‘What about all those photos of Marissa Lewis? Do you think she knew he took them?’ asked McGorry.
‘He probably bought a ticket to her show.’
‘Then why burn them?’
Erika shook her head, feeling exhausted.
‘We need to confirm the phone was registered to Marissa, and see if we can get any more information about Joseph. Has he got a record? Etc.’ She selected her coffee, and they were silent as the cup dropped out and it began to fill and steam. ‘Mandy Trent was pretty open about who Marissa associated with. She didn’t mention Joseph. I’ll get Tania, the FLO, to ask her again.’ She took her cup from the dispenser.
‘We don’t have enough to charge him with her murder. And he has an alibi,’ said McGorry.
‘From his mother.’
‘We’ve got nothing that places him at the scene last night.’
‘Yet. Nothing yet. Post-mortem, forensics, everything is still left to play.’
McGorry yawned as he put money in the machine and selected coffee. Erika studied his tired face as the machine filled his cup. ‘You should go home and get some rest. I want you here when I question him tomorrow morning.’
They both sipped their drinks, then spat them back in the cup.
‘What the bloody hell is that?’
‘Oxtail soup,’ he grimaced.
‘Did you press the coffee button?’
‘Yeah.’
They dropped their cups into the small bin by the machine. Erika pushed more change in, and selected a white coffee. When it was done she put the cup to her nose.
‘That’s bloody oxtail soup as well. They close down the canteen, and leave us with nothing but oxtail soup!’
‘They must have filled the machine up wrong,’ said McGorry.
Erika rolled her eyes and dropped the second cup in the bin.
‘What is it with this country? Potato sandwiches, and oxtail bloody soup! I’ve never met anyone who actually eats oxtail soup, yet in the world of second-rate vending machines that’s the third option after tea and coffee!’
‘You can buy it in tins…’
‘What?’
‘Oxtail soup. My Nan has a cupboard full of tins of oxtail soup. She loves it.’
Erika looked at him and grinned.
‘Go on, bugger off home, have your Christmas dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said.
* * *
Erika went up to her office on the fourth floor. It was tiny, with barely enough room for a small desk, a chair, and a bookshelf. Kay was working at a laptop with Joseph’s smartphone plugged into it.
‘Sorry, the coffee machine is buggered, and there’s nothing in the staff kitchen,’ said Erika. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘The iPhone is password protected. You’ll have to get it sent to the Cyber Crime Unit, and even then, they probably won’t have any luck. It’s virtually impossible to hack into an iPhone. I can also see from the IMEI number that this was a pay as you go phone.’
‘Which will make the phone records harder to track down. Shit.’
‘The good news is that Joseph Pitkin’s smartphone isn’t password protected.’ Kay indicated a window on the screen with all the downloaded files. ‘I’ve just pulled off a load of video files.’
Erika’s mood brightened and she pulled up a chair. Kay started to click down the list of image and video files; some were very short, of a tabby cat on a summer’s day stretching on the windowsill outside Joseph’s bedroom, another of Elspeth, red faced and taking a huge plaited loaf of bread on a tray out of the Aga, another of the tabby cat in the garden, amongst the flower pots, chasing after a red admiral butterfly in that playful-yet-lethal way cats enjoy.
‘All very charming,’ said Erika. When Kay clicked on the next video, the sound blared out from the computer, making them jump. Distorted music played, and the video was a blur of colour until it came into focus. Marissa Lewis was on a small stage in a crowded club. Behind her was a red velvet curtain. The video was taken a little further back in the audience, and some people’s heads were visible. Marissa’s dark hair was set in pin curls, and she wore bright red lipstick and huge lashes. She was slowly unbuttoning a long black coat, and then she let it drop to the floor. Underneath she wore a 1950s-style pink silk satin corset, stockings, suspenders and towering heels. The video seemed to tremble as she went through her act, stripping down to underwear and nipple tassels. Marissa took a bow to applause and sashayed off the stage.
‘Blimey, she was good,’ said Kay.
