Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  Martin pushed his glasses up his nose and snorted.

  ‘Yes. She was multi-talented, it seems. She was also a carer. Although, to me that’s a bit like King Herod getting a job in the antenatal unit… She stole from that old woman. Food and toiletries at first. The old woman…’

  ‘Mrs Fryatt,’ said Erika.

  ‘Yes, she came here one night to watch Marissa as Honey Diamond. All dressed up like Joan Collins in furs and diamonds. That’s when we realised why Marissa was her carer…’

  ‘What did you mean, “at first”, when you said Marissa was stealing from Mrs Fryatt?’

  ‘Marissa stole a pair of diamond earrings from her.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Peterson.

  Martin put down the piece of material. ‘Must have been a couple of weeks before Christmas. I thought it was bullshit, and that she’d concocted some story to make a pair of costume jewellery earrings into something more than they were – that was a very Marissa thing to do, she liked to lie – but she took one of the girls up to Hatton Garden, and had them valued. They were the real deal, worth ten grand.’

  Erika glanced at Peterson. Mrs Fryatt hadn’t said anything about a pair of earrings.

  ‘Did Marissa mention anything about an attack?’ asked Peterson.

  Martin looked surprised. ‘Marissa attacked someone?’

  ‘No, she was attacked, about a month ago, on her way back from the train station where she lives. A man grabbed her.’

  Martin shook his head. ‘Not that I heard. And I used to hear everything about that girl’s life, whether I wanted to or not.’

  ‘You do understand that this is a murder investigation, and you aren’t speaking about Marissa Lewis in favourable terms?’ said Peterson.

  ‘Do want me to lie?’

  ‘No,’ said Erika.

  ‘I know it’s not right to speak ill of the dead, and no one deserves to be cut down on their own front step. Awful,’ he said, taking off his glasses and crossing himself. He let them hang down over his large belly on a gold chain.

  ‘Did you know she was planning to move to New York?’

  ‘Yes. She talked about it.’

  ‘No specifics?’

  ‘No, but I did ask her how she would fund herself. It’s not cheap, and there are visa costs and all sorts. She did say something which stuck in my mind. She said the diamond would bring her good fortune and a new start in life.’

  ‘The diamond on her costume?’

  ‘No, she was thinking of changing that, and her burlesque name.’

  ‘Was she going to sell the diamond earrings?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘I know she wasn’t the brightest star in the firmament, but she knew the difference between singular and plural. She meant one diamond, and this was before the earrings appeared,’ said Martin. ‘She was either being cryptic, or talking shit. Sadly, with Marissa, it was often the latter.’

  ‘Were you here when she did her last gig on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Yes. And she wore the diamond earrings on that night.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Yes, cos she came in here stark naked, asking me to fix her suspender belt. I kept my eyes above her neck. I’m not too keen on the female anatomy,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘Especially when it’s shoved in my face with no warning.’

  ‘Who is the woman Marissa took with her to the jeweller in Hatton Garden?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘She was performing tonight, I’ll just give her a tinkle…’ He pulled a phone out, removing one of the clip-on earrings he was wearing to make the call.

  ‘Wench! Are you still here? The police want to talk to you… Nothing bad, just a couple of questions.’

  A door outside creaked, and a small woman in jeans and a purple woollen jumper appeared at the door. Erika recognised her as the stripping stormtrooper.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Come in Ella, don’t skulk by the door jamb,’ said Martin, putting his earring back on. ‘This is Ella Bartlett.’

  She smiled at Erika and ran an appraising glance over Peterson.

  ‘You went with Marissa to have her earrings valued?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Yeah. The guy estimated they were worth ten and a half grand. He offered to buy them as they had exceptional purity, he said.’

  ‘And Marissa didn’t take him up on it?’

  ‘Not when I was with her; she seemed pretty chuffed to have such a shit-hot pair of earrings. Like she didn’t want to part with them.’

  ‘When did you go with her?’

  ‘A week or so ago.’

