Looking at Lenka, so happy with her family and her life in Nitra, Erika wondered if running away had been worth it. And what had she been running away from? Lenka stayed and made a life. Erika was heading towards fifty as a widow with no children, a career teetering on the brink of failure; Nils Åkerman’s betrayal had cut her deep and the ramifications of what he had done were still yet to come to light. She had friends in London, Isaac and Moss, but she always kept them at arm’s length. She struggled to see anything positive in her future.
‘You look sad, Aunt Erika,’ said Jakub, his little brown eyes glowing with concern.
‘It’s a sad time of year,’ she said, wiping away a tear.
‘Do you miss Uncle Mark?’
Erika nodded.
‘He was nice. I don’t remember him too much, but he smiled a lot.’
The tears were running down Erika’s cheeks now, and Lenka crouched down beside her.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, putting her arms around her. Erika sobbed into her sister’s shoulder, and she gripped her arm and buried her face in the soft material. Marek beckoned to the children and he took them for a walk to give them privacy. Erika cried for a long time. She cried for the people she’d lost, and for the life she felt she’d wasted.
‘It’s okay, moja zlata,’ said Lenka, stroking her sister’s short hair. ‘It’s okay, you’re not alone.’
Erika’s tears finally subsided, and she felt better. No one was staring because this was the one place where it was acceptable to cry.
Lenka gave her a tissue.
‘You know you can stay for as long as you like.’
‘I know. Thank you, but my life isn’t here anymore. I have to go back at some point.’
‘Come on, let’s get these candles lit and go for some hot chocolate in town,’ said Lenka. ‘And then I’ll get Marek to take the kids and we can have a few drinks.’
Erika nodded and smiled, and they lit the rest of the candles.
Chapter Forty
FRIDAY, 17th NOVEMBER
I haven’t written this diary for ages. I think I’ve needed time to adjust and process everything that happened. When I stabbed Charlene, it changed me. It was like I stepped out of myself and into a different person. It’s not that I don’t feel guilt and horror for what I’ve done. But I feel like I’d been beaten down, and taking the initiative, and taking control has given me the awakening that Max is always talking about. I understand him. The world isn’t skewed in our favour. You have to take what you need; you have to fight to survive. It’s like I just decided I no longer wanted to be a victim. The voice in my head used to say, why don’t you like me? Why are you doing this to me? What am I doing wrong? I felt empowered when I pushed that knife into her chest. The lying, cheating, druggie bitch.
When we arrived back from dumping the bodies, we stayed up talking. I asked Max what he wanted from life, and how we could make it happen. He was taken aback at the question. He told me he wanted to get out. He said that his dream would be to emigrate, and leave this shithole of a country. Save some money, and go to Spain or Morocco and run a bar or a farm.
‘In this country I’ll always be scum,’ he said. ‘I’ll always be the kid with the criminal record. The whole class system is stacked against me. I could hang around and wait to win the lottery, and even then I’d be seen as vulgar and undeserving, or I could make it happen for myself.’
‘We could make it happen. Let’s work together, stop thinking I’m against you. We’re in this together. I’ve killed. I’ve got blood on my hands. We’re equals. Let’s make it happen,’ I said.
Our talk was transformative. The whole nature of our relationship changed, and we settled down to something approaching normality. In the weeks after we dumped Thomas and Charlene, we’ve kept our heads down. There has been very little made of them going missing. Their bodies washed up a couple of weeks after we dumped them, but the police are clueless. There was a little flurry of activity online and a sidebar in one of the newspapers, but then it all went quiet. In the meantime, we’ve been making plans. And to make our plans a reality, we need money.
Last night we went out in Soho. Max has been dealing to this gay guy who works in the City, who recently let slip that he owns a penthouse flat in Drury Lane. I thought this would benefit from more investigating. A penthouse flat in Drury Lane would be worth millions, and he might have a few of those millions lying around at home.
We started the night in Ku Bar and got a table in the corner. Max got a lot of attention from the lads behind the bar, and I could see how he stood out. He had on a new shirt we’d bought that afternoon and it was quite tight and showed off his muscles. His hair was now long and fell past his shoulders. He has that kind of hair which looks good without anything being done. He had on a brand new baseball cap, and where his hair hung down from the cap, it shone under the coloured lights in the bar. It was getting busy, and a couple of guys had offered to buy him drinks – which he accepted. As far as I knew Max was down the line straight, but he was happy to lead these guys on with a bit of chat in return for some seriously expensive drinks. It was strange to see things work the other way. I’m so used to panicking in clubs and pubs when I’m with Max, trying not to appear too flirty or make eye contact with anyone for fear of his jealousy. We’d been there for an hour when a really tall handsome guy came over, and Max introduced him to me as Daniel. He was very polite and beautifully dressed. He went to the bar and returned with an ice bucket with Cristal champagne and three glasses. I waited until he’d poured us each a glass and taken a sip, and then I excused myself and went to the ladies’ loos, giving Max a chance to ply Daniel with drink. When I came back Max was pouring them the last of the bottle.
‘You boys are thirsty.’ I smiled.
‘We can get another bottle if you like?’ said Daniel.
