Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (15)

There were fifteen episodes uploaded, and each one dealt with a seemingly unsolved crime or series of crimes: arson, vandalism, catfishing. However, one episode caught Erika’s eye and she froze, her mind going back to Charles Wakefield. It read:

THE MYSTERY OF THE CROYDON CAT KILLER.





9





Erika was new to technology – she’d only recently, and reluctantly, bought a smartphone – and it took a moment to work out how to play the podcast. She set the volume, placed her phone on the bedcover, and started to listen.

It began with an eerie echoing tune played on a piano, and as the dying light of the fire played over the ceiling in the small box room, Erika forgot the hard floorboards under her back. Tess had been rather scornful of her sister’s acting abilities during their interview, but Vicky’s spoken introduction surprised her. She commanded the microphone with a strong, engaging broadcast voice.

‘The Croydon Cat Killer is the name given to a mythical figure alleged to have killed, dismembered, and decapitated more than four hundred cats in the United Kingdom. The killing spree began four years ago in Croydon, and has caused fear and terror for the residents of Greater London.

‘In 2014, reports of cats found mutilated in residential areas started to spread out across and around Greater London, and as far north as Manchester. The police immediately launched an investigation, which carried on for several years. Officially, the Met police have stated that the mutilations had not been carried out by a human, and were likely caused by wildlife predation, or scavenging on cats killed in vehicle collisions.

‘However, the killings have continued, and in three cases, a shadowy figure has been caught on CCTV. Many locals, including vets and police officers (who have declined to go publicly on the record), are still convinced that a sick individual is responsible for these killings. And some worry that this individual might soon transfer their attention to people…’

The sound then cut to an interview with a woman who lived in Shirley, in South London. A spoon rattled in a mug, and a train clacked past on the tracks outside. The audio conjured up the image of a kitchen in small terraced house, the windows looking out over the back garden, perhaps steamed up by the kettle.

‘I’m normally a heavy sleeper,’ said the woman in a broad Kentish accent. ‘But I sat bolt upright when I heard this sound.’

‘What sound did you hear?’ asked Vicky.

‘That awful noise of cats fighting… A terrible curdling yowling. You hear it quite a bit round here… but it stopped, like the sound being cut off. And tha’s what made me think something was wrong… I woke up Des, that’s me ’usband, and I sent him to go and check downstairs. When he opened the door, he found the body of a decapitated cat on the back doorstep. Fresh, it was. He checked the garden with a torch and found fresh muddy footprints, male, sized ten, leading across the lawn to the fence…’

Erika shifted on the mattress, the hard floor bringing her back to the room again. She thought of Charles Wakefield’s bedroom, in his dingy flat. The muddy footprint on his windowsill…

The podcast episode moved on to an interview with a man with a CCTV camera, who found the body of a cat hacked to pieces on his back step. He had a blurred image of a thick-set stocky figure in his back garden. Exhaustion, and the warmth of the fire in the small box room, caused Erika’s mind to drift and as she dozed off, she saw Charles as the stocky figure on the back porch. His sleeves rolled up, gripping something limp and furry, his eyes wide as specks of blood clung to his smooth hairless face.

Erika woke with a start. She was freezing cold, and a gruel-like grey light was filtering through the thin curtains. She shifted, and felt the hard floor pressing into her hip bones. When she sat up, her breath was coming out in a stream of vapour. It was 7am.





Erika arrived at Lewisham Row station just before nine. It was a bright grey day, with a wintery chill in the air. Two cups of coffee later, she was still shivering from her first shower in the new bathroom. A frigid plunge under a freezing trickle of water. It hadn’t helped that her car had iced up overnight. And the can of anti-freeze she kept in the car was empty. As she pulled into the car park, Peterson drove up beside her and parked in the next spot.

She also had a crick in her neck from where she’d slept badly on the deflated mattress. When she got out of the car, she tried to straighten up and winced.

‘Morning. You all right?’ asked Peterson. ‘How’s the new gaff?’

Erika was about to tell him the new house was fabulous and spacious and everything she’d ever dreamed of, but then thought, why do I have to lie? ‘My airbed popped, so I ended up on the bare floorboards. And I have no hot water.’ Peterson smiled as he took out his backpack and locked his car.

‘I slept on the sofa, so I feel your pain.’

‘That sofa is uncomfortable, but I would have given anything to sleep on something softer than floorboards.’

‘I didn’t get chucked out. It’s Kyle. He has night terrors… That’s why I was on the sofa,’ added Peterson quickly.

‘My mother used to have night terrors, she used to be half awake, half asleep, screaming like she was possessed by something.’

‘I know! Kyle screams and thrashes around. His eyes wide open. Scary stuff, and it takes ages to get him awake and calm him down,’ said Peterson, holding the door open for her. ‘The only way he can calm down is if he sleeps in our bed with Fran. And our bed is so small…’ They stepped through into the warmth of the reception area. It was small and run-down, and always seemed to stink of a mixture of sick and pine disinfectant. ‘There’s a big offer on at Bed World and it’s just over the road, next to the DLR.’