  ‘Were you and Marissa good friends?’

  ‘Not really. I was just as intrigued as everyone else to see if they were real, and I was going up that way to my gym, so I thought I’d go with her.’

  ‘Can you remember which jeweller it was?’

  ‘No. It was close to the Gym Box where I work out, the one in Farringdon, like, two roads away…’ Erika looked at Peterson. That only slightly narrowed it down from the hundreds of jewellers in Hatton Garden.

  ‘Can I give you my number, and if you remember, let me know? It’s very important,’ said Erika, handing over her card. The girl nodded and was about to go.

  ‘Ooh, Ella, that reminds me. I got you some Febreze for your stormtrooper helmet. I know it gets very hot in there,’ said Martin, handing her a bottle. Ella looked at Peterson, embarrassed, and grabbed it from Martin. ‘And you owe me five ninety-nine,’ he shouted after her. ‘Officer, are there any more questions? I’ve got to run up six G-strings from scratch and I can’t miss the last train home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Erika.

  Thirty-One

  ‘Oh my lord, this case,’ said Erika, as she and Peterson walked back to Charing Cross station. They took the quieter back streets so they could talk over what they had discovered.

  ‘And what is this diamond thing?’ said Peterson.

  ‘It was Marissa’s trademark. Perhaps she thought that she, Honey Diamond, would be the one to make a fortune from her career. Dita Von Teese has made millions, and she wanted to be the next Dita Von Teese.’

  ‘There just seems to be more and more layers of…’

  ‘Intrigue? Deception?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Shit. The word is shit. This case is a quagmire. Everyone hated her.’

  Erika nodded. ‘Marissa had a big mouth and was indiscreet, but as far as I can tell, she only told Mrs Fryatt about being attacked by the guy in the gas mask.’

  ‘Just because Marissa was a fantasist and not well-liked by people, doesn’t mean she didn’t have fears and secrets. So many people are too scared to report when they are attacked or assaulted. And the most confident people can often be bluffers, and feign confidence,’ said Peterson.

  Erika nodded. They had been so deep in discussion that they hadn’t noticed where they were walking, and they emerged from a side street out into Regent Street. Sleet had started to fall.

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ asked Peterson, seeing a Starbucks still open on the corner. ‘At least until this sleet stops.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They waited for a couple of red buses and then crossed the street, hurrying out of the snow and into the brightly lit coffee house. Erika found a seat by the window and Peterson returned with two coffees. Erika could see the Christmas displays in the shop windows opposite, and the canopy of Christmas lights strung above Regent Street. They took a sip of the hot coffee and watched the busy street.

  ‘So, we’ve got Joseph Pitkin, who stalked and photographed Marissa on several occasions and then filmed her, we think at her request, to blackmail Don Walpole?’ started Erika.

  ‘We have Ivan Stowalski, who was obsessed with her, willing to leave his wife at Christmas and go off with her to New York, and he tried to kill himself,’ said Peterson.

  ‘There’s Don Walpole, who she slept with when she was fifteen, and then blackmailed him, saying he would go on the sex offenders register i
f he told… She also allegedly stole a pair of diamond earrings from Mrs Fryatt, but Mrs Fryatt didn’t mention it, and she seemed sharp as a tack when we spoke to her.’

  ‘Do you think her son knew about it? Isn’t he a jeweller in Hatton Garden?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Possibly… But Mrs Fryatt was the only person who Marissa told she was attacked,’ said Erika.

  ‘By a man in a gas mask, who it seems is somehow linked back to Joseph Pitkin. He topped himself because of those photos you showed him during the interview… Well, what I mean is that he was scared.’

  ‘It pushed him over the edge,’ she said, wearily. ‘If only we had been able to recover the note with the drawing of the gas mask at the same time. I might have been able to get more out of him before he died… Or, stop him… I don’t know.’

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ said Peterson, putting a hand on her arm. She gave him a weak smile.

  ‘And Mandy is being evasive about the night Marissa died. She must have heard something.’

