‘I don’t think anything. I think about the victims. I think about catching her,’ said Erika.
‘One of the most important friendships in my life was with someone who is a mass murderer. I’m in love with her… What does that make me?’
Erika leaned over and took his small hand. ‘Plenty of people have been duped by friends, by lovers and spouses. You met her online, where people pretend to be someone else. They often create another life for themselves. So they can be seen differently.’
‘Online, I can be the person I want to be. I’m not constrained by… Keith adjusted the tube under his nose and looked down at his chair. ‘Do you want to watch a DVD? I’ll show you my favourite Dr Who episode, when Tom Baker regenerated.’
‘Yes, okay,’ said Erika. They still had two hours, which she knew were going to feel like an eternity.
77
As the largest train station in the United Kingdom, London Waterloo is busy before first light and until late at night. The concourse is more than eight hundred feet long, contains over twenty platforms, with shops and a mezzanine with restaurants. More than a hundred million passengers pass through its doors every year.
Detective Chief Superintendent Marsh was stationed with DCI Sparks in the vast CCTV control room. It was a windowless concrete square, high above the station. A wall of twenty-eight CCTV monitors offered a portal to the station from every angle. Thirty-five officers had been drafted in – the majority in plain clothes – to watch the exits and to patrol up and down the concourse. Support vehicles were waiting at the north, south, east and west exits, each with three police cars. The transport police, some of whom were armed, were also doing their regular patrols of the station perimeter.
At 4.30 p.m. it looked as if every one of the hundred million people had converged on the station at once. The marble floor of the concourse vanished under the throngs of travellers. They surged up through escalators from the underground station, they poured in through the four main entrances and exits, they milled around under the giant electronic boards running the length of the twenty-two busy platforms and they congregated outside the shops or queued at the long ticket hall opposite the platforms.
‘This is going to be a fucking nightmare, sir,’ said Sparks, leaning against a bank of computer screens where the Transport for London employees were quietly monitoring the station. Sweat glistened on his acne-scarred face.
‘There’s nowhere else in London with more eyes. The moment she makes herself known, we have her,’ said Marsh, scanning the wall of CCTV monitors.
‘And you think DCI Foster’s hunch is right, sir?’
‘It’s not a hunch, Sparks. You saw the material she sent through,’ said Marsh.
‘I did. But at no point is this woman named or described physically. Whatever happens, this is going to be bloody expensive.’
‘Leave me to worry about that. You do your job,’ said Marsh.
A young Asian guy approached and introduced himself. ‘I’m Tanvir. I’m supervising the control room today. We’ve got these four screens, which will be covering your key area,’ he said. On cue, a wide shot of the station clock flashed up. Below it stood Sergeant Crane, dressed in jeans and a light jacket, and clutching a cheap-looking bunch of roses.
‘Are you reading me, Crane?’ said Sparks, into his radio. ‘Touch your ear to show you can hear me.’
From the wide shot Crane looked normal, but a close-up from another angle showed he had tilted his head to his jacket lapels and was touching his free hand to his left ear. ‘You sure I don’t stand out? I’m the only one here in a jacket – it’s boiling hot!’ he said, his voice coming through the radio.
‘It’s all good, Crane. This Keith fellow arranged to meet her under the clock in half an hour. It’s romantic. It figures that he’d get dressed up,’ said Marsh into his radio, adding, ‘And it doesn’t show that you’re wired up. Now, no more chatting… we’ll keep you posted via radio.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Crane.
‘Jesus, he’s under a fucking clock,’ said Sparks. He grasped his radio. ‘It’s four-thirty. Look up next time you need to know.’
Marsh turned back to Tanvir. ‘Which camera gives us a view of the side entrance leading away from under the clock?’
‘Can you put camera seventeen up on these screens?’ said Tanvir to a woman wearing a headset by a computer in the corner. Another view of Crane from behind came into view, although this time it was from above an escalator leading up behind the clock.
