Deadly Secrets (Detective Erika Foster #6)(45)

‘No… I was called out to a house, earlier today… A guy tried to top himself, turned on all the gas and sealed up the doors and windows…’ She explained what had happened.

‘You didn’t hang around to get checked out by the paramedics?’

‘No.’

‘Jesus, Erika. You were exposed to high levels of natural gas. What have you drunk today?’

‘An espresso.’

‘You need to flush the toxins out; you should be drinking gallons of water.’

‘Okay, okay.’

He went away and came back with a huge pint glass of water and a Mars bar. He watched as she took a drink and a bite of the chocolate.

‘Finish what you were telling me about the post-mortem.’

‘That was everything. Oh, there was something else. She had paraffin residue on the inside of her mouth. I can’t work out why it would be there. I’ve only ever seen this with people who commit suicide, or truly desperate alcoholics who try to get a high in the strangest places.’

‘She did fire-eating in her burlesque act,’ said Erika.

‘Ah,’ said Isaac. ‘Mystery solved.’

‘I’m going tonight to The Matrix Club where Marissa worked. I want to talk to some of the girls who she performed with. You wouldn’t want to come along?’

‘That sounds like a very weird date,’ he grinned. ‘Sadly, I have to work.’

‘Ah, okay.’

‘Although you need to take it easy.’

‘I’m going to chill at home for an hour, and get some food,’ she said. She downed the last of the water and got up.

‘I’ll run your bloods through all the usual tests. Save you a trip to the doctor,’ he said.

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m sorry about that lad, the one who killed himself in custody.’

‘I am too,’ she said.



* * *



Erika left the morgue and came out into the dark. The car park was busy, and there was a long queue waiting to leave at the barriers. She hunted around for her wallet in the folds of her coat and went to validate her parking ticket. As usual, she pushed down all her feelings about Joseph and Marissa and all the dead she had seen during her long career, brushing them under the carpet, just like she’d been doing for years.





Thirty





Erika came back to her flat, took a shower, and ate a huge portion of fish and chips that she’d picked up on the way home in front of her laptop. Peterson sent over an email with the details of the tailor who had worked on Marissa’s costumes, adding that he would be working that evening at the Matrix Club on Wardour Street in Soho.

Erika had just finished getting tastefully dressed up for an evening of burlesque, and was in front of the mirror, debating if she looked too severe, when the doorbell rang.

‘Evening,’ said Peterson when she opened the door. He was dressed in a fresh black suit with a navy-blue tie, and a long smart black winter coat.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I’m coming with you, to the Matrix Club,’ he smiled.

‘Why didn’t you call me? Or say in your email?’

‘Because you’d probably have told me to piss off.’

‘I would have said something more professional. As it was work-related.’

They both smiled.

‘You look great,’ he said.

‘I don’t look like an undercover copper trying to be glam?’ she asked, looking down at the smart blue tailored trousers and white sleeveless blouse. She touched her hair, which was rock solid. She had blow-dried it, then doused it in hairspray, trying to copy what they had done the last time she had been to the hairdresser, but it had ended up a little severe.

‘No. You don’t,’ he said.

‘Good. And you look great; I mean, smart.’

‘Thank you. Are you happy for me to come along? It is police business, and I did find you the info about this tailor who worked for Marissa.’

‘Okay, I could use another pair of eyes.’



* * *



Despite the snow, Soho was buzzing, with people surging down Old Compton Street, making good use of the lull between Christmas and New Year. Snow fell lazily, and the white pavements were dappled with coloured light from the surrounding bars. Erika and Peterson joined the crowds walking up the centre of the road. They had talked about the case during the train journey from Forest Hill to Charing Cross. Erika told him about her visit to the morgue, where she’d seen Joseph Pitkin’s body. She left out the bit about her collapsing. Peterson updated her on Ivan Stowalski, who was still in hospital, and hadn’t regained consciousness. His wife had appeared at his bedside late afternoon.

‘They still don’t know if he has brain damage, from oxygen deprivation,’ said Peterson. ‘We also ran a background on Don Walpole. He extended his mortgage by eleven grand in the autumn, and sent ten grand to Marissa’s bank account… He doesn’t have a record, not even a parking ticket, poor bastard.’

‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her,’ said Erika.

They hadn’t had much of a chance to talk about anything other than work by the time they got off the train and walked up to Soho, through the crowds in Leicester Square. The Christmas decorations were magical, and Erika felt sad at the way things had turned out between herself and Peterson. She held a little hope that they might be able to salvage their relationship, but she put it to the back of her mind.