Free The Red Dahlia by Lynda La Plante Page B

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