Erika Foster 04 - Last Breath

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘You’ve got me,’ said Peterson. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about me…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Thanks, James… But I need to get on,’ she said, her face still turned to the window.

  Peterson left, closing the door. It was only then that Erika turned back and wiped away a tear.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  That afternoon, Erika went over to the Thistle Hotel where the media appeal was being set up in the large conference room. A line of huge windows looked out over the low grey sky and the traffic slowly churning around Marble Arch. She was taken through to see Lacey’s parents, Charlotte and Don, who were waiting in a smaller adjacent room. They looked as if they’d shrunk in stature, sitting at a table with Colleen, a sturdy woman with short dark hair. Colleen was excellent at her job, but part of this meant that she disconnected from the situation, taking out the human element.

  As Erika approached the table, they were looking at an iPad, where Colleen was swiping through the pictures of Lacey they’d chosen to use during the appeal. They were innocent, fun-loving shots: Lacey holding a tabby cat in the garden beside a bed of daffodils; Lacey’s graduation photo where she beamed into the camera with a shiny face; and another of Lacey on the sofa, barefoot in a pale blue dressing gown.

  ‘This one is lovely,’ said Colleen, craning her head around to see it. ‘I’d kill for thick shiny hair like that…’ She saw Erika and said ‘hello’, then her phone rang and she excused herself.

  Don and Charlotte watched Colleen as she left.

  ‘That woman has a very unfortunate manner,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Yes, I’ll have a word with her,’ said Erika. They could hear Colleen on the phone in the corridor outside, telling a journalist he should hurry up, as she’d saved him a ‘front row’ seat.

  ‘Thank you for doing this, Mr and Mrs Greene,’ said Erika, sitting in Colleen’s vacated chair. ‘I won’t ask how you’re holding up, I know this must be terribly difficult.’

  ‘Is this just a show to everyone?’ said Don. ‘I can’t help feeling we’re just entertainment.’

  ‘I can assure you nothing about this is entertaining,’ said Erika. ‘Colleen’s manner might not be user-friendly, but she’s doing all this to ensure as many news outlets as possible have the information of your daughter’s death.’

  They absorbed that for a moment.

  ‘What about the other girl? Where are her family?’ asked Charlotte. Erika briefly explained Janelle’s circumstances. ‘I know it sounds awful, but I was looking forward to meeting Janelle’s mother. It feels like no one knows what I’m going through. I thought she might—’

  ‘You said you’d catch the person who did this to our Lacey,’ demanded Don. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I won’t lie to you. This person is good at covering his tracks; he seems to know London, and until now he’s had luck on his side…’

  ‘You’re sure it’s a “he”?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘Yes. I’ve just heard back about DNA samples taken from Lacey and Janelle.’

  ‘What kind of DNA?’ asked Charlotte, her face a mask of horror.

  ‘Hair. Two small hair samples. We ran these and were able to tell that this is a white male. But he’s not on the DNA database… I’ve worked on scores of murder cases like this, and they always slip up. We have his DNA. We know he drives a Citroën C3, he’s used it twice and he’s obscured the number plate.’

  ‘Why can’t you get all the names of people who have these cars?’ demanded Don.

  ‘We can, but this is a common model. There are thousands of them in the UK.’

  ‘He doesn’t deserve to live in this world after what he did!’ he said, slamming his hand down on the table.

  ‘I can’t bear the thought that he could be watching us on television. I’m not going to cry. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction,’ Charlotte spat. Don put his arm around her.

  ‘I’m doing the talking, love.’ Then he turned his attention to Erika. ‘You think this will work?’

  ‘In the past, public appeals have given us key breakthroughs in cases like this,’ said Erika.

  ‘“Cases like this”. You mean serial killers, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. Serial killers are very rare, and we don’t want to jump to any conclusions. We want to keep to the facts of the case.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me,’ said Don, looking her square in the eye.

