Authors: Robert Bryndza
E
rika Foster had been waiting
for half an hour in the grubby reception area of Lewisham Row Police Station. She shifted uncomfortably on a green plastic chair, one of a row bolted to the floor. The seats were faded and shiny, polished by years of anxious, guilty arses. Through a large window overlooking the car park, the ring road, a grey office tower, and the sprawling shopping centre fought a battle for visibility in the blizzard. A trail of melted slush ran diagonally from the main entrance to the front desk where the desk sergeant sat, regarding his computer with bleary eyes. He had a large jowly face and was absently picking at his teeth, pulling out a finger to inspect the findings before popping it back in his mouth.
‘Guvnor shouldn’t be long,’ he said.
His eyes moved down Erika’s body, taking in her thin frame, clad in faded blue jeans, woollen jumper, and a purple bomber jacket. His gaze came to rest on the small suitcase on wheels at her feet. She glared back at him, and they both looked away. The wall beside her was a mess of public information posters.
don’t be a victim of crime!
declared one, which Erika thought was a pretty stupid thing to put up in the reception area of an outer London nick.
A door beside the front desk buzzed and Chief Superintendent Marsh came into the reception area. His close-cropped hair had greyed in the years since Erika had last seen him, but despite his exhausted face, he was still handsome. Erika got up and shook his hand.
‘DCI Foster, sorry to keep you. Was your flight okay?’ he said, taking in what she was wearing.
‘Delayed, sir . . . Hence the civvies,’ she replied apologetically.
‘This bloody snow couldn’t come at a worse time,’ said Marsh, adding: ‘Desk Sergeant Woolf, this is DCI Foster; she’s joining us from Manchester. I’ll need you to assign her a car asap . . .’
‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Woolf.
‘And I’ll need a phone,’ added Erika. ‘If you could find something older, preferably with actual buttons. I hate touch screens.’
‘Let’s get started,’ said Marsh. He swiped his ID card and the door buzzed and clicked open.
‘Snotty cow,’ murmured Woolf, when the door had closed behind them.
E
rika followed Marsh down a long
, low corridor. Phones rang, and uniformed officers and support staff streamed by in the opposite direction, their pasty January faces tense and urgent. A fantasy football league pinned up on the wall slid past, and seconds later, an identical pin board held rows of photos with the heading:
killed in the line of duty
. Erika closed her eyes, only opening them when she was confident she had passed. She nearly crashed into Marsh, who had stopped at a door marked INCIDENT ROOM. She could see through the half-open blinds of the glass partition that the room was full. Fear crawled up her throat. She was sweating under her thick jacket. Marsh grabbed the door handle.
‘Sir, you were going to brief me before—’ started Erika.
‘No time,’ he said. Before Erika had a chance to respond, he had opened the door and indicated she should go first.
The incident room was large and open plan, and the two-dozen officers fell silent, their expectant faces bathed in the harsh strip lighting. The glass wall partitions on either side faced onto corridors, and along one side there was a bank of printers and photocopiers. Tracks had been worn into the thin carpet tiles in front of these, and between the desks to whiteboards lining the back wall. As Marsh strode to the front, Erika quickly stowed her suitcase by a photocopier which was churning out paper. She perched on a desk.
‘Morning everyone,’ said Marsh. ‘As we all know, twenty-three-year-old Andrea Douglas-Brown was reported missing four days ago. And what has followed has been a media shit-storm. Just after nine o’clock this morning, the body of a young girl matching Andrea’s description was found at the Horniman Museum in Forest Hill. Preliminary ID is from a phone registered to Andrea, but we still need a formal ID. We’ve got forensics on their way now, but it’s all being slowed down by the bloody snow . . .’ A phone started to ring. Marsh paused. It carried on ringing. ‘Come on people, this is an incident room. Answer the bloody phone!’
An officer at the back snatched it up and started to speak quietly.
‘If the ID is correct, then we’re dealing with the murder of a young girl linked to a very powerful and influential family, so we need to stay far ahead on this one. The press, you name it. Arses are on the line.’
The day’s newspapers lay on the desk opposite Erika. The headlines screamed out:
DAUGHTER OF TOP LABOUR PEER VANISHES
and
ANDIE KIDNAP TERROR PLOT?
The third was the most striking, with a full-page picture of Andrea under the headline:
TAKEN?
‘This is DCI Foster. She’s joining us from the Manchester Metropolitan Police,’ finished Marsh. Erika felt all eyes in the room turn to her.
‘Good morning everyone, I’m pleased to be . . .’ started Erika, but an officer with greasy black hair interrupted.
‘Guv, I’ve been on the Douglas-Brown case, as a missing person and . . .’
‘And? What, DCI Sparks?’ asked Marsh.
‘And, my team is working like clockwork. I’m following up several leads. I’m in contact with the family . . .’
‘DCI Foster has vast experience working on sensitive murder cases . . .’
‘But . . .’
‘Sparks, this isn’t a discussion. DCI Foster will now be taking the lead on this . . . She’ll be hitting the ground running, but I know you will give her your best,’ said Marsh. There was an awkward silence. Sparks sat back in his chair and regarded Erika with distaste. She held his gaze and refused to look away.
