Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (77)

The next morning, Tuesday 13th November, Erika and Moss drove down to Worthing in Kent. It had been Vicky’s wish to have her funeral in her home town. It was a two-hour drive from London, so they set off at seven thirty in the morning for the 11am funeral.

It felt strange for Erika and Moss to come back to Worthing. They had an odd connection to the town. It was where they had done surveillance two years previously, and tracked down the killer in the Night Stalker case.

As they drove into the town and took the road along the seafront, the sky was a beautiful gold and blue against a low bank of slivery cloud. The sea was completely still and flat, and reflecting the sky. The beach was clean and empty. It looked almost idyllic. Both their heads turned to the row of Victorian terraces.

‘It was that one, number thirty-four,’ said Moss, pointing out the green front door to the bedsit as it whizzed past. This was where Erika had confronted the Night Stalker killer, whilst Moss and Peterson sat two doors down, oblivious to what was unfolding. Erika glanced.

‘Let’s hope Worthing weaves its magic again for us,’ she said.

‘Magic? What do you mean?’ Moss grinned. ‘You almost died in number thirty-four!’

‘But I found the killer.’

‘If we do have a breakthrough, let’s hope it’s a less dramatic one,’ said Moss. They carried on past the seafront, and Worthing Theatre sitting on the end of the pier like a huge high-sprung pram.

The church was set back from the promenade, a small butter-coloured brick building with a copper roof and spire which had long ago weathered to a soft teal colour. They found a parking spot three roads away, and then doubled back. The air was crisp and clear and Erika could smell the tang of the sea in her nostrils. The town seemed very sleepy for a Tuesday morning, until they drew closer to the church where they found a big group of smartly dressed young men and women who looked to be in their mid-twenties. Shawn was with the group, dressed in a black suit and polished shoes. His long hair was scraped back into a ponytail.

Erika and Moss slowed a little to let the group into the church, and then went in through the main entrance. The pews in the church were filled almost to the back. There must have been a hundred people, thought Erika. Shawn was giving out the order of service with another young guy on the other side of the aisle. He stiffly said hello to Moss and Erika as they came in. They took an order of service each and found two seats on the end of row of pews at the back.

At the front of the church a polished oak coffin with brass handles was set to the right side of the altar. There was a small bunch of red roses on the lid, and Erika noted that the family had opted for the American style of funeral; there was a large framed photo of Vicky on a stand behind the coffin. Had it been barely three weeks since she’d talked to Vicky in the canteen at Lewisham Row station? thought Erika. Could she have done more to save her? She should have put a police car outside Tess’s house that night. Erika shook the thought away. Whoever did this, didn’t break in, Vicky had let them in, and it burned Erika that after three weeks, they were still no closer to finding out who.

It also frustrated Erika that she didn’t have a photo of Becky Church-Wayland or Kathleen Barber. She stood up and scanned the mourners. There seemed to be so many young women in their twenties and thirties in the congregation.

Tess sat at the front on the left side, wearing a large black hat. She looked awful: thin and drawn, and like she hadn’t slept in days. Cilla Stone was sitting on the front pew, on the opposite side of the church, and her outfit stood out amongst the sea of black. She wore a bright green trouser suit, with a yellow scarf and a green pillbox hat.

‘What is she wearing?’ whispered Moss, who was crouching up beside her. ‘She looks like a cross between Willy Wonka and an Oompa-Loompa.’ Cilla was flanked by Colin on her right and another gentleman to her left. Both men had opted for smart black suits.

‘Who’s the other guy with her and Colin?’ asked Moss, mirroring her thoughts.

‘I don’t know, maybe that’s Ray,’ whispered Erika. The man wore a black suit and looked to be a similar age to Colin, early fifties, but he was thinner, with a ragged swarthiness about him. His head was shaved and he wore a silver stud in his ear. The three of them were deep in conversation with their heads together. Cilla was nodding along and looked captivated by what they were saying. She put her hand on Colin’s arm as Erika continued watching them, sliding it under the cuff of his suit jacket. The other man draped his arm over Cilla’s shoulders and rubbed the nape of Colin’s neck with his fingers. There was something about their body language which said they were all very close. ‘The three of them look like a thruple,’ she added.

Two rows behind them sat Charles Wakefield with Henrietta Boulderstone. Charles wore a smart suit but it was ill fitting and seemed baggy on him. Henrietta wore a smart black trilby with a black band and had a long black coat around her shoulders hanging off her like a cape. Charles seemed to sense them staring at him, because he turned and looked at them both, and prompted by his gaze, Henrietta turned too. They both gave Erika and Moss a hard stare and then they were distracted by an elderly lady, who came hurrying into the church. She took an order of service from Shawn and seemed out of breath and apologetic. The woman was small and craggy-faced, and wore a black trouser suit and patent leather court shoes. Her feet were swollen-looking and her skin spilled out over the bridge of the shoe. A man arrived just behind her. He was tall and lean with a weather-beaten face, and a very good suit. His cheeks were sunken and he had black eyes, like chips of coal. Erika could see that the man was weaving slightly as he took an order of service, and he had that glassy focused look in his eyes as if he were taking pains not to appear drunk.