She didn’t give the benches more than a glance, then took a left, down a gravel path. At the end of a long row, next to a thick oak tree root pushing up underneath the path, was a square headstone of simple black granite. Embossed in gold letters were the names of her mother and father. They had bought one of the last family plots before the cemetery was closed for new burials. It was full up, like the rest of London.
Mariette put her bags down and took out a small dustpan and brush; unclipping the brush, she set to work, sweeping away the wet leaves covering the base of the headstone. Then she took out a cloth and wiped it down, running it carefully over the gold lettering.
MAY JEAN KIRKHAM
DIED 1/2/1981
DEREK KIRKHAM
DIED 23/03/1982
‘There, all clean and tidy.’ She straightened up and rested the cloth on top of the headstone for a moment, breathing in the cold morning air. She’d assumed she’d be alone this early in the morning, but she saw a flash of colour behind a tree in the next row.
Max appeared from behind it with a young brown-haired girl in tow. They both wore baseball caps pulled down low, and Mariette thought how skinny and exhausted the girl looked. Max hurried towards her, ducking through the headstones. He was carrying a rucksack, and so was the girl.
‘Alright, Mum,’ he said.
Mariette pursed her lips and chucked the cloth back in the bag.
‘This is my girlfriend, Nina.’
‘I saw her photo on the news last night,’ said Mariette, looking Nina up and down. ‘You look fatter in your picture. It suits you.’
Nina didn’t know how to reply to that.
‘Hi. It’s nice to meet you, I didn’t know…’
‘Didn’t know he had a mother?’
‘He never told me,’ said Nina.
‘I gave him up, did he tell you that? Had him adopted. And then all these years later he found me… Though he should have stayed lost if you ask me.’ She picked up her bags and walked off.
Nina gave Max a pained look.
‘Now what the hell are we going to do?’ she hissed.
Max shook his head and smiled, and then ran to catch up with Mariette. He walked alongside her, and unhooked one of the straps on his backpack.
‘I can give you five grand now, in cash, and another five when we leave,’ he said, taking one of the bundles of fifties out. Mariette stopped. She slowly put down her bags and took the bundle of cash, flicking it through her fingers, and then, almost comically, smelling it. She looked at Nina, who was hanging back at the end of a row of gravestones.
‘What does she know?’
‘Everything. She knows about Thomas and Charlene. She’s the one who finished off Charlene.’
Mariette pursed her lips and tilted her head, looking Nina up and down.
‘She looks a bit wet to me. Posh spoilt girl. Likes a bit of rough, does she?’
Max leaned in close to her face. ‘Listen, you bitter old cunt. That money is real and so is this,’ he said, holding up another bundle of £50 notes. ‘In return we need to hide out at your place for a few days. I have a plan, and we’ll be out of your badly dyed hair before you know it.’
Mariette seemed to take more offence at Max saying she dyed her hair badly than by him calling her the C-word.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Aren’t you curious where I got the money?’
‘No,’ she said, taking the bundle of notes and stuffing it into her coat pocket. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘It’s outside the lock-up.’
Mariette took a bunch of keys from her other pocket. ‘You go now and park it inside. I’ll take her back to the flat. We’ll meet you there.’
Max took the keys and darted off towards the trees.
‘And you can take these bags,’ said Mariette, holding them out. Nina came over and took them. ‘Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.
Nina looked around, and reluctantly followed Mariette out of the cemetery.
Chapter Fifty-Three
It took several hours for the bomb disposal squad to clear and search the building, and ensure it was safe. They removed a small device they found sitting on the kitchen table, and took it away for further analysis. Shortly before midday, Erika and Moss, with the forensics team, entered the flat shared by Max and Nina. As they walked through the small flat, Erika was struck by how sparse their possessions were. There was very little food in the fridge, some out-of-date milk and a small tub of spread. The bathroom contained nothing but a single bar of soap, a razor and an empty box of tampons. The living room had some generic furniture and a small TV. There were no magazines or DVDs.
