The Red Dahlia

'But not when Mrs Wickenham was here?'

For the first time there was just a flicker of unease. 'No, well, she was quite a handful; she was very keen on getting in caterers. She didn't like my offerings — said they were "meat and potatoes" — they wanted this nuvo cuisine. Well, to be honest, I was happier cooking for the children than running around after the people she had down here.'

'You didn't like them?'

'I never said that; they were just not my type of people. The children were always my priority, and Mr Charles. You see, before I worked for him, I was cook for his father. I've been working at the Hall since I was in my thirties, and I'm seventy-two years old now.'

'That's a long time.'

'It is. My husband died in an accident on one of the farms, so I came to work here. No children of my own, so I really enjoyed…' There was a strange unease about her body language: she seemed to twist and turn in her chair as she rubbed at the silver. 'I loved them like they were my own.'

'So you know Danielle, Mrs Wickenham's maid?'

'Yes, yes I do, she was here for years and thank God she was, because I couldn't have run after her ladyship the way she had to. Mrs Wickenham had a right temper on her, she could be a handful to deal with.'

Anna first showed Louise Pennel's picture. Mrs Hedges shook her head; she also didn't recognise Sharon Bilkin. Anna was disappointed. She took out the photographs of the sex games in the sauna, which had been doctored so that only the faces of the men they were trying to identify were visible. Although Mrs Hedges was unable to recall his name, she said she thought that one of them was Spanish, a well-known artist.

'He was not a very nice man; he used to stay many times, always over at the barn. He used to paint there sometimes.'

'Was this before it was converted?'

Mrs Hedges hesitated.

'Edward Wickenham's wife committed suicide in the barn, didn't she?'

Mrs Hedges took a deep breath and then wafted her hand. 'Yes yes, terrible, very sad.'

Anna was not expecting Mrs Hedges to continue, as the mention of the suicide had obviously distressed her very much, but she leaned forward and lowered her voice. 'Things have gone on in the house. I've learned over the years to do my job and go to my room. What the eyes don't see…'

'But if you thought these things were bad, why did you stay?'

Mrs Hedges picked up a polishing cloth and started buffing up a silver goblet. 'My husband died young, he left me in some financial trouble and old Mr Wickenham helped me out. This is, I suppose, the only real security I have ever had. I've no family, so the girls and even Edward have been like my own. They look after me, treat me very well.'

'So you must have been very concerned about Emily?'

Bingo. At last Anna had hit a target that Mrs Hedges could not polish away, and she became tearful.

'I made excuses, because of the way he was treated. But not over Emily; that was unforgivable.' Her voice was hardly audible. 'I knew there had to be a reason why you were here. If I tell you what I know, and Mr Charles finds out, then God knows what he'll do to me. But I've saved all my money, I can go somewhere.'

Anna reached out and gently stroked the elderly woman's hand, encouraging her to continue. She clasped Anna's hand tightly. 'I should have done something when I knew what was going on.'

Charles Wickenham was fending off every question like a master duellist. He parried and queried and never at any time appeared fazed or ashamed when asked about his sexual proclivities; in fact, he seemed to relish discussing his house parties. When Langton brought up the accusation of his relationship with his own daughters, he dismissed it with a waft of his hand.

'Not this again. I have already discussed my daughter's problems and her overactive imagination; we have doctors and therapists who can also verify that Emily is a dreadful little liar. I did not have a sexual relationship with my daughter.'

'What about the pregnancy?'

Langton watched Wickenham closely. There was not so much as a flicker.

'It was all in her mind. Of course, I questioned the staff: you know, the stable boys and gardeners, whether any of them had been having sexual intercourse with her, obviously I did, as she was underage, but there was no truth in it; all in her addled little mind.'

'She claims that she had an abortion.'

He sighed, shaking his head. 'Claims! Well, if you have any evidence of this abortion then I would dearly like to know about it, because it is a total fiction!'

'So you did not operate on your daughter?'

'Me! Good God, what do you take me for? I am her father! This is a very serious allegation. You know, I really do think that I should have someone here to listen to all this.'

'It is just an enquiry at this stage,' Langton said quietly.

'An enquiry into what, for God's sake? That I had intercourse with my daughter and operated on her, when I have told you repeatedly that she has mental problems, and you cannot trust a word she says? Next, you ask me for times and dates relating to a murder enquiry, a double murder enquiry: well, this is all rather preposterous, isn't it? I mean, are you scouring all the unsolved crimes to give yourselves an excuse to make a pleasant trip out to the country rather than do the work you are paid to do in London?'

'I do not find any of this pleasant, Mr Wickenham.'

'Nor do I, Detective Chief Inspector Langton, nor do I, and I will consider making a formal complaint to the Commissioner.'

'That is your prerogative.' Langton was finding it difficult to maintain controclass="underline" he wanted to wrap his hands around the audacious, posturing man's throat. Wickenham stood in front of them, leaning one elbow against the mantelpiece or tucking his hands into his pockets. He kept touching his tie and patting down his collar. He picked off tiny balls of fluff from his pale yellow cashmere sweater, but not one gesture gave any indication that he was unnerved or even worried by the questions.

Langton displayed the headshots of the men taken with Wickenham in his own hot tub. He casually glanced at each face, said he did know them and they were not close friends, more associates that he occasionally entertained.

'For sex parties?'

Wickenham shrugged. 'Here we go again. Yes, we do have fun here sometimes, but whatever goes on in the privacy of one's home is exactly that: private.'

'Your wife and son also enjoyed these fun times.'

'Yes, yes they did; again, they are consenting adults. Our sexual fun may not appeal to you, but again that is a matter of choice.'

'Your daughter Justine?'

Wickenham sighed with irritation. 'She could do whatever she liked. She was eighteen years old; if she chose to join in, that was her prerogative. Nobody ever forced anyone to do anything.'

'We have a witness who said Louise Pennel was here the weekend before her murder.'

Wickenham was some actor; he gave no visible reaction whatsoever, but closed his eyes. 'I'm sorry; say the name again?'

'Louise Pennel.'

'Ah yes, the Red Dahlia, I believe the papers are calling her.'

'Sharon Bilkin knew your son's fianc�e; did you know that?'

'Sharon who?'

Langton was getting tired of the game playing and stood up. 'Sharon Bilkin: her body was found just off the A3 in a field.'

'Not one of mine, I hope,' he smirked.

Langton knew that nothing he could throw at this man was going to produce the goods: he had an answer for everything. Wickenham had obviously intuited they were here on a fishing trip, and was determined that they would have to leave without a catch.

'Thank you for your time.'

Langton glanced at Lewis who had remained silent throughout. He stood up to join Langton and asked if he could use the cloakroom.