Authors: Robert Bryndza
T
he figure sped
down Camberwell High Street, screaming and raging inside the car, not caring about the speed.
I was so fucking close! SO CLOSE!
The figure’s nostrils flared, eyes streaming with tears. The tears were of rage and pain. The exit from DCI Foster’s flat had been terrifying, slithering down the back wall of the building, barely managing to hold on, and then crashing down onto the brick wall before crumpling onto the pavement. The figure hadn’t worried about the pain, but kept running through the darkness, out into the street lights. Not caring who saw, just running, drenched in sweat. The fear and pain joining together for a final burst of mad energy.
DCI Foster had been so close. The light in her eyes had just been starting to dim, and then . . .
A set of red traffic lights was hurtling towards the windscreen. As the figure slammed on the brakes, the car screamed to a halt, just overshooting a crossroads with a pub on the corner. A group of students stepped off the pavement and surged around the car, laughing and pointing.
Shit, I’m still wearing the balaclava.
Some students hammered on the back of the car as they passed. A group of girls peered through the windscreen as they walked in front of the car.
Calm down, pull it off, act like them – a stupid student.
The figure pulled the balaclava off with a flourish, and made goofy faces at the students through the window. The madness must have shone through, because the group of girls screamed and shied away, as one guy lurched forward and threw up beside the window.
The lights turned green and the figure floored the accelerator, screeching away towards The Oval and Blackfriars Bridge.
She didn’t see anything, she couldn’t have. I had my face covered. I had my face covered . . .
The fear was replaced with anger.
She denied me the kill.
M
oss took
Erika to Lewisham Hospital where her throat was X-rayed, and the cut in her arm was given twelve stitches. She was ordered to rest for a week, and more importantly, not to speak.
It was after four in the morning when Moss drove them back. The adrenalin that had been flooding through Erika’s body had ceased, and a crashing tiredness overwhelmed her. She was shaking when she followed Moss through the small front gate of a smart terraced house in Ladywell. A pretty blonde woman opened the front door, cradling a small dark-haired boy wearing blue pyjamas.
‘He woke up, so I thought you could say a quick hello before I put him back down,’ she said.
‘Sorry I missed bedtime,’ said Moss, taking the boy in her arms as they stepped indoors. She planted a huge kiss on his cheek. He rubbed his eyes shyly and smiled.
‘This is my wife, Celia, and our son, Jacob,’ said Moss, as they came into the cosy hallway.
‘Hi, Erika,’ said Celia, not quite knowing how to deal with the sight of Erika’s battered neck, pink eyes and the fact she was wearing crime scene overalls.
‘Are you a space woman?’ asked Jacob, a serious look on his little face. Erika’s face broke into a weak smile and they all laughed. It broke the ice.
‘No . . .’ croaked Erika.
‘Yes, no criminals in space. I bet it would be very peaceful,’ said Celia. ‘I’m just going to put this little one to bed. Please, make yourself at home, Erika. Do you want to have a shower?’
Erika nodded.
‘Kate, get Erika one of the towels from the airing cupboard whilst I put Jacob back down. Say night-night, Jacob.’
‘Night-night Jacob,’ he said with a grin.
‘The bed in the spare room is made up and I’ve put the little heater in there,’ added Celia.
Moss gave Celia and Jacob a kiss and they left the room.
‘Nice family,’ croaked Erika, perching on the edge of the sofa, not quite knowing what to do with herself.
‘The doctor said no talking, boss . . . Thanks. I’m very lucky. Jacob came along a few years ago. Celia gave birth to him. I’d love to have a little girl. We always said that we’d have one each. It’s just – work gets in the way.’
Erika croaked something.
‘What was that?’
Erika shook her head frustrated, and croaked, ‘Don’t leave it too late . . . kids.’
Moss nodded sagely. She went to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of orange juice. Erika’s had a straw.
‘You look like you could use some sugar.’
They sipped for a moment.
‘I got one of the night-duty officers to run George Mitchell through the database. Nothing.’
Erika swallowed and shook her head.
‘Boss, someone just tried to kill you. Do you think it’s connected?’
Erika felt like she was done. She didn’t know if it was shock or exhaustion, but she didn’t care. She wanted sleep. She nodded. ‘Shower?’ she asked, looking down at herself in the overalls.
‘Sure thing, yeah, boss,’ said Moss. She regarded Erika for a moment. Worry, mixed with a little pity.
E
rika stood
under the shower for a long time, her bandaged arm extended to avoid the water. She inhaled the steam, trying to take away the terrible rawness in her throat. Moss had lent her a pair of pyjamas, and Erika pulled them on. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes bulged out with a pinky tinge, and her throat was now so swollen that it gave her a toadish look. She opened the medicine cabinet but there were only painkillers in there, and Night Nurse. Erika had hoped for some anti-anxiety medication or sleeping pills. She gingerly took some Night Nurse, the pain almost unbearable as she swallowed.
