Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  She laughed. ‘No, I make myself sound more glamorous than I am. I have a cleaner who comes in every day for a few hours; she also cooks me a meal. There is a gardener who doubles as a handy man. Charles is in a lot. Marissa was in charge of washing my clothes and helping me with shopping and all the other personal things.’

  ‘How long did she work for you?’

  ‘Just over a year. I had advertised in the local café, as well as on the internet – well, Charles, he did all that. I wanted someone who lived locally.’

  ‘Were you aware that Marissa also worked as a burlesque dancer?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Of course. I went to see her perform on several occasions.’

  ‘In the strip clubs?’ asked Moss.

  Mrs Fryatt turned her attention onto Moss, almost for the first time.

  ‘Strip clubs!? I have never been to a strip club. I saw Marissa perform at the Café De Paris just off Leicester Square, and she had a regular weekly show in Soho – I forget the name of the club, but it was smaller, and much more fun… Stripping it was not. Burlesque is an art form, and she was very good at it…’ She bit her lip and looked as if she was about to break down again. ‘I’m sorry. She was just so vital. She made things so much fun here.’

  ‘Can I ask how much Marissa earned in your employment?’

  ‘I don’t talk about money,’ she said, turning up her nose at the thought. ‘I paid her very well, and she worked three or four hours every day during the week.’

  ‘Mrs Fryatt, I’m trying to place your accent,’ said Erika.

  ‘Are you now…’

  Erika paused, and when Mrs Fryatt wasn’t forthcoming, she went on, ‘Can I ask where you’re from?’

  ‘I’m originally from Austria. How is that relevant?’

  Erika looked surprised.

  ‘It’s not. I just detected something there. I’m from Slovakia.’

  ‘Yes, I wondered about you, too, but you flatten your vowels. You say “ask” instead of “aaask”.’

  ‘I learnt English in Manchester, where I lived when I first came to the UK.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Fryatt replied. She tipped her head to one side and gave Erika a chilly smile.

  ‘So where did you learn your… charm… with the English language?’ asked Erika icily.

  ‘My family came to England when the war broke out; my father was a diplomat.’

  Charles came loping back into the room with a large tray covered in an elegant china tea set: cups, saucers and a milk jug and sugar bowl. Mrs Fryatt eyed him as he struggled with where to put the tray, balancing it on his knee, but she didn’t help him move the piles of books and magazines on the table. Then the cups and the cafetière of coffee started to slide. Luckily, Moss leapt up and took the tray from him.

  ‘Christ! Put the tray down first, and then move things,’ Mrs Fryatt snapped. ‘Men are incapable of thinking more than one step ahead…’

  Charles eyed her murderously, scooping up a pile of books and magazines to make space for the tray.

  ‘Charles is an expert jeweller, with an encyclopaedic knowledge of gemstones, precious metals and antique jewellery, but he is hopeless at everyday tasks.’

  Charles took the tray and set it down on the table.

  ‘There we are, mother.’ He sloped off out of the room and Mrs Fryatt sat forward and poured them coffee.

  ‘He doesn’t know what to do with himself when the shop is shut.’

  ‘Shop?’ asked Erika.

  ‘He’s a jeweller, in Hatton Garden,’ she said, proudly. ‘Married a lovely Jewish girl and they inherited the shop. Of course, he’s become the linchpin. His knowledge is so broad. He’s become accepted in that community, and it’s tough, if you know what I mean.’

  They sat back and sipped their coffee.

  ‘Do you have any suspects?’ Mrs Fryatt asked.

  ‘We’ve found that Marissa lived quite a colourful life. Did she tell you much about her private life?’

  ‘Not a great deal. I got the impression she was professional. She seemed to be getting lots of acclaim for her burlesque work, and she wanted to go places. I met a few of the girls she danced with. They seemed to have great camaraderie. I wasn’t too impressed with this – what was her name? – dreadful, lumpen creature she was, with thick glasses. She had one of those situation comedy names…’

  ‘Sharon,’ said Moss.