  ‘Isn’t she an alcoholic?’

  ‘Yes. She could have been blotto on the sofa as Marissa was stabbed on the other side of the window. What we need to do tomorrow is to work backwards and establish who has an alibi and who doesn’t. I also want to pay Mrs Fryatt another visit, and ask her about those earrings.’

  They took a sip of their coffees, and for a moment they were silent. Peterson shifted awkwardly on his stool.

  ‘Erika, there’s something I need to talk to you about…’ he started. Her phone rang and she pulled it out of her bag.

  She checked her watch and saw it was almost eleven-thirty.

  ‘Shit. I’m going to miss the last train, and I need to finish up writing a report tonight.

  Erika downed the rest of her coffee, and picked up her phone again.

  ‘I’m going to get an Uber,’ she said, swiping the screen. ‘Ah, there’s a car close by that can be here in one minute. Brill. Do you want to share?’

  ‘Nah, I’m going to get the train,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think you’ll make it?’

  ‘Yeah. I fancy the walk. The Christmas lights are cool.’

  Erika looked at him for a moment.

  ‘Are you okay? What were you going to say before?’

  ‘I don’t know if there’s time.’

  Her phone pinged, and a car pulled up outside.

  ‘No. That’s my car. It was close.’

  ‘It was nothing, you go on ahead.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.’ She grabbed her coat and swung it over her shoulder, and with a wave she was out of the door, dashing through the sleet to the car.

  * * *

  Peterson watched her get in and it drive away. He took another gulp of his coffee, and a text message came through on his phone. He took it out and quickly made a call.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. I thought I would be done by now… Yes, I did see her, but we ended up doing some work on a murder case… Yes, it’s a twenty-four-hour job… No, I didn’t tell her, but I will. I promise… I love you, too.’

  He hung up the phone and stared out of the window for a moment. Guilt and regret flooded through him. Guilt that he was happy, and regret that Erika wouldn’t be a part of it. He downed the last of his coffee, and started back towards Charing Cross station, walking under the canopy of Christmas lights and reflecting on how life can often take a turn and shock you. In a good way.

  Thirty-Two

  It was hot inside the Uber car as Erika sped through Piccadilly Circus. The driver looked at her in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘You want a copy of the Evening Standard?’ she asked. Erika said she did, and the driver passed it back.

  She settled back and started to read, preferring to concentrate on gossip articles as she flicked through. They were just crossing the river at Vauxhall when Erika turned the page, and let out a loud, ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Sorry. I just forgot something,’ she lied. There was a huge single-page article about the previous case she’d worked on: the murders, and the kidnap of Marsh’s twins by Max Hastings and Nina Hargreaves. The newspaper had run several sensationalised articles about the case, focusing on Nina and Max as a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, or Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. This article said that no one had claimed the body of Max Hastings, even though it was several weeks since he had died. The Evening Standard had contacted his mother, who said she didn’t want to have anything to do with him, and was quoted saying, ‘Take him to the landfill, he’s no son of mine.’ This was the same mother who was on bail for perverting the course of justice.

  There was a picture of Erika at the bottom of the article. She was used to the papers portraying her as a trouble-making, scrappy senior police detective. What pissed her off now was that they’d used a photo of her coming out of the front entrance of her block of flats. The road sign, ‘Manor Mount SE23’was clear in the corner of the photo, and they hadn’t pixelated her car number plate.

  She pulled out her phone and searched through for a number. It rang a few times, and then a bleary voice answered.

  ‘Hello?’ said Colleen Scanlan, the Met’s media liaison officer.

  ‘Colleen, this is Erika Foster.’

  ‘Erika. It’s very late.’

  ‘I’ve just seen a piece in the Evening Standard about the Max Hastings and Nina Hargreaves case. They’ve printed a picture of me coming out of my house, next to the road sign, and you can see my number plate.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I can’t control what they run in the press.’

