‘What did the guy sound like?’
‘I don’t know, normal. Whatever that is these days. He did have a twang to his voice, a sort of posh know-it-all type. Why?’
‘I’ve just called the number and it doesn’t exist. It’s been disconnected,’ said Erika.
‘What?’ There was a pause and she heard Crane’s keyboard tapping. Then a tinny ping.
‘I just sent an email to the address on the flyer and it bounced back. Mail delivery subsystem error, could not be delivered,’ said Crane.
Erika stepped back out into the dark garden and stared up into the gloom to the ‘HOMESTEAD SECURITY’ box fixed to the wall.
‘Jesus, boss. You think this was the killer?’
‘Yeah. This leaflet must have been hand-delivered, and presumably Gregory Munro contacted the number and organised for this Mike to come over…’
‘Mike was invited in and got to case the joint, gaining access to the layout, the alarm systems, security lights, everything,’ finished Crane.
‘And it’s likely you spoke to Mike today. He called you back on the GuardHouse Alarms phone number.’
‘Shit. What do you want me to do, boss?’
‘We need a trace on that phone and the email address, asap.’
‘I can bet you it’s a pre-paid, but I can have a crack at tracking it.’
‘We’ll need to re-interview the residents on Laurel Road and get details of all delivery people who’ve been seen here, in particular if they saw this Mike arriving on the 21st June.’
‘Okay, boss. I can run some stuff through the computer now. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Thanks,’ said Erika. There was a click on the line as Crane hung up. She walked to the back fence, the dry grass crisp under her feet. It was still and silent. There was a faint sound of a car in the distance, and the hum of crickets. She jumped as a train blared out of the silence, clattering past on the track at the bottom of the garden.
She moved closer to the fence and crouched down under the tree, examining where the fence had been neatly clipped. Pulling the wire to one side, Erika crawled through the gap. She came up through some long, dry grass onto a path. She stood for a moment in the warmth of the evening, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She crossed the narrow dirt path, moved through a gap in the tall trees and came out onto the railway line. She could see where the track stretched away into the distance. She came back to the path and pulled out her phone, activating her torch app and training the light left and right. The path was illuminated for a few feet and then vanished amongst trees and darkness. Erika crouched down under the tree at the end of the garden and looked at the house. It seemed to stare back at her: the two dark upstairs windows were like eyes.
‘Did you watch from here?’ Erika said softly to herself. ‘How long were you here? How much did you see? You’re not going to get away with this. I’m coming for you.’
18
It was barely mid-morning, but already the sun was beating down relentlessly. The front lawns along a row of red-brick terraced houses were burnt in varying shades of yellow. The rush hour was over, and apart from a plane scratching its way across the clear blue sky the road was quiet.
Simone had stopped at the supermarket on her way back from her night shift at the hospital, and now she was walking along the pavement weighed down by several carrier bags. The plastic was digging almost unbearably into her palms, and she was pouring with sweat under her thick jacket. The scar tissue across her stomach was sore and inflamed from the sweat and from her uniform rubbing. She reached the crumbling terraced house at the end of the row and pushed against the gate. It caught on the concrete path, and she threw her weight angrily against it, once, twice, before it yielded unexpectedly and she lurched through, almost losing her balance.
She hurried to the front door, muttering curses, before dropping the bags on the front step with a clunk. She held up her hands, criss-crossed with deep red grooves. A neighbour emerged from the house next door. She was an elderly lady wearing a smart dress. As she locked her front door, she eyed Simone, searching in her coat pockets for her keys. The neighbour’s eyes flicked to the crumbling fence between their gardens, and over Simone’s burnt front lawn, which was littered with an old washing machine, empty paint cans and a heap of rotting brambles. Her eyes came back to Simone, who was now standing still, facing her.
‘Ah, good morning, Mrs Matthews,’ said the neighbour. Simone didn’t answer; she just stared with large, cold blue eyes. The neighbour found that the gaze made her uneasy. The eyes were dead, without emotion, and set a little too far apart. ‘Lovely day…’
Simone glared at the neighbour until she hurried away.
