The Red Dahlia (8 page)

‘So you didn’t rate her?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Barolli smiled. ‘The bit about the suspect being married with grown-up kids will give us more to work on.’

Anna shrugged. ‘I don’t see how; we’ve not even got a possible suspect yet.’

‘But she said that Louise had to have been with this guy. You said it yourself: somebody has to bloody know him.’

‘Not if he made sure he was never seen with Louise; from what I gathered from Sharon, he never even went into the flat. He waited outside in the car.’

‘Yeah, the shiny black one!’ Barolli sighed, exasperated, and wandered off.

Anna crossed her legs beneath the desk and swore as she felt her tights snag. She bent down and hitched up her skirt; the ladder was spreading upwards from a large hole on her knee.

‘You want to see if this woman in Bognor Regis can give us anything?’

Anna looked up; Langton was leaning on her desk.

‘Sure.’

He leaned closer, looking down. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Oh, nothing; just snagged my tights.’

‘Off you go then.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, Travis, now; unless you have something else pressing? No need to take anyone with you.’ He paused for a moment. ‘What did you think of her?’

She knew who he was referring to, of course, but acted as if she didn’t. ‘Think of who?’

‘Professor Marshe?’

‘Interesting; not as informative as Michael Parks.’

‘Well, he didn’t give us much to start off with, if you remember; in fact, I didn’t rate him at all when he first talked to the team, but he came up with the goods on how to handle Alan Daniels. Aisling seems to think we are hunting down another sociopath.’

Anna busied herself packing her briefcase. ‘Bit obvious; I mean what sane person would commit such a horrific murder? Every time I think about it I feel sick.’

‘Let’s hope your outing to Bognor Regis proves to be worthwhile.’

‘Will it be okay if I go straight home after, as I’m off at four?’

‘Why not?’ he said, walking away; he then turned back, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

‘Eager to get off home? That’s not like you; unless you’ve got a date?’

‘No,’ she lied, then added that she had been up late working on the report.

‘Ah yes; well, enjoy your trip.’

‘Thank you.’ Anna snapped her briefcase closed. She didn’t know how he managed to get under her skin so easily. ‘I’ll call in if I do get anything,’ she said, but he was already moving across the room to speak to Lewis and Barolli.

Mrs Pennel’s was a large Victorian double-fronted house with big bay windows, set well back from the road leading down to the beach. All the other properties had gardens that were well kept, if slightly strewn with sand, but this one was very overgrown. Anna rang the intercom at the gate and waited, the wind whipping her coat. At last, a disembodied voice asked who she was, and then buzzed it open. The path and front steps were gritty with sand and the doormat was threadbare; it looked as if it hadn’t been swept or moved in years.

Anna rang the bell and stepped back. The front door had stained-glass panels,

two with tape over the cracks. It was a few minutes before the door clicked open

and a reincarnation of Mrs Danvers peered out. She was dressed in a black crepe

skirt and woollen sweater, with a housekeeper’s faded floral smock over it, dark

stockings and lace-up shoes. It was her iron-grey hair that made Anna think instantly of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, as it was worn in an old-fashioned forties style with a roll either side of her head. She had thin, drawn lips and small, button-cold eyes.

‘Are you the policewoman?’

‘Yes, I am Detective Inspector Anna Travis. Are you Mrs Hughes?’ She showed her warrant card.

‘Yes; you had better come in.’ She opened the door wider.

Anna stepped into a cold and unwelcoming hallway. It was as if the house was suspended in a time warp. The walls were lined with dark prints and old brown photographs, and the glass of the heavy chandeliers was tinted mustard yellow and green. There was a distinct smell of mothballs.

‘Follow me. Mrs Pennel is expecting you, but she may be sleeping.’

Mrs Hughes led the way up the stairs past a sick-looking plant on a plinth in front of dark-green velvet draped curtains.

‘Have you worked for Mrs Pennel a long time?’ Anna asked.

‘Yes, twelve years. There used to be other staff but they’ve not been here for years; nowadays, we just have a cleaner.’

Mrs Hughes stopped on a sparse landing, next to a commode chair and a walking frame, and held up her hand. ‘Give me a minute.’

Anna watched as Mrs Hughes entered a room at the far end of the landing.

‘Florence, the lady is here to see you. Florence!’

