Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
‘It didn’t stop him. He comes to me at night. I’ve tried barricading the door, but he forces his way in…’
Whoosh, whoosh.
‘Forces himself inside me.’
Whoosh.
‘It hurts. He hurts me…’
Whoosh, whoosh.
‘He enjoys hurting me, and he never stops. Never. Stops. Until. He’s. Satisfied!’
There was a rhythmic, dull thudding. It took Simone a moment to realise the hairbrush was caught in a tangle. Mary’s head was thudding against the metal safety rail of the bed, as Simone tugged furiously at the brush.
Simone let go and stepped back. Blood was roaring in her head, her hands were shaking. Mary lay drunkenly on her side, an eyelid half open where it was pressed against the metal safety rail.
‘Oh, Mary!’ Simone leaned over and unhooked the brush from the clump of hair at the back of Mary’s head. She gently rolled her back to a lying position and tucked the blankets back around her. A bruise was forming under the thin skin of her temple.
‘I’m sorry. Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry,’ said Simone, running her fingers gently over the bruise. ‘Please forgive me…’ She adjusted the blankets again. The sun had sunk behind the hospital buildings, and the room was now gloomy and cold. ’I would do anything for you… And to show you how much you mean to me, I want to show you something…’
Simone went to the door and opened it, checking the corridor was clear. Closing the door, she came back round the bed. She bent down and grasped the hem of her nurse’s dress. Slowly, she pulled it up, over her thighs, exposing thick dark tights. Her pale fleshy skin shone through the fabric. She kept pulling the material up, over where the waistband of her tights finished, above her knickers, biting into the pale skin of her abdomen. She shifted, pulling the dress higher until the material was bunched above her breasts. An angry swirling mess of pink scar tissue started around what was once her bellybutton and spread out under her ribcage, creasing and mottling the skin. It disappeared under the soft greying material of her bra. Simone moved closer to the old lady and took her hand, pressing it to a swirl of scar tissue, moving the limp hand in a stroking motion
‘Do you feel that, Mary? He did this to me. He burned me… Just as much as you need me, I need you.’
Simone stood for a moment, feeling the air cooling her ruined, scarred skin, and Mary’s warm hand on her body, then gently she let the hand drop and pulled her dress back down, smoothing out the material. She went to her bag on the floor beside the bed, and retrieved an envelope.
‘I almost forgot. I got you a card! Shall I open it?’ Simone plunged her finger into the thick envelope and tore it open, pulling out the card. ‘Look. It’s a watercolour, of a mulberry tree… I figured that the tree you and George are sitting under is a mulberry. Do you want to hear what I’ve written inside? “To my best friend Mary, get well soon, with love from Nurse Simone Matthews.”’
Simone positioned the card on the locker next to the photo and the jug, and flicked on the lamp above the bed. She sat back down and took Mary’s hand in hers.
‘I know you won’t get well. I’m pretty sure of it. But it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’ She patted Mary’s hand. ‘There. We’re all cosy again. I’ll stay with you here for a bit longer, if that’s all right? I don’t want to go home. Not until I’m sure he’s gone out for the night.’
22
Isaac answered his front door in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. A delicious smell of cooking wafted out.
‘Wow, who is this elegant, beautiful woman I see before me?’ he said, taking in Erika’s long summer dress, her styled hair and dangly silver earrings.
‘You make it sound like I’m always dressing like a tramp,’ she said.
‘Not at all, but you scrub up well,’ he grinned. They hugged and she stepped inside, handing him a bottle of white wine dripping with condensation. They came through to the kitchen, and she was pleased to see that she was the only guest for dinner.
‘Stephen’s writing… He sends his love and apologies. He’s on a deadline for his new book,’ said Isaac. The wine bottle gave a pleasing pop as he pulled out the cork. ‘How about we have the first glass with a ciggie on the balcony?’
They came up to the balcony with their wine, and lit up. The sun was low in the sky, casting long, balmy shadows over the city stretching away from them. ‘Oh, this is lovely,’ said Erika, taking a sip of wine.
