'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.'
'His daughter?'
'No, Dominique Wickenham. When do you think this was taken?'
He turned over the photographs but nothing was written on the back of any of them.
'Well, the envelope has 2002 on it, but these could have been taken years ago, so it's not much use to us. If it is her, what does that give us?'
Langton looked up; they were almost touching. 'Well, she's bonking her stepson as well as everyone else, so it's not that old is it? How old would you say he looks?'
'Hard to tell from what I can see of him. But Justine looks about thirteen or fourteen to me.'
Langton sifted through the photographs and then frowned. 'This looks like some kind of cellar. There's two girls tied up. Look at all the equipment: the sicko's got a private dungeon! There's chains and some weird machines.'
'Looks like old farm equipment to me,' Anna said, sitting back down.
'No way; this is state-of-the-art masochistic gear.' Langton got up and started to pace to and fro, then took another beer from the mini bar.
Anna carried on looking at the photographs. 'Why did she bring these to us? There's got to be something we're not seeing. I mean, we have a pretty good idea of what Wickenham gets up to, but in the privacy of his home, there's not a lot we can do about it.'
'Well, there's the one photo of his daughter.'
'I know, but it still doesn't give us any connection to Louise Pennel or Sharon Bilkin. So Wickenham has sex parties: it's not against the law.'
'What if the girls are all underage?'
'Well, one, we have to trace them; two, we could find that they're not unwilling participants. We also have no dates, so we don't know when these were taken, and they're not all from the same time.' Anna pointed out that in one photo, Wickenham had a moustache, in another longish hair, and in another short hair: there could be years between when they were taken.
'Well, there is one person that can give us a clue, and that's Dominique.'
'You suggesting we go back?'
'Thinking about it.'
'You'll get the maid into big trouble.'
Langton nodded as he opened a packet of peanuts. 'How about talking to just the maid?'
Anna shrugged. 'We could do, but we are scheduled to fly back this afternoon. It's up to you.'
Langton tossed a peanut up into the air and caught it in his mouth. 'I think we should return as scheduled. We need to talk to Justine and the son.'
Chapter Fourteen
Anna slept through her alarm and was annoyed at herself for being late for work. She grabbed yesterday's suit, but put on a clean shirt. She arrived at the Incident Room to be told that Langton was in the boardroom, being given a briefing by the key team. Lewis, Barolli, Bridget and two other officers were sitting around the huge table listening to the taped calls from the phone taps. Langton was looking very smart in a pale blue shirt and dark navy tie, his suit immaculate. He glanced up with irritation as Anna entered.
'Sorry, my alarm didn't go off,' she said rather lamely as she took the nearest chair. She put down her briefcase, taking out her notebook and pencils. No one spoke; they all seemed to be waiting for her to settle. 'Sorry,' she repeated, embarrassed, and busied herself turning over the pages of her notebook until she found a blank one.