‘Now I’m going to read to you,’ said Simone, reaching behind the plastic chair and rummaging in her bag for the local newspaper.
She started with the horoscopes – she knew from the medical notes Mary was a Leo – and then she read out her own. Simone was a Libra. She then turned to the front page and read out the story about the doctor from South London who had been found strangled in his bed. When she’d finished, Simone put the newspaper down on her lap.
‘Mary, I’ve never been able to understand men. I never know what my husband, Stan, is thinking… Stan, it’s short for Stanley. He’s like a closed book. It makes me feel lonely. I’m glad I’ve got you… You understand me, don’t you?’
Mary carried on sleeping. She was far away, back in the sunny park, sitting on the blanket with George, the man who had broken her heart.
12
Erika, Moss and Peterson arrived back at Lewisham Row station just before 6 p.m., and they regrouped in the incident room.
‘So, Gregory Munro seems to elude us,’ said Erika, addressing her officers in front of the whiteboards. ‘His mother thinks he’s a saint; his wife paints him as sexually confused, and tightly wound. We visited his medical practice and ran into two of his patients, who have vastly different opinions of his bedside manner… I also spent half an hour on the phone with his practice manager who, after hearing her boss was dead, went off to Brighton for the day for some bar-hopping in the sun. She’s worked for him for fifteen years, and she had no knowledge of his impending divorce, or that his wife left him three months ago.’
‘He compartmentalises his life, then?’ said Crane.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Erika. ‘We’ve requested details of any feedback or complaints made against him by patients. The practice manager wasn’t too keen, but I mentioned a warrant and she changed her tune. She should have it sent over by tomorrow morning at the latest.’
Erika turned and regarded a new addition to the whiteboard. A mugshot of Gary Wilmslow. In the photo he had a little more hair on his head, and stared into the camera with a glowering face and bags under his eyes.
‘So, the closest we’ve got to a suspect so far is the victim’s brother-in-law, Gary Wilmslow. There’s a motive: he hated Gregory and they’d had several run-ins. And his sister will inherit Gregory’s considerable estate. As a family, Gary, Penny and their mother seem as thick as thieves, if you excuse the pun. What have we got on Gary?’
The atmosphere in the incident room changed as Detective Chief Superintendent Marsh entered. Officers sat up straighter and looked more alert. Marsh perched on the long table of printers and indicated to Erika that she should keep going.
Crane stood up. ‘Okay, Gary Wilmslow, aged thirty-seven. Born in Shirley, South London. Currently works sixteen hours part-time as a bouncer at a nightclub in Peckham… Just enough hours for him to still claim benefits. He’s a charming individual, with a record as thick as a Miss Universe contestant,’ he said, dryly. He put his biro between his teeth and rooted around on his desk, locating a large file, which he opened. ‘Wilmslow was tried as a juvenile in 1993, for an attack on an old man at a bus stop on Neasden High Street. The old man was in a coma for three days but recovered to give evidence. Gary spent three years in Feltham Young Offender Institution for that one. Then in 1999 he was tried and found guilty of GBH and ABH, spent eighteen months inside. Did another two years from 2004 to 2006 for dealing drugs.’ Crane was flicking through pages in the thick file. ‘He got another eighteen months in 2006 for attacking a man in a snooker hall in Sydenham with a pool cue. He was charged with rape in 2008, but the charges were dropped due to insufficient evidence. He was then tried for manslaughter last year.’
‘That was whilst he was working as a bouncer?’ asked Erika.
‘Yeah, he works at the H20 nightclub in Peckham, or Haitch Twenty, as it’s known – and hated – by uniform division at the weekends. Gary Wilmslow’s barrister argued that he was acting in self-defence, and he was given a two-year sentence. He got out after one year and is currently on licence… What’s interesting is that his barrister was paid for by none other than Gregory Munro.’
Erika went back to the whiteboard and looked at Gary’s photo. The officers leaned back in chairs and there was a silence as they chewed it over.