‘You think they cleared out all their stuff when the media ran the picture of Nina Hargreaves?’ asked Moss.
‘I don’t know. Unless they were minimalists?’ said Erika.
One of the CSIs in protective gear appeared in a doorway at the end of the hallway.
‘You should see this,’ he said.
Erika and Moss followed. It was the bedroom, and it took a moment for Erika to work out what was different. On all four walls, piled from the floor to the ceiling were books, hundreds and hundreds of books of all shapes and sizes. A small wardrobe sat on the opposite wall to the bed, and the books had been stacked around it and on top of it. None of the wall was visible, apart from a small piece above the door. The bed was unmade and the room smelt musty.
‘I wonder if they ran a book club,’ said Moss. Erika heard the CSI stifle a chuckle behind his mask. She moved to the wardrobe and opened it. There were a few pieces of clothing hanging up: cheap women’s stuff from off the market and a couple of pairs of old jeans, and a pile of underwear. There was also a stack of porn in the bottom. Erika pulled on a pair of latex gloves and pulled one of them out. It was extreme stuff. There were bondage scenes; in one of the pictures, a young woman lay strapped to a table with a gag ball in her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear, and the skin across her breasts and stomach was red raw and mottled with blood. A man, naked apart from a black leather hood, stood over her with a riding crop. Erika flicked through and the images got progressively worse. She counted twenty-seven magazines in total and saw beside them was a stack of re-writable DVDs. Moss appeared behind her.
‘Boss. You should look at this.’
Erika replaced the stack of magazines and went over to the right-hand corner of the bed. At first glance, the books looked like they were stacked in blocks of colour, but on closer inspection, she saw that the books were duplicated many times.
‘He has seventeen copies of Mein Kampf, all stacked together; there’s another twenty-five copies of The Gates of Janus,’ said Moss.
Erika pulled one of the copies out and looked at the cover. ‘The Gates of Janus: Serial Killing and its Analysis by the Moors Murderer Ian Brady,’ she said, reading. The cover had a hand-drawn image of Ian Brady. His intense glowering stare always gave her chills.
‘In each version, he’s made notes on every page,’ said the CSI, thumbing through another two identical copies. ‘There are books here about the Holocaust, psychology, hypnosis, philosophy. The whole wall on the left side of the wardrobe is stacked with copies of the Bible; the Old and New Testaments, the Hebrew Bible, The Qur’an. And there are sixty-four copies of American Psycho….’
Erika looked around the walls and saw that despite the volume of books, there were maybe a hundred or so original titles. The rest were duplicates.
‘There’s no law against hoarding the same copy of one book over and over, or reading religious texts,’ she said.
‘Yes. My wife has the Famous Five books, old and new editions,’ said the CSI.
‘The original books are completely class-ridden, aren’t they?’ said Moss. ‘I was quite shocked at how different the modern versions are when I read them to my son.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ said Erika.
‘Well. Owning books and reading isn’t a crime,’ said the CSI. ‘One can read
widely and explore different opinions. It doesn’t mean they agree with them. Despite the extreme nature of this particular library… I’m more concerned with the hardcore pornography in the wardrobe than words written on a page. Those women are real, and the terrible things that happened to them when the photos were taken are real. All these books, it’s just a jumble of letters on a piece of paper.’
‘True,’ said Moss. ‘But what’s that saying? The pen is mightier than the sword?’
Erika was about to change the subject, when another CSI appeared at the door.
‘We’ve found something in the hallway,’ she said.
They followed to where a full-length mirror had been lifted off the wall. The CSI held up a small exercise book in her gloved hand. Erika took it and leafed through page after page of diary entries in neat blue ink.
‘This is her diary,’ said Erika, scanning the pages.
‘It was jammed in the cavity behind the mirror,’ said the CSI.
The hallway went dark as the blinds were lowered and the light turned out in the kitchen.
