‘Please, please! Let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t tell!’ Joseph pleaded, wincing up at the bright light on the phone camera.
‘You won’t tell. Do you want this video sent to all the people you know?’ said a voice. It had been electronically distorted. The hand appeared and grasped Joseph’s genitals, and he screamed out as the hand twisted them. ‘I have your address,’ said the voice. ‘I have your phone. You say anything, I send this to everyone in your contacts… Friends. Family. Everyone.’
The camera angle jolted, and moved to show a table with a row of sex toys. The disembodied hand picked up the largest, and went back to Joseph, who tried to close his legs, but they were spread and strapped to the table.
‘NO!’ he screamed. ‘NO!’
Erika muted the sound, and had to force herself to watch the rest of the video.
Thirteen
Erika arrived at Lewisham Row police station just after 8 a.m. The construction work around the centre of Lewisham, which had started when Erika was first assigned to South London, was almost complete. Several high-rise blocks of luxury apartments now dwarfed the eight-storey police station. The cranes were still on the snowy morning, and on one there was a Christmas tree, lit up.
It had been a sleepless night. The images of Joseph had haunted her dreams. In the photos, he appeared to be a victim, but she needed to question him about his role in Marissa Lewis’s murder, and there was still so much information she didn’t have: post-mortem results; DNA; the murder weapon hadn’t been found. Erika felt uncomfortable about it, but the photos of Joseph could be used as leverage.
* * *
At 9 a.m., Joseph was brought into Interview Room 1 by two uniformed officers. He wasn’t cuffed. He looked pale, and had dark circles under his eyes. A bleary-eyed solicitor in an expensive pinstripe suit filed in with him. He didn’t seem happy that he’d been called in to work on Boxing Day. He introduced himself as Henry Chevalier, and sat next to Joseph.
Erika sat on the opposite side of the table with an equally tired-looking McGorry, who Joseph eyeballed with hatred.
‘It’s 9.04 a.m. on December 26th, 2017,’ said Erika. ‘Present for the interview is DCI Erika Foster, DI John McGorry, Joseph Pitkin and his legal representation, Henry Chevalier.’
Henry leaned over and whispered something in Joseph’s ear. He didn’t react, but nodded. Erika opened one of the grey cardboard files she had stacked on the table and took out hard copies of the photos which had been developed from the roll of film.
‘Joseph. Can you tell me if you took these photos?’ She spread them out across the table. For a split second, Joseph’s eyes registered shock, then he sat back and folded his arms.
‘My client has chosen not to answer this,’ said Henry.
Erika went on, ‘This is from a roll of undeveloped film in a small plastic tube we found in the alleyway behind your parents’ garden. I believe it fell out of your pocket when you climbed over the wall.’ Joseph crunched up his face in a scowl. ‘We lifted prints from it. A thumb and forefinger, and they match yours. I’ll ask you again. Did you take these photos?’
Joseph looked at Henry, who nodded.
‘Yeah, I took them.’
‘Photos of a dead body,’ said Erika.
‘We can see the photos,’ said Henry. Erika picked up one, a close-up of Marissa’s blood-spattered face, her eyes wide. Frozen with fear.
‘This photo is taken from high up, in the tree opposite Marissa’s house.’ Erika held it up to Joseph and he looked away. ‘You’ll see her skirt is down over her thighs.’ She picked up another. ‘But in this photo, taken up close, her dress has been lifted to expose her underwear. Did you touch the body, Joseph?’ He shook his head. ‘We’ve also recovered videos from your mobile phone, which show you had quite an unhealthy obsession with Marissa Lewis. You filmed her covertly when she was in her bedroom, and on one occasion when she had sex with another man.’
Joseph was now shaking, and his face had drained of blood.
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘What did you do, then?’ asked McGorry, sitting back and folding his arms. ‘Have a fiddle with her as she lay dead? You took the opportunity to dip your fingers into her knickers when she wasn’t able to object?’
