Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘You look good. I mean, you’ve put a lot of weight back on,’ Erika said, correcting herself. ‘You look like your old self again.’

  ‘I still need to put on a few more pounds,’ he said, opening his jacket and hitching up his trousers. ‘But I’m feeling back to normal.’ He slapped his flat stomach.

  ‘Leave it out, you’re putting us all to shame!’ grinned Crane, slapping his own beer belly.

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ said Moss, grabbing at her ample stomach. ‘I’m just big boned.’

  ‘Okay, okay you lot, let’s focus. I figured that as you’ve only just returned to work, you’d want to stay desk-bound and ease yourself in?’

  Peterson nodded. ‘I’ll need a new login for Holmes; I’m told mine is no longer active, cos I’ve been off for so long.’

  ‘OK. Get Crane to put in a call about your login.’ Erika smiled at him and he smiled back, their eyes locking for a moment. Then he looked away. ‘Moss, I want you with me; James, I want you to work on building us a profile of Marissa Lewis, and work to untangle her life.’

  He nodded and went off, leaving Erika with Moss, who had been watching her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Things seem cool between you, which is… Cool. Where are we going?’

  ‘I want to talk to Marissa’s best friend.’

  Twenty-One

  Erika arranged to meet Sharon-Louise at the Brockley Jack pub, a little way down from the hair salon where she worked – which was still closed on the 27th of December. It was snowing again as they drove through Crofton Park, but the temperature had warmed up a bit, turning it to slush on the road. They passed the train station, a Co-Op and some shops, before seeing the sign for the Goldilocks Hair Salon.

  ‘Why do hair salons always go for pun-tastic names?’ asked Moss, peering in at the garish white-and-gold interior decor as they passed. ‘When I was growing up, I used to go to “Herr Kutz”, but the owner wasn’t German. And during my training at Hendon, there was a “Curl up and Dye”.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘Don’t you have that in Slovakia? Hairdresser names with puns?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The clientele is often working class – nothing wrong with that, of course – but they’re ladies who like to look after themselves. I bet it has lots of regulars who like a gossip, not like a central London stuck-up place.’

  ‘You think this Sharon-Louise likes a gossip?’

  ‘Hairdressers hear everything,’ Moss said. ‘Don’t you end up saying far too much when you get your hair cut? I know I feel obliged to chat.’

  ‘When I get my hair cut, which is not that often, I ask them not to talk to me,’ said Erika.

  ‘I bet you do,’ muttered Moss with a grin.

  Erika only noticed an old lady step off the pavement at the last minute and had to slam on the brakes, throwing them both forward. The car came to a screeching halt, less than a foot from the old lady, who, unfazed, continued to push her battered old shopping bag across the road. She had long grey hair, and for a moment Erika’s heart quickened, thinking it was Elspeth Pitkin, but when the old lady turned she saw she was much older, with the compressed mouth of someone with no teeth.

  ‘Jeez that was close,’ said Moss.

  The old lady reached the pavement on the other side, and stepped up. For a moment Erika saw Joseph, lying in his cell, the noose tight around his neck. His face waxy and swollen. There was a honk from behind.

  ‘You okay?’

  Erika nodded. They pulled into the car park of the Brockley Jack. At just after 10 a.m. it was empty, apart from a couple of cars.

  * * *

  It was quiet and warm inside the pub, apart from an old man sat up at the bar, watching the TV with a pint on the go. A large young girl sat tucked away in a corner booth. She waved, and they went over.

  ‘Hi. I’m Sharon-Louise, but you can call me Sharon,’ she said, getting up and shaking hands with them. She had long, sleek honey-blonde hair with streaks of pink, and wore a wraparound dress with a flower pattern. Her face was round and wide, and she wore a pair of small, round glasses. She had an orange juice on the table.

  ‘You alright for a drink?’ asked Moss.

  ‘Yeah. I could murder some crisps… I don’t mean… Oh shit, not murder.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Moss. ‘What flavour?’

  ‘Tomato sauce or prawn cocktail,’ she said. Erika asked for a juice and Moss went off.

