Barolli and Anna met up at the station the following morning so they could leave together for their meeting with Emily at eight-thirty. She had said she had lectures at ten, so it would only be convenient that early in the morning. Her flat was above a shop at the less well-heeled end of Portobello Road; the street was hopping with stalls, even on a weekday.
They buzzed the intercom; two other girls were listed, presumably flatmates. The aristocratic, high-pitched voice asked them to keep walking up the stairs.
The front door buzzed open. The staircase had threadbare carpet in an oak brown, the stair rods were loose. Barolli led the way as they got to the second floor.
Emily Wickenham leaned against the open doorway. 'Come on in. I'm eager to know what this is about; is it the breakin?'
'No.' Barolli showed his ID, as did Anna, and they followed Emily into the rather scruffy rented flat. It was full of rock-and-roll posters; the seedy kitchen looked disgusting.
'We don't have a lounge, but we can use my bedroom. Do you want tea or anything?'
'No, thank you.'
'It's the second time in six months we've been broken into! This time they took all the CDs; it's a real pain.'
She gestured for them to sit on her unmade bed and curled up in an old wicker armchair.
'It's not about the breakin,' Barolli said, sitting gingerly on top of a bright orange duvet.
Anna took a good look at the girl: she was very tall, at least five feet nine, with a skeletal frame. She was actually very pretty, but looked as if her hair needed washing; she wore no make-up and had badly bitten fingernails. She had her father's dark colouring and the same deep-set eyes. Anna wondered if she had an eating disorder, she was so thin.
Anna knew she must be very bright as she was only seventeen, so she must have taken her A-levels a year early to be at university already.
'Have you ever seen this girl?' Barolli brought out the photograph of Louise Pennel. Emily glanced at it and then shook her head. Next he showed her Sharon Bilkin's picture; again she shook her head.
'Were you here on the ninth of January this year?'
'Yes, I mean, I don't remember if I was here,
'Do you go home frequently?'
'What is this about?' she asked, chewing her fingers.
'We are leading a murder enquiry; both the girls we have just shown you were murdered.'
'Were they students?' she asked, without much emotion.
'No. Do you go back to your family home at weekends?' Anna asked, smiling pleasantly.
'No, I go home as little as I possibly can. Why do you want to know?'
'It is connected to our enquiry. Do you have a good relationship with your father?'
'No. Why do you want to know about my father?'
'Just for elimination purposes.' Barolli shifted his weight; sitting on the low bed was uncomfortable.
'Do you have a good relationship with your brother?'
'Not really; I hardly ever see him; he's my half-brother, actually.'
'When was the last time you were at home?'
'Oh God, I don't know. I mostly spend any free time with my mother. Why are you asking me these questions? I don't understand what you want to know about my family for.'
'Do you know if your father or your brother entertains young girls, maybe like the ones we have shown you?'
'I wouldn't know. I mean, Daddy is always having weekend parties but I don't go; we don't really get along. Has he said something to you?'
'About what?'
'Well, that we don't see a lot of each other. Mother says it's because I am too like him, but it's not that at all — we just don't particularly like each other.'
Barolli looked at Anna, unsure which way they should direct the conversation.
'Any particular reason?' Anna asked innocently.
'We just don't get along. I don't understand why you need to know about my relationship with my father. Is he — I mean, has he done something wrong?'
'These weekend parties; could you tell us a bit more about them?'
Emily fidgeted in the creaky wicker seat. 'I don't go to them, I just told you that.'
'Yes I know, but maybe before you lived here; when you lived at home?'
'I didn't really live at home. I was at boarding school and then when they divorced, I lived with Mother.'
'Why did they divorce?'
Emily was becoming agitated. 'Ask them! It was years ago. They weren't happy.'
'Did your mother entertain at these parties?'
'I don't know! I keep on telling you, I never went to them: we were not allowed to join in when we were kids. It's pretty obvious, isn't it?'
'But you must have been privy to some action when you were older?'
'No! Why do you keep asking me? I wasn't! Daddy was very strict with us; well, with me more than Justine; he wanted me to be a doctor, you know, go to medical school, but I wasn't interested. I couldn't wait to leave home. I think that's why I used to work so hard, you know, to get out and live by myself. Daddy was into his own thing.'
'Which was what?'
Emily bit at what was left of her thumbnail. 'Drinking and things.'
Anna took out the photographs again. 'Will you have another look at these photographs, Emily, and see if perhaps you recall seeing one or other of these girls at your family home?'
'No! I have already looked at them and I don't remember ever seeing either of them.'
'They were both brutally murdered, Emily. One of them, this girl, was called Louise Pennel: the press call her the Red Dahlia.'
Emily was getting tearful; she looked at the photographs again and shook her head.
'These weekend parties; did your father entertain young girls like these?'
'Sometimes, but I don't really know. I think you should leave, because I think you are trying to make me say something about stuff that I don't know about, and you are frightening me.'
'I'm sorry, Emily, that is not our intention. We are simply trying to ascertain if either of these poor girls ever visited your father at Mayerling Hall; if not your father, perhaps your brother?'
Emily now began twisting her hair round her fingers. 'I have told you that I don't go home very often. If Daddy knows these girls, why don't you ask him about them? I don't know anything and I don't want to get into trouble.'
'Trouble with your father?'
'Yes, he's very strict. I don't know how many more times I have to tell you that I have never met those girls; you just keep on asking me the same thing.'
'Did your father have many girlfriends?'
Emily sprang up from the chair, near to tears. 'I think you should go, please. I am not going to talk to you any more; this is very upsetting.'
Barolli and Anna had heard nothing to indicate that either Wickenham or his son knew the victims, so, reluctantly, they did as Emily asked.
Justine Wickenham was wearing jodhpurs, black riding boots and a thick, cable-knit sweater. She had been mucking out at the stables. When Langton and Lewis turned up, she carried on, saying she had to get it done before the morning rides. Like her sister, she thought they were there to question her about a minor incident. She had