‘Officers, I would appreciate a more respectful line of questioning,’ said Henry.
Erika gathered up the photos and put them away. She opened another cardboard file. ‘I have your PNC record. You served six weeks in a youth detention centre when you were fourteen. You attacked a boy at school with a broken bottle. The surgeon managed to save his eye.’
Erika held up the photo of a young, dark-haired boy from the file. An ugly purple line of stitches ran from his left eyebrow and across his eyelid.
‘I was defending myself. He hit me,’ said Joseph.
‘Then why not hit him back? Instead, you smashed a glass bottle and ground it into his face. Bit of a psycho thing to do,’ said McGorry.
‘Can I ask if you are planning to charge my client?’ said Henry. ‘And if so, what are you planning to charge him with? He served his time for what he did. He also has an alibi for the time when Marissa Lewis was killed.’
‘From his mum and dad,’ said Erika.
‘My client’s father is a former Queen’s Counsel with an impeccable reputation. He states that Joseph was at home all night and didn’t leave the house until the next morning.’
‘Do they all sleep in the same bedroom?’
‘That’s a ridiculous question.’
‘Is it? The murder scene was less than two minutes from Joseph’s house. He’s already shown that he likes to hop over the back wall. He could have made it there and back in a very short space of time.’
‘Could being the operative word. Detectives, do you have any concrete evidence?’
‘We have taken DNA samples from the victim’s body. I also have officers searching the Pitkin house. It’s just a matter of time,’ said Erika.
‘Yes, eleven hours and counting.’
‘I have the right to extend custody for another two days.’
‘I would advise against that,’ said Henry softly, with a steely sense of finality. His eyes bore down at her from across the table.
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, with a fake smile. ‘Do you think I would threaten you, in a room full of cameras, where a transcript of our conversation is being recorded? Are you, DCI Foster, feeling paranoid?’
‘No. It’s probably just caffeine withdrawal.’ She smiled.
‘Our coffee machine is on the blink,’ said McGorry. ‘Whatever button you press, oxtail soup comes out.’
Henry rolled his eyes. ‘How is this relevant?’
They ignored him. McGorry looked at Erika. She pulled the third and final cardboard folder from the pile, and took out the photos of Joseph, naked and strapped to the table, and a still image from the video file. She lay them out on the table and they both sat back.
They weren’t prepared for the reaction. What little colour Joseph had left drained from his face, and his hands started to shake uncontrollably.
‘Hang on. Why weren’t these photos disclosed to me?’ said Henry.
‘We recovered these photos and an explicit video file from your mobile phone, Joseph,’ said Erika. ‘Who is the person who did this to you? Did he send you the files?’
Joseph shook his head and stood up, his chair crashing back onto the floor. He vomited spectacularly across the table. Erika just managed to pull two of the folders out of the way, and they all leapt back.
‘Christ!’ shouted Henry, recoiling at the pile of saturated paperwork he held, before dropping it onto the floor.
Joseph stood very still, and hunched forward, a long line of drool hanging from his mouth. They all stood in shocked silence. Suddenly, he lunged at Erika, screaming with bared teeth.
‘You fucking bitch!’ he spat as McGorry held him back, pinning his arms to his sides. �
��Where did you get them? How? How did you get them? He’s nothing to do with this! NOTHING! He’ll kill me!’
‘Who? Who will kill you?’ said Erika, pivoting out of the way as Joseph kicked out at her. ‘We need some help in here!’ she shouted, turning to the camera mounted in the corner of the interview room. Seconds later, two uniformed officers came rushing in, and they helped to pull Joseph towards the door. ‘Who? Who will kill you? Give me his name and all this will be over.’ Joseph was dragged out of the interview room, kicking and shouting. ‘Give me his name, I can protect you!’ The door slammed.
‘Boss,’ said McGorry, putting a hand on her arm. ‘The interview’s over.’
Erika looked at McGorry and the solicitor, and the mess across the table, and she came back to her senses.