‘Can you close the doors to all the rooms?’ asked a voice. The CSI who had discovered the diary moved to close the doors to the living room, bathroom, and bedroom and the interior of the flat went dark.
Still clutching the diary, Erika moved to the entrance of the kitchen; it was in darkness. There was a click and the room was bathed in violet UV light. One of the CSIs knelt on the floor beside the back door, holding a flat UV lamp. He started to play it slowly from the edge of the door towards where Erika and Moss were standing. The light dispersed in an even layer until he hit the centre of the room and the UV bulb picked up the brightly glowing residue of a massive pool of blood; it extended several metres out across the middle of the kitchen, and there was blood spatter residue all up the cupboards, over the fridge, and up part of the wall.
‘Jesus, it must have been a bloodbath in here,’ said Moss.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Later that afternoon, Erika was unexpectedly called into a meeting at the New Scotland Yard building in central London. She arrived alone and was shown straight up to the conference room on the top floor.
When she entered, everyone was assembled. At the head of a long polished table was the assistant commissioner of the Met Police, Camilla Brace-Cosworthy. She was dressed for battle in a beautiful powder-blue designer suit and a chunky gold necklace. Her nails were painted red to match her lipstick, and her blonde hair had recently been cut very short, and parted to one side. Moss had coined this haircut ‘The Machiavellian Bob’. Beside Camilla, her assistant was poised to take notes, and to Camilla’s right and left were Commander Marsh and Superintendent Hudson. They had both dressed up for the occasion. Colleen Scanlan sat next to Melanie. Next to Marsh sat a man and a woman. They were a similar age to Erika and were dressed in very expensive suits.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t have much notice we were going to meet. I had to come from the crime scene,’ said Erika, looking down at her plaster cast, scruffy black trousers, creased blouse and long black coat covered in fingerprint dust. She smoothed her hair down and took the seat next to Colleen. She nodded at the man and woman opposite, but they ignored her.
‘Don’t worry, Erika. You’re right on time,’ said Camilla in her usual patronising tone. ‘Now we can get started.’
Erika looked to see if the man and woman opposite wore name badges, but there was nothing. She wondered why Camilla hadn’t introduced them. She thought they must be important because tea and coffee had been provided in china cups, with a milk jug and sugar lumps in bowls. Brown and white. After being up all night and most of the day, Erika was parched so she poured herself a steaming cup, and dropped in two lumps of sugar.
Melanie opened the meeting and outlined what had happened in the early hours of the morning with the raid on the block of flats in Kennington, and she confirmed that the device found in the kitchen wasn’t a terror-related explosive.
‘Thank you,’ said Camilla. ‘Now if I can firstly address the events leading up to the armed response unit going in…The problem I’m having with all this, Erika, is that you went in there, perhaps, with insufficient intelligence?’
Erika put down her cup, surprised. ‘We did speak with the counter terrorism unit beforehand…’
‘I am here representing counter terrorism,’ said the man, speaking for the first time. He had a smooth, and rather high voice.
‘Then you know,’ said Erika.
‘And we told you the current threat level for terrorism was severe.’
‘Sorry, can I ask who you are?’
‘I told you, I represent counter terrorism.’
Camilla then interrupted. ‘I think what we’re all concerned about is that this device could have been triggered, and if it had been it could have resulted in catastrophic loss of life. We’re just concerned, Erika, that procedure is followed to the letter. Are you aware of the disruption this caused? The resources that had to be deployed to evacuate not just the building but the surrounding area?’ She cocked her head and stared at Erika.
She felt anger rising in her stomach.
‘Ma’am, we had a positive ID on Nina Hargreaves and Max Kirkham. There was nothing to suggest that they would plant an explosive device. As I said I contacted counter terrorism to share intel, there are no known terror cells operating in that area. Max Kirkham has a previous conviction for petty theft as a teenager, and Nina Hargreaves has a clean record.’
