Deadly Secrets (Detective Erika Foster #6)(49)

‘There’s Don Walpole, who she slept with when she was fifteen, and then blackmailed him, saying he would go on the sex offenders register if he told… She also allegedly stole a pair of diamond earrings from Mrs Fryatt, but Mrs Fryatt didn’t mention it, and she seemed sharp as a tack when we spoke to her.’

‘Do you think her son knew about it? Isn’t he a jeweller in Hatton Garden?’ asked Peterson.

‘Possibly… But Mrs Fryatt was the only person who Marissa told she was attacked,’ said Erika.

‘By a man in a gas mask, who it seems is somehow linked back to Joseph Pitkin. He topped himself because of those photos you showed him during the interview… Well, what I mean is that he was scared.’

‘It pushed him over the edge,’ she said, wearily. ‘If only we had been able to recover the note with the drawing of the gas mask at the same time. I might have been able to get more out of him before he died… Or, stop him… I don’t know.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ said Peterson, putting a hand on her arm. She gave him a weak smile.

‘And Mandy is being evasive about the night Marissa died. She must have heard something.’

‘Isn’t she an alcoholic?’

‘Yes. She could have been blotto on the sofa as Marissa was stabbed on the other side of the window. What we need to do tomorrow is to work backwards and establish who has an alibi and who doesn’t. I also want to pay Mrs Fryatt another visit, and ask her about those earrings.’

They took a sip of their coffees, and for a moment they were silent. Peterson shifted awkwardly on his stool.

‘Erika, there’s something I need to talk to you about…’ he started. Her phone rang and she pulled it out of her bag.

She checked her watch and saw it was almost eleven-thirty.

‘Shit. I’m going to miss the last train, and I need to finish up writing a report tonight.

Erika downed the rest of her coffee, and picked up her phone again.

‘I’m going to get an Uber,’ she said, swiping the screen. ‘Ah, there’s a car close by that can be here in one minute. Brill. Do you want to share?’

‘Nah, I’m going to get the train,’ he said.

‘Do you think you’ll make it?’

‘Yeah. I fancy the walk. The Christmas lights are cool.’

Erika looked at him for a moment.

‘Are you okay? What were you going to say before?’

‘I don’t know if there’s time.’

Her phone pinged, and a car pulled up outside.

‘No. That’s my car. It was close.’

‘It was nothing, you go on ahead.’

‘Okay. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.’ She grabbed her coat and swung it over her shoulder, and with a wave she was out of the door, dashing through the sleet to the car.



* * *



Peterson watched her get in and it drive away. He took another gulp of his coffee, and a text message came through on his phone. He took it out and quickly made a call.

‘I know, I’m sorry. I thought I would be done by now… Yes, I did see her, but we ended up doing some work on a murder case… Yes, it’s a twenty-four-hour job… No, I didn’t tell her, but I will. I promise… I love you, too.’

He hung up the phone and stared out of the window for a moment. Guilt and regret flooded through him. Guilt that he was happy, and regret that Erika wouldn’t be a part of it. He downed the last of his coffee, and started back towards Charing Cross station, walking under the canopy of Christmas lights and reflecting on how life can often take a turn and shock you. In a good way.





Thirty-Two





It was hot inside the Uber car as Erika sped through Piccadilly Circus. The driver looked at her in the rear-view mirror.

‘You want a copy of the Evening Standard?’ she asked. Erika said she did, and the driver passed it back.

She settled back and started to read, preferring to concentrate on gossip articles as she flicked through. They were just crossing the river at Vauxhall when Erika turned the page, and let out a loud, ‘Fuck.’

‘Everything okay?’ asked the driver.

‘Sorry. I just forgot something,’ she lied. There was a huge single-page article about the previous case she’d worked on: the murders, and the kidnap of Marsh’s twins by Max Hastings and Nina Hargreaves. The newspaper had run several sensationalised articles about the case, focusing on Nina and Max as a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, or Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. This article said that no one had claimed the body of Max Hastings, even though it was several weeks since he had died. The Evening Standard had contacted his mother, who said she didn’t want to have anything to do with him, and was quoted saying, ‘Take him to the landfill, he’s no son of mine.’ This was the same mother who was on bail for perverting the course of justice.

There was a picture of Erika at the bottom of the article. She was used to the papers portraying her as a trouble-making, scrappy senior police detective. What pissed her off now was that they’d used a photo of her coming out of the front entrance of her block of flats. The road sign, ‘Manor Mount SE23’was clear in the corner of the photo, and they hadn’t pixelated her car number plate.