‘I thought her act would be sleazy, but this is – well, professional burlesque,’ said Erika. They clicked through photos of the same evening, of Joseph standing with Marissa among the tables in the club. They were posing for the camera; someone else must have taken the pictures.
‘Do you think it looks like Marissa knows him?’ asked Erika, as Kay clicked through six almost identical shots: Joseph with his arm slung around Marissa’s waist.
‘He looks like the creepy fan you want rid of. Why did he need six photos? By the sixth she looks like she wants to get away,’ said Kay.
‘When are these dated?’
‘Almost a year ago. Last January.’
Kay clicked through more photos of the same evening, of Marissa talking to other guests and posing for photos, then a couple of blurred ones as she went to the bar. Then the background changed. The next few photos were dark, and illuminated with a flash.
‘When is this?’ asked Erika.
‘The time stamp shows the same day, same time.’
‘Looks like backstage.’ There were photos of what looked like a dressing room. It was empty, with a large mirror surrounded by lights. There were close-ups of a rack of burlesque clothes; a pair of lacy black knickers discarded on the floor. A hand holding them up to the camera. There was a diamond symbol sewn into the fabric.
‘Honey Diamond,’ said Erika. ‘That diamond symbol was embroidered on Marissa’s burlesque costumes.’
Abruptly, the photos then changed to a video of Marissa Lewis’s house. It was taken high up, at night, looking down into the window of Marissa’s bedroom. It started off shakily, and they could hear wind distorting the phone’s microphone. Marissa came into focus, walking around the bedroom in a towel. She went to the dressing table and picked up a brush, dragging it through her wet hair. Then Marissa dropped her towel, and was naked. The video zoomed in closer and lost focus. When it came back into focus, Marissa was staring out of the window, directly at the camera.
‘Shit,’ came Joseph’s voice, above the wind distorting the microphone. He kept the camera trained on her. She stood, very still, watching. Then she cupped her breasts, and ran her hands down the front of her body. She stopped above her pubic hair, and waggled a finger and pulled the curtains together. The camera stayed on the glowing curtains for a moment, then the video ended.
‘She knew Joseph was watching her?’ said Kay.
‘She knew someone was watching her,’ said Erika. Kay clicked on another video, which showed the same view, at night. This time, Marissa’s bedroom was brightly lit, and she entered the room with a tall, older man. Marissa made sure they both came close to the window, and the camera caught his face. Kay ran the video forward, as they moved to the bed, starting to kiss and undress each other. The video was the longest on the phone, ten minutes in total, and it zoomed in as the couple had sex on Marissa’s bed. ‘We need to get a clear image of that man’s face, and find out who he is. When was this taken?’
‘December 14th, this year. Do you think she knew they were being filmed?’
‘Or she asked Joseph to film,’ said Erika. She rubbed her tired eyes and sat back in her chair. ‘What did you make of him?’
‘In the short space of time I was there? He seemed scared, but clingy with his mother.’
‘He’s ticking all the boxes so far. He was obsessed with Marissa. He stalked her, and spied on her. He stole Marissa’s mobile phone, and photographed her dead body. But I need
forensics. I need DNA if I want to really nail him and make an arrest.’
* * *
In the basement of Lewisham Row, all was quiet in the custody suite. The long line of cell doors was propped open, ready and waiting for any offenders Christmas night had yet to offer. Only the cell door at the far end was closed. Ray, the custody sergeant, got up from his desk, and went to do his fifteen-minute check, his polished shoes squeaking on the floor. He opened the metal hatch on the closed door, and shone his torch inside. Joseph Pitkin lay on a bed in the corner.
‘You alright, lad?’ he said.
Joseph shrank away, and turned to the wall.
‘Yeah, great,’ he murmured. He flinched as the metal hatch slammed shut. He shifted on the bare bed in the darkness, trying to get comfortable, silent tears rolling down his cheeks.