  ‘I would never do that,’ said Erika.

  Colleen returned from speaking on the phone. ‘Right, Mr and Mrs Greene, we’ve got about twelve minutes until we start. The press is almost all here, and we should have a full house.’

  She bustled off, leaving Lacey’s parents to digest the phrase ‘full house’.

  Erika’s phone rang and she excused herself. She moved down a corridor, and found a corner tucked away from people streaming in and out. A technician walked past with half a doughnut in his mouth and a tall light on a stand.

  ‘Alright, boss, can you talk?’ asked John.

  ‘Not for long. What is it?’

  ‘There’s been a missing person report come in. It flagged up because it sounds similar.’

  ‘Familiar to our guy?’

  ‘Yeah. Missing person is a twenty-year-old student called Ella Wilkinson. She was due to meet a bloke on a blind date in a bar near Angel in North London on Saturday night. She left the house alone just before 8 p.m. Never came home. Her housemate found her handbag on Sunday morning, dumped around the corner from the bar. Ella had been chatting to this guy online. The bouncer at the club says he saw her, and shortly afterwards a red car pulled past and down the road beside the bar. He was distracted and a few minutes later she was gone.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Erika, her heart sinking. She checked her watch: it was now less than ten minutes until the press conference was due to begin. ‘Has she gone missing before? Any history?’

  ‘No. She’s a student at St Martins, serious about her work, comes from a stable family. I’ve just emailed through her picture and the deets… Do you think you should mention this?’

  ‘Mention?’

  ‘In the press appeal, boss. Look at the photo: she looks just like Janelle Robinson and Lacey Greene. There’s mention of a red car…’

  ‘But no number plate?’

  ‘No… Boss, she went missing three days ago. The official missing person report kicked in forty-eight hours ago. If we’re working on the assumption that this guy keeps them somewhere for three to five days…’

  Colleen appeared at the end of the corridor and beckoned to Erika.

  ‘John, there’s no time, we’re about to go live…’ Erika cupped her hand over the receiver as two big lads moved past noisily, lugging a large table.

  ‘But what if this Ella girl is victim number three, boss? And she could still be alive…’

  Erika felt torn. At the end of the corridor she could hear the loud chatter from the conference room, and Colleen was now greeting a middle-aged journalist accompanied by her greying cameraman.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Erika. ‘Have the family been informed?’

  ‘Officers are on their way to tell them officially, but apparently the housemate has already been talking to them.’

  Erika felt her heart pounding: there was no time.

  ‘John, the press conference has been structured around the existing victims. If we start talking about another girl being abducted, we have to be sure. Is Melanie in her office? What does she have to say?’

  ‘I’ve left word with her, but she’s away on a conference today.’

  The journalists had now moved through to the conference room, and Colleen was approaching her saying, ‘Erika, we need to put a bit of base on you, so you’re not washed-out on camera…’

  ‘John, find out as much as you can, and track down Melanie. I have to go.’

  Erika hung up, took a deep breath and followed Colleen through to the con
ference room with a sickness in the pit of her stomach.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The press appeal was done and dusted by 3 p.m. The BBC News channel had covered it live, but it would get its main coverage on the evening news programmes and the late editions of the London free newspapers.

  Erika returned to West End Central feeling drained, and found the team scrabbling to assemble the information about the latest missing person, Ella Wilkinson. Crane came over, and she could see that Moss, Peterson, John and the rest of her officers were taking phone calls.

  ‘Alright, boss, good job on the appeal,’ he said.

  ‘Did it generate any good leads?’ asked Erika. The glass partition next to where they worked, which was officially, and rather ambitiously, called a ‘suite’, had been put aside, with four officers assigned to answer calls relating to the media appeal. They were all sitting in silence working on their computers.

  ‘Nothing yet. I don’t know if we will get anything until it runs again later with the helpline number.’

  ‘Let me know if anything comes in,’ she said.

