Erika Foster 04 - Last Breath

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘Right then, I’m just off to see a man about a dog,’ he said.

  Darryl looked over at his mother whose glazed eyes stared at the credits rolling on the television screen. ‘Say hi to the dog, give her a pat on the head from us,’ he said.

  His father narrowed his eyes, but left without a word. The dog in question was Deirdre Masters, a married woman who lived on a neighbouring farm. His father’s affair with her had been going on for years. As a child, he had often wondered why his father stayed out all night when last orders were called at 10.45 p.m. Then one day, Joe had said he’d overheard Dad on the phone to Deirdre.

  ‘Dad goes to hers, and they fuck all night,’ Joe had said. ‘Do you know about fucking?’

  Darryl had said he didn’t. And when Joe had explained, he’d had to rush to the toilet in the boot room to throw up.

  His mother never let on that she knew about his father’s Monday nights with Deirdre – she must have done because over the years people had talked – and when he’d left she would cook Darryl and Joe a telly supper consisting of fish fingers, chips and beans, which they would eat off trays in the living room.

  This Monday was the same as in years gone by. But just as Darryl and Mary were settling down with their trays of food, the Channel 4 News came on, with a police appeal for witnesses to the murders of Lacey Greene and Janelle Robinson.

  Darryl dropped his fork, spilling food over the carpet. He’d kept it all secret for so long that it was surreal to see a tall policewoman with short blonde hair sitting at a long table, flanked by Lacey Greene’s parents. He saw her name was Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster.

  ‘The Met police would like to appeal for any witnesses into these brutal murders,’ she was saying, as the Met Police logo flashed up on a screen behind her.

  Darryl’s heart began to hammer as he saw they had grainy CCTV footage of his car approaching Tooley Street when he’d abducted Janelle, and the Blue Boar pub when he’d taken Lacey. His ears started to roar with blood and his legs began to tremble. He couldn’t keep his feet flat on the carpet. Vomit rose in his throat and he struggled with it, then gulped it back down. He reached out a shaking hand and took a drink of the orange juice on his tray.

  The sound came back to his ears and he could hear his mother saying: ‘They spend all our tax money on CCTV cameras to watch us, but they can’t even read the number plate… It could be your car for all they know.’ She looked at him for a moment and then heaved herself up off the sofa and moved to the bar.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  Back on the screen, Lacey’s mother was crying, and her father was reading out from a prepared statement, the bright lights caught in the lenses of his glasses.

  ‘Lacey was a happy girl, with no enemies. She had her whole life ahead of her. There are two key dates where we want to appeal for witnesses. On Wednesday the fourth of January, Lacey was taken by the driver of a red Citroën outside the Blue Boar pub in Southgate, at around 8 p.m. Her body was found on Monday the ninth of January in Tattersall Road in New Cross. We believe she was…’ At this point his voice faltered and he looked down. His wife squeezed his arm. He swallowed and went on: ‘She was dumped in these rubbish bins in the early hours on the morning of Monday the ninth. If you have any information, please can you call the helpline number. Any information, however small, could help us find who did this.’

  The CCTV images played again of his car driving up to the pub, and shortly after, Lacey walking along the street with her long dark hair flowing after her. Still images were also shown of the two locations where the bodies were dumped. An artist’s e-fit then popped up on the screen. It was of Nico, the fake profile picture he’d used. It was a crude likeness. The forehead was wrong, it was too high and there were crease lines, and the nose was a little too wide.

  The blonde police officer was now saying that their suspect had assumed the identity of a dead man called Sonny Sarmiento, a dead nineteen-year-old from Ecuador. ‘We ask that the public are vigilant. We believe this man is targeting young women in the London area, using fake profiles on social media. He establishes trust through online friendships, before asking to meet,’ she said.

  Darryl’s mind was racing… He looked over to his mother as she plucked ice cubes from the ice bucket with a little pair of tongs and dropped them into her glass with a clink. She was watching him. No, studying him.