‘Before I forget, Stephen asked me to give you something,’ said Isaac. He disappeared through the balcony doors and returned with a book. ‘It’s his latest. Well, the one that’s been published the latest…’
‘From My Cold Dead Hands,’ said Erika reading the title. The cover showed a pale woman’s hand pushing up the lid of a coffin. In the hand was a letter, dripping with blood.
‘It’s the fourth DCI Bartholomew novel, but they’re all stand-alone, so you don’t need to have read the others. He’s signed it, too,’ said Isaac. He took her wine glass, so she could open the book.
‘“From my warm, alive hands, to you Erica, all best, Stephen”,’ she read. He’d spelled her name with a ‘c’ instead of a ‘k’. She looked up at Isaac and was about to say something when she saw he was desperate for her to take this gift, and for her and Stephen to be friends. ‘This is great. I’ll be sure to thank him when I see him.’ She tucked the book into her bag and took back her wine glass.
‘Are we okay?’ he asked. ‘Last week with the dinner party, I screwed up, and…’
‘You’ve already said sorry three times. It’s fine.’ She was about to say more when her phone rang.
‘Hang on, sorry,’ she said, rummaging around in her bag and pulling it out. She saw it was Marsh. ‘Sorry, I need to take this.’
‘I’ll give you some privacy,’ said Isaac, slipping back inside through the balcony doors.
‘Sir?’ she said, answering.
‘Who gave bloody Peterson authorisation to arrest Gary Wilmslow!’ he shouted.
‘What?’
‘Peterson arrested Wilmslow an hour ago, pulled him into the bloody nick! Woolf has already processed him and he’s in a bloody cell waiting for his brief!’
‘Where did he arrest him?’ asked Erika, her blood running cold.
‘Laurel Road…’
‘I was just there a while back.’
‘Well, you should have bloody stayed. Apparently Gary Wilmslow barged in to the house, saying he had stuff to collect. He led Peterson to a stash of cigarettes.’
‘Cigarettes?’
‘Yeah – small fry, black market stuff.’
‘Shit.’
‘Erika, if he goes down for a few knock-off cigarettes it closes down our direct link to Operation Hemslow…Months of fucking work!’
‘Yes, sir. I know.’
‘I don’t think you do! Why the bloody hell was Peterson arresting him in the first place? You heard Oakley at our meeting. Your investigation is into the murder of Gregory Munro, and Gary Wilmslow is nothing to do with that! I’m on my way back from a conference in Manchester. Now, get down there and control your bloody officers. Bail Wilmslow or, better still, find a way to caution him and let him go!’ Marsh hung up.
‘Problem?’ asked Isaac, coming back onto the balcony with a large china plate beautifully decorated with cheeses and olives. Erika looked at them longingly.
‘That was Marsh. Something’s kicked off with Peterson. I have to go down to the nick and sort it out.’ She took a last sip of wine and handed him back the glass.
‘Right now?’
‘Yeah, the joys of my job. I’m sorry. I don’t know how long it will take. I’ll phone you,’ she said, and rushed off to her car.
Isaac stayed on the balcony and stared out at the city, thinking that he probably wouldn’t hear from her anytime soon, unless there was a dead body.
23
When Erika arrived at Lewisham Row, the reception area was empty. Wool
f was on duty, munching his way through a Chinese takeaway at the front desk.
‘You got yourself dolled up for Gary Wilmslow?’ he joked, taking in her loose summer dress with the spaghetti straps.
‘Where is he?’ she snapped.
‘Interview room three.’
‘Buzz me in.’
Woolf pressed the button to activate the door lock and watched Erika as she swept past into the main part of the station, noticing for the first time that she had curves, and how good her legs looked in a dress.
Erika passed through the heavy steel door separating the cell block from the rest of the station and went into the observation suite, where she found DC Warren and one of the uniformed officers in front of a large bank of video screens. One of the screens showed the sparse interior of interview room three from a high angle, above a table and two chairs. Peterson sat opposite Gary Wilmslow, who had his arms folded and a smug look on his face. Another officer, a young woman whom Erika didn’t know, sat on a chair in the corner behind Peterson.
