‘You know he loves you. James,’ said Zada.
Erika looked up at her. ‘What?’
‘James.’
Erika was taken aback,
‘He’s talked about his private life when he was at the hospital?’
‘When you meet on a hospital ward, both wearing stoma bags, there isn’t much embarrassing stuff you don’t want to talk about.’
‘Oh.’
‘He wasn’t indiscreet, or nothing. But we talked about wanting to live life to the full, after nearly dying. He’s almost forty. He wants to settle down… He really wants kids, and you don’t. You probably know this already.’
‘Do you want children with him?’ Erika hit back.
‘I can’t have kids,’ she said. ‘So you’re safe.’
Erika picked up her bag and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the table.
‘It’s all in there. Two hundred. And I hope you will stick to what you said, about working with the e-fit artist.’
Zada took the envelope. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Thank you for meeting with me,’ said Erika, trying to keep her voice even, and she left the cafe.
It was only a short walk to where she’d parked her car at the Marks & Spencer round the corner, but she was soaked. She got in and slammed the door. He really wants kids and you don’t. The words rang in her head, hitting her just as painfully. She tipped her head back against the seat and looked at the blur of rain on the windscreen, distorting the grey sky and the surrounding cars.
Her phone rang and she saw it was Nils. She took a deep breath and answered.
‘Is this a bad time?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Erika, feeling the irony.
‘I have an ID on your two suitcase victims,’ he said triumphantly.
‘What? I thought you ran their DNA through the national crime database and nothing came back?’
‘I did, but I’ve been trying something new, which could be seen as a little unorthodox; however, it’s given us a considerable hit rate in the past couple of years.’
‘What is it?’
‘I contacted the private DNA database used by several genealogy websites. People tracing their family trees can now apply for a DIY DNA test kit. It arrives in the post, and they do a saliva swab, and send it back. The genealogy database gave us a positive hit on the DNA from both of your victims. I’m emailing all the details over to you now.’
Chapter Twelve
Erika returned to Lewisham Row Station, and went to see Superintendent Hudson in her office, explaining she had an ID on the two bodies. Melanie leafed through the case file on her desk and picked up the passport photos they now had of the two victims.
‘I need a bigger team. This is a double murder. I need more officers,’ said Erika.
Melanie held up the photo of the drug wraps taken from Thomas Hoffman, neatly packed like unshelled peanuts in the plastic bag.
‘Erika, it’s the amount of cocaine involved here. The male victim was a drug smuggler. I think we should pass this over to the narcotics unit. This looks to me like a dealer who has pissed off his boss,’ she said, sitting back in her chair.
‘What about the woman?’ said Erika.
Melanie shrugged. ‘She’s the girlfriend that got in the way.’
‘No! He wasn’t killed for drugs. The drugs are nothing to do with this,’ said Erika, exasperated. ‘And we can’t just assume she was the girlfriend. These murders took planning. Whoever did this needed to lure them to a place where he could kill them and chop them up without being seen. Their faces were battered to avoid identification. And after all that, whoever did this left the drugs. If this was drugs related, a rival dealer, or the head of the smuggling operation would have taken them.’
Melanie sighed and looked at the two sets of crime scene photos: the bodies in the suitcases. Erika picked up the enlarged passport ID photo of a thin young woman with large green eyes and a small sharp nose. Her skin was clear and shiny and she had long blonde hair.
‘The female victim is 24-year-old Charlene Selby. She comes from a rich middle-class family.’ She picked up the second passport ID photo of a man with dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes and a round acne-scarred face. His thinning dark hair was greasy and combed back from a high forehead. ‘The male victim is 34-year-old Thomas Hoffman. He’s a widow, with no criminal record.’
‘Erika, I’ve just been looking at the same photos as you—’
‘They’re a white, middle-class, hard-working couple. You know how these things play in the press. This has Daily Mail headline written all over it.’
‘You’re threatening to go to the press?’