  ‘Yes. That was her. Marissa said she was a bit of a pain, always hanging around. She said this Sharon was constantly pestering her to be the “face” of the hairdresser she runs on the high street…’ Mrs Fryatt pulled a face.

  ‘I take it you’re not a client?’ asked Erika.

  ‘No, I am not. I go to Charles and Charles in Chelsea and it’s worth every penny to travel that far.’

  ‘So you didn’t get the impression Marissa had any enemies?’ asked Moss.

  ‘Well, as much as I knew her. Don’t forget dear, she was… Well, I know it’s not a fashionable way of putting it any more, but she was the help. I thought she was a lovely girl, but the chasm of our age difference and our social difference meant we weren’t on intimate terms. Well, I wasn’t; she seemed to have no qualms in telling me all about her awful mother, however. Alcoholic, obese, and a nasty piece of work by all regards.’

  Mrs Fryatt leant forward and offered them a top up, which Erika accepted.

  ‘Marissa did recount something to me, which was upsetting… This was a few weeks ago. She was coming home from a gig, and left the train at Crofton Park station. It was late and rather dark. When she passed the cemetery, she was approached by a very tall man wearing a gas mask.’

  Erika put her cup down.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, she was walking back late from the station on her own – which was madness in my mind – and he appeared out from the cemetery, and pulled her into the shadows by the tall iron gates. Luckily, she fought him off and got free.’

  Erika and Moss exchanged a glance.

  ‘Did she tell the police?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was almost flippant about it, chalking it up as another crazy creep. But it seems more serious than that. I’ve seen the news reports. The man in a gas mask, attacking people late at night on their way home from the train stations. He attacked a woman and a young man a few weeks back, and then there was that poor woman on Christmas night. Have you any idea who it can be?’

  Erika ignored the question. She thought back to the conversation that morning with the two officers at the station. The case suddenly moved from her peripheral vision, and it had her full attention.

  ‘Do you know exactly when and where this was?’ asked Erika.

  ‘I don’t know the exact date, perhaps early November. She told me she’d got the last train home, so the station was quiet. It was after midnight. She walked home from Crofton Park station, and just by the entrance to the cemetery on Brockley Road a tall, dark figure appeared from nowhere. He was dressed all in black – a long black coat, black gloves – and he wore a gas mask. Terrifying, it was, she said. He tried to pull her into the cemetery.’

  ‘Did he assault her?’ asked Moss.

  ‘Yes. He tried to, but she managed to escape. A car came along, and the headlights scared him off. She ran for it, all the way home. She was very, very lucky, but that was Marissa. I always thought she had a guardian angel,’ said Mrs Fryatt. ‘Well,’ she added, her face clouding over. ‘Until now.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Erika and Moss grabbed some lunch on the way back to the station. It had been a morning of revelations: Sharon telling them that Marissa had planned to leave the country, Ivan’s suicide attempt, Marissa blackmailing Don, and now Mrs Fryatt saying that Marissa was attacked by a man in a gas mask.

  Along with all of these thoughts and questions running through her mind, Erika could feel a headache looming ominously at the back of her head. When they arrived back at Lewisham Row, they went down to the incident room. A large poster of Marissa Lewis in her
burlesque gear had been added to the whiteboard. McGorry, Peterson and a couple of other male officers were grouped in front of it next to the desk.

  ‘I really fancy some of that,’ Peterson was saying.

  ‘What’s going on?’ snapped Erika, feeling anger rise in her. Peterson went to speak, but she cut him off: ‘I get that Marissa was a sexy burlesque dancer, but she’s a murder victim. Do you all need to hang around photos of her dressed provocatively in her underwear?’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘The reason that’s up there is because the poster shows the brand name on her costume, and the embroidery work which has been added,’ said Peterson. ‘You see the pink corset with the embroidered diamond?’

  ‘Yes. I’m aware of that. Her stage name was Honey Diamond,’ said Erika. The bright lights in the incident room had sharpened the dull thumping at the back of her head.

