Erika Foster 04 - Last Breath

by Robert Bryndza

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Erika and Peterson rode in their car behind the police van carrying Morris Cartwright. They bumped along country lanes on their way to Sevenoaks Police Station, where they would be conducting their interview.

  As Peterson drove, Erika had John on speakerphone back at West End Central.

  ‘We’ve pulled Morris Cartwright’s criminal record. He was twice arrested and charged with assault and battery: first time in 2011 it was against his wife, but she decided not to press charges; the second time in 2013, the case never got to court. He was arrested a couple of weeks back after stealing and trying to flog some fertiliser from a local farm where he was working.’

  ‘What about the car?’

  ‘He bought the blue Ford S-Max back in 2007—’ There was interference on the line.

  They hit a rough patch of road leading up to another patch of flooding, and the van slowed in front as it went through.

  ‘John, you still there?’ said Erika.

  There was more interference, and then John’s voice came back. ‘Yes, boss.’

  Erika’s phone beeped to say she had a call waiting. It was Moss. ‘Hang on two seconds, John, I’ve just got to take this,’ she answered.

  ‘Boss, I’m in town still. I’ve had no joy on Genesis. They let me take a look at Bryony’s work email; there was nothing suspicious, seems she was very diligent, didn’t mix her work and private life. A team is now pulling her house apart; I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Erika, and she went back to John.

  ‘Boss,’ he said, ‘I’ve got more on Morris Cartwright. He rents a lock-up in the village, on Faraday Way in Dunton Green.’

  ‘Good work, John. Can you call in local plod, just get them to check out the last employer where Morris worked.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  The van in front reached a junction, and they slowed behind it. The police van pulled out and turned right.

  ‘Hang on, stop,’ she said to Peterson as he went to follow. They watched the police van drive away.

  ‘Erika. What are you doing? You’re the arresting officer. We have to follow them and present Morris Cartwright to the custody sergeant.’

  ‘I’ll brief them over the radio, they can do it on my behalf. Time is ticking with Beth Rose, and I want to go to Morris Cartwright’s lock-up.’

  She looked over at Peterson, and he nodded. She keyed the address of the lock-up into the GPS. With a squeal of rubber, he did a U-turn, and they sped off, hoping they were not too late.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Darryl was in terrible pain, but relieved that he wasn’t dying. His mother left him, and he managed to dry himself off and get dressed. The rain was pounding against his bedroom window, and when he looked out the sky was almost black. He switched on the light, sat at his computer gingerly and logged on to the news. His hands were shaking as he scrolled down. There was nothing on BBC London about the body of Bryony being found, but he still couldn’t shake off the feeling of dread. Things were getting out of control. Why hadn’t his mother suggested calling the doctor? He needed painkillers or antibiotics and then he’d go down to the Oast House.

  He staggered downstairs, and found his mother in the living room. The television was on and showing interference.

  ‘Mum…’ he started.

  ‘How do you get teletext?’ she said, peering at the remote control in her hand, unconcerned by his ashen face.

  ‘I’m in pain, Mum,’ he groaned.

  ‘I want to see the weather, and I can’t seem to find teletext on here.’

  ‘You’ve got a weather app, on your phone…’

  ‘I don’t know how to work that, Darryl,’ she said. ‘I like how they lay it out on teletext,’ she added, indicating the white noise on the screen. It suddenly went black and the CCTV activated, showing the front gates.

  Darryl gripped the wall and began to panic. There was a police car; he could see two uniformed police officers through the windscreen. His blood went cold, and he stood transfixed. His mother was looking at him. She got up and gave him the remote.

  ‘Well, go on, press the button, and open the gates,’ she said.

  ‘You know what button it is,’ he said.

  ‘Press it. Then I’ll call the doctor.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ he said.

  She pulled the remote control back to her and pressed the button which activated the front gates.

  ‘Mum. You don’t know what they want!’

  ‘They probably have something to tell us about that intruder, or those gypsies we saw the other week, the ones who were hanging round the gate the other night… or do you know what they might want?’

  She looked at him long and hard. He shook his head. She tucked the remote control into her housecoat and bustled off out of the room.

  On the screen the police car moved forwards through the gate, its wheels crunching on the gravel.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Darryl was hiding in the small toilet off the boot room and strained to hear what the police were saying to his mother in the farm office. They had knocked on the little-used front door, next to the living room, and when Mary had answered, Grendel had gone a little crazy, but she’d locked her into the living room and taken the police officers through to the office.

  Darryl came out into the boot room and moved closer to the door. Their muffled voices carried on, and he held his breath. If they had come to arrest him, wouldn’t they have done it by now?

  The door opened a crack, and he shrank back. He could see through the gap his mother in the office with two young male police officers, and she was going all fluttery-eyed as she moved between two large filing cabinets where they kept all of the farm records.

  ‘This is everything we have on Morris Cartwright,’ she was saying. ‘He was a good milker, but we had no choice but to let him go… He didn’t have access to any of the farm buildings; we keep the keys in here on that board, and the office is always locked.’