‘Fuck yeah.’ Max smiled, downing his champagne in one. We drank the next bottle just as fast, and then Max and Daniel went off to dance. I was a bit shocked as they hit the dance floor and Max ground himself up against Daniel. I sat there and drank the rest of the champagne feeling jealous. After a couple more songs, the guy went off to the toilets and Max came back.
‘You seem to be enjoying yourself,’ I said.
‘This is the only place I even want to stick my cock,’ he said, reaching down and grabbing my crotch. I opened my legs slightly.
‘Don’t you forget it,’ I said.
‘He’s invited us back to his place, Neen. The fucking penthouse apartment!’
‘How far do you think you’ll have to go?’ I said. ‘What are you going to do with him?’ I wasn’t normally this forthright with him, but I was jealous. He was mine. He belonged to me. For so long I felt like I belonged to him, that it was nice for a change to realise that he also belonged to me.
Max leaned close across the table, and took my hand. He pulled it down to his right pocket and rested my hand on the bulge of his gun. It felt bigger in his pocket, and I could feel him getting hard underneath it.
‘We’re going to make ourselves some serious money tonight,’ he said with a grin. ‘This is what we’ve talked about.’
‘Don’t go crazy, Max.’
‘He’ll live.’ He grinned.
A moment later, Daniel came back from the toilets. He was swaying on his feet and his eyes were a little glazed. He downed the rest of his champagne and we left the bar.
We took a cab the short journey to Daniel’s apartment. I have never been in such a beautiful place, like a posh hotel. Daniel barely noticed me when we arrived, and after he’d fixed us all drinks, I excused myself and went to the bathroom. He had framed photographs along the walls in the hallway, I think they were his family, they shared his dark looks. One woman featured in almost all the photos, and there were several of just her and Daniel. I think it was his mother. She was very tiny and well dressed, with an Imelda Marcos-style haircut.
The bathroom was vast and beautiful, with white marble and gold taps. St
uck to the huge mirror above the sink was another picture of that woman, much younger and cradling a tiny dark-haired boy that must have been Daniel. I stared at it and my reflection for a long time. I wanted to have a tiny baby to hold on my lap, and I missed my mother. She was never overly affectionate, and we were never close like those Mediterranean families, but I would have given anything to go back in time to before all this, before things changed, before I changed.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I ran my fingers through my hair, which now fell past my shoulders, and I adjusted my cleavage. I thought how good she looked, the woman in the mirror staring back at me. I didn’t recognise her as ‘me’ anymore.
When I came back into the living room, I found Max sitting astride Daniel on the floor beside a huge L-shaped sofa. They both had their shirts off, and I thought they were getting it on, then I saw Max’s nose was bleeding and he had his hands tight around Daniel’s neck. It was all happening with very little noise, just a few soft gurgles and gasps from Daniel.
‘Jeez, help me here, will you?’ said Max. I froze. ‘Neen! Get the gun out of my pocket.’
I moved closer, and one of Daniel’s legs thrashed out and flipped a huge silver bowl of potpourri from the glass coffee table. The red pieces scattered all over the blue carpet. I pulled the gun from Max’s pocket, and as I had it in my hands, I thought, what if I shot Max? What if I shot him, and then told Daniel all about my life, that I’ve been the victim? He had money; he might reward me for saving his life.
‘What are you waiting for!’ shouted Max. He was thrown back and Daniel got to his feet, his face purple, and the belt from Max’s trousers wound around his neck. He staggered back and landed on the glass coffee table, which cracked underneath him. Max lunged forward, picking up a large ashtray and hitting him over the head. Daniel went limp after the first blow, but Max kept on hitting him, over and over. The blood started to spray up the walls and it glistened off the ashtray and spattered the ceiling in graceful arcs.
‘Enough! That’s enough!’ I shouted. Max hesitated, the bloody ashtray held above his head. He turned and looked at me. I pointed the gun at him. ‘That’s enough. Now we need to move fast. Put the ashtray down.’
Max obediently did as he was told and placed it down on the pale carpet. He came towards me and his hand closed over the muzzle and he lifted it from my hands.
‘Find me a knife.’
I went to the kitchen and found a meat cleaver in the drawer. I took it back to him. He had pulled Daniel onto the floor and was stripping off his clothes.
‘I’m going to get washed up,’ I said.
I took a shower in that amazing bathroom, but I placed the photograph of the baby and the young mother face down on the sink. I came out of the shower and wrapped myself in a huge towel. The master bedroom had its own balcony and terrace with a view out over the city. There was a walk-in wardrobe with a polished wood floor filled with elegant clothes and shoes, winter coats, hats and even gloves. I started to search through the closets, looking in the drawers, through the clothes. Then I saw where the shoes were lined up along one side of the walk-in closet, and underneath there was a tile in the wood floor shinier than the rest.
It came up easily, and underneath was a cavity with a little black safe. The safe was open, and inside were blocks of cash, £50 notes, all neat and pristine with those little paper sleeves keeping them together. Written on each was £5,000. There were four in total: £20,000.
Max appeared at the door, covered in blood. He saw the packets of money laid out on the floor, and his eyes lit up.
