Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (62)

‘So, if you don’t have a bed, you’re still on the lilo?’ Peterson said.

‘It’s a burst lilo. I’m on a pile of blankets… That reminds me…’

‘What?’ asked Peterson, as the lights changed and they moved off.

‘I have to rearrange delivery.’ Erika looked up and saw they had a few minutes until they’d be in New Cross. She rang the delivery helpline, and was surprised not to have to wait. The only spot they had for the next few days was for that evening at six thirty.

‘I don’t know if I can do six thirty,’ said Erika, checking her watch. It was coming up to three thirty, and they had to go to GDA, and then she wanted to show her face back at the station incident room.

‘I can do what you need to do tonight,’ said Peterson, overhearing the conversation. ‘You need a bed.’

Erika covered the phone.

‘I have to go back to the incident room and check on the surveillance team.’

‘I can do that. Take the delivery slot. You need sleep to function. We all need you,’ said Peterson. Erika felt a real warmth and affection for him offering to help, and she took the delivery slot.

As she hung up her phone they were driving past New Cross Gate station, passing the large campus of Goldsmiths University. Goldsmith’s Drama Academy was half a mile past this, made up of a row of six terraced houses that had been knocked together.

They pulled into the front entrance just as a group of young men and women emerged from the front entrance, wearing leggings and dance gear. And two of them had on neon yellow headbands. They were chatting and shrieking with laughter, and didn’t seem to mind the cold. The kids passed the car, and moved along to one of the other doors in the row of terraces.

Just as Erika and Peterson pulled into a parking spot, a bright yellow VW Beetle pulled up in the space opposite, and Cilla Stone got out. She was dressed in gaudy primary colours: lime-green tights with red Dr. Martens boots, and a strange tartan cape in blue and red, which came down past her waist.

‘What the hell is she wearing?’ said Peterson as they watched a more soberly dressed man in a smart blue suit lock the car and follow her up to the main entrance.

‘Every colour she can. That’s Cilla Stone,’ said Erika.

‘The Cilla Stone who Vicky stayed with in Scotland?’

‘Yes. I recognise her photo from the university website.’

‘And who is that with her?’

‘I don’t know.’

Cilla walked up the steps, and said something to the man, leaning in conspiratorially, almost flirting. She laughed and the man grinned down at her. Peterson went to get out of the car, but Erika put out her hand.

‘Wait, let’s hang back. I don’t want to have to tell her about Vicky in the car park.’





41





They watched as the man pressed a bell on the door. It opened and he stood to one side to let her in.

‘She’s retired from GDA?’ said Peterson.

‘Yes. Vicky said that Cilla lives in Scotland now. What’s she doing back here in London?’

They got out, walked up to the main entrance and rang the bell. A moment passed and then a pinched-sounding woman’s voice came through the tinny speaker, asking who they were. Erika held up her warrant card to the camera and said they wanted to speak to the Student Welfare Officer. There was another long pause.

‘What’s this regarding?’ she said.

‘It’s regarding two police officers who need to talk to you,’ said Erika. There was a beat and then the door buzzed and popped open a couple of inches.

They stepped into the hallway, which looked like an institutionalised terraced house, with bright strip lights and a scuffed wooden floor. There was a long corridor, and by the main door was a noticeboard and rows of pigeonholes with names on them. At the end of the corridor they could see a young woman in dance gear standing at a stable door, split in two. The top half was open. The young woman had red frizzy hair hanging down her back and heavy black eyeliner.

‘I emailed my essay on time,’ she was saying. ‘Look.’ She rummaged in a pink knitted backpack and took out a piece of paper. ‘This is the time stamp when I emailed it, five minutes before the deadline.’

When they drew close, they could see inside the door to an open-plan office. A small, thin, suspicious-looking woman, with close-cropped grey hair and wearing a rather grubby blue rollneck jumper and small half-moon glasses was regarding the young woman coldly with her arms folded. Three women were working at desks behind her, glancing up and pretending not to listen in.

‘How do I know you haven’t forged this?’ said the woman, taking the piece of paper

‘I’ve never missed an essay deadline, and the computer system is saying that I missed it by one second!’

‘It is students’ responsibility to email essays over leaving enough time,’ the woman said, handing it back. They went back and forth for another minute, and the older woman refused to budge.

‘I’m going to talk to my tutor,’ said the young woman.

‘You do that.’

The young woman stalked past them in tears.

‘Hello. We’re looking to speak to the Student Welfare Officer?’ said Erika, moving to the door.