When she emerged from the bathroom, the house was dark and quiet, save for a small night light in the hallway. On her way to the spare room she stopped outside Jacob’s bedroom. His door was ajar, and he was sound asleep under a blue blanket. A mobile turned above his bed, soft lights sliding across the walls as a lullaby played.
Moss put her life on the line most days, mingling with the crazies out there with knives and guns, vendettas and grudges. Jacob slept, his chest slowly rising and falling. His world was his two mummies, his toys, the mobile slowly turning above his head, its calming tune winding down. For the first time, Erika questioned if it was all worth it. You arrest one bad guy, and ten more fill the void.
She found the tiny back bedroom at the end of the house, climbed into the single bed, pulled the covers over her head and tried to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the figure looming over her, squeezing the life from her body. The blank face under the woollen mask, just a pair of eyes glittering in the half-light.
Was it fate that Moss had called at her door at the precise time she had? Why had Erika been spared? Mark was a much better person than she could ever be. He was kind and patient; a brilliant police officer. He’d carved out a place in this world for himself. He’d done much good, and he was capable of so much more.
Why had he been taken, when she was spared?
E
rika stayed
with Moss and Celia for a few days. At first, she was exhausted and was able to sleep. But soon the pain from her throat and arm, the frustration of being unable to communicate, and the claustrophobia of Moss’s tiny back bedroom got to her.
Celia was very kind, bringing up trays of warm soup and magazines, and Jacob came to visit her when he got back from school. A couple of times he brought his little DVD player and they sat in bed and watched
Minions
and
Hotel Transylvania.
The details of the case went round and round in Erika’s mind. She went back to when Andrea’s body was found under the ice, then to meeting her family – Simon and Diana, who lived such busy lives that they parented at arm’s length. Linda and David were like chalk and cheese, and had had vastly different relationships with Andrea, neither knowing what their sister was doing on the night she vanished. Not knowing why she went to a grotty, dangerous pub in South London to meet George Mitchell and the as yet still unidentified blonde-haired woman. And then there was Ivy Norris, who had seen Andrea and her companions that night, quite by chance. So too had the barmaid, Kristina. Neither of them was around to tell the full story.
And then there were the three dead girls. Out of loyalty and kinship, Erika refused to call them prostitutes. Was there a link with Andrea? With Ivy? Or were they just on the wrong street corner at the wrong time? And then there was Marco Frost, whom DCI Sparks had seized upon as their prime suspect, using tenuous, yet compelling evidence which had linked him to Andrea.
The details of the case spun and tangled in Erika’s head, like a giant cat’s cradle. Somewhere, there was a missing link. Something that could link the man who’d tried to kill Erika to all of the other deaths.
In her dream, the man visited Erika again, but as he gripped her throat she was able to reach up and pull away the balaclava covering his head.
It was a different face every time: George Mitchell, Simon Douglas-Brown, Mark, David, Giles Osborne – even Linda. In Erika’s final dream, when she pulled off the balaclava it was Andrea, just as she had appeared in death, with eyes staring, teeth bared and her long dark hair wet and full of leaves.
As the days passed, Erika heard nothing from Marsh. Moss was busy with court appearances and other cases, and was only able to snatch brief chats in the evenings. The police database had drawn a blank with George Mitchell, and a search of electoral records and financial databases also yielded nothing. There was one development: a tiny hair follicle had been recovered from Erika’s nightclothes, which could have come from her attacker – but again, it was run through the DNA database and nothing came back.
On the fourth morning, her throat was starting to heal, and she was able to speak. Erika knew she had to face up to things and go back to the flat. She thanked Celia and hugged little Jacob goodbye. He gave her a picture he’d drawn, of Erika dressed in a white boiler suit getting into a UFO to go up into space with a group of Minions.
It pretty much summed up how she felt.
It was quiet in the car as they drove back, Erika wearing a borrowed set of clothes from Celia. Moss eyed her from the driver’s seat.
‘Boss, you all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I dunno. Wind up the police tape, and then I’m going to go and see my father-in-law.’
‘What about the case?’
‘Find George Mitchell, Moss. He’s the key.’
‘But what about you?’
‘What about me? I’m suspended. The sensible thing to do is to wait it out until the hearing, where hopefully I’ll get my badge back without losing my dignity. Well, I don’t give a shit about my dignity, but I can’t do anything without my badge.’
They’d arrived at Erika’s flat.
‘Thanks. I really appreciate everything,’ said Erika.
‘Want me to come in?’
‘No, you get to work.’
‘I won’t give up on the case, boss,’ promised Moss.
‘I know. But you’ve got a family. Do what you have to do.’
