’Thanks,’ Penny said.
‘The house had a security system. When was it put in?’ asked Erika.
‘A couple of years ago, after the extension was completed.’
‘Did you always use it?’
‘Yes. Gregory always set it when we went away. He used to put it on at night too, but when Peter started walking there were a few times when he came down in the dark for a drink and set it off, so we stopped… But we added extra locks on the windows and doors.’
‘Can you remember the name of the security company?’
‘No. Greg arranged it all. How did… whoever did it… break in?’
‘That’s what we are trying to find out,’ said Erika. ‘May I ask why you and Gregory separated?’
‘He’d grown to hate everything about me: the way I dressed, the way I talked, the way I was with people. He said I was too flirty with men in shops, he thought my friends weren’t good enough. He tried to cut me off from my mother, but his mother was always welcome, always there. And he didn’t get on with my brother, Gary…’
‘Was he ever violent?’
‘Gary wasn’t violent,’ Penny said, quickly.
‘I was talking about Gregory,’ corrected Erika.
A look passed between Peterson and Moss, and Penny noticed it too. ‘Sorry, I’m confused. No. Gregory wasn’t violent. He could be intimidating, yes, but he never hit me… I’m not stupid. The relationship wasn’t always bad. When he met me, he thought I was a breath of fresh air: exciting, a bit mouthy and funny.’
Erika looked at Penny and saw how men found her attractive; she was pretty and down to earth.
Penny went on: ‘But men just want flings with those kind of girls. When we got married, he expected me to change. I was his wife, his representative, that’s what he said. I was representing him in society! But I wasn’t going to be that kind of wife. I think he only realised that afterwards…’
‘What about Gregory’s mother?’
‘How long have you got? Their relationship makes Oedipus Rex look like a sitcom. She’s hated me since the word go. She found him, didn’t she?’
Erika nodded.
Penny’s face clouded over. ‘She didn’t phone me. I had to find out from some copper knocking on the door. That says a lot about her, doesn’t it?’
‘It wasn’t her responsibility to inform you. She was taken to hospital with shock,’ said Moss.
‘She mentioned that there was an incident between Gregory and your brother, Gary?’ asked Peterson.
At the mention of Gary, Penny stiffened. ‘It was just a row, family stuff,’ she said, hastily.
‘She said it was a physical fight.’
‘Yeah, well, boys will be boys,’ said Penny.
‘But they were grown men. Your brother has been in trouble with the police before,’ added Peterson.
Penny’s eyes darted between the three officers. She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray with a heap of old dog ends. ‘My brother’s on probation for attacking a bloke in New Cross,’ she said, exhaling cigarette smoke up to the ceiling. ‘He’s a bouncer in a club. The bloke was off his head on drugs, so it was self-defence. But Gary – he went too far. You leave him out of this. I know my brother isn’t a saint, but there is no way he had anything to do with this, you hear me?’
‘Is that what made you jump earlier, at the front door? Did you think it was Gary?’ asked Erika.
‘Look, why the hell are you here?’ Penny folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ve already had coppers at the door telling me and asking questions. Shouldn’t you be out there trying to catch this bloke?’
‘We never said it was a bloke,’ said Moss.
‘Don’t get smart. You know most killers are men,’ said Penny.
Erika shot Moss a look: she could see that Penny was closing down on them. ‘Okay, okay, Mrs Munro. I’m sorry. We’re not investigating your brother. We have to ask these questions, to build up a picture and help us catch who did this.’
Penny lit another cigarette. ‘You want one?’ she asked. Moss and Peterson shook their heads, but Erika took one from the packet. Penny lit it for her.
‘Gregory wanted to send Peter to boarding school,’ Penny said. ‘To send him away, a little boy! I put my foot down and said no. The weekend before Peter was due to start at the local primary school, I found out Gregory had cancelled Peter’s registration, and had gone ahead and accepted the place at the boarding school!’
‘When was this?’