‘No. I’m saying that you don’t want to kick this case into the long grass with hundreds of others that the narcotics team are trying to solve. It could bite you in the arse, ma’am.’
Melanie raised an eyebrow and looked at the photos again. She shook her head.
‘Okay, fine. I’ll give you an expanded team, incident room, and uniform resources with further approval.’
‘Thank you,’ said Erika, gathering up the photos and stuffing them back in the file.
‘But I want to know the moment anything changes, and if this crosses over into a case for narcotics you won’t be obstructive, you will hand the case over. Understand?’
‘Absolutely. I won’t obstruct you, or anyone,’ said Erika.
Melanie saw the light shining in her eyes, and the rush of excitement as she left the office, slamming the door. ‘Famous last words,’ she said.
An hour later, Erika’s expanded team assembled in the large open-plan incident room in Lewisham Row Station. Sergeant Crane, a young sandy-haired officer in his mid-thirties, was moving through the crammed-in desks to give out copies of the case file. McGorry was sitting opposite Detective Constable Rachel Knight, a dark-haired officer in her mid-twenties who Erika had worked with before, and Detective Constable Brian Temple, a handsome red-haired young Scotsman who was new to the team. Three civilian support workers – two young men and a young woman – were working with Marta Chapman to assemble all of the evidence on the large whiteboard on the back wall of the incident room. Moss was sitting at a computer and finishing up on a phone call. Erika went to the whiteboards at the back of the room.
‘Okay, good afternoon everyone. Our male victim is 34-year-old Thomas Hoffman,’ she said, indicating his passport ID photo pinned up next to the crime scene photo of his badly beaten face. ‘He’s a British national, born in Norwich. No family or siblings. The last known address we have for him is in Dollis Hill, north-west London. He’s been married twice. His first wife, Mariette Hoffman, is still alive, but his second wife, Debbie, died two years ago. He has no record, not even a parking ticket. I want to know everything about him, financial, mobile phone records, and all social media.’
She moved along the whiteboard to the second passport ID photo. ‘The second victim is 24-year-old Charlene Selby. She is also British. Her parents, Carl and Daphne Selby, are registered as shareholders of Selby Autos Ltd, which is a very successful car dealership in Slough.’
‘Do we know if they were reported missing?’ asked Moss.
‘No. Neither of them have been reported missing, which is rather odd,’ said Erika, tapping both of the pictures. ‘We need to see if there is a link between Charlene and Thomas. Did they know each other? Were they mixed up in something similar? Were they dating? Was Charlene Selby living with Thomas Hoffman? If she’s registered as living at home, why haven’t her parents reported her missing?’
Erika moved to a large map of the Thames dominating the centre of the whiteboard. ‘The suitcase containing Charlene’s body was found two weeks ago by a dog walker at low tide below Chelsea Bridge. This is a residential area; there’s flats all along here. We found the suitcase with Thomas’s body two days ago, 2.8 miles further down the river, close to the National Theatre. In both instances, the suitcase had snagged onto something which prevented it from mo
ving any further down the river. McGorry, you mentioned talking to the Marine Unit about tidal patterns?’
‘Yes. I’m waiting to hear back from Sergeant Lorna Crozier who works for the dive unit. I sent her the dates and coordinates yesterday, and she says it can take a couple of days to look at the tidal patterns.’
‘OK. We’re waiting on toxicology results for both victims, and Nils Åkerman over at forensics is working to try and lift prints from the concrete block found in the suitcase with Charlene Selby. I believe this could be the murder weapon, and a link between the two murders. We need to follow up every lead,’ finished Erika. ‘It’s all up for grabs at the beginning, and remember—’
The team finished her sentence in unison: ‘There are no stupid questions.’
Erika grinned. ‘Glad to know you actually listen to what I’m saying.’
‘I think it would be a good idea to put out some feelers to the narcotics unit and see if they are aware of any ripples running through the drug dealing community,’ said Detective Knight, ‘if there are rumours of a missing thirty grand stash.’