  ‘Horrible business,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, horrible,’ she said, not taking her eyes off him.

  He swallowed again and got a grip of himself. If the police knew his number plate or his name they would have been to the farm by now. They were clueless. They had just put a few of the pieces together. Mary stared at him for a moment longer, studying him intently, then she switched her attention to the television behind him. The appeal had now finished and the newsreader was reading out the number that people could call to give the police information.

  ‘I think we should get one of those High D tellies,’ she said, shuffling back over with her drink. ‘I can’t read that number.’ She sat heavily on the sofa, her breathing laboured. ‘Eat up. I’ve made some jelly for afters.’

  Darryl saw that she had that same alcoholic haze in her eyes, and the sharp curiosity had gone. He smiled.

  ‘Dad won’t give you the money for a high definition television?’

  ‘I’ve been putting a little of the housekeeping he gives me to one side for quite some time,’ she said, leaning over and patting him on his still trembling leg.

  ‘I could check them out online,’ he said, forcing a smile.

  ‘Thanks, love, now eat up.’

  He forced himself to make bland conversation and eat the rest of the bland food on his plate. As the television news moved on to the immigration crisis in Europe his heart began to slow. They hadn’t mentioned Ella. If they had his number plate they would be knocking on the door, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they? He’d made sure that it had been obscured by the dirt. When he took Janelle, he had been lucky that the number plate was so filthy after summer storms and driving around the farm. The winter weather had been a gift. When he’d started looking, he was shocked at how many people let their number plates become so dirty that they were obscured.

  He looked back at his mother and saw the gin was really kicking in. Her eyes were drooping; she was having trouble focusing.

  ‘Here,’ he said, getting up and taking her glass. ‘Let me pour you another.’

  * * *

  Snow was falling thickly when he emerged from the back door an hour later. His mother was now dozing drunkenly on the sofa; his father was away with his lover. He would be left alone. Grendel barked in protest when she saw he was leaving without her, but he gave her a treat and closed the door behind him.

  He walked down the yard, weaving along to avoid activating the lights and cameras, and when he reached the gate he vaulted it with ease.

  The snow squeaked and crunched as he moved through the dark fields, until the outline of the Oast House loomed ahead. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, so he kept his torch off as he unlocked the padlock and slid the door open. It was pitch-black inside, but he could smell her. The soft smell of her freshly washed hair and perfume had been replaced with stale sweat, piss and shit. Very softly, he could hear her sobbing.

  ‘Good, I’m glad to hear you’ve held on just a little longer,’ he said.

  He slid the door closed, and moments later Ella began to scream.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The phones in the incident room started ringing shortly after the evening news reports. There were the usual calls from the whack jobs and the crazies – not words officially sanctioned for use by the Met – but unofficially, that’s how they were known.

  One of the calls that came through was flagged by Crane and, along with Moss and Peterson, he did some digging. They then took it to Erika.

  ‘How can we be sure this isn’t another crazy person who thinks they saw something?’ asked Erika, look
ing across her desk at Moss, Peterson and Crane squashed into her tiny office.

  ‘The witness is a Mrs Marina Long,’ said Moss. ‘She’s married, with two young boys. They live in the village of Thornton Massey, which is just a few miles off the M20, close to Maidstone. Marina and her husband work as teachers at the local primary school. Their house backs onto farmland, and an old Oast House.’

  ‘What’s an Oast House?’ asked Erika.

  ‘They were used for drying hops,’ said Peterson. ‘There used to be hundreds of hop farms around Kent, and Oast Houses have a furnace and racks for drying them out so they can be brewed for beer.’

  ‘Okay. What does this have to do with our appeal?’ said Erika.

  ‘Marina Long says that several times in the last few months, late at night, she’s seen a small red car driving across the fields towards this Oast House,’ said Crane.

  ‘How could she tell the car was a red, if she saw it late at night?’