‘Easter. I phoned Gregory, but he told me Peter would be going that Monday, and I wasn’t to stand in the way of him getting a decent education. It was as good as abduction! So Gary went round to get Peter. He kicked the door in, but he didn’t… He wasn’t violent, okay? Estelle was there. She went after Gary with a glass ashtray, and then it all kicked off. Bet she left that part out, didn’t she?’
‘So you’d say your relationship with Estelle isn’t good?’
Penny laughed bitterly. ‘She’s a bitch. She creates fantasies to excuse her son’s behaviour. When we got together, she hated me on sight… She ruined everything: our engagement party, the wedding. Gregory’s father died when he was small; Gregory was an only child and it made them depend on each other, him and his mum. What do you call it? Co-dependent. I thought at the beginning of our marriage that I might win him over, or at least become the person who was the closest to him, but she made sure I was always second in line. Sounds bloody pathetic, don’t it? I hear myself telling you all about it and I sound pathetic.’
Erika looked at Moss and Peterson, realising that there was one more question she had to ask.
‘Mrs Munro, I am sorry to have to ask this, but did you know of your husband having any relationships with men?’
‘What do you mean? Friends? He didn’t have many friends.’
‘I mean, sexual relationships with men.’
Penny looked between them. The clock ticked in the background. The kitchen door suddenly flew open and crashed into the fridge behind. A small, compact man with a bald head strode in. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of black lace-up boots. Sweat glistened off his head, and patches bloomed under his armpits and dotted his chest. He carried with him a dank, sweaty smell of aggression. His face was a mixture of confusion and fury.
‘Sexual relationships with men? What the fuck is this?’ he demanded.
‘Are you Gary Wilmslow?’ asked Erika.
‘Yeah. Who are you?’
‘Sir, I’m DCI Foster. This is DI Moss and DI Peterson,’ said Erika. They rose and held up their ID badges.
‘What the fuck is this, Penny?’
‘They’re just asking me questions about Greg – routine questions, okay?’ Penny said wearily, as if placating her brother was a regular chore.
‘And you’re asking if he was a poofter?’ said Gary. ‘Is that the best you lot can do? Greg might have been a tosser…’
‘Gary!’
‘But he weren’t a poof. You hear?’ said Gary, holding up a finger and prodding the air for emphasis.
‘Sir, may we ask you to wait outside whilst we finish?’ started Peterson.
‘Don’t call me “sir”. You don’t mean it!’ Gary said. He opened the fridge and stuck his head inside, muttering, ‘Darkie bastard.’
‘What did you just say?’ asked Peterson. Erika could see he was breathing fast.
Gary stood up, holding a can of lager, and shut the fridge door. ‘I didn’t say nothing.’
‘I heard you,’ said Erika.
‘So did I,’ said Moss. ‘You called my colleague a “darkie bastard”.’
‘No, I didn’t. Even if I did, this is my house, and I can say what I like. And if you don’t like what you hear, you can fuck off… Come back with a warrant.’
‘Mr Wilmslow, these are routine questions for a murder enquiry…’ started Erika.
‘You lot are fucking useless. It’s easier for three of you to sit here hassling us when
we’ve had a death in the family than go out there and look for whoever did this.’
‘May I remind you that racially abusing an officer is a criminal offence,’ said Peterson, moving close to Gary and staring him in the eyes.
‘So is murder, but I’d be within my rights to defend myself if you’re gonna get aggressive, on my property.’
‘GARY!’ shouted Penny. ‘Leave it. Go and see if Mum and Peter are okay… Go on, now!’
Gary raised the can and opened it, spattering lager over Peterson’s face. There was a tense moment, then Gary took a slurp of his beer and left, slamming the door behind him.
‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry… He don’t like the police,’ said Penny. She pulled some paper towel off a roll and handed it to Peterson with a trembling hand.