‘Okay. So Gary Wilmslow’s a scumbag. He’s got a record as long as a crocodile’s arse, but did he do this?’ asked Erika, tapping the crime scene photos of Gregory Munro lying dead on his bed, arms bound to the headboard, his head misshapen through the plastic bag.
‘Gary Wilmslow’s also given us an alibi,’ said Crane.
‘He’s taking the piss with that alibi: they all stayed in watching TV!’ said Peterson, barely disguising his hatred.
‘Okay, but remember he’s out on licence and Penny is very protective. Please let’s not jump to conclusions,’ said Erika.
‘Boss! Look at his record, he’s more than capable. I say we bring him in.’
‘I hear you, Peterson, but this murder was planned very carefully and executed with real skill, leaving virtually no forensic evidence. Gary Wilmslow is an angry little thug.’ Erika took the file from Crane and flicked through. ‘All of these crimes were spur of the moment – violent, impetuous outbursts of anger.’
‘The motive of inheriting Gregory’s money is very strong,’ said Peterson. ‘Three London properties, a medical practice. Have we looked into life insurance? Gregory Munro would most probably have damn good coverage. And then there was the personal hatred towards him. The means of entry could have been staged,’ said Peterson.
‘Okay, I hear you,’ said Erika. ‘But we need more evidence if we are going to bring him in.’
DC Warren stood up.
‘Yes. What have you got?’ asked Erika.
‘Boss. We’ve had more stuff back from the lab. Four fibres have been lifted from the fence wire at the bottom of the garden; they are all from a piece of black clothing, a cotton Lycra mix. There’s been no luck with lifting any bodily fluids, though.’
‘What about behind the house? The railway line?’
‘Um, there’s a nature reserve,’ Warren stuttered, unnerved by Marsh’s silent presence watching from the back of the incident room. ‘It’s small, but it was created seven years ago by some local residents. It runs a quarter of a mile along the train tracks in the London-bound direction and then stops at Honor Oak Road before the train station… I’ve already requested CCTV from South West Trains on the night of the murder.’
‘How far does the nature reserve go in the other direction?’ asked Erika.
‘A hundred yards past Gregory Munro’s house, and it’s a dead end. I’ve requested CCTV from the surrounding streets, although regular surveillance has been withdrawn from several of the cameras in the area.’
‘Let me guess, austerity cuts?’ asked Erika.
DC Warren again stuttered his response. ‘Umm, I’m not sure of the exact reason…’
‘I can’t comprehend how the idiots in government think that getting rid of CCTV cameras is somehow helping to save money…’ started Erika.
Marsh interrupted. ‘DCI Foster, this is something that’s happening all over London. There just aren’t the resources to man the thousands of CCTV cameras across the capital.’
‘Yes, and these same CCTV cameras were down eighteen months ago when we were trying to track down a killer. It would have saved thousands of hours of police time and resources if we’d had access to the images on just one camera…’
‘I hear you, but this isn’t the forum,’ said Marsh. ‘Now, I think you should continue.’
There was an awkward pause. Officers looked at the floor. Then Erika went on, ‘Okay. Pull all the CCTV you can. See if there were any suspicious-looking characters hanging around. Anything: height, weight… If he arrived by train, bike, bus, car…’
‘Yes, boss,’ said DC Warren.
‘How are we doing with the door-to-door, and pulling the bank and ph
one records of the victim?’ asked Erika.
DC Singh stood up. ‘Lots of people on Laurel Road are away on holiday, and plenty more were out on the night of the murder. With this weather, people have been going to parks and pubs after work, staying out late. Also, Gregory Munro’s neighbours on either side are on holiday until the weekend.’
‘So you’re saying no one saw anything?’ snapped Erika, impatiently.
‘Erm, no…’
‘Bloody hell. What else?’
‘Gregory Munro had an annual salary of £200,000. This is partly due to him running one of the largest and most profitable GP surgeries in the south of England. No debt, apart from an eighty grand mortgage on the main residence in Laurel Road. He also owns a house in New Cross Gate, which he rents out to students, and the house in Shirley, where Penny Munro now lives. Phone records are fairly straightforward, nothing unusual. He did phone his wife three days before he was due to go away, as she stated. And all his records check out. He was flying to Nice to attend a conference with the BMA.’