  ‘I didn’t sleep last night, after hearing about Marissa.’ Sharon took out a tissue and lifted up her glasses, dabbing delicately at her eyes.

  Erika took the chair opposite. Moss returned a few minutes later with orange juices and crisps, and took the seat next to Sharon.

  ‘Who told you about Marissa?’ asked Erika.

  ‘My mum got a phone call from someone she knows on Coniston Road… It’s bad enough that I had to say goodbye to her, but I thought I’d see her again one day…’

  She broke down, pulling out a scruffy ball of used tissue, lifting her huge glasses again to dab at her eyes.

  ‘Sorry. It’s just too much to believe… And look, everything is going on as normal. The Christmas decorations are still up, happy music is playing. Makes you think that no one cares… But that’s life.’

  ‘Why did you have to say goodbye to Marissa?’

  Sharon reached forward and tore open the packet of crisps, spreading it out between them so they could share.

  ‘She was going off to America.’

  Erika and Moss exchanged a glance.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow, it was supposed to be.’ Her eyes welled up again and she pulled out the tissue.

  ‘Where in America?’ asked Moss.

  ‘New York.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was sick of it here. The weather. The way things work. “I’ll always be scum,” she used to say. She thought the odds stacked against her, not going to the right school or having money. She had dreams of being the next Dita Von Teese, and the burlesque scene in New York is huge. There’s more opportunity in America. Hard work can actually get you somewhere over there. She wanted a new start.’

  ‘Did she have a work permit?’ asked Erika.

  ‘No, she got a six-month tourist visa. Obviously, she was planning to work there, but gigs are often cash in hand. And she had Ivan.’

  ‘Ivan Stowalski?’

  Sharon nodded.

  ‘What was Ivan going to do?’

  ‘He was going with her. He works in pharmaceuticals, and he’d got a job out there.’

  ‘This is the same Ivan Stowalski who’s married and lives in Coniston Road?’ asked Moss.

  ‘Their marriage was over years ago. Ezra was living a separate life from him.’

  ‘Did Ezra know?’

  ‘He’d managed to keep a lot of it from her, according to Marissa. He’s a bit wet. Spineless. I don’t know how he holds down such a well-paid job managing loads of people, because in his personal life he’s hopeless. They drove up north, late on Christmas Eve, to see Ezra’s parents who now live in the UK. According to Marissa, he was going to tell Ezra when he was there, and then drive back… Well, today.’

  Erika frowned.

  ‘I know. Fucked up, isn’t it?’

  ‘How long was Marissa involved with Ivan?’

  ‘A year. He’d been paying for lots of stuff for her: costumes, props. A lot of money. He got quite obsessed with her, and was needy.’

  ‘How was he needy and obsessed?’ asked Erika.

  ‘He got very jealous about her doing her act. He always wanted to know if any blokes had spoken to her after the shows, and he would go and see her often, and sit on the front row, policing her show… Marissa was going to bin him, and then he told her about the New York thing and she saw it as an opportunity. He paid for everything.’

  ‘What did her mother think?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Mandy. I don’t know if Marissa even told her. T
hey really don’t get on. Didn’t. Mandy’s a mess. She’s never had a proper job, and when Marissa was little she was always shacking up with random guys, getting drunk and doing drugs. Marissa had a pretty horrible childhood. She was taken into care twice, when she was ten and then twelve.’

  ‘Why did Marissa stay living with her as an adult?’

  Sharon shrugged.

  ‘It’s complicated. They had a bond. And they both claimed all the benefits they could. Mandy claims attendance allowance, disabled; Marissa was paid as her carer, and was signing on and getting housing and council tax…’ Sharon furrowed her brow. ‘Shit. I’ve just put Mandy in it.’

  Erika waved it away.

  ‘We’re not investigating benefit fraud. How did they manage that, though? Living under the same roof, mother and daughter?’

  ‘Marissa has her father’s surname. Her mum is Mandy Trent.’

  ‘Yes. Where is Marissa’s father?’

  ‘Long gone, when she was little. He was a builder working on something in the local area.’ Sharon’s eyes started to well up and she pulled out the tissue. ‘I’m going to miss her so much.’