Marsh gripped his radio again. ‘Okay, Crane, we’ve got all eyes on you. Just stay calm. We’ll count you down. Don’t get too close to her, if she approaches you earlier. You’re covered from all sides. She makes a move and we’re there in seconds.’
‘What time is it?’ asked Crane again, nervously.
‘He’s under the fucking clock,’ muttered Sparks.
‘Four thirty-three,’ said Marsh. ‘We’ll be in constant contact.’
78
Erika sat on the wall by the line of wheelie bins and lit up a cigarette. Keith had objected to her smoking inside and she’d said she wouldn’t leave him on his own, so as a compromise he’d come as far as the front door.
‘Would you like to just walk along the promenade – I mean go along? It’s nice and sunny,’ said Erika.
‘I don’t like it, leaving the flat,’ said Keith, craning his head suspiciously up to the clear blue sky.
Erika carried on smoking and stared out at the water, which was still and glittering in the sunshine. A group of kids were making sandcastles by the shore, watched over by their parents on deckchairs. A pink-and-white themed tourist train trundled past, a bell ringing tinnily by the miserable-looking driver’s head. Groups of kids eating ice-creams and candyfloss waved from behind the cloudy plastic windows in the carriages.
Keith waved back, which Erika found touching. She looked at her watch: it was coming up to 4.50 p.m. She checked her phone and saw that she had a strong signal and battery.
‘It’s like a watched pot,’ said Keith. ‘Never boils.’
Erika shook her head ruefully and lit another cigarette. She could have screamed with frustration at having to stay so far away from the action. She thought of DCI Sparks, who would be heading up the team, giving the orders and taking the glory.
As well as feeling frustrated, she felt robbed.
79
It was now 5.20 p.m. and no one had approached Crane, who was still stationed underneath the clock in Waterloo station.
Marsh and Sparks watched from the control room, as the crowds in the concourse swelled even more. It had become difficult to keep Crane in their sights on the close-up CCTV screen, so they were now using a long shot from across the concourse, which had been blown up to a huge size on the centre screen in the control room.
‘Crane, you okay? You need to stick to your spot. Dig your heels in,’ said Sparks into his radio. They could see from the long shot that the surging crowds were jostling him.
‘Yes, sir,’ he murmured. He sounded panicky.
Marsh looked across the screens and spoke into his radio. ‘We’re still on you, Crane. You’ve got six plain-clothes officers stationed around, who can be with you in seconds. You’ve also got two armed transport police officers in the walkway behind you. Just stay calm… She’s a woman, she’s decided to be fashionably late,’ he added, trying to ease the tension.
‘She’s not fucking showing up,’ said Sparks. ‘We should be concentrating on Isaac Strong, not pissing away resources on some blind date.’ Marsh shot him a look. ‘Sir,’ he added.
Just then, on the large screen, the crowds around Crane shifted and a group of women approaching Crane were shoved forward. One fell, hitting the concourse floor, causing the crowd around her to bump and surge. Crane was pushed and the flowers he was holding were knocked from his grasp.
‘What’s going on here?’ said Marsh. ‘Crane, talk to me?’
‘Hang on, sir,’ said Cra
ne, as he was jostled along.
‘Look. It’s a fight, a bloody fight,’ said Sparks, pointing to the CCTV monitor, showing the escalator behind the clock. A group of young lads in baseball caps came into view, shouting and jeering and parting the crowd of commuters like the Red Sea. Two of the boys, one dark and one blond, were fighting, and they went down on the floor. The dark-haired boy landed a punch to the blond one, and his face was quickly a mess of blood. The crowd surged away in all directions and the British Transport Police waded in, clasping their guns, which caused even more screams and commotion.
Crane had managed to get himself into the doorway of a Marks & Spencer convenience store, and watched as his meeting place under the clock was overrun with police, as they restored order. The two boys were put in handcuffs and the police began the laborious task of booking them.
‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Marsh into his radio. ‘Get them to bloody well move, this is screwing up our meeting place.’