  Darryl tried to breathe.

  What if the police wanted more? What if they wanted to go down the farm and look at some of the outbuildings? He suddenly made a decision. He had to kill Beth. Quick and easy. Kill her, dump her body and wash it down, and then he’d stop. He’d stop the craziness; he’d go back to work. He knew the farm better than the police, and didn’t they need a warrant before they could go looking around? He had time. And there was a maze of buildings to search until they would get down to the Oast House.

  Darryl forgot the pain as he pulled on his boots and coat, and then he went to the high shelf in the boot room where his father kept his shotgun. He took it down and opened it, pushing two cartridges in from the box of ammunition next to it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said a voice.

  He turned. Mary was standing in the doorway, staring at him. He closed the shotgun magazine and leant against the wall.

  ‘What did the police want?’ he said.

  ‘They asked questions about Morris. They saw his car in London… But you were driving it, weren’t you?’

  ‘Did you say the car was here, parked out back?’

  ‘No.’

  Darryl swallowed, and picked up the shotgun.

  ‘Mum, you need to let me go, please…’ His voice sounded strange and distant.

  She moved to him and put a hand across the back door.

  ‘You knew I wouldn’t go down there, didn’t you?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You knew that I would keep away, after what happened to… to… my beautiful boy.’

  ‘Joe, Mum. JOE. You want to know something? Your beautiful Joe was a sadistic little bully.’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Your son. Was no angel.’

  ‘You!’ she spat. ‘You’re no son of mine.’

  Darryl leaned in close, and said in a low voice: ‘Joe and the other boys would wait for me in the woods after school, then hold me down, and piss on me, and then Joe would m
ake me do things to them…’

  ‘NO!’ cried Mary, and she put her hands to her ears like a small child.

  ‘Yes! Yes, YES!’ shouted Darryl, grabbing at her hands and pulling them away. ‘Joe hung himself because he was sick. He was evil. He told me he wanted to go.’

  ‘You said you found him.’

  Darryl shook his head.

  ‘No. I watched him do it. I could have stopped him. But I didn’t.’

  Mary launched herself at him, clawing at his face. He swung the barrel of the shotgun up and round and hit her over the head. She went down on the floor and remained still.

  Darryl stared at her, his heart pounding. He reached out to touch her face, then pulled his hand back.

  He picked up the shotgun and left the house.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  It was still raining hard when Erika and Peterson drove up to Morris Cartwright’s lock-up. It sat amongst fields at the end of a long bumpy track. The building was spread out and made up of four huge asbestos arches with a large wooden frame. It looked odd, like a piece of East London landscape had been plonked in a muddy field.

  Peterson pulled up onto an overgrown concrete platform, and they got out of the car. The windows running along the top were dark. Peterson put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Erika, if we go in, how do we link Morris to her? He could say it was nothing to do with him. That he didn’t know anything about it. We have no proof.’

  ‘Beth Rose could be in there. She’ll be in a bad way; isn’t this about saving someone’s life?’ Erika replied. Peterson looked over at her, her hair flat against her head in the pouring rain. He wiped his face and nodded. ‘Call for backup: ambulance, police. We don’t know what we are going to find.’

  Peterson called in for backup, as Erika pulled a pair of bolt cutters from the boot of the car. They moved over to the row of doors.

  ‘It was this one, the first?’ she asked.

  Peterson nodded. Erika snipped the chain easily, and they unwound it. The door pulled back with a squeal.

  It was empty apart from a small pile of sacks in the middle of the concrete floor. The light shone through a window high above.

  ‘Fertiliser,’ said Peterson, kicking the pile.

  ‘We need to move them; there could be a trapdoor…’

  They shifted the small pile, but there was nothing. They moved along the line, opening the other three lockups, which were similarly full of gardening equipment, an old car, and the last lockup held a speedboat with its engine lying strewn across the floor.

  They went back to the car and got in, just as three police cars arrived with sirens blaring, together with an ambulance and fire engine.

  * * *

  After an embarrassing exchange with the emergency services, Erika and Peterson set off back towards the police station in Sevenoaks. Their mood was dark in the car, and they listened to the police radio as it was communicated to control that it had been a false alarm.

  They’d just reached the village of Dunton Green, and were passing the local pub, when one of the police officers came over the radio to say that they’d been to check out Morris Cartwright with his previous employer at Bradley Farm.

  ‘Spoke to a funny old girl,’ he was saying. ‘They’ve got a bloody huge dog. It went ballistic.’

  ‘You okay? Did you get bitten?’ joked the police officer on control.

  ‘Almost. And I wouldn’t have fancied my chances. Weird breed it was, it had a big white face like a bull terrier, but spotty like a Dalmatian.’

  A thunderbolt realisation hit Erika as they carried on chattering. A big white bull terrier with spots… Where had she seen it? That kind of breed. The photo in the Genesis office. It had been of a big wide-faced dog with spots.

  ‘Stop the car!’ she cried.