  ‘We’ve been in touch with the shop where the costume was bought. It’s called Stand Up and Tease, and based in Soho. I found out they also offer an alteration and embroidery service, and they’ve given us the name of the man who did this embroidery work on her costumes…’

  ‘Okay, so why are you standing around making comments?’

  ‘We’re standing around because lunch just arrived,’ said McGorry, indicating a box of Pret sandwiches on the table in front of the whiteboard.

  ‘I was just saying I really fancy some of that cheese and pickle,’ said Peterson. He stared at her. The other officers looked away, and Moss looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Okay. Good work. I’d like a print-out of all the shows Marissa has been performing in over the past month. And send me the contact for this person who does the customisation of the costumes.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Moss, can you fill everyone in on what happened this morning, and update the whiteboard?’

  ‘Sure thing, Boss.’

  Erika left the incident room. Moss reached over and grabbed a sandwich.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ asked McGorry.

  ‘It’s been an eventful morning,’ she said.

  ‘No need to take it out on us,’ said Peterson. Moss gave him a look and then she started to tell them what had happened.

  * * *

  Erika left the incident room feeling foolish. She saw how the other officers had looked at her while she ticked Peterson off. Did they know the two of them used to be together?

  She stopped at the coffee machine, seeing it was now fixed, and grabbed herself an espresso. She thought of Peterson being back, and how they would have to work together. He was a good officer, and a valuable part of the team, but if it was going to be like this, perhaps she would have to have him reassigned.

  ‘You should never shit where you eat, stupid idiot,’ she muttered as she waited for the machine to fill her cup. She took the stairs up to her office. Sitting at her desk, she booted her computer up and logged into Holmes. She input the phrase ‘gas mask attack’ and a list of results came up.

  In the past three months, there had been four cases – two women and two men – assaulted by a large male wearing a gas mask. The assaults had all taken place around train stations late at night or early in the morning. The first victim was a twenty-year-old woman called Rachel Elder, who had been walking to Gipsy Hill station to work as a nurse at Lewisham Hospital. She was pulled into an alleyway, where a male exposed himself and then grabbed her by the throat. The attack went on for a long time, as she was asphyxiated to the point of passing out, then allowed to breathe for a moment, before being asphyxiated again. She reported passing out, and when she came back to consciousness the attacker was gone.

  The second incident happened close to East Dulwich station. This time the victim was a Kelvin Price aged twenty-three – an actor who was appearing in a West End play. He’d been for drinks after work and got the last train home. Just after midnight he had been pulled into an alleyway close to the station by a man wearing a long flowing black coat and a gas mask with glass eye holes. Again, he had been asphyxiated to the point of unconsciousness several times. He said that the man had been masturbating, and had exposed himself.

  ‘Oh my god,’ said Erika as she read the words on the screen. The third attack happened to a Jenny Thorndike, close to Penge East station. She had been walking to get the train early one morning, when a person in black wearing a gas mask had ‘appeared from nowhere’. She’d attempted to fight him off, but he’d punched her in the face and pulled her into a small area of parkland close to the station, where she was badly beaten and asphyxiated.

  The most recently reported case had occurred on Christmas Day in Sydenham. A woman in her late fifties called Diana Crow had been returning home from her friend’s house, when she was grabbed in the railway underpass next to the train station. Again, she was asphyxiated and had been punched in the face, resulting in a fractured cheek. She hadn’t, however, reported the incident until the following day.

  ‘Marissa, you had a lucky escape, but why didn’t you report it?’ said Erika, taking a sip of her espresso. She found the name of the SIO on the gas mask attacker case, DCI Peter Farley, and sent him an email, asking for the case file, and informing him that they could have a crossover with their cases. Her inbox beeped with a new email:

  Hi Erika, the Cyber Crime Unit recovered this deleted image file from Joseph Pitkin’s phone.

  KAY

  Erika opened the attachment.

  I have these photos and the video file locked away.