‘Agreed,’ said Erika. ‘I’ll leave that with you. Sergeant Crane will take things from here.’
The room sprang to life as Crane stood up and started to allocate tasks to the officers and support staff.
Erika went over to Moss. ‘You’re with me. I want to inform the next of kin today,’ she said.
‘Thomas Hoffman doesn’t have any living relatives,’ said Moss.
‘But he has an ex-wife, and I think ex-wives are often a great source of information.’
‘Hashtag no filter,’ grinned Moss.
‘Let’s hope so.’
Chapter Thirteen
Erika and Moss took the train from Lewisham to London Bridge, and then a Northern Line tube up to Old Street. A police car was waiting for them by Moorfields Eye Hospital, and it was a short drive out to the Pinkhurst Council Estate. It always struck Erika how the landscape in London could change in the space of a few roads, from multimillion pound flats and office buildings to a virtual ghetto.
Mariette Hoffman lived in a tall grey tower block, one of five towers making up the Pinkhurst Estate in north-east London. They pulled into an empty, potholed car park, where a gang of lads stood in a circle next to a burnt-out car. Their brightly coloured hoodies and tracksuits were a menacing splash of colour against the grey sky and concrete.
‘I’ll let you down as close as I can,’ said the uniformed officer driving, a squat middle-aged man with a greying beard. ‘I’ve been to these flats before. You usually have to wipe your feet on the way out.’
‘Good job we’ve got an unmarked car,’ said Erika, seeing the group of lads were looking around and taking notice.
He parked next to a row of three large rubbish bins. Mariette lived on the second floor, and Erika and Moss took a set of stairs up to a long concrete corridor, open to the air. As they passed the flats, there were sounds of babies screaming and people shouting. The kitchen windows were to the side of each front door, and Erika slowed as they passed a tiny girl in pink sitting on the draining board, pressing her tiny hand against the grimy glass. Behind her was a young woman, smoking a cigarette. When she saw them pass, she moved forward and let the blind down.
‘She thinks we’re social workers,’ said Moss, in a low voice.
They came to the door at the end of the corridor and knocked. After a moment, a large bedraggled woman, in her early fifties, with a halo of messy black curly hair, opened it. She wore a faded red tracksuit and marigold gloves, and in one hand she held a yellowing toilet brush. Next to the front door, they could just see the inside of a small grubby toilet.
‘What?’ she said, looking Erika and Moss up and down.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster; this is Detective Inspector Moss,’ said Erika as they flashed their warrant cards. ‘Can we come in, please?’
‘Woss it about?’ she said, wiping her forehead with her sleeve.
‘It’s about your ex-husband, Thomas Hoffman,’ said Erika.
‘Let me guess. He’s dead?’ she said, still clutching the toilet brush.
‘Please can we come in?’
‘Alright. But wipe your feet, and take off your shoes,’ she snapped, standing to one side to let them in.
They found it hard to get their shoes off in the cramped hallway, and were mindful of Mariette standing over them with the filthy toilet brush. She lined their shoes up neatly on the mat and replaced the brush, closing the toilet door. She took them down a small hallway, past a staircase, a closed door, and into a small living room. It was beautifully clean, but the furniture was dated. A low sideboard of pale wood was dotted with fussy doilies and ornaments. A small box television sat in the corner with a bowl on top filled with seashells. Through a white net curtain, a window looked out over the estate. The faded worn carpet bore the marks of a fresh vacuum, and the room had an overpowering tang of pine air freshener. On the wall above a beige sofa hung a black and red military-style majorette’s cap, with a shiny black peak, red velvet pillbox top and gold braiding. Underneath were two hooks which held a silver baton.
‘Have a sit down,’ said Mariette.
Erika and Moss sat on the sofa. She perched gingerly on a small armchair beside them. Still wearing the rubber gloves, she took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her tracksuit and lit up, exhaling with a loose phlegmy cough.
‘So, what is it?’
‘I’m very sorry to tell you that your ex-husband was found murdered,’ said Erika.