  She had eaten all the crisps, and now was reduced to picking up the crumbs. Moss went to fetch more drinks and crisps, and Erika waited until she was back for Sharon to compose herself.

  ‘What do you know about Joseph Pitkin?’ asked Erika.

  Sharon shook her head dismissively. ‘He’s had life handed to him on a plate, and he’s just a waste of space.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His parents are minted. They sent him to the best schools and he was expelled. He could be anything, and he chooses to be a creepy little loser. He was obsessed with her, showing up at her gigs.’ Sharon shook her head distastefully. ‘Skinny little runt, with a weird mother complex. His mum comes in for a haircut every now and again. Her hair is always filthy and she smells of B.O. She’s not the type of person we like to encourage, but she’s a good tipper.’

  ‘Did Marissa ever ask him to take photos of her?’

  ‘What kind of photos?’

  ‘He was an amateur photographer.’

  ‘Was he now? By that, I take it his parents bought him all the gear. She never mentioned him doing that… Hang on, what do you mean, “was”?’

  Erika told her, without going into too much detail.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Sharon said, shoving more crisps in her mouth. ‘I’m not surprised. They were a weird family, and he always seemed like a messed-up kid. Rumour is that Elspeth breastfed him until he was nine. Marissa used to joke that the only person his mother wanted him to lose his virginity to was her.’

  Moss creased her forehead. ‘The boy killed himself.’

  ‘I know. Very sad, but what? You want me to lie and pretend to be upset? I didn’t like him.’

  ‘What did he do to you?’

  ‘Nothing, but he wouldn’t leave Marissa alone. He was odd and creepy. She told me that a few times she came home late from a gig and he would be waiting to talk to her on her doorstep.’

  ‘Did she ever report him?’

  ‘No. I don’t think she felt… like… threatened. I think he weighed less than she did, which wasn’t much.’

  Erika sat back and ran her hands through her hair. ‘Okay. What do you know about Don Walpole?’

  Sharon sighed. ‘Is this all you want to talk about? The men in her life? This is the year 2017. People screw. She liked him. She had a thing for older guys. Marissa wouldn’t shut up about his big cock, and how he knew how to use it…’ She screwed up her face in disdain.

  ‘Did Marissa sleep with other older men? Random men?’

  ‘Yes. She had no qualms about going into detail. Guys she’d picked up on the train home. Classy. A couple of lads from the Fitzwilliam Estate. Don, Ivan. It was just sex. She only used men for sex. Her friendships were much deeper. I was her only true friend. I knew the real Marissa.’

  ‘And what was the real Marissa?’

  ‘Under all that armour, she was kind. We met at school. I was being bullied and she was the only one who would talk to me.’

  ‘Did she stick up for you?’ asked Moss.

  ‘Yes, and she gave me tips on how to diet and she offered to give me a makeover, so I wouldn’t get bullied. She encouraged me to train as a hairdresser. She also said she would come with me if I got laser eye surgery. You, know, hold my hand and then drive me home from the clinic.’

  ‘Were you planning on getting it done?’

  ‘Yes… Sometime. Although, who will I have to hold my hand now?’

  They gave her a moment to compose herself.

  ‘Was Ivan the only man she was serious about?’

  ‘I told you she wasn’t in love with him! He had money. He could take her places.’

  ‘What about the old lady Marissa cared for?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Elsa Fryatt? That was another case of Marissa landing on her feet. Mrs Fryatt’s son was getting funny about her living on her own, she had a fall or something, and he wanted to pack her off into a home. The compromise was that she got a carer. She turned up her nose at all the official carers, you know, the ones who are screened and trained. Mrs Fryatt put up a note in the café on Brockley High Road, the arty one. She paid fifteen quid an hour! I think she found Marissa interesting. And Marissa would milk it for all it was worth. She got lunch, and they’d go out to garden centres. Mrs Fryatt even insured Marissa on her Porsche. Marissa was going to borrow it for my eye surgery.’

  ‘How many hours a week did she work for Mrs Fryatt?’

  ‘Ten, fifteen. It was a great job. Round the corner. The old girl paid cash.’

