Erika nodded. ‘Okay. She’s very methodical. We believe she prepares quite thoroughly, checking out the houses she’s going to target days in advance. She’s broken in to the houses on both occasions and lain in wait for the victims, waiting for them to drink or eat something she has laced with a sedative.’
‘You’re kidding!’ said Lottie, putting a small, immaculately manicured hand up to her small mouth.
‘Afraid not,’ said Moss.
‘I just can’t imagine someone breaking into my flat, let alone someone doing it several times to learn things about me…’
Moss pulled out the plastic file from under her arm and found the picture of the killer under Jack Hart’s bed. It had been digitally enhanced to show as much of a close-up as possible of the crouching figure. It was chilling. The bottom of her face was visible, but from her nose upwards her face vanished into shadow. The mouth was small and almost identical to that of the young actress.
‘They’ve got the bottom half of the face right,’ said Erika, holding up the picture beside Lottie. ‘I take it you’ll do some close-ups?’
‘The director will do, yes,’ said the young runner.
Lottie took the photo from Moss and looked at it in silence for a moment. There was a crackling sound as rain hit the umbrellas.
‘And it all happened, for real, in that house,’ she said, looking over her shoulder at number 14.
‘Yes. And we’re going to get her with your help today,’ said Moss. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with this? You look far too sweet and kind to be a killer.’
‘I trained at RADA, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art,’ said Lottie, a little sniffily, handing the photo back to Moss. There was an awkward pause, broken only when the director came over. He was a tall, ebullient-looking man with a red face.
‘Okay, we’re ready to start,’ he said. ‘We’ve got three hours, and then we’ll be moving the unit over to Dulwich to shoot the second murder sequence.’
They went away, leaving Erika and Moss under their umbrella. The sound of the rain increased on the van behind.
‘Does it worry you, that we think a tiny woman like that is our killer?’ asked Moss. ‘You’ve seen what they’ve been writing in the press.’
‘I just find it odd that if we investigate a rape or a murder committed by a man, it’s a given. Men rape women – they murder them, too – and people don’t seem to think they need much of a “reason” to do it… But if a woman does the same, there’s all this soul-searching from society, endless opinions as to the whys and the wherefores…’
Moss nodded. ‘And this one fits the profile for a female serial killer. When women kill, it tends to be far more pre-meditated and well-planned. And poisoning is often a tool of the female multiple murderer.’
‘Although this one couples it with violence, and she stalks her victims at night,’ added Erika.
‘The “Night Stalker”…That was in the Sun today.’
‘I saw it,’ said Erika, turning to look at Moss.
‘It’s good. I wish I’d thought it up,’ grinned Moss.
‘Yeah, well, I’ll remind you of that in the future, when it comes back to haunt us,’ said Erika.
They stared down the street as distant thunder began to rumble and Lottie rehearsed with the cameraman and the director. At the bottom of the road, behind a crash barrier, the banks of photographers snapped away, and members of the public gawked with their camera phones. Coupled with the lookalike actors, and the film crew, it all seemed farcical, reduced to pantomime.
‘Does it worry you we might have it wrong?’ asked Moss.
‘Yes,’ said Erika. ‘But everything worries me. It’s my instinct I have to listen to. My instinct is telling me that this could be our killer. And seeing herself on screen might prompt her to do something stupid and slip up.’
Her phone rang. She pulled it out of her bag and answered.
‘Boss, it’s Crane… You got a moment?’ he asked.
‘What is it?’
‘Do you remember the rent boy who visited Gregory Munro, JordiLevi?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I went ahead and contacted one of our covert Internet investigators, who set up a fake profile on Rentboiz. They’ve been messaging back and forth with him, pretending to be a punter. He wants to meet. Today.’
‘Where?’
‘The Railway pub in Forest Hill, at four o’clock this afternoon.’
‘Great work, Crane. I’ll meet you there at quarter to four,’ said Erika. She came off the phone and relayed the info to Moss.
