Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (22)

‘Hello?’ he said. They could see past him into a modern bedsit with a tiny kitchen and an open sofa bed.

‘Shawn Macavity?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes,’ he said, narrowing his eyes in confusion. He had a warm northern accent.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster, and this is Detective Inspector Moss and Detective Inspector Peterson,’ said Erika as they all flashed their warrant cards. ‘We need to talk to you about your girlfriend.’

‘Who?’ he said. He folded his arms. The wind from the draughty corridor gave him goose pimples on his pale flesh.

‘Vicky Clarke,’ said Peterson.

‘Vicky?’ he said. ‘We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. Not for a while. We’re more like friends now…’ He was tapping his bare foot on the floor, Erika noted, and seemed jittery. ‘What’s Vicky done?’

‘Could we come inside?’

He hesitated, and moved to let them in, and closed the door behind them.

‘What makes you think she’s done something?’ asked Peterson.

‘You guys look the business, plain clothes. I just assumed…’

‘I’m very sorry to tell you that Vicky was found dead last night,’ said Erika. She watched closely as his face seemed to sag.

‘Vicky?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Vicky’s dead?’ he repeated, incredulously.

‘I’m afraid so.’

He sank down onto the sofa bed, with a melodramatic thud of the mattress springs, and put his head in his hands.

‘I don’t understand. Where?’ he said, looking up at Erika.

‘Her sister found her body at her flat in Honeycomb Court.’

‘Vicky?’ he said again. He was silent for a moment, and then he seemed to recover himself. ‘Was there a break-in at her flat? I told her to be careful about locking her door. That area has really gone downhill.’

‘We’re still investigating,’ said Erika. She looked around the bedsit. It was a mess of clothes and papers. Filthy dishes were piled up in the sink, and in the corner, a guitar sat on a stand next to an electric keyboard.

‘Can we ask where you were yesterday between 3pm and 7pm?’ asked Peterson.

‘You think I did it?’ he said, his voice rising in panic.

‘We’re asking everyone who was close to Vicky the same question,’ said Erika.

‘In the evening I was at work… Just here, at the Golden Lamb,’ he said, pointing towards the window.

‘What time did you start work?’

‘Six until close, about eleven thirty, but I got there a bit earlier, maybe quarter to… It would take me about an hour to get here from Blackheath on public transport, so there’s no way I could have been there at that time,’ he said, clutching dramatically at his long straggly hair.

‘And where were you between 3pm and five forty-five?’

‘I was here all day, chilling, having a nap, until five twenty. I had a shower, ate a sandwich and I left to go to work at five forty-five. It’s only up the road.’

‘Can anyone corroborate this, that you were here all day?’ asked Peterson.

‘Well, no, but I was here.’

‘When did you last see Vicky?’ asked Erika.

‘A week or so ago. We, er, she records her podcast on a Thursday and I’ve been writing and performing the incidental music sometimes… Wait, it wasn’t last Thursday but the Thursday before. It was the eleventh I last saw her, at her flat.’

‘And how did Vicky seem?’

‘Fine. Vicky’s dead? Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t believe it. I thought Tess, her sister, would have phoned me. Does she know?’

‘Yes. She found Vicky.’

‘Yeah. Of course. Shit.’

‘Do you have a good relationship with Tess?’

‘I know her, sort of. She and Vicky don’t get on all the time.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s never approved of Vicky being an actor. I’m an actor too. We trained together. Her podcast… She was starting to do really well, with the podcast about true crime… She was trying to get sponsorship – right now she’s only making a few quid from affiliate links.’ Shawn still seemed distracted and in shock.

‘Was there anything she was mixed up in that could have put her in danger?’ asked Erika, wishing she had more information about the podcast episodes.

He seemed to zone out for a moment, and then came back.

‘No. I think she’s talked mainly to the victims of crimes. She hasn’t been talking to anyone dangerous, not that I know.’

‘Did she mention anything about anyone odd hanging around the flats?’ asked Moss.

‘It’s London. You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth when it comes to odd people.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Erika.

‘No she hadn’t mentioned anyone odd. I’m from Burnley and everyone is much nicer, friendly. It was a shock when I first came to London. There are a couple of girls who live on her floor, student nurses – they’re nice.’ He was gabbling now, unable to focus on one thing.

‘Do you mean Vicky’s neighbours across the hall? They’re student doctors,’ said Erika.