‘Are you okay to continue? We’re almost finished,’ said Erika, as Peterson wiped his face. Penny nodded. ‘We don’t ask these questions lightly. We found some gay pornographic magazines in your husband’s bedside drawer.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. We need to know why they were there. They were probably nothing, and he was just curious. But I have to ask you if you know whether Gregory was bisexual, or acting on any impulses to seek out or meet men? It will help us with our enquiry. If your husband was living a secret life and meeting up with men, or inviting men…’
‘All right, yes, I get it!’ snapped Penny. ‘I bloody get it!’ She lit up another cigarette and exhaled, chucking the lighter down on the draining board with a clank. She looked like she didn’t know how to process this information. There was a long pause. ‘I dunno… Once… On one of the rare occasions we got drunk together, Gregory talked about wanting to try a threesome. We were on holiday in Greece, we were having a good time… I thought that he meant with him and another girl, but he wanted… He wanted another guy to join in.’
‘Did this surprise you?’ asked Erika.
‘Course it bloody surprised me! He was always so conventional, missionary position and all that.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing happened. He bottled it, said he was joking, to see what my reaction would be.’ Penny crossed her arms over her chest.
‘What was your reaction when he told you?’
‘I dunno. It was a gorgeous island, we were having a great time. There were some well hot Greek blokes. I figured it could have been fun, something crazy and fun. We never had fun.’
‘And did it disturb you that he’d suggested it?’
‘No. I loved him – at the time I loved him – and he was so strait-laced, it felt nice that he’d shared something with me…’ She broke down and began to cry.
‘So, do you think your husband could have been gay?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Penny said, lifting her head and regarding Erika with a grim stare. ‘Now, is that all?’
‘Yes, thank you. We’d like to send an officer over later to collect you, so that you can come and identify your husband’s body,’ said Erika.
Penny nodded, tears in her eyes. She stared out at the hopelessly jolly back garden. ‘If you do find out anything more, about Greg, about him being gay… I don’t want to know. Understood?’
Erika nodded. ‘Yes, understood.’
When they reached the car out by the pavement, it was baking hot, so they left the doors open for a moment to cool it down. Erika rooted inside her handbag, pulled out her phone, and dialled Lewisham Row.
‘Hi Crane, it’s DCI Foster. Can you run a name for me, please? Gary Wilmslow, 14 Hereford Street, Shirley. Everything we’ve got. He’s the brother of Penny Munro, the victim’s wife. Also can you arrange a formal interview with Estelle Munro, and sort out family liaison officers for both her and Penny?’
They were just getting back into the car when Gary emerged from the front door, holding Peter’s hand.
‘Mr Wilmslow,’ said Erika, doubling back to the front gate, ‘can you tell me where you were on Thursday night between 6 p.m. and 1 a.m.?’
Gary went to a garden hose coiled over around a tap under the living room window, and began to unravel it. He handed the hose to the little boy.
‘I was here, watching Game of Thrones with Penny and Mum,’ he said.
‘And that was all night?’
‘Yeah, all night. We’ve got the fucking box set.’
Peter took the hose and braced himself, pointing it at the grass. He looked up and grinned a gap-toothed smile. Gary turned on the tap as Peter directed the spray over the grass.
‘And they can verify this?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, with an icy stare. ‘They can verify that.’
‘Thank you.’
Erika came back to the car, and she, Moss and Peterson got in. She fired up the engine and the air conditioning.
‘You know, we could arrest him right here and now. There’s a hosepipe ban,’ said Peterson.
‘Yeah, but he’s got the kid using the hose,’ said Moss.
‘He’s one of those slippery bastards, isn’t he?’ said Peterson, ruefully.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Erika. They watched him smoking a cigarette as Peter watered the grass. He looked up and stared at them.
‘Let’s leave him for a bit,’ said Erika. ‘See what he does. He’s a possible suspect, but we need much more.’
11
It was late afternoon on the geriatric ward at the Queen Anne Hospital in London. Nurse Simone Matthews sat in one of the few single rooms leading off the ward. Beside her, in a hospital bed, lay an elderly lady called Mary. Her thin sleeping form barely made an impression underneath the blue blanket that was neatly tucked around her. Her face was gaunt and jaundiced, and through her slack mouth her breathing was ragged.
It wouldn’t be long now.