  ‘Well, she says that often the next morning, it’s still been there, parked outside. She also says she remembers seeing the car there on the August bank holiday, the twenty-fourth,, when Janelle went missing, and she remembers seeing car lights moving across the field on the fourth of January,’ said Crane. ‘The night Lacey Greene went missing.’

  ‘Do we know who owns the land?’

  ‘The land belongs to Oakwood Farm. The farmer and his wife live there with their grown-up son,’ said Peterson. ‘And, get this. A red Citroën C3 is registered in the son’s name.’

  Erika was silent for a moment, rolling the information over in her brain. She looked at the clock; it was coming up to 8.15 p.m.

  ‘We’ve been working on the theory that he abducts them, and holds them for a few days before killing them, so this outbuilding, this Oast House, would support this theory…’ She sat back in her chair and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘But this is far out of London. Why take them so far? Why risk all the surveillance and CCTV cameras coming in and out of London? Why not just grab local girls?’

  The phone rang and she picked it up. It was Melanie Hudson. She covered the receiver and asked if Moss, Peterson and Crane could wait outside. When they’d gone, Erika quickly brought her up to speed with the appeal, and that she believed the daughter of a retired senior police officer was being held by the same killer.

  ‘If it’s like the last two victims, then he’s had Ella Wilkinson for three days. We need to move fast,’ said Erika.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  At 12.30 a.m. the next morning, a black van containing a team of Specialist Firearms Officers from Kent Police pulled into a lay-by close to the large iron gates of Oakwood Farm. The driver killed the headlights, and the engine idled. It was a lonely patch of country road with just a couple of other houses. To the left of the van, the empty fields stretched away, and a lone light glowed in the window of the farmhouse. Six Specialist Firearms Officers, headed by Sergeant Portman, crouched in the back of the van. They were used to waiting, and despite the cold, they sweated under their Kevlar vests and protective gear.

  Less than forty miles away, Erika and her team were assembled around a computer monitor in the incident room at West End Central. Erika was impressed that Melanie had taken her seriously, and stepped up as Acting Superintendent. It had been no mean feat to pull together two teams of Specialist Firearms Officers from Kent Police with so much speed, and Erika realised just how much was on the line. The teams were being coordinated from the control room at Maidstone Police Station and everything was being relayed to them at West End Central, via a live audio feed. The rest of their office stretched away in darkness, the other teams having left for home hours ago.

  ‘Okay, we’re standing by,’ said Sergeant Portman with the first team.

  ‘Team two, are you reading me?’ came a female voice. This was DI Kendal in the control room at Maidstone. The second team of Specialist Firearms Officers were approaching an access gate at the other end of the farmland, which, if the map was correct, was a quarter of a mile from the Oast House.

  ‘Loud and clear. We’re just on Barnes Lane, should be at the gate in a few minutes,’ came the voice of Sergeant Spector, who was leading the second team.

  Erika caught Moss’s eye and saw she was uncharacteristically tense. The radio fell silent for a long minute. Just when they thought the audio connection was lost, they heard Sergeant Spector again,

  ‘Okay, we’ve got the access gate open. Looks like there’s no security lights down here.’

  ‘Okay, proceed with caution, keep your lights off,’ said DI Kendal in control. ‘Team one, can you move into position?’

  ‘Yes, standing by,’ came Sergeant Portman’s voice.

  ‘The neighbour, Marina, has said that the gates open automatically on approach,’ said DI Kendal. ‘I want team two in position outside the Oast House before I give you the signal to activate the front gates.’

  ‘Standing by…’

  ‘Bloody hell. I can’t bear this,’ said Peterson back in the incident room. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and he wiped it with his sleeve.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The Oast House seemed to rise up as the van containing the second team drove slowly towards it across the frozen earth. Sergeant Spector crouched in the back with his team of three male and two female Specialist Firearms Officers. It was almost pitch-black, and boiling hot, their sticky bodies packed in together. Despite his years in the Specialist Firearms Unit there was always anticipation and fear. You needed it to stay sharp. His hands were sweaty under his gloves, but his grip on his Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle was firm.

