Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (54)

‘Hey, Luther,’ said a voice from above. Erika and Peterson looked up. A young lad with acne and a ratty fuzz of stubble on his face was looking down at them from a balcony on the third floor above. At his knee, poking his head through the railings, was a tiny elf-like boy in a fluffy blue dressing gown. They ignored him, and Erika looked back at the car. She didn’t want to wait for the tow truck to arrive. The hatchback boot had been filled with bags of groceries, and during the crash, they’d discharged themselves over the inside of the car, littering it with oranges, apples, tins of beans and fruit and rice from a burst bag. Amongst the food, there were three large rucksacks on the back seat. Erika heard a whistle from above and something came raining down, splattering on the grass. Peterson jumped out of the way.

‘Sorry, I spilled my tea,’ said the young lad on the balcony above. The little boy with him cackled and shrieked with laughter.

‘Do you want to spend the night in a cell?’ shouted Peterson, looking up at them.

‘Easy, Luther… I’d say that wouldn’t be the best use of police resources, I only spilt a bit of cold tea,’ shouted the lad.

‘Can you please go back inside your flat,’ Erika shouted, moving over to join Peterson.

‘Is that your girlfriend, Luther?’ shouted the lad.

‘Are you British?’ asked the little boy. ‘You sound Polish?’

Erika looked at Peterson and rolled her eyes.

‘Oi, that’s a valid question. We haven’t seen your ID,’ said the lad, patting the little boy on the head. ‘What’s your name, blondie? You look a bit like Brigitte Nielsen, if she ’ad a tape worm.’

There were a couple of laughs from other residents on their balconies above and below.

‘How do you know who Brigitte Nielsen is?’ shouted a woman’s voice.

‘My granddad likes ‘er,’ shouted the lad. ‘Last time I went up to see him, I caught him jerking off to Red Sonja.’ Someone else whistled and a lit cigarette butt came floating down towards them. Erika had to duck out of its way.

‘If one more thing gets thrown, I call for back-up and this place will be swarming with coppers,’ shouted Erika up at the balconies above.

‘Hey, don’t give ’em shit. Luther and Brigitte are only doin’ their jobs,’ said the lad, leaning out over the edge to look up at the flats above. He turned his head back. ‘You see that, Brigitte, I’m looking out for you… I think the police do a good job,’ he added with sarcasm.

‘Let’s get the stuff out of Jasper’s car and get out of here,’ said Peterson. ‘Uniform can wait for the tow truck.’ They ignored the shouts and catcalls from above, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves each. Erika and Peterson managed to get the rear passenger door open, which was harder than it looked when the car was upside down and balanced on a small tree trunk. The back of the car was at an angle, and Erika stepped into the interior of the roof and retrieved the three rucksacks.

They went to leave and heard a voice shout.

‘What’s Jasper done now?’

Erika’s turned to where the voice had come from. The lad with the ratty beard was now standing across the grass at the main entrance of the flats. She put down the rucksack and pulled off her latex gloves. They ducked under the police tape and went over to him. He looked older close-up, and she could see he was in his late thirties, pale and bloated.

‘Was that you yelling about Jasper?’ said Erika. Close-up there was a horrible smell of stale booze on his breath. He wore a faded Man United football shirt with a thin jacket. Poking out of the breast pocket was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

‘Do you still give narks cash for info?’ he said.

‘Are you a nark?’ asked Peterson.

‘I could be, Luther,’ he said, lowering his voice and glancing up at the balcony above them. ‘I was only kidding, what I said about you looking like Brigitte Nielsen with a tape worm. You look pretty good close up.’

‘It looks like you could do with a tape worm,’ replied Erika. She thought she might have taken the banter too far, but he grinned with yellowing teeth.

‘Touché turtle,’ he said, spitting on the floor. He looked between Erika and Peterson and took the cigarettes out of his top pocket. His nails were stained yellow from nicotine. ‘I did time back in 2004. Belmarsh.’

Belmarsh was a Category A prison, which housed high-profile serious offenders.

‘What do you know about Jasper?’ she asked. The man lit his cigarette and exhaled, picking a piece of tobacco from the tip of his furry tongue.

‘He was in for rape. Jaspaaar. Jaspaaar Claaaark, no “e”,’ he said, affecting a posh voice for Jasper’s name. ‘Nasty little posh boy he was too. He did eight years in all. His sentence was five, but he got extra for dealing inside. He had quite the operation going on. Bringing in mobile phones, heroin, cocaine. The screws didn’t know how he was doing it. Nor did we.’

‘How was he doing it?’ asked Erika. She felt a little surge of interest and dismay that they were finding this out about Jasper from some random chav on the Forbes Housing Estate, if it was true, that is. The lad grinned and leaned in closer.

‘He’d managed to run a zip line from the building opposite the nick. Thin, clear fishing line. No one could see it. He had someone working on the outside.’