  ‘I’m on a junction, at lights,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Reverse, pull in at the car park.’

  They parked, and Erika got on the radio to Moss.

  ‘It’s me, officers have just been out to Bradley Farm in Dunton Green. Tell me who is registered as living there.’

  Moss came back after a moment. ‘There’s a Mary, John, and Darryl Bradley.’

  ‘Have you got the employee list from the HR woman at Genesis?’

  ‘Yes. I’m just working through it.’

  ‘Darryl Bradley, is he there?’

  The wait seemed to go on forever as Erika sat in the car park with Peterson, the phone poised in her hand.

  ‘Yes, Darryl Bradley. He lives at the farm, and he works for Genesis!’ said Moss.

  ‘It’s there. That’s where he’s holding Beth Rose,’ said Erika. She held onto the car dashboard, as Peterson roared out of the car park, hoping they were not too late.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  Darryl ran through the rain and the mud with the shotgun under his jacket. He passed several of the farmworkers sitting with his father, sheltering under the barn from the rain, drinking tea from a flask. They watched with their steaming plastic cups as he dashed past, oblivious to their gaze.

  ‘He’s not right up top,’ said John, tapping his head.

  They watched as Darryl reached the gate and vaulted it, almost slipping over as he landed on the other side and carried on running.

  ‘You think ’e’s, well, you know?’ said one of the older farmhands, indicating a limp wrist. He was an old man with bristly grey hair poking out from under his flat cap.

  ‘Oh lord, I hope not. I’d rather he was a murderer,’ said John, taking the flask and filling up his cup.

  * * *

  The fields were waterlogged, but Darryl slipped and plunged on along the muddy track. When he came close to the Oast House, he heard the rain hammering on the top of the tower. He stood for a moment to catch his breath, and then he opened the large sliding door. He moved inside, staring at the lights – which were on – and at the open furnace door. The sight of the empty cage shocked him. The chains lay coiled in the centre of the grubby rug, with the three padlocks. He went to one and saw two halves of a safety pin protruding from the lock, which was streaked with blood. He moved back out of the furnace chamber, gripping the shotgun.

  Then there was movement, and he saw Beth coming at him, a scalpel in her bloody hand. He managed to react in time, and deflect her with the barrel of the gun, and she crashed into the wall.

  How the hell? What the hell?

  He stood over her as she scrambled to her feet, blocking her from running to the sliding door.

  ‘How did you? Where did you get it?’ he said, lifting the shotgun and aiming it at her.

  ‘The bandage you gave me, had a pin attached to it,’ said Beth. She was filthy and shaking, but there was scorn in her voice. Then she tipped her head back and spat in his face. He blinked in shock, and she ran through the wooden door into the larger part of the Oast House.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  John had finished his tea with the farm workers, and they were just about to go back to work, when he heard the police sirens in the driveway. By the time he’d hurried back to the house, there were several cars in the driveway, and Grendel was going mad barking. He went to the back door, which was hanging open.

  A tall blonde woman and a black man were in his kitchen, and Mary lay on the stone floor. She was still, and there was blood on her head.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded the blonde officer. She held up her ID and identified herself as Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster, and the other officer as Detective Inspector James Peterson.

  ‘John… John Bradley. I own this farm… Mary, what’s happened to Mary?’ he said, moving to her and kneeling down.

  ‘There a pulse, but she’s got a nasty head injury,’ said Erika. ‘An ambulance is on its way.’

  He looked bewildered, and took his wife’s small hand in his, which was large and calloused.

  ‘Mr Bradley. Your son. Where is he?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Down the field… I just saw him running down the field…’
He looked back at Mary. ‘Have we been burgled?’

  Erika looked at Peterson.

  ‘Where was your son going?’

  ‘Down the field… I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s down the field?’ asked Peterson.

  John was now in tears, his face red, and he was stroking Mary’s face.

  ‘The lake, erm, fields… the old Oast House.’

  ‘Stay with them,’ said Erika to one of the uniformed officers, and she and Peterson set off towards the Oast House.

  * * *

  It was still raining when Erika and Peterson rushed down the yard and past the outbuildings. They came to the gate and climbed over, landing in mud on the other side, which oozed up and over their shoes.

  ‘DCI Foster, Erika, are you reading me?’ came a voice over the radio.

  ‘Yes, reading you!’ shouted Erika over the roar of the rain.

  ‘Suspect’s father says his shotgun is missing from the house. I repeat, the shotgun is missing. Suspect could be armed. We are calling for backup. Do not proceed without backup. Do not proceed without backup.’’

  Erika looked at Peterson.

  ‘Acknowledged,’ she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  Beth was backed into a corner in the main building of the Oast House. She was shivering and streaked with blood. The straw felt prickly under her bare feet and the wooden rafters stretching away above her. Darryl stood a few feet away from her, the shotgun trained at her head. They had been standing there for several minutes. At first she’d closed her eyes, expecting him to pull the trigger, but when it hadn’t come she’d opened them again. She could see he was sweating, and his face was breaking out in a strange rash.