Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  Sixty-Two

  Moss had barely caught her breath, when she saw the full horror of where she was. There was another, taller cage in one corner of the room, a set of stocks, and table with leather restraints. There were blood stains soaked into the concrete floor. Pornography was pinned up all over the walls: extreme images of nudity and torture. And there was a large-screen TV with rows and rows of DVDs neatly stacked up on a shelf.

  Hung on pegs along the wall were whips and chains, a harness, two full-body latex suits, and at the end was a black gas mask with large glass eye holes and an elongated breathing drum; a series of white squares made it look like a face with teeth.

  Moss froze when she heard footsteps outside the door. A bolt shot back in the door, and it opened.

  Taro stood in the doorway, shaking and white-faced. In one hand, he held a large syringe filled with a dark blue liquid, and in the other he had a pile of black plastic sheeting. He had come to kill her in the neatest and cleanest way possible, but she had complicated things. She was sure he had wanted to poke the syringe though the bars and inject her. It made her think of a terrible film she had seen, about animals being tested on. The way they shrank away from the bars as a needle was poked through and into their skin.

  ‘How did you get out?’ he said. His voice was low and even.

  ‘You can see how I got out,’ she said. He kept his eyes on her and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with one of his feet. He took another step towards her.

  ‘Stay back,’ she said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come here. I was going to stop. I was going to stop and just melt away… Now I have to deal with you. NOW I HAVE TO DEAL WITH YOU!’

  Moss tried not to show her fear. She moved back, putting the cage, lying on its side, between them. He moved closer. She grabbed the top of the cage and tried to slide it towards him as a battering ram, but it didn’t slide smoothly on the floor, inching forward, and she lost her footing and fell forward.

  Instantly he was on her, moving quickly around the cage, and grabbing her from behind. She fought and struggled, and saw him switch the grip on the syringe, so he had it in his fist with his thumb on the plunger. He held it up, preparing to bring it down on her.

  She bent forward and then threw her head back. The back of her skull struck his mouth, shattering his top teeth and breaking his nose. He cried out and staggered back. Moss ran for the door, but it wouldn’t open. She yanked at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

  She turned to see Taro staggering around, blood pouring from his nose. He spat out two of his teeth onto the floor, and looked up at her. His face was now crazed. She looked around for something and she saw a table by the door with a large open padlock, next to a chain. Quick as lightning, she grabbed the padlock, and using everything she had, she hurled it at him, aiming high. Time seemed to slow down and it turned in the air, once, twice, before striking him on the temple. He gave her a look of shock and surprise and then crumpled to the floor, his head hitting the concrete with a nasty crack.

  Moss made for the door again. It was stiff, but she managed to turn the handle and get it open. She came out into a brightly lit hallway, and slammed the door behind her.

  She could see the hallway had old-fashioned wooden panelling, and that she had exited through a secret door. When it was closed, it blended into the wall. There was an old Singer sewing machine table in the hall, covered in books, plants, plus a bowl for keys. Moss dragged it, squealing, across the stone floor, keeping her eye on the door, thinking that it would open. She pulled it across the door, hoping that it would do for now.

  Then she ran for it, down the corridor and into the front of the photographic studio. It was now dark outside and the door was still locked, but she picked up one of the tripods for the photography lights, and with almost hysterical fear, hurled it through the plate glass window. The window exploded outwards. She kicked aside the glass with her foot, climbed through and ran for it, down the path and out into the street.

  Her car was gone, and she didn’t have a phone. She staggered down the street, the adrenalin pumping, feeling the blood pouring from the back of her head. She tried to find a phone box, but there was nothing on the road.

  Moss ran to the end of the road, where it curved around to New Cross station. The road was busy with young teenagers piling out of the station, all dressed up for a night out. The noise was deafening. She pushed her way through the crowds, and saw an old phone box next to the station. She grabbed the receiver and her first impulse was to speak to Celia. She dialled 100, for the operator, and then she asked to make a reverse-charge call.

  Sixty-Three

  Erika was sad to see Isaac leave. He set off back to London late in the day, and she hoped that he wouldn’t hit any more snow storms. She lit a fresh fire in the stove and checked her phone, but there was nothing about Moss. She felt restless, and so far away from everything. She thought back to her visit to the old house. In the past few years, she had thought of London as temporary, a place she was exiled to after what had happened in Manchester, but she realised now that London was now home to her. Life up north was in the past. She no longer belonged here.

  She flicked through the TV channels, but there was nothing she fancied watching. She pulled on her coat, an old hat and a pair of gloves, and set off to the graveyard, which was a short walk across the fields. It was a clear, starry night, and as she climbed the hill, she could see the houses in the village spread out below, their lights glowing in the windows. The moon sailed out from behind the clouds as she reached the entrance to the graveyard, meaning she was able to see as she picked her way through the rows of graves to find Mark’s.

  His headstone was made of polished black granite, and it glittered in the moonlight:

  IN MEMORY OF

  MARK FOSTER

  1ST AUGUST 1970 – 8TH JULY 2014

  LOVED AND REMEMBERED ALWAYS

  Erika took a Jack Daniel’s whisky miniature from her pocket, undid the cap, took a small sip, and then poured the rest into the soil.