‘I’ll stay here and supervise our serial killer,’ said Moss, looking over at Lottie, who was now waiting under an umbrella as a lady in a rain poncho applied make-up.
‘Yeah, I bet you will,’ grinned Erika, rolling her eyes.
42
The Railway in Forest Hill was very close to where Gregory Munro’s mother, Estelle, lived. The irony wasn’t lost on Erika, as she pulled up in the car park. It was an old-fashioned public house, clad in porcelain tiles, polished brass lamps above every window and a swinging sign high above the car park.
A summer terrace extended into the car park, and she could see Crane sitting on his own at one of the tables, trying to look inconspicuous amongst the crowds enjoying a drink in the afternoon sun.
‘He just went inside a couple of minutes ago,’ said Crane, standing up when she approached the table.
‘Good. Whose photo did they use? Who does he think he’s meeting?’ asked Erika, as they picked their way through the tables to the front entrance.
‘DC Warren’s… I thought it needed someone a bit better-looking than me!’
‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ said Erika. ‘As my husband used to say, every pan has its lid.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment – I think.’ Crane grinned.
The inside of the pub had all the original fittings, but the walls had been painted white, soft mood lighting had been added, and there was an expensive gastro-pub-style menu above the bar. There weren’t many people inside and Erika saw the young lad straight away, sitting in a corner booth, nursing a half of lager and a shot.
‘How do we do this?’ murmured Crane.
‘Softly, softly,’ said Erika. ‘I’m glad he picked a booth.’
They moved over to where the lad was sitting and stood at either side of the curved seat, so he couldn’t run for it. He was wearing a shiny red and black tracksuit, and his hair was shoulder length and loosely parted in the middle.
They flashed their IDs. ‘JordiLevi?’ asked Erika. ‘I’m DCI Foster, this is Sergeant Crane.’
‘What? I’m having a drink? Nothing illegal about that…’
‘And you’re waiting for this guy, who you’ve arranged to meet up with,’ said Crane, pulling out Warren’s photo.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do. I arranged it,’ said Crane.
The boy pursed his lips and downed the shot. ‘Well, nothing illegal about meeting someone in a pub,’ he said, slamming the shot glass down on the table.
‘No, there isn’t,’ said Erika. ‘We just want to talk to you. What are you drinking?’
‘Double vodka. And I’ll have some Kettle Chips.’
Erika nodded at Crane and he went off to the bar. She took a seat.
‘Jordi. Do you know why we want to talk to you?’
‘I can take a wild guess,’ he said, downing his pint and placing the glass back down.
‘We’re not from Vice. We’re not interested about what you do for a living,’ said Erika.
‘What I do for a living! I’m not a bloody dental hygienist…’
‘I’m investigating the murder of Gregory Munro, a local doctor. He was killed ten days ago.’ Erika pulled a photo of Gregory Munro from her bag. ‘This is him.’
‘Well, I didn’t bloody do it,’ said Jordi, barely glancing at the photo.
‘We don’t think you did. But a neighbour saw you coming out
of his house a few days before he died. Can you confirm you were there at the house?’
Jordi sat back and shrugged. ‘I don’t have a calendar, all days blur into one.’
‘We just want to know what happened and if you saw anything. You’ll be helping with our investigations. You are not a suspect. Please, look at the photo again. Do you recognise him?’
Jordi looked down at the photo and nodded, ‘Yeah, I recognise him.’
Crane returned with the tray of drinks. He handed a double vodka and the crisps to Jordi, and gave Erika one of the two glasses of coke from the tray. Crane slid into the seat on the opposite side. Jordi tucked his hair behind his ears and opened the crisps. He had a whiff of body odour about him and his fingernails were grubby.
‘Okay. We need to know if you were at Gregory Munro’s house between Monday, the 20th and Monday, the 27th of June?’ asked Erika.
He shrugged. ‘I think so.’
Erika took a sip of her coke. ‘In your opinion, was Gregory Munro gay?’