Anna could not hear a reply.

‘Do you need me to stay with you?’ Mrs Hughes asked, standing to one side.

‘No, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘There’s a bell push at the side of her door; just pull it when you leave. I’ll wait downstairs.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That’s all right; I’ll be in the kitchen.’

Anna closed the door behind her as she could sense Mrs Hughes hovering. She wasn’t really like Mrs Danvers; actually, she’d been quite helpful so far.

‘Mrs Pennel?’ Anna asked, taking in the room.

It was not as drab as the rest of the house. The walls were apple green, the carpet a darker green and the curtains floral. There was a massive carved wardrobe, a matching dresser with a bow-fronted mirror on top and a four-poster bed with drapes that matched the walls. There were also large potted plants in the corners; Anna presumed they were fake, as the heat in the room was overpowering. A marble fireplace had a large electric fire in the grate with all four bars on. Old-fashioned central heating pipes ran around almost the entire room and, judging by the heat, they were all turned on as well. There were stacks of magazines and fashion books on stools and small tables, and bottles of water, medicine and perfume jostled for space with silver photograph frames on the mantel shelf and dressing table.

Placed close to the electric fire was a floral printed sofa, piled high with

cushions. Reclining on it was an incredibly pretty elderly lady with snow-white

hair worn in a braid around her head. She wore a nylon nightdress and pink knitted bedjacket; her eyes were heavy with mascara, her cheeks rouged and her lips outlined in pink.

‘Mrs Pennel?’ Anna asked, moving closer.

‘Hello, dear.’ Mrs Pennel’s nail polish matched her lipstick; her puffy arthritic fingers bore a number of diamond rings and her wrist a large bracelet. She patted a velvet chair near her and smiled.

‘Sit down, dear; have you been offered a drink?’

Anna could feel the sweat under her armpits; the temperature in the room was about 80 degrees. ‘No thank you. Do you mind if I take my coat off?’

‘I have some gin and tonic in the cabinet.’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘If you want a coffee or tea, you’ll have to ring for Mrs Hughes. I did have a kettle in here but I don’t know where it is, and some tea cups, but they were taken down to the kitchen and never brought back up again. Would you like a drink?’

Mrs Pennel was evidently hard of hearing. Anna leaned forwards and spoke up. ‘No, thank you.’

Mrs Pennel blinked and fussed with her bedjacket. ‘Are you from the Social Services?’

It took Anna quite a while to communicate to Mrs Pennel that she was there to ask about a girl called Louise. She seemed not to know the name and showed no reaction when Anna told her that she had found her address on a label attached to a suitcase. It was hard going. Mrs Pennel leaned back and closed her eyes; whether she was listening or not, Anna couldn’t tell.

‘Mrs Pennel, Louise was murdered.’

No reaction.

‘Are you related to her?’

No reaction.

Anna tapped the ringed hand. ‘Mrs Pennel, can you hear me?’

The mascara-ed eyes fluttered.

‘It has been in all the papers. Could you look at this photograph and tell me if you know this girl?’

Anna held the photograph out. ‘This is Louise Pennel.’ Mrs Pennel sat up, searched for some glasses, and then stared at the photograph.

‘Who is this?’ she asked.

‘Louise Pennel,’ Anna said again, loudly.

‘Is it Raymond’s daughter?’

‘Who is Raymond?’

‘My son; that’s him over there.’

Mrs Pennel pointed to a row of photographs. There were various pictures of Florence in theatrical costumes and two of a young dark-haired man in military uniform who Anna recognised from Louise’s album.

‘Is this your son?’

‘He married a terrible woman, a hairdresser; he died of a burst appendix and if she had got a brain she would have called an ambulance, but she let him die. I would have helped out if I’d known they were in financial trouble, but she wouldn’t even speak to me. Heather, her name was; Heather.’

Anna sat down and showed the photograph to Mrs Pennel again. ‘Did Louise ever come to see you?’

Mrs Pennel plucked at her jacket and turned away. ‘My son was a foolish boy, but if he’d asked for help, I’d have forgiven him.’

Anna was becoming impatient. She leaned forwards and spoke loudly. ‘Mrs Pennel, I am here because I am investigating the murder of Louise Pennel. I need to know if she came here and if so, whether someone was with her.’

‘Yes!’ the old lady snapped. I m sorry?