  So long as you keep your mouth shut, they’ll stay that way. T.

  ‘Jesus…’ she said, sitting back. It was an eerie drawing, done with what looked like a black biro on yellowing paper.

  There was a knock at her door, which made her jump.

  ‘What?’

  It was Peterson. He poked his head round the door.

  ‘Is this a good time?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just had Isaac Strong on the phone. He’s completed the post-mortem on Marissa Lewis. Wants to know if you’ve got time to meet him?’

  ‘Okay, thanks. I can call him back,’ she said, rubbing her temples.

  Peterson came into the office and closed the door.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ he asked.

  ‘Another image recovered from Joseph Pitkin’s phone. He’d deleted it, along with the pornographic photos and video.’

  ‘A gas mask? You think it’s this guy’s signature, to send notes with a drawing?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just got the bloody thing. I need you to circulate this to the guys downstairs, get it up on the whiteboards. See if any of the other victims received anything like this, either through the post or via email. Also see if we can match this gas mask drawing with any of the e-fits from the victims.’

  ‘Yes…’ Peterson looked awkward. ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘I’ve got one minute,’ she said, picking up her coat off the back of the chair. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Work-related?’

  ‘Erm, well…’

  ‘Can it wait? Can we catch up when I’m back?’

  He nodded. Erika grabbed her phone and car keys and left.

  Peterson came back down the stairs and met Moss at the coffee machine.

  ‘That was quick. How did she take it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘She went off to the morgue. I didn’t get the chance to tell her.’

  ‘James! You need to let her know.’

  ‘I know I do. It’s just bloody hard when we’re in the middle of a case.’

  ‘You need to grow a pair, and make time,’ Moss said, sipping her coffee and heading back into the incident room.

  Twenty-Eight

  The car park was busy when Erika arrived at Lewisham Hospital, and she had to wait to take a ticket before the barriers would let her enter. She got lost, twice taking a wrong turn, and she had to ask a hospital porter where
the parking was for the morgue. Finally, she found it and parked the car next to a short, squat building, with a huge chimney pumping out black smoke into the grey sky.

  She had to sign in at a front desk, then she passed a doorway to the hospital incinerator, before finding the morgue at the end of a long corridor, where Isaac buzzed her in.

  ‘You found us,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it’s not as easy as it was in Penge…’

  ‘And we have to pay for the privilege of coming to work.’

  Isaac took her into the large post-mortem room, and she blinked at the bright lights. Six steel post-mortem tables lay in a row, with steel guttering.

  ‘Keep your coat on if I were you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a fleece on under my medical scrubs… Sorry that this has taken longer than I would have liked.’

  Marissa’s body lay on the first post-mortem table. She was covered to the neck with a white sheet. Isaac pulled it back. Her skin had a sallow yellow appearance. A long line of coarse stitches ran from her navel, spreading out in a Y shape between her breasts and across her sternum. Her body was washed clean of blood, and the repeated slashes across her throat made Erika think of fish gills. Her eyes moved down.

  ‘She has a diamond tattoo just above her knicker line,’ she said, pointing above the slim line of pubic hair. ‘It’s also embroidered on all of her clothes – the clothes she wore to perform.’

  Isaac nodded. ‘She had a small amount of alcohol in her blood when she died, but this should be expected if she was out partying on Christmas Eve. There were no other drugs, illegal or legal, in her bloodstream.’

  Erika looked back at the scar running along Marissa’s sternum, and then at her face, which, scrubbed of make-up, was so youthful. She didn’t look much more than a child herself. Erika took a deep breath and felt her headache come hammering to the front of her skull. She felt strange, as if she was being pressed down and lifted up at the same time.

  ‘She was healthy. All organs in good health.’ Isaac moved to her head. ‘The blade used was about eight inches. There are three long slits in the throat, one of which severed the main arteries. Which meant she bled out very quickly. The top of the knife had a serrated edge. Some older knives for paring fruit have this feature on the blade.’