Eleven
Four miles away in Sydenham, a cold wind screamed down Walpole Road, pushing the snow in drifts up against the walls of the terraced houses. Diana Crow left her friend Fiona’s house just after 11 p.m., wincing at the cold. She’d stayed longer than she’d intended, but Fiona had insisted that she saw the end of the Christmas film.
Diana put her head down, and hurried along the dark snowy street to the main road. Despite the cold, her face felt hot after four glasses of sweet sherry. She waited for a small Fiat to drive past before she crossed. Snow had been falling heavily all day, and the pavement and road had merged into one. She carefully picked her way across, and slowed, feeling around in the snow for where the kerb began on the other side. She stepped up onto the pavement and shivered. It was so quiet. Every window was lit, but the curtains were clamped shut. It was only a few minutes’ walk home. Fiona had told her to call a taxi, but Diana thought it a ridiculous extravagance to pay good money for a thirty-second taxi ride, three streets away.
As she passed by the train station, the streetlight was out, and the short station approach was shrouded in darkness. There were no cars on the road now, and she picked up the pace as she approached the railway underpass. The air was damp, with a nasty smell of urine. She pulled the lapels of her coat up over her mouth. The pavement was dry in the underpass, and her footsteps echoed, breaking the silence. The pavement on the other side, lit up by the orange streetlight, seemed far away. She hurried on, and had almost reached the light, when one of the dark walls seemed to bulge out. A tall figure moved out from the shadows and blocked her path.
She stopped, and couldn’t move. Afterwards, she would ask herself why she hadn’t turned and run – she had been less than sixty seconds away from her front door – and why she hadn’t fought back, or shouted out for help? Instead, she stood there, paralysed with fear as the tall figure came closer. Loomed over her. He moved with a soft creaking sound, and as her eyes adjusted a little to the dark, she saw he wore a gas mask. The two large eyeholes were blank, and rubber material stretched up and over his head like a hood. Vapour streamed out from the large breathing drum hanging down. White squares were painted on the drum, and it looked like a grotesque smiling mouth. There was a faint chemical smell about him as his breathing quickened, and she saw that his coat was open and he was exposing himself, masturbating with a gloved hand.
Diana opened her mouth to scream, but it was cut short when he grabbed her by the throat and pinned her to the cold bricks, his powerful leather-gloved hand tightening around her neck. It was all so quiet, and she gagged and choked, wishing she would pass out. Just as the edges of her vision started to go black, he loosened his grip enough for her to take a breath, then his hand tightened again.
Outside the underpass, the road remained empty. The snow fell. Everything was quiet and still.
Twelve
Erika arrived home late to a cold flat. In the two years she’d lived there, she hadn’t got around to figuring out how the timer on the boiler worked. The first thing she did when she got in was flick on the heating, and she kept her coat on until it started to warm up.
She then ran a bath, with the water boiling hot, almost too hot to bear. The scalding water helped her to block things out, and made her forget about work, but despite the hot water, she couldn’t shake off the image of Marissa Lewis’s body lying in the snow. A crime scene always tells a story, and the small front garden in Coniston Road told of a violent struggle. The sheer volume of blood, caking Marissa’s body and the surrounding snow. Her shoe, left lying close by; her vanity case, broken on its side, the contents spilling out into the snow. Her keys still dangling in the lock of the front door. If Marissa had reached her door a few seconds earlier, would she have been able to turn the key and get safely inside?
Erika found it a struggle, the balance between feeling sorrow for a murder victim, and shutting it out. To stay sane, it was easier to dehumanise a dead body, and think of the person as an object: a thing, or a piece of evidence. Erika could never do that, though, any more than she could come home from work and live a normal life. She didn’t have anyone to come home to. Since Mark’s death, she had been involved in a relationship with her colleague, Detective Inspector James Peterson, and for a time he had been someone she could come home to – or more precisely, she would go to his place and they would watch television and eat takeaway and laugh. Then Peterson had been badly injured in the line of duty: shot in the stomach, on Erika’s watch, at the climax of an abduction and murder case. His subsequent battle to recover and return to work had driven a wedge between them. It had been a messy end to a promising relationship. And she was left alone again, for endless evenings with her thoughts.
