Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (42)

‘No. At Sophia’s body.’

‘What did she shout?’

‘I don’t know. It was in Bulgarian, maybe it was a stream of consciousness. There was one word she kept saying. Putka. And then all at once, the rage seemed to drain from her body and she leant over, cried and stroked her sister’s hair…’

‘Putka is the “c” word in Bulgarian,’ said Erika.

‘I thought I was used to things in this job, doing it for so long, but then something gets to you,’ said Moss. She wiped a tear from her eye. Erika put out a hand, and gripped Moss’s arm for a moment. She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m being silly. Give me one of those cigarettes.’

‘Are you sure?’

Moss nodded. Erika offered the packet and she took one, then she flicked her lighter and held out the flame.

‘Lower. I’m not a giantess like you,’ said Moss. Erika smiled and lowered her arm. Moss leant in and the tip of her cigarette burst into a glow. She inhaled and coughed. ‘What time did Vicky’s plane land?’

Erika checked her watch, and she saw it was almost 8pm.

‘An hour ago. City Airport isn’t far. They said they were going to blue light her over…’ Erika’s phone rang and she took it out of her pocket. It was a number she didn’t recognise. ‘Okay. This could be them… Hello?’ There was a pause and then a man with a Slovak accent spoke.

‘I’m just outside your house. Is twenty-seven the one with the red door?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Argos delivery… You should have had a text alert.’

Erika held out her phone to check. She couldn’t see a text message.

‘No, I didn’t get a message,’ she said, putting her phone back to her ear.

‘You booked delivery for 8pm. I’m outside your house,’ he said. Erika’s heart sank, she’d completely forgotten about the bed and the washing machine being delivered.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not there.’

‘Why did you book a delivery, if you’re not going to be here?’ said the man, sounding angry. Her phone beeped and she saw that there was a text message from the police officer escorting Vicky. They were one minute away from the station. Erika put the phone against her coat.

‘Vicky’s gonna be here in a sec,’ she said to Moss. When she put the phone back to her ear, she could hear the man was now annoyed.

‘Hello? Are you there?’

‘Yes, hello. I’m sorry I’m not going to be there tonight. Can I reschedule the delivery?’

‘I’m outside your door with a full van… Do pici…’ he added with a mutter.

‘Hey! I’m Slovak. I know what that means. What’s your name?’

‘I’ll get someone to rearrange delivery,’ said the man, and he hung up.

Erika didn’t get the chance to reply, because she saw a police car turn off the main road and stop at the barrier. Just as it flipped up, Erika heard loud voices coming from the inside of the station reception behind her. They turned and saw Melanie coming out into the reception area with Assistant Commissioner Julian Wakefield and Charles Wakefield.

‘What the hell?’ said Erika under her breath. The Assistant Commissioner was wearing his dress uniform, carrying his cap under his arm, and Charles was dressed in an ill-fitting suit with his black trench coat and trilby hat. Erika thought of the CCTV footage of Charles, with his face hidden under the brim of the hat. The way he moved looked the same as it had on the CCTV footage, with his slightly rounded shoulders. There was also a man with them who had a professional-looking camera slung around his neck. She turned back and saw the car pull up in front of the station steps with Vicky in the back seat next to a plain-clothes female officer.

The man with the camera had hung back in the reception of the station. Julian and Charles were now shaking hands with Melanie by the reception desk, and then they came through the main entrance, just as the car doors opened.





Time seemed to slow down for Vicky when she stepped out of the car. The car park was bright and very cold, and there was a smell of smog in the air. The police station was a low, squat concrete building and there were two women standing at the bottom of the entrance steps, one tall and thin with blonde hair, and one short and stocky with red hair. The journey back to London had been too fast. The two hours in the car to Glasgow Airport seemed to fly by, where they were whisked through and onto a plane which took off as soon as they found their seats. And now she was here and had to face the music. The police officer who’d accompanied her on the plane was a no-nonsense young Scotswoman, difficult to read and inept at small talk.

As Vicky got out of the car, she froze. Coming down the steps behind the two women were Charles Wakefield and his brother, the senior police officer all dressed up in smart suits.

They both acknowledged the two women on the stairs.

‘Evening,’ said Julian as he slipped his cap back on.

‘Evening, sir,’ they both replied. Vicky could see tension in their faces. The blonde one looked panicked, and the short one’s brow furrowed with concern. They must have different fathers, she thought. They don’t look alike as brothers. Charles had often bragged to her about his brother being a senior detective, one of the most senior in the Met police. For a long time she didn’t know if Charles had been flirting in his own cack-handed way, trying to impress her with his police connection, but now she realised he was warning her; don’t mess with me. I know people. It was the latter, she knew that now.