Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (14)

She crouched down and put out her hand. The cat got up and wound its way around her arm as she stroked it.

‘My goodness, you have the softest fur,’ said Erika as she moved her hand up, scratching behind the cat’s ears. It let out a soft low purr that immediately relaxed Erika. ‘Are you a boy or a girl?’ she added, and peered down between the cat’s legs. ‘Ah, yes. Cock and balls. That means you’re a boy.’

Erika got up and went to the kitchen to see if the cat would follow. He did, and he sat by the ancient humming fridge with its rusty door. Erika had inherited a scrubbed wooden kitchen table and one chair. Boxes were piled high on and around the table. Erika opened a box which had ‘TINS’ written on the side, and found a can of Májka paté.

She looked at the cat and he licked his lips.

‘You have a talent, breaking into houses and working your charm. You’ve been here five minutes and I’m contemplating opening my last tin of my favourite Slovak paté for you…’ The cat stared up at her hopefully and blinked. ‘And just like that, I’ve become the old cat lady,’ said Erika. She found a tea cup and saucer, spooned half of the paté out onto the saucer, and filled the teacup with water from the tap. She put them both on the floor by the fridge and watched as the cat tucked in, lapping at the glistening meat with a small pink tongue.

Erika thought back to the mystery of why Charles Wakefield had two frozen cat corpses in a bin liner. She felt another pang of sadness, seeing those beautiful creatures dead. She ate a spoonful of the paté out of the can, and then gave the cat more.

It was almost four o’clock in the morning, but Erika was suddenly wide awake. There was a clinking as the plate flapped up and down on the floorboards as he licked it clean. There was still a draught coming from the open cat flap. Erika closed it, and checked that it was still working. She’d have to get some oil and fix its sticking. She expected the cat to leave after its food, but instead it followed her back up the hall.

Her feet echoed as she climbed into the darkness, and when she saw the cat padding along behind her, Erika was glad of the company. She felt around on the walls, her fingers brushing the air bubbles under the damp and peeling wallpaper, and flicked on the switch. There were four doors leading off the landing. The first door led to a tiny box room which looked out into the back garden. Next to it was an equally tiny bathroom, the third door along the hall led to another small bedroom, and the largest bedroom was at the front of the house, and it had a huge bay window.

Erika peered into the box room, saw her single blow-up mattress on the floor, and was pleased to see it was still inflated with her duvet and pillows on top. The house had a fireplace in every room, but this was the only room where the fireplace wasn’t boarded up.

The cat followed her inside, hopped up onto the end of the mattress, and curled up contentedly. Erika had never had a pet. This cat was a stray, but a cute one, and there was something about him being here on her first night in the house that comforted her.

She changed out of her work clothes, kept on her socks and underwear, and pulled on a thick pair of tartan pyjamas. She’d bought some wood and firelighters from the petrol station, and she spent a few minutes building and lighting a fire in the tiny grate. She sat on the end of the mattress, feeding in larger pieces of wood as the tiny petal of fire grew to a blaze, and she rubbed her hands in the comforting glow.

She still had an old blue sweater belonging to Peterson that he’d forgotten to collect when their relationship ended. She liked to sleep in it, and it was on the mattress where the cat was half lying on it. She could see the label poking out from the collar: ‘George at ASDA’.

‘Hmm. George is a good name, what do you think?’

The cat stared up at her, blinking, and then got up and went padding out of the room. Erika followed him to the door as she heard him patter down the stairs, into the hall, and then there was a soft thwap of the cat flap in the kitchen.

‘Okay. Bye, George,’ said Erika, and she was surprised how sad she was that the cat had gone.

When she came back into the bedroom, the fire was now roaring and crackling in the grate. The wood she had bought from the petrol station sizzled and spat, and she watched as a bright red spark flew out and hit the inflatable mattress.

‘No!’ she cried, realising what was about to happen. There was a hiss as it landed and burned through the thin plastic, leaving a large hole. The mattress began to deflate rapidly, the duvet and pillows sinking down to the level of the old floorboards. ‘Shit.’

Her room was suddenly less cosy. Erika climbed on top of the mattress, which was now flat as a pancake, and tried to get comfortable under the duvet. She was warm, but she could feel every inch of the hard floorboards under her back. After half an hour of tossing and turning, she gave up on trying to sleep and pulled out her phone.

Erika never used the podcast app on her iPhone, but she clicked on it, found the search bar, and tapped in the name ‘Vicky Clarke podcast’.

The podcast graphic came up first in the search results. There was a photo of Vicky standing against a brick wall, wearing a boxy black leather jacket with her arms folded. She was looking into the camera with a grim-set seriousness and above, written in bold red type, was the title: V.A. CLARKE TRUE CRIME DETECTIVE.

It’s a true crime podcast? thought Erika. Why didn’t Tess think to mention this?