Free The Red Dahlia by Lynda La Plante Page A

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