Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  * * *

  Erika found herself back in Forest Hill, on Foxberry Road. It was late at night, and the road, which was usually busy with rows of parked cars, was empty. Snow was falling, but it felt hot, like she was breathing in steam. She crouched down, and scraped away the snow: there wasn’t tarmac underneath the snow, there were tiles. Lavender bathroom tiles with white grouting. She scraped more of the snow away and saw the road was laid with tiles as far as she could see. The silence was broken by a crunching sound, footsteps on snow. She turned. A tall man dressed in black was walking towards her. He was wearing a gas mask. The slick, shiny leather of the hood reflected the streetlights above. He slowed and stopped a few feet from her. He lifted his head and sniffed the air, the long breathing drum of the gas mask reminding her of a dog’s snout. He seemed to stare around her, but not see her, like she was invisible. She moved closer, so close that she could hear his breathing, and see the reflection of the streetlight on the hood as his head moved. She looked into the glass eyeholes, but couldn’t make out a face, it was a swirl of black. As the vapour streamed out from the breathing drum, she caught a strong chemical smell, intoxicating and metallic…

  * * *

  Erika jolted awake as her mouth and nose hit the cool water. The steam had cleared, and her fingers had started to prune. She got out of the bath, and wrapped a thin towel around her. Standing on the mat, she stared at the shelf above the toilet. The Pears soap and the hair dye… Just after she and Mark had got married, they’d come to visit Edward and Kath, and Mark had gone up to use the bathroom. The rest of them were having tea in the front room, when Mark had come back down holding a small black bottle, with the words RELAX-FUN’ written on it in red.

  ‘Mum, why have you got poppers in the bathroom?’ Mark said. Kath looked up from rearranging Eccles cakes on her best cake plate.

  ‘What’s that, love?’

  ‘You’ve got an open bottle of poppers in the bathroom. I started to get high just having a wee.’

  ‘That’s a room deodoriser,’ said Kath. ‘I got it down the market. It’s for keeping rooms nice and deodorised. Only cost a quid. There were quite a few young lads there. One of them mentioned he was having a party… I suppose he wanted his house to smell nice for his guests. Although, I’m not sure about the smell.’

  Erika had choked on her tea, laughing.

  ‘Mum, this isn’t a room deodoriser. It’s amyl nitrate,’ said Mark.

  ‘What?’ she said, putting on her reading glasses and going over to him. ‘No, look. It says on the label that it’s a room deodoriser.’

  Mark had explained to his mother that people inhaled poppers for the ‘high’ or ‘rush’ that the drug could create.

  ‘Is this true, Erika, love?’ Kath had asked, turning to her.

  Erika had tried to keep a straight face. ‘Yes. It’s classed as a drug, though not illegal… Some people do use it for a high. It’s popular in the gay community, as it relaxes…’

  Mark had shot her a look to make her stop.

  ‘Oh my word, what must they have thought of me?’ Kath had exclaimed, clutching at her chest.

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ said Erika.

  ‘But I told them I was getting it for my husband, for when he visits the bathroom,’ she said in horror.

  * * *

  Erika smiled at the memory, but it then hit her. She rushed downstairs in her towel and grabbed her phone. She called Moss, but it went to her machine.

  ‘Moss, it’s me. I told the team to focus in on the guy in the gas mask, and look for someone who could be a collector of old masks from the war. Go back and look at the statements from all the people who were attacked. Jason said he smelt something weird and metallic, see if any of the other victims mentioned this. Whoever it is could have had the breathing apparatus packed with tissue or cotton soaked in amyl nitrate, for a sexual high. You should also be looking at S&M gear. If you can get a clear idea of the exact design of the mask then you can start working on suppliers… I don’t know how it fits in with Marissa Lewis, but it could unlock who this person is… Anyway… I hope things are going well.’

  Erika hung up her phone, feeling very far away from the investigation.