‘I said yes. Yes, yes, yes. My son I would have helped, but not that woman, with her bleached hair and her common voice and cheap perfume. She was to blame; it was her fault he died.’

Anna stood up. ‘Mrs Pennel, your granddaughter is dead. I am not here about your son or your daughter-in-law, but about Louise Pennel. I just want to know if she came here and if anyone accompanied her.’

Mrs Pennel closed her eyes; her hands were drawn into fists, her lips tight. ‘I said if he married her I would disinherit him, cut him off without a penny, and he spat at me. My own son; he spat at me. If his father had been alive, he wouldn’t have dared do that; he would not have dared marry that whore. I nearly died carrying him; I had a terrible time. I was in hospital for weeks after his birth. I only ever wanted what was best for him; I spoilt him, gave him anything he wanted but he just walked out. He chose that terrible woman over me.’

Anna stood up; there was no way she could break into the stream of vitriol that spewed out of the old lady’s painted lips. She didn’t even appear to have noticed that Anna was picking up her coat, ready to leave. She stared straight ahead into the electric fire, her hands clenched.

Anna headed down the stairs, and she could still hear Mrs Pennel as she continued to berate her dead son, her voice echoing down.

‘Twenty-six years old, his whole life ahead of him and she came and destroyed everything. I loved my son; I would have given him everything I have. He knew that; he knew I adored him, but he chose that bitch!’

Mrs Hughes appeared at the kitchen door. She looked up the stairs, then back to Anna. ‘She can keep going for hours until she’s exhausted, then she just sleeps. Did you want to know about Raymond? I should have warned you not to bring up his name if you didn’t. She’s like a broken record!’

‘Could I just have a few words with you?’ Anna asked.

The kitchen was as tired and old-fashioned as the rest of the house. Mrs Hughes put the kettle on and turned to Anna. ‘She’s ninety-four; she’s been dying for the last twenty years, but hangs on as if she’s afraid to let go. I think it’s the fury that keeps her alive. She doesn’t even want to watch TV, or listen to the radio. She just lies up there in her own world. She sometimes looks through her photograph albums, her days when she was an actress, before she married the Major. He died twenty-odd years ago; everyone she knew is dead.’

‘Did you know her son?’

‘Not really. By the time I came, he’d left; they had this fight about the girl he wanted to marry. Mrs Pennel cut him off, and he never came back.’

Anna nodded. ‘I am here because a girl called Louise Pennel has been murdered; she had a suitcase with this address.’

‘That might be her granddaughter; I think one of her names was Louise. Mary Louise?’

Anna took a deep breath; at last she was able to ask the questions she needed answering. She took out Louise’s photograph. ‘Is this her?’

Mrs Hughes looked at the photograph.

‘Yes. I only met her once. She’s murdered?’

‘She came here? To Harwood House?’

‘Yes, about eight or nine months ago. She’s been murdered?’

‘Yes; it has had extensive news coverage.’

‘We don’t get the newspapers; she likes the glossy magazines.’

‘Is there any way you could recall the exact date Louise came here?’

Mrs Hughes pursed her lips, then went to a cabinet and opened a drawer. She took out a large calendar, evidently a freebie from an estate agent. She began flicking through it, licking her fingertips as she turned over month by month of elegant houses.

‘It was last May, the sixteenth; nearly nine months ago now.’

‘Thank you, that’s terrific. Is Mrs Pennel very wealthy?’

‘Yes; well, worth a few hundred thousand, then there’s this house and she has some nice jewellery. She has a solicitor who comes round a lot to check on the running of the house. My wages and the bills are paid direct. I think he suggested she move into a home, but she won’t have it. She just lives up there; never comes down here, hasn’t for years.’ She sighed, shaking her head. ‘Murdered; that’s terrible.’

Anna did not want to get into the details of the murder. She concentrated on her notebook. ‘Do you live in?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a room next to hers, in case she needs me at night.’

Mrs Hughes set down the tea tray and poured from a small dented teapot. ‘Place is going to rack and ruin, but she won’t spend a penny on doing anything; well, I suppose at ninety-four, why bother?’

‘Did Mrs Pennel talk to Louise when she was here?’

‘No, the old girl was very poorly with the flu; I never thought she’d get over it, but she did. Louise just turned up on the doorstep.’