‘He never said his real name, and yeah, he was gay,’ said Jordi, through a mouthful of crisps.
‘And you know that for sure?’
‘Well, if he wasn’t, I’m not sure what my cock was doing up his arse.’
Crane’s eyebrows shot up.
Erika went on, ‘How did you arrange to meet him?’
‘Craigslist. I put an ad on there.’
‘What kind of ad?’
‘The kind of ad where I meet up with guys, and they can give me donations. Giving donations isn’t illegal.’
‘And did Gregory Munro give you a donation?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How much?’
‘Hundred quid.’
‘And did you stay the night?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did you talk about, Jordi?’
‘Not much. A lot of the time my mouth was full…’ He smirked.
Erika pulled one of the crime scene photos out of her bag and placed it on the polished wood of the table in front of Jordi.
‘Do you think this is funny? Look. Here Gregory is lying in bed, with his hands bound and a plastic bag tied over his head.’
Jordi gulped when he saw the photo, and what little colour he had in his face drained away.
‘Now, please. This is very important. Tell me what you know about Gregory Munro,’ said Erika.
Jordi took a gulp of vodka. ‘He was just like all the other guilty married men. Gagging for a good hard shag and then got all guilty and teary afterwards. The second time I went he was really nervy. Kept asking me if I’d taken his key.’
‘What key?’
‘His front door key.’
‘Why?’
‘He thought I was a thieving whore… Lots of them think you’re gonna steal, but then he asked me if I had been inside his house while he was out.’
Erika looked at Crane. ‘Had you been in his house when he was out?’
Jordi shook his head. ‘He said stuff had been moved around.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Underwear all laid out on his bed… He was really freaked out by it.’
‘He was getting divorced,’ said Erika, excitement rising in her. ‘Do you think it could have been his wife?’
‘He said it couldn’t be her. He’d just had the locks all changed. No one else had a key. He called this woman out to check everything, from some security company.’
A look passed between Erika and Crane again.
‘Did you see this woman?’
‘No.’
‘Did he say what she looked like?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, can you remember if he mentioned when this woman came to the house?’
Jordi pursed his lips as he thought. ‘Dunno. Hang on; it was the second time I went over. She’d just been there. He seemed relieved that she’d checked everything.’
‘Can you remember if it was a Monday? If so, that would make it the 21st June.’
Jordi grimaced at the photo again and bit his lip.
‘Um, yeah… Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was a Monday.’
Erika rummaged in her bag, pulled out three twenty-pound notes and held them out to Jordi.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, looking at the money.
‘A donation,’ said Erika.
‘I agreed a hundred.’
‘You’re not in a position to negotiate.’
Jordi took the money, grabbed a small rucksack from under the table and squeezed past her.
‘We’re so bloody close,’ said Crane, a few minutes after Jordi had gone. ‘Do you think she staged a break-in, and then went back posing as someone from GuardHouse Alarms on Monday, 21st June?’
‘Yeah. Dammit! If only Jordi had seen her, we could have gone into the Crimewatch reconstruction with an e-fit,’ said Erika. The door to the bar opened and she suddenly sat up in her seat. Gary Wilmslow had come in with a tall, dark-haired man in jeans wearing a Millwall shirt. A small boy accompanied them, and Erika realised it was Peter, Gregory Munro’s son.
‘Jeez. This is just what we need,’ said Crane. They went to the bar, then Gary noticed them. He said something to the dark-haired man and came over with Peter.
‘Afternoon, coppers,’ he sneered.
‘Hello,’ said Erika. ‘Hi, Peter, how are you?’
The little boy stared up at Erika, his face pale and drawn. ‘My dad’s dead… Yesterday they dug a hole in the ground and they put him in it,’ he said, tonelessly.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Erika.
‘This your boyfriend?’ asked Gary, tilting his head towards Crane.
‘No, I’m Sergeant Crane,’ said Crane, flashing his ID.
‘Whoa, what’s with the ID?’ said Gary.
‘You just asked who he was,’ explained Erika.