‘Who’s she?’ she asked.
‘That’s DC Ryan,’ said Warren.
‘Come on, Gary. Where did you get the cigarettes?’ Peterson asked in the interview room. His voice sounded tinny through the speakers in the observation suite.
‘They’re not mine,’ Gary shrugged. The harsh lights made his pale, bald head glisten.
‘You knew they were there, Gary.’
‘They’re not mine.’
‘Gregory Munro earned over two hundred thousand a year. And he had income from rental properties on top of that…’
‘They’re not mine,’ he repeated, sounding bored.
‘He wouldn’t have risked his career for a case of knock-off cigarettes…’
‘They’re. Not. MINE,’ repeated Gary, baring his teeth.
‘Is that why you came over to the house? You heard it had been transferred to Estelle Munro’s name?’
Gary kept his arms folded and stared ahead.
‘Come on, Gary, you’re getting sloppy. We heard you from upstairs, threatening Estelle. Is it really your style, threatening old ladies?’ said Peterson.
‘I wasn’t threatening her,’ scowled Gary. ‘I was protecting her.’
‘Protecting her from what?’
Gary laughed and leant forward. ‘From you, jungle boy. I know your type. Like horny dogs when it comes to white women. Even saggy old biddies like Estelle.’ He sat back and grinned. Peterson looked as if he was going to lose it.
‘Where did you get the cigarettes, Gary?’ shouted Peterson.
‘Dunno what you’re talking about,’ said Gary.
‘You were heard clearly saying that you were there to collect your cigarettes. And then we find twenty thousand Spanish Marlboro Lights in the attic. Packed in plastic.’
‘I’ve been lucky enough to have a few Spanish holidays,’ said Gary, a maddening smile on his face. ‘That’s nothing to do with the fags, I’m just making polite conversation.’
Peterson leaned in very close to Gary, so their noses almost touched, and stared at him.
‘Get out of my face… Get out of my face…’
Peterson stayed, staring at Gary.
‘Get out of my fucking face!’ Gary tipped his head back and nutted Peterson.
‘Jesus!’ shouted Erika. She dashed from the observation suite and ran into Moss in the corridor. ‘What the hell are you doing? Why aren’t you in there?’
‘I’m trying to sort Wilmslow’s brief…’ started Moss.
Erika pushed past her and yanked open the door to interview room three. Peterson and Wilmslow were on the floor. Wilmslow was on top, punching Peterson in the face. Peterson threw Gary off and slammed him back into the wall. Gary quickly recovered and lunged at Peterson again. DC Ryan saw Erika and moved to help.
‘Come on! We need back-up. Get in here, now!’ shouted Erika, looking up at the camera. Erika, Moss and Ryan pulled Gary Wilmslow off Peterson and managed to handcuff him. His lip was split and he spat onto the floor. Three more uniformed officers suddenly appeared in the door.
‘Woken up, have you? Go on. Put him in a cell,’ said Erika.
‘Any time, jungle boy,’ said Gary, giving Peterson a manic bloody grin as they dragged him out. Peterson slowly got up off the grubby floor. Two of his shirt buttons were ripped and his nose was bleeding.
‘What the hell were you doing?’ said Erika.
‘Boss, he’s…’
‘Just shut your mouth and clean yourself up. Then we’ll talk.’
Peterson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and left the interview room.
‘Boss, he had thousands of cigarettes…’ started Moss. Erika put up her hand to silence her.
‘I know what happened. What I don’t know is why two of my best officers aren’t following procedure.’
‘I was just chasing up his brief.’
‘Outside,’ said Erika, noting that the cameras were still recording their conversation.
When they came out into the corridor, Erika continued, ‘You know Peterson has a grudge against Wilmslow. He's a scumbag, but he has an alibi for the Gregory Munro murder. Your job is to investigate this murder. Not to start bringing people in for anything that takes your fancy.’
‘It didn’t take our fancy, it was…’
‘Just go home, Moss. I’ll sort this out.’