The Queen Anne Hospital was housed in a decaying red-brick building, and the geriatric ward could be a dark and challenging place. Watching people unravel both mentally and physically took its toll on the senses. Two nights previously, Simone had been tasked with bathing an old man, who up until then had been a model patient. Without warning, he had punched her in the face. She’d been sent for an X-ray, but luckily her jaw hadn’t been fractured. Sister had told her to take a couple of days off, to rest and get over the shock, but Simone had been stoic, insisting on coming back for her next shift.
Work was everything to Simone, and she wanted to be with Mary, to sit with her until the end. The two women had never spoken. Mary had been on the ward for ten days, and had been drifting in and out of consciousness. Her organs failing, her body slowly shutting down. No family or friends had visited, but Simone had built up a picture of her from the personal effects stowed in the small locker by the bed.
Mary had collapsed at a supermarket, and had been admitted wearing a threadbare dress and old gardening shoes. She carried with her a small black handbag. There wasn’t much inside, just a tin of peppermints and a bus pass, but in a zip-up pocket in the lining Simone had found a small, creased black-and-white photo.
It had been taken in a park on a sunny day. Underneath a tree, a beautiful young woman sat on a tartan blanket, a long skirt bunched around her legs. Her waist was trim and the swell of her bosom under her crisp white blouse showed an enviable hour-glass figure. Even though the photo was black and white, Simone guessed Mary had been a redhead – it was something about the way the sun shone on her long curly hair. Beside Mary was a dark-haired man. He was good-looking, with a hint of danger and excitement about him. He squinted into the sun, with one of his arms slung around Mary’s small waist, gripping her protectively. On the back was written: With my dearest George, Bromley, summer 1961.
There was one other picture of Mary, from the ID photo on her bus pass. It had been taken three years previously. Mary stared fearfully into the camera against a stark white background, a rabbit caught in the headlights: limp grey hair, her face creased and lined.
What happened to Mary between 1961 and 2013? thought Simone. And where was George? As far as she could tell, they
hadn’t lived happily ever after. From the medical records, she could see that Mary had never married. She had no children or dependents.
From the bed, Mary spluttered. Her sunken mouth slowly opened and closed and her breathing caught for a moment, before settling back into its ragged rhythm.
‘It’s okay, Mary, I’m here,’ said Simone, reaching out and taking her hand. Mary’s arm was thin, the skin loose and covered with dark stain-like bruises, from repeated attempts to find a vein to connect the IV line.
Simone checked the small silver watch pinned to the front of her uniform and saw her shift was coming to an end. She took a hairbrush from the locker beside the bed and began to brush Mary’s hair, first away from her high forehead, then supporting her head so she could reach the rest in long strokes. As the brush moved, the thin silver strands glowed in the sunlight coming through the small window.
As she brushed, Simone wished that Mary could have been her mother, wished she would open her eyes and tell her that she loved her. She’d loved George, Simone could see that in the photo, and she was sure Mary could love her too. A different kind of love, of course. The love a mother has for her daughter.
Simone’s mother’s face flashed across her mind, causing her hands to tremble so badly that she dropped the hairbrush.
‘ONE OF THE WORSE CASES OF CHILD NEGLECT EVER SEEN!’ the newspaper headlines had screamed. Ten-year-old Simone had been found by a neighbour after her mother had gone away on holiday, leaving Simone chained to the bathroom radiator. The neighbour, and the journalist she’d contacted, thought they’d saved Simone’s life, but life in the children’s home had been worse. When her mother had finally returned from holiday, she’d shown up at the home unannounced and the police had been called. Simone’s mother ran before they could arrest her. Later that night she’d jumped off Tower Bridge and drowned in the freezing Thames. Simone liked to think her mother had killed herself out of guilt, but she couldn’t be sure.
Simone picked up the hairbrush and forced her shaking hands to relax. ‘There, you look lovely, Mary,’ she said, stepping back to admire her work. Mary’s thin hair was neat, the silver strands now fanned out on the crisp white pillow. Simone put the hairbrush back in the locker.
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 5