  ‘It seems Marissa was quite a complex person,’ said Erika. Sharon stared at her. ‘Sorry I should frame that more as a question than an observation.’

  ‘No. It’s okay. I’m just trying to think of how to comment on that. I don’t think she was complex. She had an effect on people around her. She wasn’t, like, academic, but she was smart, and so beautiful.’

  Sharon burst into tears again, and pulled out a tissue, which she clamped over her face to muffle the sobs. ‘She… She pushed people’s buttons,’ she said, between sobs. ‘But who would want to kill her? She was always honest about who she was. And for that I… I liked her very much. Can I see her body? I’m going to ask Mandy if I can be the one who styles her hair. I don’t want them to make her look like an old lady at the funeral home…’

  * * *

  ‘Bloody hell. What do you make of all that?’ asked Erika when she and Moss were back in the car. They watched as Sharon walked away from them down Crofton Park Road. She had a slow gait, and she was still clutching tissues to her face.

  ‘She told us a lot,’ said Erika. ‘Do you think she told us everything?’

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t seem to hold back. Although, if Marissa used people, what was she using Sharon for?’

  ‘A free haircut?’

  Moss pulled a face. ‘Really? London is full of great hairdressers, and you can easily get a trainee to practise on you. No, there’s got to be something else.’

  Erika’s phone rang.

  ‘Oh, this is McGorry,’ she said, before answering. ‘Yeah?’ She listened for a moment, thanked him and hung up. ‘Ivan Stowalski drove back to London late last night. Alone. Let’s go and find out his side of the story.’

  Twenty-Two

  Ivan Stowalski’s house was on the top end of Coniston Road, close to Crofton Park Road. It was sandwiched in the terrace between a house on the left, which was wrapped in plastic and undergoing renovation, and a house on the right, which was crumbling and in need of renovation.

  There was no answer at the door, but the curtains were all closed. Erika rang again, and a bell echoed loudly through the house.

  ‘The curtains weren’t closed on Christmas Day. In the door-to-door it says that there is a tree in the front room,’ said Erika. Moss peered through the letter box.

  ‘Jesus,’ she coughed. ‘Smell
this.’

  Erika came to the letter box, put her nose to the gap, and recoiled, coughing.

  ‘Shit. That’s gas.’

  They came back to the front gate and looked up at the house. All the windows were closed, and the curtains were drawn. It looked like the edges of the windows in one room were stuffed with blankets. She pulled out her radio, and called in the address for backup. Then she went back to the front door, leant down and shouted through the letter box.

  ‘This is the police. Is anyone in there?’ She coughed. ‘It’s really strong.’

  ‘If the concentration of gas is that strong inside, the whole row of terraces could blow. And so many people are home,’ said Moss, indicating the lights on in many of the surrounding windows.

  Erika nodded. She charged the door, bouncing off it painfully the first time. On the second attempt, it cracked and swung inwards with a crash, and she landed on the carpet in the hallway. The strong smell of gas flooded out, and she covered her nose with her sleeve.

  ‘We need to get the windows and doors open and find the source,’ she said, coming back to the doorway to grab fresh air. Moss took a deep breath, covered her mouth and nose, and they rushed into the house. It was smartly furnished inside, but dark. The curtains were drawn in the living room. Erika pulled them open and saw that the double-glazed sash windows looked strong: they were made of thick wood and were all taped shut. At the bottom, along the sill, the windows were packed with blankets. Erika signalled to Moss, feeling her lungs starting to burst. They ran back out onto the front path. Their eyes were streaming and they gasped and coughed.

  ‘We need… to get the windows and doors open inside,’ said Erika. Moss nodded. They took deep breaths, then charged back inside, going back into the living room.

  Erika picked up a heavy chair by a bookshelf, and Moss looked around the room, finding a pair of scissors on the desk under the window. Her eyes were streaming, and she wiped them with her sleeve, then holding the scissors like a dagger, she stabbed in the corner of one of the double-glazing panes. It took a couple of attempts but she pierced the glass. She then did the same with the other two panes. She stepped back and nodded to Erika, who charged at the windows with the legs of the chair. She bashed all three open. The glass exploded outwards, and fresh air began to flood in.