‘Nosy bitch,’ muttered Simone, before turning and pushing the key into the lock. The hallway was dingy and piled with old newspapers. Simone dragged in the shopping bags and threw her keys on the old, wooden hall table. She turned and closed the front door. It had once been beautiful, that door, with coloured glass in a diamond pattern. On sunny days it would cast a mosaic of soft colours on the pale hall carpet. It was now boarded up, with just a few of the blue diamonds visible at the top, above the piece of wood that was nailed to the door frame.
Simone turned from locking the door and her throat closed in fear. A man stood in the middle of the hall. His mouth hung open and his eyes were clouded over with white. He was naked and water dripped off his pale doughy skin.
She staggered back, feeling the door handle press into her back. She closed her eyes and opened them again. He was still there. Water now poured off him in thin rivulets, over the swell of his huge hairy belly, and the small pale stub of his genitals. The carpet below him was now a darkened circle as the water began to run off him faster. Simone closed her eyes tight, and opened them again. He was coming towards her, staggering along the carpet, his long yellow toenails catching on the carpet. She could smell his breath. Rancid onion mixed with stale booze.
‘NO!’ she cried, closing her eyes and slamming her fists against her face. ‘YOU CAN’T HURT ME, STAN! YOU’RE DEAD!’
She opened her eyes.
The hall was back as it was before: grubby and gloomy, but empty. Another plane scratched its way across the sky, the sound muffled, and she could hear her own laboured breathing.
He’d gone.
For now.
19
It was on a hot sticky afternoon, a week after the discovery of Gregory Munro’s body, that Erika was summoned to attend a progress meeting about the Gregory Munro case at Lewisham Row. The investigation had ground to a halt, and her confidence in her abilities had taken a knock, so she went in feeling less than confident.
The meeting was held in the plush conference room on the top floor, and in attendance were Detective Chief Superintendent Marsh, Colleen Scanlan, the matronly Met Police media liaison officer, Tim Aiken, a young criminal psychologist, and Assistant Commissioner Oakley, who sat imperiously at the head of the long conference table. Oakley never tried to hide his dislike for Erika. He had neat, sly features, and his steel-coloured hair was always immaculately groomed, reminding Erika of a sleek fox. However, the heat had taken away a little of his sleekness today. His usually immaculate hair was soaked in sweat, and he had been forced to remove his Met Police jacket, with its epaulettes sewn with the ornate symbol of his rank, and sit with his sleeves rolled up.
Erika opened the meeting, detailing how the case had progressed so far.
‘Boosted by the discovery that our killer engineered a pre-visit to Gregory Munro’s house, my officers have been working round the clock examining hundreds of hours of CCTV from the cameras in and around Honor Oak Park train station. The residents of Laurel Road have been re-interviewed, but no one remembers seeing a representative from the fictitious GuardHouse Alarms. The company itself doesn’t exist. The email address on the leaflet was fake, and the phone number was from an untraceable prepaid phone.’
Looking around the conference table, Erika realised that t
he meeting was a make or break opportunity to retain the large amount of manpower she’d been assigned. In addition to the pressure she was feeling, the air conditioning had broken, leading to an uncomfortable sticky atmosphere.
She went on, ‘I am aggressively pursuing every detail of Gregory Munro’s personal life. I believe he knew or had previously met his attacker, and that his private life could unlock the identity of the killer. But with a case of this complexity, I will need more time.’
‘The victim’s brother-in-law, Gary Wilmslow, is also under investigation for unrelated crimes, which are part of Operation Hemslow,’ interrupted Oakley.’ I trust that the two investigations will remain separate, and officers on the Munro murder will be kept away from Operation Hemslow?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s all under control,’ said Marsh, giving Erika a look. There was silence as all eyes around the table stared back at her. Marsh changed the subject. ‘What about the presence of gay pornography at the murder scene? I understand that Gregory Munro had downloaded a gay dating app on his mobile phone?’