Marsh went on, ‘And it’s mouths shut, everyone. I mean it. No media, no gossip. Okay?’ The officers murmured in agreement.
‘DCI Foster, my office.’
E
rika stood
in Marsh’s top-floor office as he searched through piles of paperwork on his desk. She glanced out of the window, which afforded a more commanding view of Lewisham. Beyond the shopping centre and train station, uneven lines of red-brick terraced houses stretched towards Blackheath. Marsh’s office deviated from the normal order of a Chief Superintendent. There were no model cars lined along the window sill, no family photos angled on the shelves. His desk was a mess of paperwork piled high, and a set of shelves by the window seemed to be used as an overflow, crammed with bulging case files, unopened post, old Christmas cards and curling Post-it notes covered in his small spidery handwriting. In one corner, his ceremonial uniform and hat lay draped over a chair, and on top of the crumpled trousers, his Blackberry winked red as it charged. It was a strange mix of teenage boy’s bedroom and high authority.
Marsh finally located a small padded envelope, and handed it to Erika. She tore the edge off and pulled out the wallet with her badge and ID.
‘So, I suddenly go from zero to hero?’ she said, turning the badge over in her hand.
‘This isn’t about you, DCI Foster. You should be pleased,’ said Marsh, moving round and sinking into his chair.
‘Sir, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that
when I returned to service, I’d be put on administrative tasks for six months minimum?’
Marsh indicated she should take the seat opposite.
‘Foster, when I called you this was a missing person case. Now we’re looking at murder. Do I need to remind you who her father is?’
‘Lord Douglas-Brown. Wasn’t he one of the main government contractors for the Iraq War? At the same time as serving in the cabinet?’
‘This isn’t about politics.’
‘Since when have I cared about politics, sir?’
‘Andrea Douglas-Brown went missing on my patch. Lord Douglas-Brown has exerted enormous pressure. He’s a man of influence who can make and break careers. I’ve got a meeting with the Assistant Commissioner and someone from the bloody cabinet office later this morning . . .’
‘So this is about your career?’
Marsh shot her a look. ‘I need an ID on this body and a suspect. Fast.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Erika hesitated. ‘Can I ask, why me? Is the plan to throw me in first as potential fall guy? Then Sparks gets to clean up the mess and look the hero? Cos I deserve to know if . . .’
‘Andrea’s mother is Slovak. And so are you . . . I thought it might help things, to have an officer her mother can identify with.’
‘So it’s good PR to put me on the case?’
‘If you want to look at it like that. I also know what an extraordinary police officer you are. Recently you’ve had troubles, yes, but your achievements far outshine what has . . .’
‘Don’t give me the shit sandwich, sir,’ said Erika.
‘Foster, the one thing you’ve never mastered is the politics of the force. If you’d done that we might be sitting on opposite sides of this conversation right now.’
‘Yeah. Well, I have principles,’ said Erika giving him a hard stare. There was silence.
‘Erika . . . I brought you in because I think you deserve a break. Don’t talk yourself out of the job before you’ve begun.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Erika.
‘Now, get over to the crime scene. Report back to me the second you have information. If it
is
Andrea Douglas-Brown we’ll need a formal ID from the family.’
Erika got up and went to leave. Marsh went on, his voice softer, ‘I never got the chance, at the funeral, to say how sorry I was about Mark . . . He was an excellent officer, and a friend.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Erika looked at the carpet. It was still difficult to hear his name. She willed herself not to cry. Marsh cleared his throat and his professional tone returned.
‘I know I can rely on you to reach a swift conviction on this. I want to be kept posted every step of the way.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Erika.
‘And DCI Foster?’
‘Sir?’
‘Lose the casual gear.’
E
rika found
the women’s locker room and worked fast, changing into a forgotten but familiar ensemble of black trousers, white blouse, dark sweater and long leather jacket.
She was stuffing her civilian clothes into a locker when she noticed a crumpled copy of the
Daily Mail
at the end of one of the long wooden benches. She pulled it towards her and smoothed it out. Under the headline,
DAUGHTER OF TOP LABOUR PEER VANISHES
,
was a large picture of Andrea Douglas-Brown. She was beautiful and polished, with long brown hair, full lips and sparkling brown eyes. Her skin was tanned and she wore a skimpy bikini top, shoulders back to accentuate her full breasts. She stared into the camera with an intense, confident gaze. The photo had been taken on a yacht, and behind her the sky was a hot blue, and the sun sparkled on the sea. Andrea was being embraced from either side by wide, powerful male shoulders, one taller and one shorter – the rest of whoever they were had been cropped out.
The
Daily Mail
described Andrea as a “minor socialite”, which Erika was sure Andrea wouldn’t enjoy if she could read it, but it refrained from calling her “Andie” as the other tabloids had done. The paper had spoken to her parents, Lord and Lady Douglas-Brown, and to her fiancé, who had all pleaded for Andrea to get in contact with them.