  ‘I never thought this was how we’d end up,’ she said. ‘I miss you every day…’ She wiped a tear away with her gloved hand. ‘I’ve told you this so many times before, but I have to live my life, and go on living my life. If it were me, I wouldn’t want you to stay here on earth and be miserable… I’ve decided I’m going to sell the house. I went back today, and it’s not the place I remember any more. It’s not our home. I’m going to buy a new place, and make it my home…’ Erika swallowed back the tears. ‘Because you’re not here, and I can’t carry on living my life with a space beside me that needs to be filled. You’re never going to be forgotten, and I will always love you, but I can’t carry on being half a person.’

  Clouds slid across the moon, plunging her into darkness.

  ‘I sometimes check on Jerome Goodman. I wonder where he is. If he even thinks about all of us. I run his name through the computers at work, but he’s vanished. If I ever got the chance to spend time in a room alone with him… I’d kill him, slowly, for what he did to you, and me, and…’

  A freezing cold chill blew along the path, and she felt the cold seeping into her shoes and gloves, and on the small of her back. ‘I’m going to look after your dad. I’m getting a carer to come in, and I’m going to keep more of an eye on things, and visit more.’ She pressed her fingers to her lips and put them against the gold letters spelling out his name.

  * * *

  When Erika arrived back at the cottage, the fire had died down. She raked the ash in the stove and put another couple of logs on. Just as she closed the stove, her phone rang. It was Melanie.

  ‘Erika, there’s been an incident with Moss,’ she said, without preamble. Erika listened as Melanie explained what had happened with Moss, and that she had been found, barely conscious, in a phone box in New Cross.

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘I hope so. She’s just in the A&E, having a scan. She has bad concussion. We’ve a
rrested a thirty-five-year-old man called Taro Williams, who runs a photography studio in New Cross. Moss had been to talk to him, based on a lead she’d got from the Forest Hill Jobcentre. Apparently, Joseph Pitkin worked as his assistant in early 2016.’

  Erika felt exhilarated, and then frustrated that she wasn’t there. ‘I’m up north; I can’t leave my father-in-law.’

  ‘I know, and please, stay. Everything is in hand here. Williams is a man of means and he has already hired a top-notch solicitor, so we’re going to have to move very carefully and make sure we do everything by the book.’

  ‘Moss should have called in where she was going; she put herself in danger,’ said Erika.

  ‘Are you kidding me? How many times have you put yourself in danger? You’ve been beaten up more times than Jackie Chan. You’re like the bionic woman!’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just delighted we could have this case sewn up so quickly.’

  ‘Pending DNA tests,’ said Erika.

  ‘Of course… Now, take as long as you need with your father-in-law.’

  Erika went to say something else, but Melanie had hung up.

  Erika sat up for a long time, watching the fire burn down through the window of the stove, feeling a long way away from it all.

  Sixty-Four

  It was three o’clock in the morning, but the atmosphere at Lewisham Row station was one of intense excitement. Peterson, McGorry, Crane, and Superintendent Hudson had all been called back to work when the news had come in about Moss. After calling Celia, she’d phoned for police backup, and then, finally, about to lose consciousness, she had phoned Peterson.

  Uniformed officers had sped round to Camera Obscura, where they found Taro Williams in the basement. He had regained consciousness, and after being checked over by a paramedic, he had been arrested and brought to Lewisham Row. His fingerprints and a sample of his DNA had been taken, and rushed over to the lab.

  McGorry and Crane were with Superintendent Hudson in the observation suite at Lewisham Row. They watched as Taro Williams was being questioned by Peterson.

  ‘He’s not saying a word,’ said McGorry, as they stared at the screen showing the live feed.

  ‘He’s a big bastard, isn’t he?’ said Crane.

  ‘A big hairy bastard. His eyes creeped me out,’ said McGorry. ‘When they brought him in and booked him, took his fingerprints and DNA, he was completely impassive. Like none of it bothered him.’

  On the screen, Peterson asked Taro to confirm that he was the owner of Camera Obscura and the building, and if he worked full-time as a photographer.

  Taro leaned forward amiably. ‘Yes. I inherited the business from my father when he died twelve years ago,’ he said. His voice was soft and he was well-spoken.

  Superintendent Hudson’s phone rang.

  ‘This is forensics,’ she said. The guys watched as she answered the phone, and McGorry crossed his fingers.

  ‘It’s a match! The DNA sample taken from blood on the broken glass at the office block doors in West Norwood matches the sample we took from him in the custody suite. We’ve got him!’ cried Melanie. They punched the air with their fists.

  ‘What a sicko,’ said McGorry.

  ‘It’s enough to charge him for all six of the sexual assaults, and the murder of Marissa Lewis?’ asked Crane.

  ‘Yes, especially the murder of Marissa. I don’t want him back out on the streets. He has no record, and I don’t want to give his slimy solicitor the opportunity to wangle him bail by not making a murder charge,’ said Melanie. She leaned over to the microphone. ‘Peterson, I need you to suspend the interview for a sec. We have the DNA results back.’