‘Was he a member of any gay sites or apps?’
‘He did download the Grindr app a month ago. It was found on his phone, but he didn’t complete the profile.’
‘What about a solicitor? Who’s dealing with the divorce?’
‘I’ve left him several messages today. But he hasn’t got back yet.’
‘Okay, keep on him.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Singh, sitting back down, looking despondent.
The officers watched Erika as she paced up and down in front of the whiteboards.
‘It’s Gary Wilmslow, boss. I think we should bite the bullet. Bring the scumbag in,’ said Peterson.
‘No. It’s not enough right now that’s he’s a scumbag.’
‘Boss!’
‘No, Peterson. If and when we bring him in, I want to be sure and I want evidence to back it up, okay?’
Peterson sat back, shaking his head.
‘You can shake your head all you want. Don’t let your personal feelings cloud your judgement. When the time is right, if it’s right, then we’ll get him. Okay?’
Peterson nodded.
‘Good. Now, has anyone else got anything for me?’
There was silence. Erika checked her watch.
‘Okay… Let’s refocus this on Gary Wilmslow, with an open mind. Someone check out his employer, and do some digging. Work your contacts.’
The incident room burst into chatter and Marsh came over. ‘Erika, have you got time for a chat when you’re done?’
‘Yeah, I think we’ll be a few more hours, sir.’
‘No worries, give me a shout when you’re done and we can grab a coffee,’ said Marsh, moving off to the door.
‘You want to buy me two coffees in one day?’ muttered Erika suspiciously to herself. ‘What’s that all about?’.
13
To Erika’s surprise, Marsh took her to a frozen yoghurt bar down the road from Lewisham Row station. It had just opened a few days before and it was busy.
‘I promised Marcie I would try this place out,’ said Marsh, as they joined the queue in the garish neon pink-and-yellow interior.
‘Is this to cheer me up? Or are you demonstrating that police budgets aren’t all about austerity?’ asked Erika.
‘My office is at the top of the building. I needed to cool off,’ he said. They reached a young girl in front of a humming yoghurt dispenser and Marsh ordered them each a large. They were handed a paper cup of yoghurt each and moved along to a self-service bar with an array of small dishes containing sweets, fruit and chocolate. Erika watched Marsh as he seriously contemplated the selection and then opted for Gummi Bears. She suppressed a grin, and chose fresh fruit.
‘So, how are you settling in to your new flat?’ asked Marsh once they had found a spot amongst the busy chatter, perched on high stools by a large picture window. Traffic crawled past as the heat shimmered off the melting tarmac. Across the street commuters poured out of the train station.
‘I’ve been there for six months. It’s quiet, which I like,’ replied Erika, spooning the cold yoghurt into her mouth.
‘You’re not thinking of buying in London?’ asked Marsh.
‘I don’t know. I’m starting to feel settled here, and in the job, but prices are crazy. Even a shit-hole round here costs a few hundred grand.’
‘You’re throwing your money away renting, and prices are only going to keep rising, Erika. If you’re going to do it, do it soon. You’ve got your old place up in Manchester, chuck out your tenants and sell it. Get yourself on the property ladder down here.’
‘Are you doling out real estate advice too now, sir?’ grinned Erika.
Marsh didn’t laugh. He shovelled in another spoonful of yoghurt. The multi-coloured Gummi Bears in the cup glistened in the sunlight.
‘I want you to steer clear of Gary Wilmslow,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject.
Erika was surprised. ‘You were there in the incident room, sir. I’m not going to go after him until I have enough evidence.’
‘I’m telling you not to go after him. At all. He is off-limits.’ Marsh tilted his head down and looked at her over the top of his sunglasses.
‘Can I ask why, sir?’
‘No. As your senior officer, I’m telling you.’
‘You know this kind of thing doesn’t work with me. Keep me in the dark and I’ll find the light switch.’