  Fifty-Two

  Moss sat bleary-eyed at the kitchen table the next morning, eating her cereal. Jacob came in with his guitar and started to play a new song he’d made up. As he strummed at the guitar and started to sing, Moss shouted at him to cut it out. Jacob looked up at her with shock on his little face, and his eyes started to run. She never shouted.

  ‘Mummy’s got a headache this morning. Why don’t you go and put the guitar away, get dressed, and then I’ll make you some hot chocolate,’ said Celia.

  ‘I thought you wanted me to make up a song for you. That’s what you said yesterday, you said for me to make up a song and now I’ve made one up…’

  ‘I just need some peace and quiet this morning,’ snapped Moss. Celia took Jacob out of the kitchen and returned a few minutes later. ‘You don’t want to get him into the habit of having hot chocolate every morning,’ Moss added.

  ‘He’s only having it over Christmas…’ said Celia.

  ‘Yeah, well tomorrow is New Year’s Eve; he’s been having it every morning for the past ten days!’

  ‘Is this really about Jacob having hot chocolate? Or are you taking stuff out on him, and me, because things are bad at work?’

  ‘Things are not bad at work!’ said Moss, getting up and dumping her half-full bowl of cereal in the sink. ‘I just need time to think! You have no idea how complicated this case is… And there’s all this noise here.’

  ‘That’s called having a five-year-old. You made a big deal last night about him writing you a song, when what you were really doing was fobbing him off!’

  Moss’s phone started to ring, and she pulled it out. It was Peterson.

  ‘We’ve tracked down Don Walpole. His wife was taken ill the other day, and he’s been staying at her bedside in hospital. University College London. The ANPR came back with details of his car crossing the congestion charge zone.’

  ‘Good work. Can you get me there?’

  She hung up and left the kitchen. Seconds later, Celia heard the front door slam.

  ‘Charming. She becomes an acting DCI and I’m just the help… No goodbye or kiss on the cheek.’

  ‘I’ll kiss you on the cheek, Mummy,’ said Jacob, appearing at the door, still holding his little guitar.

  * * *

  Moss and Peterson arrived at UCL hospital just after nine. Jeanette Walpole had been admitted to the renal department, and they had to get directions from the front desk.

  ‘Renal is kidneys, yeah?’ said Peterson as they travelled up in the lift.

  Moss nodded. ‘You’ve got everything ready. The paperwork? Spit kit?’

  He nodded, holding up a thick folder. The ‘spit kit’ was shorthand for the Forensic DNA Evidence Collection Kit. ‘You okay?’ he asked, seeing her tense face.

  ‘Had a row with Celia this morning, and I shouted at Jacob for being noisy.’

  ‘I’m liking the noise, having a kid around…’ Peterson got out his phone and swiped through, holding up the screen to Moss. It was a video of Kyle playing on pots and pans. He was crouched on the kitchen floor with a sheet around his shoulders like a superhero cape, and he was banging on a line of upturned pots with a wooden spoon.

  ‘Very tuneful,’ Moss said, her eyes flicking to the digital display. The lift stopped and a porter wheeled in a long metal box, which both she and Peterson knew to contain a dead body. ‘How is it all going?’

  ‘Good, really good. They’re living with me on a temporary basis, until we work out what we’re going to do,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that you want them to stay.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you talk to Erika?’

  ‘I figured she’s got a lot going on with her father-in-law, and I’d rather do it face-to-face, when she’s back.’

&nb
sp; ‘Don’t let it fester. Although, I think she’s the one who’ll be doing the festering.’

  ‘I’ve got another video of Kyle singing,’ said Peterson, swiping through his phone, his face beaming with pride.

  ‘James, later. We need to concentrate.’

  The lift doors opened, and they inched past the long box destined for the morgue. They came to a set of double doors for the renal ward, but they were locked. Moss peered through the glass windows.