‘She isn’t going to be crazy about meeting him there, even if she does show up!’ said Sparks.
‘Crane, can you hear me?’ said Marsh, ignoring Sparks.
‘Yes, sir. Things got a bit hairy there,’ said Crane as he stepped out from the doorway of the Marks & Spencer.
‘We’ve still got you on camera, Crane. All okay?’
‘I’ve dropped the flowers,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry. We’re going to get the uniform crowd moved on, and then you move back,’ said Marsh.
‘What the fuck is this? Mrs Mop?’ said Sparks, looking up at the view under the station clock. A wizened old cleaning lady had stopped her cart where blood had splattered from the blond-haired boy’s nose, and she was dipping her grotty mop in a bucket of grey water with slow determination. One of the boys being interviewed started to heckle her, but she either didn’t hear or paid no attention, and starting to mop the concourse floor at a glacial pace.
‘Where is DC Warren?’ asked Sparks. There was a beep and Warren came on the radio.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What’s your position?’
‘I’m at the WH Smith on the concourse opposite.’
‘Get that old dear out of the way, will you? And don’t let her put one of those yellow signs up under the clock,’ he started.
‘Hang on, hang on, hang on,’ said Marsh. He was looking back at the screen where Crane was waiting close to the clock. A small dark-haired woman wearing a smart black jacket was approaching him. Marsh grabbed his radio. ‘Shit! All units, a dark-haired woman is approaching Sergeant Crane. I repeat, a dark-haired woman is approaching Sergeant Crane. Stand by.’
‘All units standing by,’ came a voice through the radio. Two of the large screens on the wall cut to a view of Crane from above and an angle on the other side. The woman was now talking to him, looking up at him enquiringly. They talked for another minute or so, then Crane said something back and she walked away.
‘Crane, report, what the hell is going on?’ asked Marsh.
‘Sorry, boss, false alarm. She was asking if I wanted to buy car insurance.’
‘Shit!’ said Marsh, slamming his hand down on one of the desks. ‘Shit! Sparks, I want that woman questioned anyway. Stop her, ID her and find out everything you know.’
‘Something tells me she’s not going to hit her sales target,’ said Sparks as the woman was surrounded by three plain-clothes police officers.
80
At 6.30 p.m. Erika was almost climbing the walls in Keith’s tiny flat. Her phone beeped in her bag and she pulled it out. It was a text from Marsh:
WE’RE STANDING DOWN AT WATERLOO. SHE DIDN’T SHOW. WE NEED TO TALK. I WILL PHONE YOU LATER TONIGHT.
‘What is it?’ asked Keith, watching in dismay as Erika put her head in her hands.
‘She was a no-show…’ she said. ‘You’ve had nothing there from her? Nothing in the chat room?’
Keith shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m sure, look, I’m logged in…’
Erika had a terrible sinking feeling, like a huge, heavy cannon ball was weighing her stomach down. She rubbed at her sweat-drenched face.
‘Look, Keith, we need to turn some of these lights off. It’s unbearable in here…’
‘No! I’m sorry, no. I told you, I don’t like the dark…’
Erika looked at the time. She felt completely devastated.
‘What happens now?’ asked Keith.
‘I’m waiting for my senior officer to call back… Later tonight…’
‘What happens to me?’
‘Um, I don’t know. But I stick by what I said to you.’ Erika looked at Keith in the huge wheelchair. She had recently helped him to change his oxygen tank.
She made a decision. ‘I need to step outside for an hour or so… Can I trust you here? Your computer is still being monitored. I take it you’re not going to run away?’
‘What do you think?’ he said.
‘Okay. Here is my mobile phone number,’ she said, scribbling it on a piece of paper. ‘I’m going to go for some air… Do you want some food? I don’t know, do you eat chips?’
Keith’s face lit up.
‘Battered sausage, chips and mushy peas, please. The place opposite the pier is the best. My carer always gets them from there.’