  The van slowed and came to a stop.

  ‘This is Spector. We’re in position by the Oast House,’ he said into his radio. He heard DI Kendal in control give team one the go-ahead.

  ‘Gates and security lights have activated,’ said Sergeant Portman. ‘We’re approaching the farmhouse.’

  ‘Proceed with caution,’ said DI Kendal. ‘Team two, you are clear to proceed with caution.’

  Spector then took over, and on his command the van door slid back. The cold air flooded inside and the team moved out with a practised fluidity, fanning out around the Oast House with its strange spout-like funnel. The snow and ice crunched underfoot. Spector stopped by a large metal door, and listened. There was no sound. Then the wind started to blow and there was a low groaning.

  ‘I can hear screaming or moaning, please report, over,’ said DI Kendal’s voice in his earpiece.

  Spector looked up at the tower against the black sky, and as the wind rose and fell so did the moaning.

  ‘I think it’s ventilation on the roof, over,’ he said.

  His team paused, guns held, feet splayed, ready and waiting to move. They listened to Sergeant Portman through their earpieces as he gave updates on team one’s progress.

  ‘We’re coming to a stop at the farmhouse. Looks deserted…’

  Another moment passed, and they heard the van door slide back. It was often difficult to listen to another team and keep your surroundings in focus. The wind was now blowing the snow across the surrounding fields and whipping it into their faces like powdered sugar. The vent in the spout-like roof moaned and metal creaked.

  Spector looked around at his team, and then gave them the order to go. Using bolt cutters, one of the officers clipped open the padlock on the huge sliding door. They all activated the lights on their protective headgear as he pulled back the door.

  ‘POLICE! GET DOWN!’ shouted Spector, as their torches shone through the open doorway and over the inside of the Oast House.

  Something flashed, and there was a face frozen and still.

  ‘THIS IS THE POLICE. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!’ shouted Spector.

  But the person wasn’t moving. Then he saw a flash of an arm holding a gun, the face came towards him, and he fired.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  At the back door of the farmhouse, team one were in position
. Sergeant Portman had knocked on the wooden door, and there had been no response. Just as two of his officers were preparing to break down the door with a battering ram, a light came on above their heads.

  ‘Hang on, cuddles, you come here,’ said a male voice through the door. ‘No. I don’t know who the hell it is at this hour, but I don’t want you running out in this snow!’

  ‘THIS IS THE POLICE! STEP AWAY FROM THE DOOR!’ shouted Portman.

  ‘What? I’m trying to open the door!’ came the voice.

  The two officers with the battering ram stepped back and they aimed their rifles at the wooden door. They heard bolts being pulled back, then it opened, and they were confronted by a slim man in his early forties. He wore a thin silk robe covered in a pattern of red roses. His long blond hair hung limp down to his shoulders and he had a large hooked nose and a turn in one of his piercing green eyes. He was holding a tiny white kitten, which was mewling and doing its best to escape. He stepped back, but didn’t seem too fazed by the six armed police.

  ‘PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!’ shouted Portman.

  The blond man did so, holding the kitten above his head where it blinked and mewled in the torch light.

  ‘I haven’t got any weapons, officers! Nor has mother; she’s asleep upstairs…’ he said.

  ‘Where is the third person who lives here?’ shouted Portman.

  ‘My father? He’s dead! He died last month. Pneumonia…’ said the man, this situation with the armed police starting to dawn on him. The kitten held above his head was starting to panic and scratch his arms. ‘Please, can I put my hands down? She’s going to cut me to ribbons.’

  * * *

  Back in the incident room at West End Central, Erika and her team had listened with mounting confusion to what was unfolding on Oakwood Farm with the two Specialist Firearms teams. When they’d heard the shot fired in the Oast House, DI Kendal at the control centre had started to shout out, demanding to know what was happening, and if any officers had been injured. After a few moments of chaos and confusion, they heard Sergeant Spector’s voice.