The image of Marissa Lewis’s tooth embedded in the brickwork of the gate post swam into her head. She closed her eyes, but it was still there: broken off, close to the gum, and daubed with a smudge of red lipstick. Erika opened her eyes and added fresh hot water to the bath. Her usually pale legs were an angry red from the heat. In her mind’s eye, she saw Marissa’s blood-spattered legs in the picture taken from high in the tree. The folds of her long winter coat, open in the snow. Then she saw the crime scene, and Isaac crouching down beside the body. The thin material of the dress hitched up to expose Marissa’s underwear. The underwear had been spotless. There had been no blood, and a neat strip of pubic hair had shown through the sheer material.
Erika yanked out the plug, and stepped out, wrapping herself in a towel. She hurried through to the living room, where she had her laptop and the case file laid out on the coffee table. The lights were off, and the curtains were still open. Snow was falling again. It made a dry rustling sound as it hit the glass. She went to her computer and clicked through the photos taken by Joseph. First, the ones high up in the tree, and then the close-ups.
‘You sick little shit,’ she murmured, flicking between the two different perspectives and zooming in. ‘You lifted up her skirt when you came down from the tree…’
Erika’s phone rang, making her jump. She checked the time and saw it was just after 11 p.m. It was Edward, asking if she had enjoyed lunch.
‘I didn’t go in the end. I was called out to a crime scene,’ she said. ‘Very sad. A young girl, murdered on her doorstep.’
‘Oh. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not really. It’s too dark and gruesome for Christmas. Did you have a good day?’
‘I had a bit of a party, as it turns out,’ he laughed. ‘Kelly from down the road popped over with her mother, Shirley. They brought over a big lasagne and Monopoly. It was Manchester Monopoly. Guess where the most expensive street is?’
‘Coronation Street?’
‘No. I thought the same. It’s the Lowry on Salford Quays. It’s the same price as Park Lane on the London version. I don’t think you can win Monopoly unless you fork out for the best real estate.’
‘Listen to you, saying things like “real estate”.’
‘And that’s why I won. I was a proper little tycoon!’
He sounded normal, nothing like the confused old man from that morning. In the background, she could hear the television.
&n
bsp; ‘I’m glad you had a nice day,’ she said.
‘I’ve just been over to the graveyard. And it was snowing, but over on the hills it was clear and the moon was up. Is it right that I thought it was beautiful?’
‘It is.’
‘I didn’t want Mark to be on his own on Christmas Day…’ His voice trembled and broke on the end of the phone. ‘It’s so hard, him not being here.’
‘I know,’ she said, wiping her eyes.
‘There’s ‘owt we can do about it, is there?’
‘No.’
There was a long silence, interrupted by tinny laughter from Edward’s television in the background.
‘Oh well, I just wanted to check on you, lass, and wish you goodnight.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Merry Christmas. I’ll phone you soon.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said. The laughter on his television cut out, and Erika was back in the silence of her flat, the snow against the windows. She closed the curtains and flicked on the lights. Her phone rang again. This time it was Kay.
‘Sorry it’s late, ma’am, but I found something on Joseph Pitkin’s phone, amongst the files.’
‘That’s okay. You’re still working?’ asked Erika, impressed.
‘I was just going over the downloaded files, and I found some files on the hard drive which had been deleted. I managed to recover some of them. They’re troubling.’
‘Pornography?’
‘No. Pictures and video of Joseph. I’m sending them over now.’
Erika came off the phone and opened the email. There were six photos. Joseph was naked, lying on his back, and fastened with leather straps to a wooden table, by his neck, arms and thighs. His eyes were bloodshot and wide with fear. The hand of an unknown man gripped him by the throat, making the tendons on his neck strain. Erika clicked on the video file. It showed the same scene as the photos, and looked like it was filmed with a mobile phone.
Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 6