  ‘Can’t see anybody. And there’s no buzzer or bell.’ She hammered on the glass with the flat of her hand. ‘Hey… HEY!’

  ‘Jeez, Moss, take it easy,’ said Peterson.

  ‘We could be here for bloody hours.’

  A nurse appeared at the top of the corridor and came towards them.

  ‘Or, we chill out and everything is going to be okay,’ he said.

  She took deep breaths and nodded. ‘I’ll be happier if his DNA is a match. Don Walpole is our man. I can close this case and move back to a happier pay grade.’

  The nurse opened the door and they showed her their warrant cards. She took them to a side room at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Mrs Walpole is in here,’ she said, opening the door. Jeanette was sitting up in bed, hooked up to a dialysis machine. Her skin was bright yellow, and her breathing laboured.

  Don was sitting beside her, and he eyed Moss and Peterson.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can we have a word, please? Best outside,’ said Moss. Don kissed the back of Jeanette’s hand and came outside. Moss and Peterson showed him their warrant cards.

  ‘We’ve been trying to get in contact with you, Mr Walpole,’ said Moss.

  ‘You can see, my wife is very sick.’

  ‘We need to take a DNA swab from you,’ said Peterson. Don looked him up and down.

  ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I have to volunteer my DNA, and I’m not prepared to do that.’

  ‘Mr Walpole. Legally, we are able to take a DNA sample if we have grounds to suspect you have been involved in a crime. Now, we can find a place and do this here, or we can go to the station,’ said Moss.

  Don looked between them.

  ‘I have here a document detailing your rights,’ said Peterson. ‘We can give you time to read it.’

  Don stared through the strip of glass in the window at Jeanette, who now lay back on the bed with her eyes closed. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Peterson saw there was a small kitchen next to Jeanette’s room. They went inside and closed the door. Don sat at a small table. Peterson pulled on a pair of gloves and then took out a plastic tube with a long cotton wool swab.

  ‘I need a sample of your cells from the back of your throat,’ he said. Don opened his mouth and Peterson swabbed the back of his throat and the inside of his cheek. Then he placed it back in the tube and sealed it up.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Moss, handing Don a form to fill in. He scanned down the page and then signed.

  ‘She’s dying,’ he said. ‘Her body is giving up on her.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Moss. ‘We expect the DNA results in the next twenty-four hours.’

  * * *

  The sun was fighting to come out from behind the clouds when they left the hospital.

  ‘I’m going to head over to the lab in Vauxhall with the sample,’ said Peterson.

  ‘Good. I’m going over to speak to Mrs Fryatt. I need to solve the mystery around the earrings. I want to get a DNA sample from Charles Fryatt, too.’

  ‘You want me to swing by Hatton Garden? I have another kit.’

  ‘No. Get that in for testing. I need to ask her a few more questions, I want more than just a suspicious coincidence before we go after her son.’

  Fifty-Three

  There was no answer at Mrs Fryatt’s house. Moss rang the bell several times, and peered in through the window. She came back out onto the pavement and looked up at the large house. The polished windows reflected the grey sky and stared back blankly.

  Moss leaned on the railing and felt a wave of fear and anxiety roll over her. This was not an emotion she was used to. She thought of how she’d left that morning, forgetting to say goodbye to Celia and Jacob. As she took out her phone to call them, it started to ring. She didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Hi, this is Lisa Hawthorne. I’m an advisor at Jobcentre Plus in Forest Hill. One of your police officers asked me to come back to you with details of Joseph Pitkin’s past employment.’

  ‘Oh, yes, but…’

  ‘Sorry for the delay, we’re snowed under here with work. Joseph Pitkin was claiming benefits for the past four years. He’s only been claiming Jobseeker’s Allowance off and on. He’s had four periods of employment. On three occasions, he was working in a pub in Honor Oak Park – seasonal work over December in 2014, 2015 and 2016.’