W
hen Erika got back
to the flat, it was in disarray. The surfaces were covered in the black magnetic powder used to dust for fingerprints, and crime scene tape still adorned her front door. She went to the bedroom and stared at the bed. She could see the outline of her body in the duvet, and the long legs of her assailant, the marks deeper at the knees where he’d lain on top of her. She reached over and pulled the edge of the duvet. The imprint vanished. She worked quickly, packing her suitcase. She went to the bathroom and gathered up her toiletries, noting the fingerprint power on the mirror, and the taped-over hole where the extractor fan used to be. She left the house and wheeled her suitcase round to the station. It was a cold, bright day and she stopped at the coffee shop opposite the station, thinking she’d attempt a coffee, even if it hurt.
‘Sugar, or are you sweet enough?’ grinned a handsome waiter with a pierced lip as he took her order.
‘I need sweetening up,’ said Erika.
‘That can be arranged,’ he said. She watched him as he worked and when he handed over her coffee he did so with a wink. Erika grinned back and walked over the road to the station.
‘Morning, I hope you’re not going to be smoking on my nice concourse,’ said the ticket officer, opening the ticket machine beside Erika.
‘No, I’ve given up,’ said Erika. She chose a single ticket to Manchester Piccadilly Station, and fed in her credit card.
‘Good for you, love,’ said the ticket officer, closing the machine. He grinned and walked back off to the station. Erika’s ticket shot out into the little steel drawer.
There were a smattering of people on the platform. She pulled out her phone and dialled Edward’s number. He answered after a few rings. His voice lit up when he realised who it was. Erika explained that she was coming up to see him, adding, ‘I hope it’s not too short notice?’
‘No, not at all, love. I just need to make up the bed in the spare room,’ he said, sounding happy. ‘Give us a bell when you’re close and I’ll pop the kettle on.’
‘It’ll just be a couple of days . . .’
‘You stay as long or a short as you want.’
Erika ended the call as the train rounded the track up ahead. She had drained the last of her coffee and was looking for a bin, when her phone rang.
‘Boss, it’s me,’ said Moss, breathlessly. ‘Marco Frost has just been released.’
The train passed under the footbridge and carriages blurred past.
‘Released? Why?’ asked Erika.
‘The solicitor has been working on Marco’s alibi. He found some CCTV from a newsagent’s shop in Micheldever.’
The train was now slowing; Erika could now make out commuters inside the carriages.
‘Where’s Micheldever?’ she asked, feeling excitement prickling in her stomach.
‘An hour south from London Bridge Station. Marco stated, in his second alibi, that that’s where he was going on the night of the eighth of January. As you know, there was insufficient evidence to back that up. Micheldever is a tiny station with no CCTV . . . That’s been the story of this case, no CCTV,’ said Moss.
The train came to a stop. People on the platform rushed at the train.
‘The CCTV from the newsagent shows Marco Frost stopping outside to light a cigarette at 8.50pm. The newsagent’s is a thirty-five minute walk from the train station, so he did arrive off the 8.10pm train from London Bridge.’
The train doors opened with a beep, and passengers surged around Erika.
Moss continued, ‘So Marco Frost can now be placed an hour and thirty-five minutes from London around the time Andrea vanished. It’s highly unlikely he could have made it back to the station for the last train into London that evening. He’s in the clear.’
The passengers had now boarded the train. The guard stood on the edge of the platform, waiting as the seconds on the electronic clock ticked by to the departure time.
‘Of course, now Marsh is shitting a brick. The CPS had been crowing to the press how we’ve caught Andrea’s killer, and now a duty solicitor who phoned up a newsagent and asked for a copy of their CCTV video has blown all the case apart . . . You still there, boss?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Erika.
The guard blew his whistle. ‘Get back if you’re not boarding the train!’ he shouted, signalling for Erika to get behind the yellow line. She looked at the inside of the carriage. There was a seat just by the door, and warm air flowed out. The doors lit up and gave the warning beep.
‘I thought you’d be really pleased, boss?’ asked Moss.
‘I am, this means . . .’
‘I wanted to give you the heads up, because I think Marsh is going to call you.’
The train doors were about to close, when a man in a leather jacket came thundering down the stairs from the footbridge. He reached the platform and dived onto the train just as the doors closed on him. With a beeping sound, the doors opened again to free him.
There was a ping on Erika’s phone. She saw that she had Marsh on her call waiting.
‘He’s calling me now.’
‘Okay, I’ll get off the line,’ said Moss. ‘Let me know what’s happening.’
The doors were now closing. This was her last chance to get on the train and go up north. The doors closed. Erika answered her phone.
‘DCI Foster. How are you?’ asked Marsh, sounding insincere and panicky.
‘I now know how a chicken feels seconds before death,’ she quipped.
The train clicked and whirred and pulled away from the platform.
‘Sorry I didn’t get in contact, it’s been—’
‘Yes, I’ve heard you had to release Marco Frost.’
‘Would you be willing to come into the station? We need to talk,’ he said.
Erika paused and watched the train move into the distance, vanishing round a bend. ‘I can be there in fifteen minutes, sir,’ she said. She picked up her case, looked at the real world, which she had briefly felt she might join, and then hurried towards the station exit.