‘Nina Hargreaves’s mother stated that Max Kirkham was obsessed with air rifles,’ said Camilla, looking down at her notes.
‘She did, yes. That’s why we had the armed response team who went in prepared with assault rifles and body armour. This operation was done by the book, ma’am. But there are often things you just can’t plan for. I think that the team headed by DI Parkinson should be commended for how they dealt with this safely and efficiently…’ Erika turned back to the woman opposite. ‘And if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your role here?’
She shifted uncomfortably.
‘I’m a representative from the Home Office. If this had been a terrorist attack, we would have had to convene a meeting of COBRA. Of course, all this kind of stuff is well above your pay grade.’
Erika smiled and tried to remain calm. ‘With respect, I repeat again, it wasn’t a terrorist attack.’
‘It was a home-made explosive device found in a central London location,’ said the woman, spreading her hands and looking around the table with amusement. ‘Kennington is a densely populated area of the capital. What if it had been a chemical weapon, or a nuclear device? We would have been looking at an exclusion zone including the Palace of Westminster. Millions of people affected.’
‘All valid points,’ said Erika. ‘But I don’t know why I’ve been called to this meeting?’
‘Erika,’ started Marsh, fixing her with a grim stare, but she went on: ‘Which has taken me away from a multiple murder case. Now, if you all want to talk about the nuts and bolts of what happened last night, fine. I’d like it on the record that I had to fight for two of the officers on that armed response team to be issued with night-vision goggles.’
‘Erika, this is not the forum to start dictating requests for police equipment and budgets,’ snapped Camilla.
‘With respect, ma’am, perhaps it is. I feel that the officers who work the beat don’t have the opportunity to voice these concerns. Night-vision goggles retail at around three hundred quid a pair, and there is a shortage of these in the force. Now if those two officers hadn’t been equipped with night-vision, they would have battered down the door to that flat, detonating the device, and most likely, they would have been killed. And as the unnamed lady opposite me states, the device could have been anything: a dirty bomb, or a nuclear device. So my point is that officers need to be properly equipped. No one wants to read in the newspaper that for want of six hundred quid, the centre of London is now a nuclear exclusion zone and no lon
ger habitable. But, of course, as you say, this is far above my pay grade.’
She sat back, shaking. There was a nasty silence.
‘Paul? Melanie? You are Erika’s line managers? Any thoughts from you?’ asked Camilla, breaking the silence.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Marsh looked furious as he headed down in the lift with Erika and Melanie.
‘I’m sorry. I stand by everything I said in there,’ said Erika.
‘You put my arse on the line.’
‘You put your own arse on the line!’
‘Erika…’ warned Melanie.
‘Sorry, no. I am not going to be blamed for telling the truth. You think I’m stupid. I was called in there as a scapegoat. They were looking for someone to pin the blame on for this morning’s expensive evacuation.’
‘You don’t understand how budgets run the force, Erika,’ said Marsh.
‘No, people run the force! Officers! And who were those two suits? They were Home Office, weren’t they? Why couldn’t they have the decency to tell me their names? All this cloak-and-dagger stuff is so boring. Don’t come to a bloody meeting and sit there with a face like a slapped arse. Why can’t we work together instead of causing divisions and power struggles. It’s exhausting.’
‘It was only on Superintendent Hudson’s recommendation that you were even allowed to attend!’ snapped Marsh.
‘I appreciate that, Melanie,’ said Erika.
‘She is your senior officer and you will address her as such!’ shouted Marsh.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Erika. She knew she was winding Marsh up by staying calm, so she carried on. ‘I felt like I was the only one in that meeting who genuinely cared about this case, and about catching Nina Hargreaves and Max Kirkham.’
‘You’ve never grasped how government departments work, and how we have to work hand in hand with the civil service,’ said Marsh.
Cold Blood: A gripping serial killer thriller that will take your breath away (Detective Erika Foster Book 5) Page 22
