Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (68)

‘I’m just here,’ she said. ‘In the car behind you.’

Erika pulled in behind the van just as a tall muscular guy in a baseball cap stepped out into the rain. He looked to be in his late thirties, and wore jeans and a Corgoň beer-branded T-shirt, despite the cold weather. Erika got out of her car and ran over to him as he slid up the door at the back of the van. She hunched down and pulled up the collar of her jacket as the rain seemed to intensify.

‘Do you want me to take it all through the front or the back?’ he shouted, jumping up inside the van, which was filled with boxes piled high. Erika had to think for a second. She had a back yard, but which route was the best to get there? She hadn’t checked how wide the gate was.

‘The front door is fine,’ she said, hoping that the hallway was wide enough. She put her collar up. ‘It’s the red door, here.’

There was a whirr as a hydraulic ramp popped out, and he tilted the washing machine in its box onto a small trolley. Erika ran up the path and unlocked the door. When she stepped inside, she felt the cold and smelt the damp. George the cat was waiting for her in the hall, and he ran to her mewling and rubbing himself up against her ankles. She gave him a quick pat and was about to check where she would put the washing machine when the delivery man appeared at the doorstep with the huge box balanced on the trolley.

‘Come through,’ she said. He just managed to squeeze the box on the trolley through the front door. George gave an indignant little miaow and ran off down the hall to the kitchen. The man had a badge on his jacket which said Igor. This, coupled with the Corgoň beer T-shirt with the Slovak branding made it obvious he was a fellow countryman. For some reason this made her embarrassed about the state of her home.

‘Where do you want it?’ he asked.

‘The kitchen, at the back.’ George was mewling and weaving around her feet, so she picked him up as the trolley clanked and rattled over the bare floorboards following her through to the kitchen. He put the box down.

‘I ordered a bed, too,’ said Erika.

‘Yes there is,’ he said. He took the empty trolley back out and returned a few minutes later with a plastic-wrapped mattress and a long thin box on a bigger trolley.

‘Upstairs,’ said Erika. Still carrying George in her arms, she hurried up the stairs and tried to work out which room she would sleep in. She settled on the middle room, which was smaller but had a beautiful fireplace and a view out over the garden.

Igor carried the mattress into the room, and then the long box. There was also another big plastic bag containing bedding, which he left on the floor. They went back down to the kitchen where he’d left the paperwork. Erika saw that he was soaking wet. She’d bought a clean pile of tea towels and she handed him one.

‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it and wiping his face.

‘Where are you from?’ she asked, switching to speaking Slovak.

‘Nitra,’ he said. ‘Well, just outside. In the village, Lehota.’

‘I’m from Nitra, too,’ she said. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead. Erika stared at him.

‘How old are you?’ she asked.

‘Forty-four.’

He looked familiar, and then it all fell into place.

‘Igor Mak?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

‘Erika Boledisova?’ he said.

‘Yes!’ And Erika suddenly saw him as he’d looked twenty-six years ago. He’d been rail-thin back then – now he was stocky and solid, and looked like he lifted weights. She remembered him, skinny and lithe, in his school graduation suit, which had been brown, with a thick kipper tie. Sexy and a bit goofy. He’d been her first boyfriend, not serious, but still. He’d been a big part of her life and then they’d lost touch when she moved to the UK, aged eighteen.

‘Jesus, Erika,’ he grinned.

‘I was so rude to you before. I’m sorry,’ she said.

He waved it away. ‘That’s okay, we all have bad days.’

They smiled at each other for a moment and then he looked down at himself. His T-shirt was drenched, and he was dripping on the wooden floor. He mopped at it with the tea towel. Erika didn’t know what else to say. He picked up the clipboard from the top of the washing machine box. The paper was soggy. ‘Did you order this plumbed in?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, I just need a signature,’ he said, rooting around in his pocket and pulling out a pen.

‘How much would it cost to have it plumbed in?’ asked Erika. The thought of having to find and then hire a plumber was too much, and there was something wonderful about seeing him after all these years.

‘You need to book it when you buy the machine. It’s eighty pounds,’ he said.

‘What if I give you eighty pounds cash? Do you have time, now?’

He seemed to weigh it up for a second.

‘Sure. This was my last delivery.’

‘Are you hungry? It’s late. I could order some takeaway, if that’s not too weird? I just feel horrible for being so rude and it’s so great to see you.’

Erika wondered for a moment if she was being too forward. He probably hadn’t thought about her in years.

‘Chinese?’ he said.

‘Chinese it is, I got a menu through the door the other day.’