  She went to her office to make some calls, and to try and track down Melanie Hudson on her course in Birmingham, but she still wasn’t answering her phone.

  * * *

  Just before five o’clock, Crane knocked on her door.

  ‘I’ve got a man who’s called the helpline wanting to talk to you. Says he’s Ella Wilkinson’s father.’

  Erika put down her pen and followed him over to the suite of phones. Two male officers were sitting working and looked up when she came over. A blonde officer handed Erika a headset and she slipped it on.

  ‘Is this Erika Foster?’ demanded a clipped northern voice.

  ‘Yes. May I ask who’s calling?’

  ‘Didn’t that girl tell you? It’s Michael Wilkinson. My daughter is Ella Wilkinson.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Wilkinson. I’m sorry to hear your daughter is reported missing.’

  Erika could see that word had spread, and Moss and Peterson along with John had crossed to her side of the glass partition to watch the call. She signalled to Moss, who grabbed a spare headset, pulled it on and plugged it into the phone.

  ‘I watched your press appeal, DCI Foster. What I can’t understand is why you didn’t include Ella?’

  ‘Mr Wilkinson, we’re still trying to confirm if your daughter’s disappearance is connected with—’

  ‘Don’t lie to me woman!’ he shouted. ‘I’m a retired Detective Chief Superintendent!’

  Erika looked at Moss, who pulled the computer keyboard towards her and started typing.

  ‘I didn’t know that, sir. I’m sorry…’

  Moss indicated the computer screen, where she had pulled up a picture of Detective Chief Superintendent Michael Wilkinson, a thin greying man with soft brown eyes. He was wearing a dinner suit at an official function. Erika mouthed shit.

  ‘I have spent the past few hours trying to raise someone in the Met who knows what they’re talking about! I’ve been passed from pillar to post…’ His voice cracked. ‘It’s a shambles! As a last resort I took to calling the fucking helpline on the news report.’

  ‘I can call you back, sir, if—’

  ‘Why would I want you to call me back? We’re talking! Now tell me all you know.’

  ‘Sir, we’re not—’

  ‘Spare me the bullshit. I’ve had a look at the casework on the two girls and I have the information about my daughter’s disappearance. Tell me the truth. That’s all I want, and I think I deserve it!’

  Erika looked around and saw that the two officers had now ended their calls and were staring at her.

  ‘Sir, can you just hold on for thirty seconds. I want to transfer you to my office where I can talk to you in private.’

  Erika, Moss and Peterson moved quickly to her office and closed the door, where she resumed the call. She explained what she knew, and told him that she had been informed of his daughter’s disappearance less than ten minutes before she had to talk to the media.

  He calmed down slightly. ‘I’ve had little contact from local police… Two officers came around to the house just as the press appeal went out on the news. It seems that Ella has been added to the long list of runaways and missing persons… I’ve had to get the doctor in for my wife… I’ve spent years working within the force and now I find myself on the other side of things. Powerless.’

  Erika gave him her direct line and promised that she would have a Family Liaison Officer assigned to his house. When she came off the phone there was silence. Moss was sitting at her desk on the computer.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ said Peterson.

  Erika nodded. ‘He had every right to shout. I had nothing to give him, we know nothing. This man, whoever he is, must be laughing.’ Erika perched on the edge of the desk and rubbed her eyes. ‘I should have pushed to have Ella included in the press appeal, and fucked the consequences.’

  ‘We still don’t know for sure that she was taken by the same man,’ said Moss. ‘Crane is working again on pulling any CCTV, but it could take time.’

  ‘I want us to go ahead and pull the names and addresses of everyone who owns a red Citroën C3 in London and the South East,’ said Erika.

  ‘That could run into the hundreds, if not thousands,’ said Peterson.

  ‘What else do we have? It’s the only thing that’s consistent in all the cases. Go ahead and get in contact with the DVLA.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get on it,’ said Peterson.