  Peterson came out. Melanie gave him the results and the go-ahead to charge Taro Williams.

  They watched from the observation suite as Peterson went back in and formally arrested Williams for the sexual assault of Rachel Elder, Kelvin Price, Jenny Thorndike, Diana Crow and Jason Bates, and the murder of Marissa Lewis.

  Taro remained impassive, going so far as to pick a speck of lint from his jacket as the charges were read out. He then looked up at the camera, and the officers in the observation suite felt a chill run through them. It was as if he could see them. He smiled. It was a broad toothy grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  Sixty-Five

  Erika stayed up north for two weeks. In between visiting Edward every day, she had had a stair lift put into his cottage. She’d also done some decorating, and registered all his utilities online so that she could check that his bills were being paid.

  During one of the last hospital visits, before he was due to be discharged, Edward had been enthusiastic about these ideas and changes. That is until she told him she had hired a carer to come in and visit him three times a week.

  ‘I’m not having some stranger let themselves in to wipe my backside!’ he’d said. By now he was sitting up in bed, and well on the road to recovery.

  ‘Edward. It won’t be like that. She’ll be there to help with whatever you need doing.’

  ‘She?’ he’d said, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘Do you want a bloke?’

  ‘Good Lord, no.’

  ‘She’ll help with the washing, cleaning, making a meal, or she can ring up about something, like a doctor’s appointment. She’ll be company. I promise you there will be no backsides being wiped.’

  ‘I’m too young for a carer!’

  ‘Okay. How about we call her your PA?’

  He’d laughed. ‘Who is she? I can’t have a Tory in the house. And I don’t want some youngster, glued to their mobile phone the whole time.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And I want a northerner. I don’t mind southerners, but having one in the house three times a week would be too much.’

  ‘She’s sort of a northerner... North Slovakia. Her name’s Lydia. She’s twenty-five, speaks excellent English and she’s been caring, sorry, working part-time as a PA, for a lady in the next village.’

  ‘Do you have a photo of her?’

  ‘No. You’ll meet her when you come home, which I hope, is tomorrow.’

  Edward was discharged from hospital the next day, and Erika was waiting at home with Lydia. He liked her, and they instantly struck up a rapport, and Erika felt like the last piece in the puzzle had been slotted into place.

  Erika spent the rest of the day and the next with Edward. On Sunday January 14th, she left to drive back to London. He came to the taxi with her, now walking with the aid of one stick, and they hugged.

  ‘Now, you’ll keep doing your exercises,’ said Erika.

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘And keep eating well. Lydia is bringing over goulash tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘And use the stair lift. No showing off to her that you can climb them on your own.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ve told Lydia to make sure you keep those compression stockings on for another two weeks. They prevent…’

  ‘Yes, blood clots,’ he said, lifting up the bottom of his trousers to show the green support stockings. ‘And you won’t be a stranger?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said.

  Erika felt she was going to cry, so she hugged him again, and got into the taxi. The journey down to London by train was smooth and fast. The snow had all melted, and despite having been busy for the past two and a half weeks, she felt rested. The break had done her good.

  When she got into the flat, it was freezing cold and there was a huge pile of post on the mat.

  * * *

  The next morning, she woke early and drove into work at Lewisham Row. She went through the reception, and greeted Desk Sergeant Woolf, a large, red-faced officer who was a few weeks away from retirement.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ she said.

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re a bit late,’ he replied. ‘New Year seems in the mists of time. There’s already Easter Eggs in the shops!’

  Erika
grabbed some coffee and went up to her office on the fourth floor, starting to work through all the post and emails which had banked up over the past couple of weeks. Around mid-morning, there was a knock on her door, and Superintendent Hudson poked her head around.

  ‘Alright stranger, welcome back. How’s the father-in-law?’

  ‘Well on the way to recovery… I’m just catching up on everything,’ she replied, indicating a pile of folders on the desk beside her.

  ‘I sent you an email yesterday, and I didn’t want it to get lost amongst everything else in your inbox. We’ve been putting together the evidence and casefiles to go over to the CPS and defence team involved in the Taro Williams case. We’ve got the official DNA match, linking him to two of the attacks, with enough circumstantial evidence to implicate him in the other attacks. The CCTV footage will be submitted along with a statement from Mrs Fryatt with regards to the murder of Marissa Lewis.’

  ‘Statement from Mrs Fryatt?’

  ‘Yes, she’s gone on record to say that Taro Williams attacked Marissa a few weeks before he killed her.’

  ‘Surely that’s a bit vague, she said that Marissa said…’

  ‘The case is a slam dunk. We have him on CCTV following Marissa into her front garden. I want you to check through everything and submit your report before we sign off. Moss and Peterson have been working on it whilst you’ve been away, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Are you confident of a conviction for Marissa’s murder?’

  ‘Confident as you can be with CCTV evidence, a DNA sample, a past history of violence... You’re not going to tell me that you think there’s a copycat killer out there?’