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Henry, picking up his bag from the corner of the room, and seeing where he’d been caught with vomit on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ And he left. Erika and McGorry stood in shock.
‘We know one thing for sure. He had a big Christmas lunch,’ said McGorry, wrinkling his nose.
Fourteen
Erika and McGorry were joined in the corridor outside the interview room by Kay, who had been watching from the observation suite next door. She had with her a bunch of paper towels.
‘What the hell just happened in there?’ asked McGorry, taking one and dabbing at the sleeve of his suit. ‘Yuck, this is all I need today.’ He gingerly took off his jacket.
‘I got to him. I hit a nerve,’ said Erika. She absently took the offered paper towels, and saw she had managed to remain unscathed.
‘We don’t know that those photos and the video have anything to do with the Marissa Lewis case. This looks like revenge porn,’ said Kay.
‘I’ve got to get rid of this jacket, I won’t be a sec, Boss,’ said McGorry, holding his jacket between thumb and finger and hurrying off.
‘Revenge porn is about scorned lovers, and exposing. No. Whoever it is on that video is blackmailing him not to talk,’ said Erika.
‘We can’t use past trauma as leverage.’
‘I was so bloody close.’
‘How? How can we be close to something completely in the dark to us, ma’am?’
Erika turned to her. ‘You need to make sure that interview room is cleaned properly,’ she said, handing back the paper towel. ‘And don’t call me ma’am.’
* * *
Erika came back up to her office. She put in calls to Isaac, and forensics, but they both told her they wouldn’t be able to come back with anything until the next day. She then called the officer who was following up on the house-to-house in Coniston Road, and he told her that the two men who had been involved with Marissa, Don Walpole and Ivan Stowalski, had still not been made contact with. He did, however, have the contact details for Marissa’s friend, Sharon-Louise Braithwaite, who worked at the hair salon. Erika thanked him and wrote down the number. She was about to call her when there was a knock at her door.
‘What?’
It opened and McGorry stuck his head round.
‘Alright, Boss. The doc has examined Pitkin. There’s nothing wrong with him physically. Blood pressure okay, temperature okay, no infection, but he’s recommended to the custody sergeant that Pitkin gets a couple of hours’ rest and the chance to calm down before we attempt to interview him again. He’s still in quite a state.’
Erika looked at her watch. It was coming up to midday.
‘I’ve got five hours before I have to decide whether or not to keep him in custody for another couple of days. I’m no closer to being able to charge him… You know you can come into my office; you don’t have to hang around in the doorway!’ she snapped. McGorry came inside and shut the door behind him. ‘Okay, direct question. Do you think he did it?’
McGorry shrugged. ‘I dunno if he’s got it in him. The person who did it went batshit crazy. Hacking at her with a knife. They would have been covered in blood. And what about the trail of blood from the crime scene? He doesn’t have a car. We haven’t found a murder weapon.’
‘Who do you think is blackmailing him with the photos?’
‘Could be a man or a woman. Judging from his reaction, I think it’s a man. You can see in the photos that he’s not a willing participant, or if he was at the beginning, he wasn’t by the time he was strapped in and naked. He was being overpowered physically. He looks terrified. And of course, he yakked all over the interview room when he saw we had the photos and video.’
‘He could have been working as a rent boy,’ said Erika. ‘No, the family is well off.’
‘He was signing on at the Jobcentre.’
‘There’s too many questions surrounding him, and you’re right, he did look frightened in the video. We should tread carefully. Whoever this person is, they have the power to terrify him.’
Fifteen
Four floors down, in the custody suite, Joseph lay on the single bunk in the harsh light of the cell, staring at the tiny window. His face was ashen, and he was almost catatonic with fear. He had been checked over by a doctor, cleaned up, and put back in his cell. He wore dark jeans, ripped at each knee, and a thick dark sweater. His belt and shoes had been taken from him.
He could hear voices echoing in the corridor. A group of young lads had been arrested and brought in, and were making a noise, shouting and swearing at the custody sergeant.