Marsh had already discussed this with Erika. She realised that he was asking the question for Oakley’s benefit.
‘Yes, sir. There were some gay porn magazines and he’d downloaded the Grindr gay dating app, but he hadn’t activated it. There were no contacts or messages,’ replied Erika.
‘So the victim was potentially engaging in homosexual behaviours, anonymous meetings with men?’ said Oakley.
‘There is no evidence, beyond a few dog-eared gay porn magazines, to show Gregory Munro was acting on any homosexual impulses,’ said Erika.
‘Why haven’t you considered investigating the gay cruising areas around London? Public lavatories? Parks?’ pressed Oakley.
‘I have considered them, sir. We know of several areas, but they’re not covered by CCTV. My officers are stretched to the limit dealing with the evidence we do have, without going off to make general enquiries in the bushes…’
‘He was a married man with homosexual desires. I can’t see why this hasn’t been your main line of enquiry, DCI Foster?’
‘As I said, sir, we have several lines of enquiry. I would need more officers, if I was to start…’
‘You already have a large team, DCI Foster. Perhaps we should talk about how you are using your resources, before you come cap in hand for more?’
‘I can assure you, sir, that every one of my officers is being used to the best of their ability.’
Oakley picked up one of the crime scene photos of Gregory Munro and studied it. ‘Violence in the gay community is often linked intrinsically with sexual desire. Don’t men like this seek out clandestine encounters? Invite dangerous men into their houses?’
‘We obviously know different kinds of gay men, sir,’ Erika shot back. There was silence around the table.
‘It’s the heat; it’s getting to us all, sir,’ said Marsh, glaring at Erika.
Oakley scowled and took a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face, wiping under his sweaty hairline. The way he gently lifted his fringe made Erika suddenly wonder if he wore a wig. A ‘syrup’. The word popped into her head. Syrup… Syrup of figs… wig… She remembered Mark telling her about cockney rhyming slang when she’d first come to England, and how much it had made her laugh.
‘Is something funny, DCI Foster?’ asked Oakley, as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket.
‘No, sir,’ said Erika getting a hold of herself.
‘Good, because alongside the issue of manpower levels the media has seized upon your failure to find a suspect as another reason to give the Met Police a good kicking. First the local, and now the national newspapers.’ He indicated the papers in the centre of the conference room table, which bore the headlines: ‘SUPER GP KILLED IN BED’ and ‘POLICE STILL HUNTING KILLER OF TOP DOC’. ‘You’ve been rather quiet, Colleen, what can you add to this?’
‘I am working…’ started Colleen and paused.
She was going to say, ‘robustly’ thought Erika.
‘I’m working very hard to ensure that my press team steers the media in the correct direction. Of course, there is little new evidence to give them,’ she added, trying to throw the blame back onto Erika.
‘It isn’t our job to keep spoon-feeding journalists. I think it was a little premature to release information this early,’ said Erika. ‘We should have been at least two steps ahead and ready with more information. Now they’ve gone and done exactly what I thought they’d do and found their own angle, linking this case to the austerity cuts by the government.’
‘Yes, where did they get this quote, DCI Foster?’ asked Oakley, picking up one of the newspapers. ‘“Across London, 14,000 CCTV cameras are no longer in use; police don’t have the man-hours to effectively keep residents of the capital safe.” You’ve been rather vocal about the lack of CCTV cameras, haven’t you?’
‘Are you suggesting that I’ve been briefing the press about this case, sir?’
‘No, the Assistant Commissioner is not suggesting that,’ interrupted Marsh.
‘Now, Paul, I can speak for myself,’ snapped Oakley. ‘What I’m saying is that it doesn’t do to start fear-mongering, DCI Foster. You lead and influence a vast number of officers. Your team has been given a great deal of manpower for this murder investigation. I just don’t think it’s good for morale if you are constantly harping on about what you haven’t got. How many more officers do you believe you require?’