‘But…’
‘Go home. Now!’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Moss. She wiped the sweat off her forehead and walked away, leaving Erika alone in the corridor. The harsh fluorescent light beat down on her.
An hour later, Erika found Peterson in the men’s locker room in the basement of the station. It stank of floor polish and body odour. Peterson was sitting on a row of benches, resting against the lockers. One of the metal doors opposite was dented, and bloodied tissue was bunched around Peterson’s hand.
‘He was just asking to be brought in, boss,’ said Peterson, looking up and seeing her. ‘He barged into the house, knocked Estelle down. He told us to go fuck ourselves.’
‘He’s scum, Peterson. But if I’d arrested everyone who told me to go fuck myself, the prison system would go into meltdown.’
There were no windows, and the lights were all off apart from the ones above a row of sinks, casting an eerie glow over the room. Erika felt exposed in her thin summer dress, her dangly silver earrings slapping against her cheek. She crossed her arms over her chest.
‘So what exactly did you arrest him for, Peterson?’
‘He had dodgy cigarettes he was planning to sell!’
‘And what proof do we have he was going to sell them?’
‘Come on, boss. There were thousands!’
‘And if he was intending to sell them, what part of our murder investigation does that come under?’ asked Erika.
‘Boss, Wilmslow is out on licence,’ said Peterson. ‘It’s got to be worth something. We still don’t know if he was responsible for the death of Gregory Munro. This will give us time to look into it more.’
‘He’s not responsible for the death of Gregory Munro!’ snapped Erika.
‘We don’t know that, boss. His alibi is from his sister and mother, who…’
Erika went to the sink and ran the cold water. She splashed her face, and scooped some up in her hand and took a long drink. She turned off the tap and wiped her mouth with a paper towel.
‘Peterson…’
‘What?’
‘Gary Wilmslow is under investigation for the production and distribution of child pornography. He’s potentially a key player in a massive underground paedophile network. He’s under covert police surveillance. Because of this, they know he didn’t kill Gregory Munro. His alibi is sound.’
Peterson looked up at her in shock. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Yes, I’m serious, and I shouldn’t be bloody telling you this.’
Peterson slumped forward and put his head in his hands.
‘You cannot let idio
ts like Wilmslow get under your skin. You know his type. He knows how to push buttons. He’s been doing it from an early age. I thought you were more intelligent than that. Personal vendettas cloud judgement.’
‘How close are they to making an arrest?’ Peterson croaked, almost fighting back tears.
‘I don’t know. Marsh informed me a couple of days ago when I wanted to go after Wilmslow. It’s called Operation Hemslow. They think there’s a factory pressing the DVDs and there’s hundreds of hours of… footage being produced and uploaded to the net.’
The word hung in the air. Peterson leaned back and pressed his palms to his eyes.
‘No, no, no, no…’ he said. Erika was shocked at how he was taking this. He wasn’t trying to shift blame or defend himself. He pulled his hands away from his eyes. ‘What happens now?’
‘Ignorance isn’t an excuse, and you’re bloody stupid… But you didn’t know about Wilmslow. You were doing your job, even if you did do it cack-handedly. You’re lucky Wilmslow started it in the interview room. I’ll tell Marsh I’ve given you the mother of all bollockings.’
He looked up at her, surprised at her even tone.
‘I meant what’s going to happen to Operation Hemslow?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t want my badge?’ he asked quietly.
‘No, Peterson. You don’t look like someone who’s taken this flippantly.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Now, go on. Go home. I’ll see you here tomorrow, with your head screwed on properly. You’ll be given a formal warning. Luckily, it’s your first.’
Peterson stood, picked up his jacket and left without saying any more. Erika watched the door after he’d left, concerned. She spent another hour at the police station, sorting things out as Gary Wilmslow was formally cautioned for abusive and racist language towards a police officer.
Erika was having a cigarette out on the front steps when Gary emerged with his solicitor, an expensive-looking man in a grey pinstripe suit. Gary hung back at the top of the stairs. When his solicitor was out of earshot, he said, ‘Thanks for getting me off. Talking of getting off, what are you up to? You look fucking tasty.’
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 10