Marsh took another big spoon of yoghurt and rolled it around his mouth for a moment before swallowing. He took off his shades and placed them on the table.
‘Jesus Christ. Okay. Have you heard of Operation Hemslow?’
’No.’
‘Operation Hemslow is focusing on known funders and distributors of child pornography. Gary Wilmslow is heavily involved in a paedophile porn ring, and we’re talking on a big scale: digital distribution through websites, and to a lesser extent the manufacture of DVDs. We’ve had our eye on him for the past eight months, but he’s a slippery bastard. He’s been under round-the-clock surveillance for the past five weeks.’
‘And you need him out in the world, doing his business, so you can catch him doing his business?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But Peter, the nephew! He’s living under the same roof!’
‘It’s okay. We’re pretty sure Wilmslow isn’t involved in the procuring of kids directly for the videos.’
‘You’re pretty sure?’
‘We’re confident.’
‘Jesus,’ said Erika, pushing her yoghurt away.
‘I’m trusting you here, Erika. I’m giving you my confidence.’
‘Okay, okay. But can’t we get Peter out of there, and Penny too?’
‘You know how seriously we take the safeguarding risks in these cases, but we don’t have enough concrete evidence yet to give us grounds to take Peter into care. As I said, we’ve got Gary under round-the-clock surveillance. We’ll know if he takes the kid.’
‘So, because he is under surveillance, you know Gary Wilmslow didn’t kill Gregory Munro?’
’Yeah. His alibi checks out. He was home all night.’
‘And you’re sure that Gregory Munro’s murder is nothing to do with Gary Wilmslow, or Operation Hemslow?’
‘Absolutely. We didn’t even have Gregory Munro on our radar. Now, I expect you to find a way to lead your team in a different direction. If it were my case, I would go down the gay bashing route. Offload it onto one of the Murder Investigation Teams who specialise in sexually motivated murders.’
‘I don’t know that Gregory Munro’s murder was sexually motivated. Right now all we’ve got is circumstantial evidence.’
‘But it’s circumstantial evidence there for the taking, Erika. Of course, it’s your call, but you could do yourself a favour and offload it.’
‘Haven’t they got enough to deal with, sir?’
‘Haven’t we all?’ he said, scraping the last of his yoghurt from the pot.
‘Th
is puts me back to square one,’ said Erika, sitting in gloomy silence for a moment. She watched people stream past the glass window, happy in the summer sun.
‘There’s also a superintendent vacancy coming up,’ said Marsh, swallowing.
Erika turned to him. ‘I hope, if you haven’t already done so, sir, that you’ll be putting me forward. I’ve been a DCI rank long enough now and I deserve—’
‘Hang on, hang on, you don’t know where it is,’ said Marsh.
‘I don’t care where it is.’
‘You just said you were starting to feel settled!’
‘I am, but I feel I’ve been overlooked lately. There was a superintendent post last year, it came and went, and you didn’t…’
‘I didn’t think you were ready.’
‘And what gives you the right to make that decision, Paul?’ snapped Erika.
Marsh’s eyebrows popped up above his sunglasses. ‘Erika, you had only just returned to service after sustaining injuries resulting in major surgery, not to mention the trauma of…’
‘I’d also successfully apprehended a killer of four and I handed the Met, on a plate, the leader of a gang of Romanians trafficking Eastern European women to England to work as prostitutes!’
‘Erika, no one has your back more than me, but you need to learn to be tactical. To progress in the force you not only need to be a great copper, you need a bit of political nous. It wouldn’t hurt to work on your relationship with Assistant Commissioner Oakley.’
‘My track record should be enough, and I haven’t got the time or inclination to go on some arse-kissing offensive with top brass.’
‘It’s not about going on an arse-kissing offensive. You just have to be more… user-friendly.’
‘So, where is it, the superintendent position?’
‘Here in the Met, based in New Scotland Yard, working in the Specialist Casework Investigation Team.’
‘You’ll put me forward, yes?’ insisted Erika.
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 6