‘Sir, I am not being negative, and I don’t harp,’ said Erika.
‘How many?’
‘Five. I have prepared a paper for you which details exactly how I will use—’
‘A week has passed since the murder of Gregory Munro, and I need to ensure that manpower is being properly deployed,’ interrupted Oakley.
‘Yes, sir, but—’
‘I would strongly advise that you refocus our investigation, DCI Foster, working on the assumption that Gregory Munro invited a man into his house for the purpose of sexual intercourse, and that this man, whomever he was, saw an opportunity and killed him. A crime of passion.’
‘A gay bashing?’ said Erika.
‘I don’t like that phrase, DCI Foster.’
‘But the press loves it. And the gay community will, no doubt, experience a backlash of negativity if we refocus the investigation with that angle. We also found evidence of forced entry through the kitchen window, and the fence at the rear of the property had been clipped. It doesn’t sound like Gregory Munro invited whoever did this into his house. The fake security firm leaflet is our strongest lead. This is summer holiday season. We haven’t yet spoken to all of the Laurel Road residents because some are still away on holiday. We’re also going through the list of complaints from Gregory Munro’s patients. Again, this is taking time.’
‘Have any complaints proved to be a worthwhile lead so far?’ asked Oakley.
‘As of yet, no, but…’
‘I’d like to hear from our criminal profiler,’ said Oakley, cutting her off yet again. ‘Tim?’
Tim Aiken, the criminal psychologist, had remained silent until now. He had a short, shiny mop of hair, designer stubble and, despite his shirt and tie, wore a thick bunch of multicoloured woven bracelets on his wrist. He looked up from where he had been doodling a series of cubes in his notebook. ‘I think the man we’re looking for is a very controlled individual. He plans every move very carefully. Physically, he’s strong. Gregory Munro wasn’t a small man and there was little evidence of a struggle.’
‘Gregory Munro was drugged; he had a huge dose of flunitrazepam in his body. Flunitrazepam is used as a date rape drug. Whoever broke in made time to drug him, and then waited for the drug to take effect,’ added Erika.
‘Yes. There is also widespread use of flunitrazepam in the gay community for a sexual high, for enjoyment,’ replied Tim.
‘I doubt many people who’ve had it slipped into their drink in a bar enjoyed themselves,’ sai
d Erika.
Tim went on, ‘The killer could have been very intuitive, using a honeypot method with the security leaflet to lure the victim into calling him. Coupled with the use of a sedative, we shouldn’t rule out the possibility of a homosexual element.’
‘Gregory Munro wasn’t sexually assaulted,’ said Erika.
‘True, but our killer may have had issues with masculinity, and previous bad experiences with type A, or alpha males. He may want to suppress masculine individuals.’
‘Bloody hell. How much is he costing us?’ asked Erika when the meeting had ended, a sticky, uncomfortable forty minutes later. She was walking down the stairs from the conference room with Marsh.
‘Don’t hold much stock in forensic profiling?’
‘I think it can be helpful, but so often they’re called in and seen as miracle workers. Forensic profilers don’t catch criminals, we do.’
‘Don’t complain. He works for you, remember. He talked Oakley out of cutting your budget.’
‘Only by blinding him with science.’
‘You don’t seem pleased?’
‘I’ll be pleased when we catch whoever did this,’ said Erika. ‘Tim didn’t really tell us anything we don’t know already. Although the whole thing about alpha males is an interesting theory. But how do we put that to good use? It’s so broad. We can’t put every aggressive dominant male under surveillance. The world is full of them.’
Marsh rolled his eyes. ‘You could do yourself a favour by trying to build bridges with Oakley.’
‘I didn’t pull him up on his homophobic attitude, that’s a start. And anyway, what’s the point? He’s never going to like me, sir. I’m never going to be on his Christmas card list.’
They had reached the landing for Marsh’s office. ‘Keep me in the loop, okay?’ he said, as he made to go through the double doors.
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 8