How did they get those photos? he thought. I deleted them. He told me if I kept my mouth shut, no one would see them.
Joseph saw the face of the man he knew as ‘T’: a wide, handsome face with a high forehead. Piercing eyes. He had thought they were friends, and T had trusted him enough to show him what he kept in the basement.
‘This is where I play,’ he’d said.
The basement was dark, with a low ceiling and bare, stained concrete floors. The air was hot and stank of sweat. There were wooden stocks, a cage and leather restraints. Pornography, cut out from magazines, covered the walls. Joseph wasn’t shocked by the nudity or sex. What chilled him were the faces of the women and men in the pictures who were being dominated. There was genuine fear in their eyes, and some of them were bleeding.
‘Are they real?’ he’d asked.
T had nodded, smoothing his hands over his crotch, and he came towards Joseph.
‘I have to go,’ Joseph had said, making a dash for the door.
‘Stay for one more drink,’ said T, reaching out and grabbing the back of Joseph’s shirt, catching the material in a powerful grip. Joseph, eager not to appear scared, and to diffuse the situation, said yes. That last drink had been spiked, and he’d woken up naked, and tied up. Unable to move.
He didn’t know how long it had lasted. The fear that he was going to die had been bad enough, but looking into the eyes of a person who ignored your screams, who seemed to get excited by your pain, was terrifying. The final image that burned into his mind was of the gas mask. He could still smell it, the filthy sweat mingled in with rubber and amyl nitrate.
He was strangled to the point of unconsciousness several times and woke up as T was reviving him with mouth-to-mouth. He didn’t remember the photos being taken, but he remembered the video… The bright light from the phone camera. He’d got them in an email a day later, with a note:
I have these photos locked away. So long as you keep your mouth shut, they’ll stay that way.
T.
And now the police knew, and if the police knew they would follow it up. Did they have the note too? Would they tell his parents, and who else would find out? Joseph put his hands between his thighs and began to sob and rock himself. Blind terror flashed through his body again and he retched, but there was nothing left to come up, just bile. He reached up to wipe his mouth and his fingers caught on the rip in the left knee of his jeans.
He jumped as the hatch opened and the noise at the end of the corridor became clearer. The lads were still shouting, but now from inside their c
ells.
‘You alright, lad?’ came the custody sergeant’s voice. Joseph turned on the bed and looked over, making himself nod. The hatch slammed shut again, and the shouting receded a little. Joseph set to work with his fingers, widening the tear in the knee of his trousers and tearing off a long strip of the material.
* * *
The commotion had died down outside the cells, and all the men in custody were locked up when the custody sergeant did his next check on Joseph Pitkin fifteen minutes later. When he opened the hatch, he couldn’t see where he had gone, as the single bed was empty.
‘Son, you alright?’ he asked, shining the torch over the steel toilet and sink in the far corner. The hatch was high up on the door, so when he saw the piece of material hooked into the tiny joint which made up the hinge of the hatch, he panicked. He reached a hand inside and felt the thin line of taut material and then the top of Joseph Pitkin’s head. ‘Shit! Shit!’ he cried. He ran back down the corridor to the desk, and hit the emergency alarm. It rang out, echoing along the corridor as he grabbed the keys and ran back to the door. Once he had it unlocked, he had to push against the weight of the body against it. His colleague, a female officer in her mid-fifties, came running down to help him as he got the door open, then pulled it back. Joseph hung from the back of the door, a couple of feet off the floor, suspended by his neck with a strip of denim. His face was bright purple, and his eyes were wide open and bloodshot. ‘Get him down, quick, get him down!’ he cried. The female officer had thought to grab a pair of scissors, and she cut the improvised noose. The custody sergeant lay Joseph down and loosened the strip of material. His colleague didn’t say anything as he started to perform CPR, continuing for several minutes, pumping Joseph’s chest and blowing into his mouth at intervals.
Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 7