Deadly Secrets (Detective Erika Foster #6)(77)

‘Okay,’ said Celia. ‘Sorry, you must think I’m weird.’

‘No. I think Moss is very lucky. When I have rows with people, they often never speak to me again! If she calls, I’ll tell her to ring you.’

‘Yes.’

‘And here’s the direct number for Superintendent Hudson,’ said Erika. She gave Celia the number and then rang off.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Isaac. Erika dialled Moss’s number, but it went straight to answerphone.

‘Celia says Moss hasn’t been in contact since this morning.’

‘And that’s unusual?’

‘For them, yes.’

‘I miss having someone who expects me to ring them,’ said Isaac.

‘Me too,’ said Erika, staring up at the house. ‘The wisteria, it’s grown so fast,’ she added, pointing at the high, thick branch which curled up the side of the house and snaked its way along the eaves at the top. ‘I bought that in a tiny pot, the day we moved in. We’d stopped to get some paint at B&Q and it was on this discount table. It was 70p. Mark said, don’t waste money on that little stick, it looks dead.’

‘I bet it’s pretty when it flowers,’ said Isaac.

Erika nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘Come on. Let’s go. I just wanted to see it, but it’s just a place, a house. What made it a home was the people inside it, and we’re not there any more. There’s another family in there now.’





Fifty-Seven





Taro, or ‘T’ as he liked to call himself for short, hit Moss hard over the back of the head with a leather sap. He kept it in the kitchen drawer, and he’d pushed it into his back pocket as he was making the tea in the kitchen. His mind was whirring, but he wasn’t scared and he wasn’t panicking. She hit the floor hard, but it was away from the window and in the shadows, with the lights out.

He listened to the clock ticking. A car trundled past on the road. He crouched down, holding the sap in his right hand in case she still had some fight left in her. He took her wrist with his free hand, and felt her pulse. It was beating slowly, rhythmically. He held his finger there. Feeling the life beating through her, moving it over the firm, pulsing nodule deep in her skin. He moved his hand around to the back of her head. Her hair was slick with blood. He stood and placed the sap back in his pocket. He stepped over her and moved to the window. The road outside was quiet. Retreating back into the shadows, he rolled her over.

‘Big girl,’ he muttered as he patted her down, kneading her breasts and running his hands between her legs. He held them there for a moment, savouring the warmth, then he switched his attention to her pockets. He took out her car keys, phone, wallet and warrant card. He placed them on the counter, by the till, then came back to her. With considerable strength, he bent down and picked her up in one fluid move, throwing her over his shoulder. He carried her limp body through the doorway, disappearing for a few minutes, then came back.

He flicked on the lights. The carpet where she had fallen was clean and there was no sign of blood. He would be thorough, though, and give it a clean. He came back to the counter and retrieved her phone and car keys. Unbolting the front door, he came outside and walked down to the pavement. A smattering of cars was parked up in the permit spaces. He pointed the key fob to the right, and nothing happened, then he pointed it to the left, and the lights flashed on a dark Rover fifty yards away.

T stopped for a moment. Thinking. He was surprised how calm he was. His heart was beating faster, and he could feel the blood pumping through his legs and wrists, but he was in control. He wasn’t panicking.

He didn’t know if she’d told anyone she was coming. It was early afternoon. Police officers weren’t always the most sociable creatures; Moss might not be missed until the next morning, but when the alarm was raised, someone would eventually come and question him. He would need to acknowledge that she had dropped by, but he would tell anyone who asked that she’d left. He looked down at the keys and wallet. How would he make it look as if she’d left?

A van from Lewisham Council’s gardening department rounded the corner up ahead. It was one of the ones with an open flat-back truck, used to transport grass cuttings and plants. He moved round to the driver’s side of Moss’s car and fiddled with the door, then quickly wiped the phone on his jacket. As the van drove past, he dropped Moss’s mobile phone onto the flat bed, amongst a pile of branches and dead leaves. He climbed into her car, and watched as the van paused at the traffic lights at the end, then drove on. Hopefully to the South Circular.

Taro started the engine and drove the car two miles away, working rhythmically up and down the residential streets to avoid any CCTV cameras. He parked the car up at the end of Tresillian Road, a quiet residential street. He locked the car, then, after wiping the key off, he dropped it down a drain.

He walked back to the photography studio, the light fading as he passed, unhurried, through the streets. The lull between Christmas and New Year was the perfect cover for his movements. He didn’t see anyone. He almost wished he’d brought his gas mask with him, to have some fun. But he knew he had to get back to his studio and deal with the policewoman.





Fifty-Eight





Mrs Fryatt was sitting by the fire, drinking tea from her favourite bone china tea set, when the doorbell rang. It took her a moment to remember that there was no one else in the house to answer, so she heaved herself up out of her favourite armchair.