  Erika grabbed her coat off the back of the chair and left her office. She took the stairs down to the bottom floor and came out of the front entrance. One of the women from CID was out on the pavement smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Sorry to ask…’ Erika started. The woman looked up wordlessly and offered her cigarettes. Erika took one from the packet, and leaned in whilst she lit it for her. ‘Thank you,’ she added, exhaling smoke into the cold air. The sky was murky and brown against the light of the city. In the next road they could hear the sound of drinkers moving between the pubs. ‘This is my first cigarette in months.’

  The woman finished hers and dropped it to the pavement, grinding it out in a flash of embers.

  ‘If you’re going to die you might as well enjoy yourself in the process,’ she said, and she moved back up the steps and back inside.

  The words clung to Erika as she finished smoking the cigarette. It satisfied her craving, but left her feeling revolting. She picked her phone out of her pocket and called Marsh. This time it said his number was no longer available. She scrolled through her phone looking for the number for Marsh’s wife, Marcie, but she didn’t have it. She thought about going over to his house, but it was late and she didn’t have the energy to deal with it all.

  ‘Where are you, Paul Marsh?’ said Erika, staring at her phone and then slipping it back into her pocket.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  It was late afternoon, and Darryl looked across the communal office at the quiet studiousness of his colleagues. Like him, he knew that little was being achieved, but everyone was doing a good show of looking busy.

  ‘You can start packing up your things,’ said a voice behind him. He turned to see Bryony standing behind his chair, holding a pile of Manila folders.

  ‘Okay, thanks. And thanks for letting me leave a bit early, Bryony,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve banked the overtime. Are you planning on doing anything nice?’

  Her face was slack. It always held this slack look when she was waiting for an answer. He’d heard some of the guys from the other end of the office joking that this might also be her sex face. Darryl gulped back a laugh.

  ‘Nothing much. A night of telly. We’ve just got Netflix,’ he said. In truth he would be spending the evening with Ella.

  Her last evening.

  Her last breath.

  ‘We?’ asked Bryony, suddenly very interested.

  ‘Me, my mum and dad. I still live at home.’

  �
�So no girlfriend?’

  The slack look had left her face, and she shifted her large bulk to the other leg.

  ‘No girlfriend,’ he said. She hung around for a moment longer, but he had turned away from her to shut down his computer.

  * * *

  Darry made it home just before four thirty, and as he pulled in at the farm gates he noticed that it was only just getting dark. He was greeted by Grendel when he came into the boot room; he gave her a hug and crouched down so she could lick his face, then he went through to the kitchen. It was very hot, and his mother was red in the face after baking a batch of rock cakes.

  ‘Alright, love, you want a cuppa?’ she said, as he leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. He smelt gin on her breath, but just nodded. ‘I’ll bring it through with a couple of cakes.’

  Darryl went to the living room. He switched on the fake flame fire and the television, and settled down in the red threadbare armchair. He was flicking through channels when Mary came through, a full teacup rattling in her hand.

  ‘I’ll want to watch Eggheads at six,’ she said setting it down beside him with a plate of warm rock cakes.

  ‘Where are the kid’s programmes?’ he said.

  ‘They moved them a few years back onto Children’s BBC… You want to watch Blue Peter?’

  ‘Course I don’t want to watch bloody Blue Peter. I was just asking,’ he snapped. He took the cup and saw that she’d slopped tea into the saucer.

  ‘It doesn’t seem like yesterday that you and Joe would come home and sit in here… Remember you used to fight over who got the armchair?’

  ‘Not anymore,’ said Darryl, slurping tea from the saucer.

  Mary’s eyes welled up, and she left the room.

  She came back later, worse for wear and weaving unsteadily, and they watched the quiz show Eggheads.

  * * *

  Just as it was finishing, at six thirty, Darryl’s father came into the living room. He stank of Old Spice and wore his best shirt and trousers; his white hair was neatly combed.