Erika came out onto the cool promenade. The sun was sinking down into the sea and a light breeze was coming off the shore. She stared at the text from Marsh again and tried to call him. Her call was cancelled, it went straight to voicemail.
‘Shit,’ she muttered. She set off towards a bar she’d seen further down on the promenade. The front windows were folded back and it was crowded with lairy, red-faced old men and drunken women. The ‘Macarena’ blared out of the sound system. Erika fought her way to the bar and ordered a large glass of wine. The barmaid was run off her feet and served her quickly, slamming a glass down on the bar.
‘Can I take this on the beach?’ asked Erika. The girl didn’t answer, just rolled her eyes, pulled down a plastic pint glass and tipped in the wine.
‘And could I please have some ice?’ said Erika.
She took her drink, bought some more cigarettes from the machine and came back down onto the beach. The tide had gone out quite far, and she sat back on the shingle, looking out at the expanse of wet sand. As she was lighting a cigarette, her phone rang. She pushed her pint of wine into the shingle and answered the call. Her eyes went wide as she listened to the voice on the other end.
81
The sun had now sunk below the horizon and a cold breeze blew across the street. Simone moved quickly along the pavement beside the row of houses. She carried a small backpack, and she was dressed in her black running gear.
A few of the street lamps were broken. She moved faster when she hit an arc of orange sodium light, relaxing again when she was back in the shadows. She felt jumpy. It was early evening, and the row of terraced houses she moved past seemed to teem with life. Lights came on, music was being played. A row was kicking off in a top-floor window where the curtains were open and just a bare bulb hung from the ceiling.
Simone kept her head down when a man approached her from the other direction. He was tall and thin and moving quickly. Her heart began to beat fast and she felt her blood pressure increase. He was coming straight at her. Even her scar began to throb, as if it were engorged with blood. It wasn’t until the man was almost upon her that she saw he was also dressed in running gear. He loped past without giving her a second glance, his headphones giving off a tinny sound of music. She realised she had to calm down, get a hold of herself.
Simone knew the house number she was looking for but didn’t have to strain too hard in the darkness to find it on the brick walls. The numbers were painted gaudily on the wheelie bins which filled the small concrete front gardens.
She counted down the numbers, feeling none of the usual rush, none of the anger and excitement.
And then she arrived at the house.
She approached the window, took a deep breath and placed her small hands on the sill. Looking around, she heaved herself up.
82
‘Erika! I had the baby, they got it wrong. It’s a girl!’ her sister cried, sounding breathless and exhausted. It took Erika a few seconds to realise it was Lenka.
‘Oh, Lenka! That’s wonderful! What happened? I thought you weren’t due for a couple more weeks?’
‘I know, but Marek took me for lunch and just after we ordered my waters broke. You know what he’s like – he insisted on waiting for it to be packed up as takeaway – but it all happened so fast… The contractions started coming and then there wasn’t even time for gas and air when we got to the hospital, she just popped out.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘We’re calling her Erika, after you. And after Mum, obviously,’ said Lenka.
Erika felt herself welling up with emotion and wiped her face with the sandy back of her hand. ‘Oh, Lenka. Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you,’ she said. Tears and exhaustion washed over her.
‘I wish Mum could be here, and you, of course,’ her sister said, also getting teary.
‘Yeah, well, things have all got out of hand here…’
There was a rustling noise, then Erika’s brother-in-law, Marek, came on the phone. She chatted away to him for a few minutes. It felt so surreal, being sat on a dark beach whilst her family was hundreds of miles away, celebrating. Lenka came back on the phone and then said she had to go.
‘I promise that when this case is over I’ll come and see the baby,’ said Erika.
‘That’s what you always say! Don’t take too long,’ said Lenka, wearily. There was a wail of the baby and then she was gone.
Erika sat for a long time, smoking and drinking a toast to her sister and niece. As the sky darkened, so did Erika’s spirits. She was an aunt, and despite the fact she and her sister weren’t close, she felt so happy for Lenka. Happy, yet dismayed at the way in which their lives had gone in such different directions.
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 29
