Reflected in the elevator's gilt edging, he could see Mrs Dominique Wickenham still staring after them, composed and elegant; she slowly closed her front door.
Langton was in a foul mood on the way back to their hotel. They had really gained very little from the trip. His extensive knowledge of Mrs Wickenham's past had fazed Anna but had not brought any results.
'She was a whore,' Langton said, as they went into the hotel lobby.
'Must have been quite young,' Anna said.
'She was. I traced two arrests for soliciting in Paris. No way is she going to give us anything on Wickenham, because he pays out a fortune to her in alimony. That apartment must cost a bomb and like he said himself, the lady likes to shop.'
'So what's the next move?'
'We do as Professor Marshe suggested: weed out any known associates of Wickenham's and see if they can enlighten us.'
'If they were involved in any of these parties, then they are unlikely to be that helpful. I think we concentrate on the old housekeeper, the son and track down the girlfriend at her health farm.'
'Is that what you think, Travis?'
'Yes.'
'I detect a slight frisson; what's the matter?'
'It would be helpful if you had enlightened me with what you know, as maybe I could have had some input. I had to sit there just watching as you came out with the fact she was an exotic dancer, details of her divorce and her record for prostitution.' She asked for her key at the reception desk, warming up to have a row with him. 'I know you like to play things close to your chest, it's the way you work, but sometimes you should share information. I couldn't give you very much help.'
'Do you think you could have?'
'Yes! Well, I say yes; obviously, I'm not sure. I would have maybe taken it a bit calmer, teased it out of her.'
'Teased what out of her?' Langton asked.
Anna sighed; they had by now crossed to the elevators and were heading up to the third floor.
'Well, if she was what, eighteen, nineteen, years of age when she married Wickenham?'
'Not that young; she was twenty-five.'
'Okay, about my age. She's been arrested and she gets this rich-as-Croesus Englishman who must have brought her over from Paris; it's not a brain surgeon you need to tell you that it was the sex. So she hooks him, marries him, has two children…'
The elevator stopped, but Langton didn't get out; instead, he pressed to go to her floor.
'I think Dominique was not saying anything untoward about her ex-husband,' Anna continued, 'because she must have played quite a part in these soirees, and here's something else that's quite freaky: when the Black Dahlia suspect was arrested, his wife made him out to be a loving and caring man, when he'd been accused of molesting his daughter.' She headed towards her room, Langton following. The bed had not been made as she was checking out; her case was packed and ready for her to leave.
'If our suspect is Wickenham,' Langton responded, 'he has an obsession with the Black Dahlia case. It would therefore stand to reason that he would have primed his ex-hooker wife to stand by him and instructed her to give no indication that there was anything dubious connected to his younger daughter. I would say the incentive is money. The Black Dahlia ex-wife was broke and couldn't pay her rent; I don't think Dominique is hurting for money, but she is greedy: Wickenham said so himself He sat in a chair by the window; he had one leg crossed over the other, his foot tapping.
'Whichever source you used to get the details you had on Dominique Wickenham, were they able to tell you how large her bank balance was?'
Langton said nothing, glaring at his shoe. He then swung his leg down and took a beer from her mini bar. 'I had some help from Professor Marshe; she has a lot of contacts.'
Anna shook her head. 'How was she able to get this information?'
Langton opened the bottle. 'She worked in Paris, she's able to pull some strings, and she is also very well respected.'
'That doesn't mean a thing. She was privy to a police record and to divorce statements.'
'I checked out the divorce. Just don't ask too many questions, Travis. I'm sorry if I was like a bear with a sore arse, but I really hoped I'd be able to get that bitch to open up. Do you think I was too heavy-handed?'
'Slightly.'
'It was that bloody jangling charm bracelet, got on my nerves. She was lying to us from the moment we walked through the front door.' He swigged his beer from the bottle.
Anna sat opposite him. 'How can a woman know that her ex-husband had made advances to their daughter and that, as a result, an abortion had been performed, possibly even by him, and not want him stripped naked and whipped?'
'My gut feeling is that Dominique Wickenham would sell her own daughters if the price was right. You know the old saying don't you, a whore is a whore…' He frowned. 'I've forgotten the rest,' he said. He looked depressed. 'Well, pretty wasted journey. Might as well get to the airport and catch an earlier flight.'
Langton half rose out of his chair as the phone rang. He plonked himself back down again as Anna answered. She listened, then said thank you before replacing the receiver.
'Package has just been delivered. Were you expecting one?'
Langton shook his head.
'Well, it's on its way up.'
Anna opened the door and waited. A porter came out of the elevator carrying a brown manila envelope, addressed to them both but with their names misspelled. Anna tipped the porter, took the envelope and handed it to Langton. The envelope had been used before and the flap had been taped down. He opened it and tipped the contents out onto the glass table. There were seven photographs.
'What have we got here?' he murmured.
As he arranged the photographs so that they faced upwards on the table, Anna checked the envelope. A square white label had been stuck over the original address. Anna carefully eased as much away as possible without tearing it, to see that it had been mailed to Dominique Wickenham. There was a smudged date: it was March 2002. She called reception to ask if they could give a description of the person who had delivered the package.
Langton was staring at one photograph after another. 'You think Dominique sent these over?'
'I think from what they said downstairs it was her maid. Apparently it was an elderly woman in a black coat.'
Langton handed her one of the photographs. 'See what you make of that.'
Anna looked: it was a group of men and women lazing in a hot tub with glasses of champagne. 'That's Charles Wickenham centre, his son Edward, and I think that's Dominique half-turned towards camera. Is that Justine, the girl across from her?'
Langton nodded and looked at another photograph. 'Same crowd; hot tubs seem to excite them. Let's see if we can get an ID on the hairy-chested chaps. There's three women in this one, but none look like family.'
Anna glanced at the group of sweating, laughing people, toasting the camera with raised glasses and smiles. The men had their arms wrapped around the naked girls. Anna found the seediness of the photograph repellent, the two middle-aged men leering at what looked like teenagers.
'It's getting pornographic now: same men but different girls, blowjob time, and getting into costumes and bits of leather. Christ!'
Anna looked up.
'Jesus Christ, look at this! Just on the edge of the picture, on the right-hand side. Is that who I think it is?'
Anna got up and stood, looking over his shoulder. 'Where are you looking?'
Langton pointed. 'Girl in the leather boots and G-string.'
Anna leaned further over. 'It's Justine Wickenham.'
Langton picked up another photo, and shook his head. 'Christ Almighty, they're all screwing her.'
