Deadly Secrets (Detective Erika Foster #6)(20)


‘Listen to you, saying things like “real estate”.’

‘And that’s why I won. I was a proper little tycoon!’

He sounded normal, nothing like the confused old man from that morning. In the background, she could hear the television.

‘I’m glad you had a nice day,’ she said.

‘I’ve just been over to the graveyard. And it was snowing, but over on the hills it was clear and the moon was up. Is it right that I thought it was beautiful?’

‘It is.’

‘I didn’t want Mark to be on his own on Christmas Day…’ His voice trembled and broke on the end of the phone. ‘It’s so hard, him not being here.’

‘I know,’ she said, wiping her eyes.

‘There’s ‘owt we can do about it, is there?’

‘No.’

There was a long silence, interrupted by tinny laughter from Edward’s television in the background.

‘Oh well, I just wanted to check on you, lass, and wish you goodnight.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Merry Christmas. I’ll phone you soon.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ she said. The laughter on his television cut out, and Erika was back in the silence of her flat, the snow against the windows. She closed the curtains and flicked on the lights. Her phone rang again. This time it was Kay.

‘Sorry it’s late, ma’am, but I found something on Joseph Pitkin’s phone, amongst the files.’

‘That’s okay. You’re still working?’ asked Erika, impressed.

‘I was just going over the downloaded files, and I found some files on the hard drive which had been deleted. I managed to recover some of them. They’re troubling.’

‘Pornography?’

‘No. Pictures and video of Joseph. I’m sending them over now.’

Erika came off the phone and opened the email. There were six photos. Joseph was naked, lying on his back, and fastened with leather straps to a wooden table, by his neck, arms and thighs. His eyes were bloodshot and wide with fear. The hand of an unknown man gripped him by the throat, making the tendons on his neck strain. Erika clicked on the video file. It showed the same scene as the photos, and looked like it was filmed with a mobile phone.

‘Please, please! Let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t tell!’ Joseph pleaded, wincing up at the bright light on the phone camera.

‘You won’t tell. Do you want this video sent to all the people you know?’ said a voice. It had been electronically distorted. The hand appeared and grasped Joseph’s genitals, and he screamed out as the hand twisted them. ‘I have your address,’ said the voice. ‘I have your phone. You say anything, I send this to everyone in your contacts… Friends. Family. Everyone.’

The camera angle jolted, and moved to show a table with a row of sex toys. The disembodied hand picked up the largest, and went back to Joseph, who tried to close his legs, but they were spread and strapped to the table.

‘NO!’ he screamed. ‘NO!’

Erika muted the sound, and had to force herself to watch the rest of the video.





Thirteen





Erika arrived at Lewisham Row police station just after 8 a.m. The construction work around the centre of Lewisham, which had started when Erika was first assigned to South London, was almost complete. Several high-rise blocks of luxury apartments now dwarfed the eight-storey police station. The cranes were still on the snowy morning, and on one there was a Christmas tree, lit up.

It had been a sleepless night. The images of Joseph had haunted her dreams. In the photos, he appeared to be a victim, but she needed to question him about his role in Marissa Lewis’s murder, and there was still so much information she didn’t have: post-mortem results; DNA; the murder weapon hadn’t been found. Erika felt uncomfortable about it, but the photos of Joseph could be used as leverage.



* * *



At 9 a.m., Joseph was brought into Interview Room 1 by two uniformed officers. He wasn’t cuffed. He looked pale, and had dark circles under his eyes. A bleary-eyed solicitor in an expensive pinstripe suit filed in with him. He didn’t seem happy that he’d been called in to work on Boxing Day. He introduced himself as Henry Chevalier, and sat next to Joseph.

Erika sat on the opposite side of the table with an equally tired-looking McGorry, who Joseph eyeballed with hatred.

‘It’s 9.04 a.m. on December 26th, 2017,’ said Erika. ‘Present for the interview is DCI Erika Foster, DI John McGorry, Joseph Pitkin and his legal representation, Henry Chevalier.’

Henry leaned over and whispered something in Joseph’s ear. He didn’t react, but nodded. Erika opened one of the grey cardboard files she had stacked on the table and took out hard copies of the photos which had been developed from the roll of film.

‘Joseph. Can you tell me if you took these photos?’ She spread them out across the table. For a split second, Joseph’s eyes registered shock, then he sat back and folded his arms.

‘My client has chosen not to answer this,’ said Henry.

Erika went on, ‘This is from a roll of undeveloped film in a small plastic tube we found in the alleyway behind your parents’ garden. I believe it fell out of your pocket when you climbed over the wall.’ Joseph crunched up his face in a scowl. ‘We lifted prints from it. A thumb and forefinger, and they match yours. I’ll ask you again. Did you take these photos?’

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