‘You could have told me that on the doorstep,’ she snapped.
‘This doesn’t seem to be a shock to you?’
‘Oh, doesn’t it? You don’t know what I’m thinking. Anyhow, are you telling me that every time you inform someone that their relative is dead, they break down in floods of tears?’
‘No.’
‘There you go then.’
‘How did you know we were here to inform you of your ex-husband’s death?’ asked Erika.
‘It was a guess, obviously. I’m not psychic. If I were, I’d make a fortune and leave this bloody estate.’
‘If it was a guess, you must have suspected something?’
‘He told me he was gonna smuggle some drugs,’ she said, tapping the cigarette ash into a heavy crystal cut ashtray on the coffee table. ‘How did it happen?’
‘We don’t know all the details. Two days ago, his body was washed up on the banks of the Thames. It had been dismembered, and was stuffed into a suitcase,’ said Moss.
‘A suitcase?’ repeated Mariette.
‘Yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, we attended the scene.’
Mariette shook her head. ‘He was such a large bloke. Someone got hold of a suitcase big enough to fit him?’
Moss looked to Erika, who nodded and took over.
‘I’m sorry to say that Thomas’s body had been dismembered, and placed in the suitcase.’
‘That explains it.’ Mariette nodded, tapping the ash off her cigarette. ‘You can’t buy big suitcases anymore. I went to Benidorm last year and we were allowed only 10 kilos! If you wanted extra you had to pay a fortune.’ She took another drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Erika went to ask her a question, but Mariette heaved herself out of the armchair.
‘I need a cup of tea after hearing that. You two want one?’
‘Er, yes, thank you,’ said Erika.
She headed off into the kitchen, pulling down the hem of her sweater over her backside. They listened as she moved around the kitchen, and the kettle boiled.
‘What the fuck?’ said Moss in a low voice. ‘She finds out her ex-husband has been chopped up and stuffed in a suitcase, and all she can talk about is how tough it is to go abroad with the weight limits?’
‘He was her ex-husband.’
‘I know, but most people at least pretend to care.’
‘Is it really that hard to buy big
suitcases? The Superintendent said the same thing.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Shows how little I go on holiday,’ said Erika.
A few minutes later, Mariette returned with a tray of tea things and set it down on the coffee table. She noticed Moss looking around at the majorette hat and baton on the wall.
‘I was a spinner for five years,’ she said, pouring tea into china cups. ‘Then I got too old. You could only be in the troupe until you were eighteen. They bent the rules and let me stay until I was nineteen, but then I outgrew the uniform and they said they didn’t make them any bigger. The bastards.’
She passed Erika and Moss each a delicate china cup and saucer. They took a sip, unsure of how to respond.
‘When did you last see Thomas?’ asked Moss.
Mariette lit another cigarette and sat back with her tea, exhaling smoke.
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘Today is the 4th of October, so three weeks ago would make it Wednesday, 13th September?’
Mariette thought for a moment. ‘No, it was the day before, a Tuesday, cos I’d got me giro that day and I bought cake for when he came. I get me giro every two weeks, on a Tuesday.’
‘So Tuesday, 12th September you saw him. Is this when he told you about the drugs?’ asked Erika.
‘Yeah. He’d been signing on for a long time. They’d made him attend one of them job training clubs.’
‘What was he being trained in?’ asked Erika.
Mariette gave a loose phlegmy laugh. ‘Bugger all. The government call it training. In reality, they pay some private company a fortune, who lock them up in a room for three months searching for jobs, and bully them into signing up for factory jobs with zero-hour contracts… That’s where he met, er this, er…’ She hesitated.
‘Met who?’ asked Erika.
‘Some bloke or other. He asked Tom if he wanted to make an easy ten grand. Who wouldn’t turn that down? Tom was desperate to get out of the shit and pay off some debts. He’d had a rough few years.’
Cold Blood: A gripping serial killer thriller that will take your breath away Page 6