  ‘I’m sorry, could you call one of my colleagues at…’ said Moss, trying to get her off the phone, but she went on:

  ‘The fourth period of work was for a photographic studio in New Cross, called Camera Obscura. He was there for six weeks during early 2016…’ There was something about the photography link which made Moss listen. She put the phone under her chin and pulled out her notebook and pen. Lisa went on, ‘It’s run by a man called Taro Williams. It’s an old-fashioned photographic portrait studio.’

  ‘Do you know why the job ended?’

  ‘No. Joseph’s records show that this was meant to be a full-time position as a photographic assistant, but after six weeks he unexpectedly quit. Which was odd, as we worked hard to get him into the job, and he was very enthusiastic about it.’

  ‘There was nothing else? No complaint from the employer?’

  ‘No. It’s such a shame Joseph didn’t get the chance to pursue his passion for photography.’

  ‘How well did you know Joseph?’

  ‘I worked on his case, and used to see him twice a week when he signed on, that for three years.’

  ‘I’m afraid to say that Joseph recently took his own life.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, wearily. It sounded like she often heard this kind of news about her claimants. Moss thanked the woman, and came off the phone. She looked back at Mrs Fryatt’s dark house, weighing up her options. New Cross was only a short drive away.

  Fifty-Four

  Taro Williams was a tall, broad man in his late thirties, with a thick wide forehead and large features. He’d inherited Camera Obscura, and the living quarters above it, from his father, who had started the business during the 1960s. It was on Amersham Road, a residential street of large crumbling terraced houses, a few minutes’ walk from New Cross station. In years gone by, these grand four-storey structures had been built by merchants who had found their fortune during the industrial revolution. They’d boasted well-to-do families and quarters for live-in staff. As well as three storeys rising above the street, each house had a large basement. The shop front of Camera Obscura, with a plate glass picture window, was set back from the road, and partly shrouded by a huge hawthorn bush by the front wall.

  The photography shop had functioned for many years as a studio, but over the past few years, with the advent of digital cameras and smartphones, business had slowed. This didn’t worry Taro. He was independently wealthy, and he liked to have time to himself. When it took his fancy, he worked as a wedding photographer. He only opened the shop a couple of times a week to take portraits, mostly of young couples who’d got engaged, and couples with small children who wanted to document their little darlings in an official capacity.

  It depressed him that most of the parents with small children shunned the solid silver-gilt frames he had on offer, and instead wanted their photos printed on cushions or jigsaws, or even worse, baseball caps and mugs.

  Taro was just breaking down the lights and backdrop from a photoshoot that morning. A young Japanese couple had been to have pictures produced for their engagement invitations. It a
lways struck him how tiny the Japanese were. They’d seemed quite intimidated by his huge frame and his serious face, but he’d broken the atmosphere with a joke and a broad smile, which transformed him into a jovial bear of a man. They had both giggled along with him during the shoot, but hadn’t noticed that the smile never quite reached his eyes.

  He was just packing away the last lighting softbox when a short red-haired woman came up the path to the front door. She tried to open it, and when she found it locked she knocked on the glass.

  He strode over and pointed at the sign propped up at the bottom of the window:

  PLEASE RING FOR ASSISTANCE

  His face broke into a smile and he indicated that she should ring. She rolled her eyes and pressed the bell by the door. He smiled and gave her the thumbs up, then unbolted the door.

  ‘Hello, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Moss,’ she said, holding up her warrant card. ‘Can I have a few minutes of your time?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled. He stood to one side and she came through the doorway.

  Fifty-Five

  ‘How can I help you?’ asked Taro, as he invited Moss to sit down in one of the oversized chairs he used for photo shoots. There was a camera on a tripod, a huge sheet of white reflective paper hanging along a square of the wall, and several lights dotted around on stands.

  Moss sat down and pulled out a file from her bag. ‘I’m here to ask a few questions about a former employee of yours. Joseph Pitkin. He worked here for six weeks in early 2016.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’