like I said before, I work the doors; we get hundreds of girls every night. I remember the ones that cause trouble or the famous ones, but I don't remember this girl at all.'

Anna laid down the photograph of Louise with the flower in her hair.

'No, no memory of ever having seen her here, sorry.'

Anna next laid on the table the drawing of their suspect.

He looked at it, then shook his head. 'I don't know; I mean, he could be a number of blokes, but I can't say he's someone I remember. If you know he's a member that might help, but no, I don't know him.'

'He's maybe older than most people that come here?'

'Not really; we get them all shapes and sizes and all ages; lot of middle-aged guys come here, for the young girls, to watch the dancers, but I'm outside the club.'

'Well, thank you very much,' Anna said, stacking the photographs.

'I can go then, can I?'

'Yes, thank you.'

He squeezed himself out of the booth and walked back towards the entrance where he met another equally broad-shouldered man, who was at least six feet four; he pointed over to Anna and walked out.

Anna moved further round the booth to give the next doorman space to sit beside her. He reeked of cheap cologne and his hair was greased back.