  Erika put her hand over the phone, and took several deep breaths. She loathed Colleen, who was, in her opinion, a lazy jobsworth who did just about enough to keep her job, but never wanted to go that extra mile to help.

  ‘I know you can’t do anything about the print edition, but what you can do, please, is check if the online edition has this picture, and if so, get it taken down. NOW.’

  Colleen sighed. ‘I doubt the office is open, but I can leave a word. I can do that for you,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Erika and she ended the call.

  They rode the rest of the journey in silence. Erika kept checking her phone to see if Colleen had messaged or emailed, but there was nothing. Shortly before midnight, they approached Forest Hill, and the Uber dropped her outside her building.

  When Erika got indoors, she flicked on the heating, took a shower and then came back into the living room in her pyjamas. She poured herself a large glass of vodka and settled down on the sofa with her laptop, opening the report she had started writing for Melanie. The floorboards upstairs creaked as Allison, her neighbour, moved around. She clicked on Internet Explorer and opened the Evening Standard website. The same article was online with her photo.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. She got up and closed her curtains, suddenly feeling paranoid, knowing that information about her and where she lived was online. She told herself not to be ridiculous. It wasn’t as if they had published her full address. She checked her phone, but there was no email from Colleen. She tried calling her again, but it went to voicemail. She took a large gulp of vodka, and started to work on the report.

  * * *

  Erika woke with a start. Her laptop was upended beside her on the sofa, and the phone was ringing. She turned to the clock in the kitchen. It was shortly before two in the morning. She sat up as the phone continued to ring. She put her laptop on the coffee table and heaved herself up, her first thought being that Colleen was ringing her back. Then the answerphone clicked in. After the recorded message, a breathless, ragged voice said:

  ‘Erika…’

  ‘Erika…’

  ‘Erikaaaaa…’

  She stopped in her tracks in the doorway to the hall. Her name faded out into a breath, and then there was a strange scratching sound. The message carried on, with a discordant, ragged breathing.

/>   ‘Erikaaaaaa… Erikaaaaaa…’

  The voice was hoarse and deep, with a malevolent rumble. There was a distorted sound, a ragged wheeze and an almost inhuman retching which made her cry out with fear.

  Erika grabbed at the answerphone machine cord and pulled it out of the wall. Then she did the same with the phone. She hurried to the front door and checked that it was locked, and then worked through the flat, turning on all the lights and checking the windows were locked. She sat back on the sofa, shaking, and tried to control her breathing.

  For the first time in her long career, she wished she had a gun.

  Thirty-Three

  Jason Bates’s alarm woke him at six. Shortly afterwards, there was a soft knock on the door. It was one of the council carers, arriving to take over, so he could go to work.

  ‘How’s she been?’ asked the kind woman with the lined face. In his bleary state, it took him a moment to remember which one she was… Dawn… Her name was Dawn.

  ‘She had a good night,’ he said. A good night for his mother meant that he had only been woken three times. Dawn took off her coat and warmed her hands over the radiator, as Jason busied himself making breakfast and getting ready for work.

  The plastics factory was a fifteen-minute train journey away. It was still dark when he stepped out of the house. He looked back to where his mother had been put in her chair and wheeled to the window to watch him leave. He waved back at her, and she lifted a hand. The anger and frustration he felt towards her melted away. He wondered if her carers did this every morning, to remind him that she was a person. He could only see this from outside the house, looking in.

  The streets were dark with a freezing fog, which made him feel like he was wading through wet sheets. The small coffee shop outside Gipsy Hill train station wasn’t open at such an early hour, and he hurried past, through the open barriers, just making it onto the train as the doors closed. The one good thing about working further out of London was that the morning trains going in the opposite direction from the city were less crowded, even less so between Christmas and New Year. The carriage was almost empty, and he sat in a window seat, the heater by his legs pumping out warm air. He slipped on his headphones and put on an audiobook, which he planned on listening to for the rest of the morning while he drove the forklift – just one headphone, the other ear would be free for safety.