Chapter Forty-One
Sunday, 18 November
The atmosphere in Westminster CCTV Control Centre was quiet and studious. Along one side of the room was a video wall where vast screens displayed the live feeds from CCTV cameras all over London.
At 4.15 a.m. two figures reached the top of Covent Garden in central London, and made their way up to the tube station, heads down, faces obscured by baseball caps. They walked with purpose, ignored by a few drunk people passing by. The taller of the two figures was pulling a suitcase on wheels.
The first CCTV camera, close to the Apple Store on the top end of Covent Garden, caught them as it made its sweeping arc, moving from King Street, where a hunched-over tramp shuffled along with a shopping cart, over the cobbles between the pillared St Paul’s Church and the giant arches of the glass-covered market, and then came to a stop with a view of the Royal Opera House. Covent Garden is never completely empty, even at 4.15 a.m.
As the two figures in the pulled-down baseball caps passed over the computer screen of a young officer, he noted them and peered closer. They were white and well-dressed, pulling a suitcase. It was freezing cold, and they were moving fast, walking with purpose. The officer on duty in the control room passed them off as people travelling, on their way to catch an early flight, and he turned his attention to another of the live video feeds.
The two figures carried on walking up the cobblestones towards Covent Garden tube station. The shutters were down on the ticket hall, and it wouldn’t open for another hour and a half. Two indistinct humps of material and clothes indicated people sleeping rough against the grille.
The officer in the control room had seen the two people bed down at 2.30 a.m., when the pubs and clubs had kicked everyone out, and it was safe to find a spot to grab a few hours’ sleep. He had checked back on them over the past few hours, peering at them on his screen, but they remained still. The temperature had dropped below zero every night in the past week, and he had watched two days ago, as an ambulance had been called by a member of the tube station staff when she had found a young woman frozen solid in her sleeping bag.
He sat back in his chair. The couple with the suitcase were now near the entrance to the tube station, moving fast with their heads down. They must be eager to get inside, he thought, and then turned his attention to a group of lads who had appeared in the video feed at the bottom of his screen, weaving drunkenly up King Street. He missed the moment when the couple dumped the suitcase. They did it fast, leaving it beside one of the sleeping homeless. Then they kept walking and carried on their journey up towards Charing Cross Road.
Halfway up Longacre, the two figures left the young officer’s computer monitor; he was now concerned about the young lads weaving their way up to Covent Garden tube, and they appeared on the computer monitor of another operator in the control room. She peered at them over her coffee, but only saw two people in a hurry to get home in the cold. Her attention was diverted when the young man called her over. The lads were now trying to force their way into the front entrance of the Apple Store. She left her computer; on the screen, the two figures reached Charing Cross Road and boarded a night bus.
Chapter Forty-Two
Cat Marshall had been homeless since the summer. She was only in her forties, and this time last year she’d been in arrears on her rent and facing unemployment. She’d thought then that the wolf was at the door, but it was nothing compared to losing your home. She’d spent six months sofa surfing and drinking heavily, until, one by one, her friendships started to tank. At the end of June an acquaintance had reluctantly let her sleep in her old second-hand car in the driveway. It had been the last thread connecting her to the real world, and an address she could use to claim benefits. A few days later, the house burnt down, and her second-hand car was caught in the blaze. Cat was pulled out by paramedics, and spent the night in hospital for smoke inhalation. She was discharged the following day with nothing. She’d lost her bank cards, her phone, passport and most of her belongings. She’d spent several days in hostels, but as each day passed she became filthier and more despondent. She’d often walked by homeless people on the street, and wondered why they drank filthy cheap alcohol, and now she found out. It was the only means of escape. That night she vomited spectacularly in the reception of the hostel where she’d been staying, and was swiftly ejected, beginning her life on the streets.
Cat
was frozen when she woke by the shuttered doors of Covent Garden tube station. She could hear shouting, but she was used to shouting. When she opened her sleep-encrusted eyes, there was a police officer in protective gear pointing a gun at her head. She shifted and felt the cold jolt through her body and she felt she was wet.
‘This is the police, get up and put your hands in the air!’ shouted the voice, projected through a loud hailer. ‘Keep your movements slow.’
She did as she was told, bringing up two filthy hands from the warmth of the sleeping bag. The cold air stung. She didn’t fear the gun, nor was she scared that police vans were parked up on the cobbles, and the area around the station had been cordoned off. She instinctively looked for where the wetness had come from. She’d made the mistake in the past of bedding down out the back of one of the big hotels, close to a heating vent which pumped out hot air. One of the hotel workers had doused her with filthy washing-up water. This had been back in November and the cold had nearly killed her.
‘Get up, NOW!’ said the voice through the loud hailer. It was eerily quiet, and just starting to get light, but there was no one around.
Cat started to move, easing her aching body up and out of the sleeping bag. The rags she tied over her head and under her chin were coming loose. Then she saw the big black suitcase parked beside her. A large pool of red was seeping out from underneath and it was all over her, all over her sleeping bag, and had soaked through to her legs. She put up her hands and screamed.
Cold Blood: A gripping serial killer thriller that will take your breath away (Detective Erika Foster Book 5) Page 17