The situation felt tense. Gary looked between the two of them. ‘So, what are you two coppers doing here? You just having a drink in my local?’
‘There’s a lot of locals around here, Gary,’ said Crane.
‘Who’s your friend?’ asked Erika, as the man at the bar was paying for a round of drinks.
‘Business associate… Now, I’m gonna get back.’
‘Are you okay, Peter? Is everything okay?’ blurted Erika, looking at the listless little boy.
‘His dad’s just died. What a stupid fucking question,’ said Gary.
‘Hey, easy,’ said Crane.
‘I am going easy,’ said Gary. ‘Now, I’m going.’
He walked off, pulling Peter with him. Erika wanted to grab the little boy and take him out of there, but she knew it would be crazy. How could she explain taking him, without blowing a major undercover investigation?
Erika and Crane left the bar and came out into the sunshine. The tables on the terrace were now full. Erika recognised a tall, skinny, dark-haired man sitting with a thin woman who was hunched over her phone, texting. She was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with thin straps. She had a prominent nose and fair hair scraped back into a ponytail. The man was pale, with an acne-scarred face, and his shoulder-length greasy black hair was combed back from his high forehead. He was wearing a plain T-shirt and beige shorts.
As they picked their way through the tables, Erika stayed ahead of Crane and made a beeline for them.
‘DCI Sparks?’ she said, when they approached the table.
‘DCI Foster,’ he said, looking surprised. The woman with him sat up and her eyes darted over to the pub window.
‘Day off? Having a drink?’ asked Erika, following the woman’s gaze.
‘Um, sort of,’ said Sparks. Crane caught up with Erika.
‘All right, Sparks, long time no see… Where are you based now?’ he asked.
‘Erm, I’m heading my own Murder Investigation Team, based out in North London,’ he said, looking between Erika and Crane. ‘This is DI Powell,’ he added. They all exchanged pleasantries.
‘Crane, would it be okay if I met you at the car?’ asked Erik
a.
‘Okay,’ said Crane. He gave Erika an odd look and then went off.
‘So, you’re both here, on a weekday, having a drink in South London, trying to look inconspicuous. Has it got anything to do with Gary Wilmslow?’ said Erika when Crane was out of earshot.
‘Excuse me, who are you?’ asked the woman.
‘DCI Erika Foster, an ex-colleague of Sparks here,’ said Erika, in a low voice. ‘You’ve got a couple of guys who are heavily involved with the production of child sex abuse videos in that pub, unsupervised with a small boy.’
‘We know…’ started the woman.
Sparks leaned over the table. ‘You need to turn around and walk away, Foster. This is covert surveillance.’
‘Operation Hemslow, yeah?’ said Erika.
A look passed between Sparks and Powell.
‘Yes. Erika. We’ve been drafted in for extra manpower,’ said Sparks, eyeing the pub windows. ‘Now you need to leave, before you blow our cover.’
‘Yeah, well, you two stick out like a sore thumb. Have you any idea how vulnerable that little boy is right now? Peter, his name is.’
‘We know. And if you don’t leave immediately, you’ll not only blow our cover, but I’ll make sure to speak to your senior officer,’ said Sparks.
Erika gave them a long look and then went off to the car.
‘What was all that about, boss?’ asked Crane, as she got in.
‘Nothing,’ said Erika. She was still shaking.
‘I haven’t seen Sparks since you got him chucked off the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder case… Not the best copper in the world, is he? Not what you’d call a details man.’
‘No, he isn’t,’ said Erika.
‘Was that his girlfriend?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘That figures. She’s a bit out of his league, although most women are,’ said Crane. ‘Anyway, we’ve got another positive ID on a woman at Gregory Munro’s place. I call that a result!’
‘Yeah,’ said Erika.
As they drove away, she thought of little Peter in there with Gary Wilmslow and his dark-haired ‘business associate’, and she felt powerless.
43
The Night Stalker: A chilling serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster Book 2) Page 18