Lynda La Plante: The Red Dahlia

Langton chucked the newspaper into the bin in his kitchen.

He snapped angrily into the phone. 'Yeah I just read it. No! Do nothing about it. I've never heard of this Black Dahlia woman, have you?'

Lewis said that he hadn't either.

'Doesn't really have anything to do with us, seeing as it was in the forties and in the bloody USA!'

Lewis wished he had never made the call. 'Right, just thought if you hadn't seen it.'

'Yeah, yeah; look, I'm tired out, sorry if I bit your head off. See you in the morning.' Langton was about to replace the receiver when he remembered. 'How's your son?'

'He's terrific; got over that bug, and he's got rows of teeth now,' Lewis said, affably.

'Great; goodnight then.'

"Night.'

It was after eleven. Langton retrieved the paper from the bin and pressed it out flat on his kitchen counter.

Elizabeth Short, though aged only twenty-two, had been a jaded beauty with raven-black hair, white face and dark-painted lips. The flower in her hair might have been a dahlia, but it wasn't black. In comparison, Louise Pennel looked younger and fresher, even though they were about the same age. Louise's eyes were dark brown and Elizabeth's green but, eerily, the dead girls had a similar expression. The half-smile on their pretty lips was sexual, teasing, yet the eyes had a solemnity and a sadness, as if they knew what fate had in store.

The next morning, Anna stopped off at a bookshop to buy her daily Guardian. Next to the till, there was a bookstand of half-price paperbacks, one of which was The Black Dahlia. Blazoned across the cover were the words 'TRUE LIFE CRIME'. She bought it. By the time she got to the Incident Room, the phones were jangling; the press release was in all the papers, as was the photograph of Louise with the red rose. Numerous other tabloids had picked up on the Sun's article and were also now calling Louise the Red Dahlia. A couple of articles referred to the original case in LA but most of them concentrated, as Langton had hoped they would, on the fact that the police were trying to trace the tall dark-haired stranger.

Eight days into the enquiry, for all Langton's snide remarks about Morgan he had got no further in tracing Louise's killer himself, though at least he did now have more facts to give the press. Although they had not been given all the details, the brutality of the murder, even tempered down, made shocking reading.

All the calls to the Incident Room regarding the Red Dahlia enquiry had to be monitored and checked out, so extra clerical staff had been shipped in. Of the many calls, seventy per cent were from either jokers or perverts; thirty per cent still needed investigating. It was a long day, with half the team interviewing Louise's friends, such as they were, or trying to trace the male companions pictured in her photograph albums. Meanwhile, forensics had removed all the dirty laundry and bed linen from Louise's flat to test for DNA. Langton was covering all areas but still felt like a headless chicken. He decided to go to Stringfellow's with Lewis to make enquiries. Barolli was checking out the other two clubs that Sharon had said Louise often went to, hoping that someone would be able to identify their tall dark stranger, or that someone would have witnessed Louise leaving the club. Taxis also had to be checked out; it was an endless, tedious slog, but it had to be done.

The officers who had been scouring the coffee bars local to Louise's workplace had various sightings of her confirmed; she was often alone, though she would sometimes pick someone up and go to the cinema in Baker Street. No one questioned could give a name or recall ever seeing her with the same person twice, let alone a tall dark stranger. She was always friendly and chatty; no one thought she was on the game, more that she needed company — preferably the sort who would pick up the bill.

Anna had not been asked to join the lads on their club crawl, but she didn't mind. Her head ached from monitoring call after call, still with nothing tangible at the end of the day. During her lunch break, she had begun reading the book about Elizabeth Short's murder. It had been written by a former Los Angeles Police Department officer, who had been attached for many years to the homicide division of LA County. He made some startling deductions and even put forward his own father as the killer. Anna continued reading once she was home. She didn't expect to be up still at two o'clock in the morning, but she had been unable to put the book down. Even when she finished it, sleep didn't come: all she could do was think about its nightmarish contents. Although Elizabeth Short had been murdered in the forties, there was nevertheless a sickening link beyond the similarities between her photograph and Louise's. The murders were virtually identical.

Langton and Lewis looked tired out. They had spent hours at the clubs with little result. Louise was remembered by two waiters at Stringfellow's, but so far as they could recall, she was always with a different man. They could not, from the vague description, identify any specific tall dark stranger who had been with her. Her male friends were often young rock singers who she picked up in the club. The last night she was there had been a big showbiz occasion, with many glitzy guests who had been to a film premiere. They had roped off private sections and the place was jumping. The doormen and bouncers were no help; it seemed Louise came and went without a trace.

Barolli had not fared any better; a few people recalled seeing Louise, but not recently. He had tramped from one rather seedy nightclub to the next, showing her photograph. They had all recognised her; some knew she was dead, others didn't. She was often alone, and would chat to the barmen about waiting for a modelling agent to contact her. It appeared she never drank too much and was always polite and friendly; if she was on the game, it was not obvious. Not one person questioned remembered seeing her with an older man; the clubs were mainly for people her age. She was known, but not known; they all thought of her as being a very attractive girl but something about her was not quite right. One barman said it was as if she was always waiting for someone, often looking to the club's entrance expectantly.

Langton had asked for the cashmere sweaters they had taken from Louise's flat to be traced. They were part of a large special deal for Harrods' January sales the previous year, but none of the assistants could recall any tall dark stranger buying one, either with cash or a credit card. The perfume, although costly, could have been sold to any one of hundreds of customers in a range of department stores. The search for Louise's maroon coat also drew a blank. Sharon had made an attempt at describing Louise's handbag, but 'large black leather with a wide strap' was not much use. She also said that Louise sometimes used smaller clutch bags, but could not describe any in much detail. A search of the area where the body was found also yielded nothing. They were back almost to square one.

Anna placed a call to the crime desk at both the Mirror and the Sun. She then went into the ladies to refresh her make-up. Running a comb through her hair, she stared at her reflection and took a deep breath. Langton might laugh her out of his office but, then again, he might not.

'Well, this is another fucking fruitless day,' he muttered as she tapped and entered his office.

'I wanted to have a quick chat.'

'I'm all ears.' He wasn't; he was doodling on a notepad, his face set in anger.

'I just want to run something by you,' she said.

He sighed, impatiently. 'Well, bloody get on with it.'

She put the book on his desk. 'It's about the Black Dahlia murder.'