The Red Dahlia

'You knew what I told you was confidential! And what I didn't tell you, you got out of my notebook. What did you do? Wait until you'd got me drunk? Until I had fallen asleep, so you could creep out of my bed to filch it?'

'Anna.' He took hold of her arm; their confrontation was exciting a lot of interest among the other journalists at their desks.

She swiped his hand away. 'I have been kicked off the case. I probably have no career left, but that wouldn't interest you, would it? You got your story and to hell with any consequences or trouble you might have got me into — and I am in big trouble. I think you are despicable!'

Reynolds pursed his lips, then reached over his desk and picked up the Black Dahlia book. 'There was an LA journalist who broke the news about the Black Dahlia suspect. All I was doing was following what happened in the original murder enquiry.'

'None of what I told you was ever connected to that.'

'Yes it was. What you had not told me was what your victim had been subjected to, and it is the same as the Black Dahlia, so even though you are trying to disconnect the two…'

'I'd like you to eat shit!' she snapped. Reynolds knew she was referring to what Louise Pennel had been forced into doing and it angered him.

'Don't be so crass. What you might not realise is that I work for the Sun, and although we are part of the same group that publish the News of the World, it's a different bloody newspaper.'

'So what did you do? Sell the information? It had to come from you, so don't try and say you had nothing to do with it!'

'Don't you understand? The News of the World filched their article from mine!'

Anna continued, her voice rising. 'We had not allowed that information to be leaked, because if we did bring in a suspect—'

'You have one. You told me.'

'I also told you that it was highly unlikely he was the killer. Now you've blasted it out.'

Reynolds looked around at the people listening and again tried to draw her away, but she wouldn't budge.

'Let's go and have a coffee, talk in private about it,' he said.

'I don't want to be in your company longer than it takes to say what I have come to tell you. I want nothing more to do with you. If this has hampered the enquiry, then you will have DCI Langton to deal with. This is just for my personal satisfaction. You are a creep and a two-faced bastard.' She picked up the coffee he had left on his desk and threw it in his face. It was a good hit: his hair was soaked and his face dripping.

'That's very childish.'

'Maybe, but it's made me feel better.' She turned and walked away as he tried to mop up the coffee from his face and his sopping shirt.

By the time she got back to her car, she was shaking with nerves. She drove home, hardly able to think straight, and her anger was unabated as she parked and let herself into the flat. She almost broke down in tears again, but refused to allow herself to. She tipped out her briefcase and searched through The Black Dahlia for the section that Reynolds had mentioned. She carried it into the kitchen and sat reading it over and over.

The original article had been written by a screenwriter and sent to the LA Herald Express. As Reynolds had said, it covered much the same ground as his article, describing the gruesome injuries of the victim and revealing that a suspect was being held in custody. Its publication had prompted the real killer to admit the murder, wanting recognition for his hideous crime and to claim the publicity he had earned.

Anna's mouth was dry as she drove to the station. She walked slowly up the stone steps and approached the Incident Room. She stood for a few moments outside the double doors, listening to jangling phones and muted voices, before mustering the guts to push them open.

The room fell silent as everyone turned to stare at her. She walked to her desk and took off her coat, folding it over the back of her chair. She could see the glances passing back and forth, and knew her cheeks would be pink with embarrassment, but she kept going. Taking from her briefcase her notebook and pencil, she proceeded to the front of the room to stand by the white crime board. There were a lot of copies of the newspaper article lying around. It was Lewis who spoke to her first.

'You've got a lot of bottle, Travis.'

'Not really, but I need to say something to everyone.'

'Floor's yours.' He gestured to the room; everyone was listening.

Anna coughed and then lifted her head to stare at a small spot on the wall directly in front and across from where she was standing.

'I really fouled up, and I am here to apologise to everyone. I had too much to drink and I foolishly trusted Richard Reynolds, the journalist. When I told him that what I was saying was highly confidential and not for publication, he promised me that it would go no further. I have no excuse, bar the fact I had that afternoon been through the hideous autopsy report on Louise Pennel and then seeing Sharon Bilkin's body. I can only apologise and, if what has happened as a result of my stupidity creates problems for this enquiry, I am ashamed and deeply sorry. That's all; again, please accept my apologies for my unprofessional and very naive conduct.'

Anna returned to her desk, leaving everyone unsure how to deal with what she had said. It was almost as if they wanted to give her a round of applause for standing up to them. Anna had been so nervous that she had not seen Langton appear, listen and walk back into his office. She packed up her desk, and was reaching for her raincoat when Barolli came over and handed her a coffee.

'I'd just let him brood a few more hours, I'm sure this won't—'

'Travis!' came the bellow before he could finish.

Anna turned to see Langton holding the blinds of his office window open; he gestured for her to join him and then let them flip closed again. She tapped on his door and waited a beat before she went in.

'You've got a lot of nerve,' he said, standing in front of his desk with his thumbs caught in his braces.

'I meant everything I said.'

'I bloody hope you did, but it doesn't alter the facts.'

There was a pause as he glared at her. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl standing in front of her teacher; she had to bite the inside of her mouth hard to stop the tears welling up.

'What do you think your father would have to say?'

'He would be ashamed.'

He nodded, and then checked his watch. 'Go home.'

'I was intending to do that.'

As she walked to the door, she paused a moment. 'Did we get anything from the cash found at Sharon's flat?'

'Not yet; it's Sunday, remember?'

'Oh, I know what day it is, and one I won't forget.'

She walked out and closed the door quietly behind her. Passing through the Incident Room, she got a few glances and smiles, but they didn't make her feel any better. She went up to Lewis, who was printing serial numbers on the board.

'We might get some luck with these. There's over a thousand pounds in new notes; the rest are all odd numbers.'

Anna hovered and then asked if she could speak to him in private. He looked nonplussed and then gestured to the corridor.

Anna gathered her things and went to wait for Lewis. It was a few minutes before he joined her.

'I spoke to Reynolds this morning; his excuse for what he had done was that in the Black Dahlia case, a screenwriter wrote a similar article—'

'Yeah, yeah, I have read the book.'

'Then you know what happened after the article was written: the killer was so angry about this suspect that was held claiming all the credit—'

Lewis interrupted her, impatient. 'We released our suspect this morning; we sent him back to where he walked out from, an institution over in Tooting: it was another time waster.'