Erika scrabbled in her leather jacket and found her notebook, still there after all these months. She noted down the name of the fiancé, a Giles Osborne, and wrote:
Did Andrea run away
? She looked at it for a moment, them scrubbed it out ferociously, tearing the paper. She tucked the notebook in the back of her trousers and went to put her ID in the other free pocket, but paused, feeling it in her hand for a moment: its familiar weight, the leather case cover worn into a curve after years resting against her buttock in the back pocket of her trousers.
Erika went to a mirror above a row of sinks, flipped open the leather case and held it out in front of her. The ID photo showed a confident woman, blonde hair swept back, staring into the camera defiantly. The woman looking back at her, holding the ID, was scrawny and pallid. Her short blonde hair stuck up in tufts, and grey was showing at the roots. Erika watched her shaking arm for a moment, then flipped the ID closed.
She would put in a request for a new photo.
D
esk Sergeant Woolf
was waiting in the corridor when Erika emerged from the women’s locker room. He waddled along beside her, noticing she was a full head taller than him.
‘Here’s your phone; it’s all charged and ready to go,’ he said, handing her a clear plastic bag containing a phone and charger. ‘A car will be ready for you after lunch.’
‘And you’ve nothing with buttons?’ snapped Erika, when she saw a smartphone through the plastic.
‘It’s got an on/off button,’ he snapped back.
‘When my car arrives, could you put this in the boot?’ she said, indicating her suitcase on wheels. She moved past him and through the door of the incident room. Conversation fell quiet when she entered. A short, plump woman approached her,
‘I’m Detective Moss. We’re just trying to sort you an office.’ The woman had wiry red hair, and her face was so splattered with freckles that they grouped together in blotches. She went on, ‘All the info is going up on the boards as it comes in and I’ll have hard copies put in your office when—’
‘A desk is fine,’ said Erika. She went over to the whiteboards, where there was a large map of the Horniman Museum grounds, and underneath, a CCTV image of Andrea.
‘That’s the last known picture of her, taken at London Bridge Station boarding the 8.47pm train to Forest Hill,’ said Moss, following. In the CCTV photo, Andrea was stepping up into the train carriage with a shapely bare leg. Her face was fixed with an angry expression. She was dressed to the nines in a tight leather jacket over a short black dress, wearing pink high heels and carrying a matching clutch bag.
‘She was alone when she boarded the train?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes, I’ve got the CCTV video here that we took the image from,’ said Moss, grabbing a laptop and coming back over. She balanced it on a pile of files and maximised a video window. They watched the time-lapse video, a view of the train platform taken side-on. Andrea walked across into shot and into the train carriage. It only lasted a few seconds, so Moss placed it on a loop.
‘She looks really pissed off,’ said Erika.
‘Yeah. Like she’s off to give someone a piece of her mind,’ agreed Moss.
‘Where was her fiancé?’
‘He’s got a watertight alibi, he was at an event in Central London.’
Several more times, they watched Andrea move across the platform and into the train. She was the only person in the video; the rest of the platform was empty.
‘This is our Skipper, Sergeant Crane,’ said Moss, indicating a young guy with close-cropped blond hair who was simultaneously on the phone, searching through files and shoving a whole Mars bar in his mouth. He attempted to swallow as much of it as he could. Out of the corner of her eye, Erika saw Sparks put the phone down. He pulled on his coat and made for the door.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked. Sparks stopped and turned.
‘Forensics just gave us the okay to go down to the crime scene. We need a fast ID, in case you’d forgotten, Ma’am?’
‘I’d like you to stay here, Sparks. Detective Moss, you’re with me today – and you, what’s your name?’ she asked a tall, handsome black officer who was taking a call at a desk nearby.
‘Detective Peterson,’ he said covering the phone.
‘Okay, Detective Peterson. You’re with me too.’
‘What am I supposed to do then, just sit here twiddling my thumbs?’ demanded Sparks.
‘No. I need access to all CCTV covering the Horniman Museum and surrounding streets,’
‘We’ve got it,’ he interrupted.
‘No, I want you to expand your window to everything in the forty-eight hours leading up to Andrea’s disappearance, and everything since, and I want a door-to-door around the museum. I also need anything and everything you can get about Andrea. Family, friends; pull bank details, medical and phone records, email, and social media. Who liked her? Who hated her? I want to know everything. Did she have a computer, a laptop? She must have had, and I want it.’
‘I was told we couldn’t have her laptop; Lord Douglas-Brown was very specific . . .’ started Sparks.
‘Well, I’m telling you to get it.’ The incident room had now fallen silent. Erika went on, ‘And no one – I repeat, no one – is to talk to the press or share anything in any capacity. Do you hear me? I don’t even want people saying “no comment”. Mouths shut . . . Is that enough to keep you busy, DCI Sparks?’
‘Yes,’ said Sparks, glaring at her.
‘And Crane, you’ll get the incident room running smoothly?’
‘Already on it,’ he said, swallowing the last of his Mars bar.
‘Good. We’ll reconvene here at four.’
Erika walked out, followed by Moss and Peterson. Sparks threw down his coat.
‘Bitch,’ he said under his breath, and sat back down at his computer.