Chapter Thirty-One
Tuesday, 10 October 2017
It was a grim afternoon, the sky was almost black and rain was lashing against the window. Melanie Hudson had called on Erika with a uniformed officer, who had just taken a formal statement. The officer had just left, and Melanie decided to stay afterwards for a more informal chat, and check everything was okay.
‘You know you have my full support,’ she said, perching on the edge of the sofa in her smart skirt and jacket, her blonde hair sleek and neat. ‘Taking a statement from you is a formality, Erika. I know you were in a terrible situation, and that your life was in danger. I am proud of how you dealt with the situation.’
‘I was just doing my job. Am I under investigation?’ asked Erika. Her voice was thick and a little slurred. The lights were all on in the living room, despite it being early afternoon, and the brightness seemed to intensify the bruising that had blossomed across her face. She shifted uncomfortably in her armchair. She was finding it hard to sit, lie, walk and pretty much do everything else.
‘No, you’re not under investigation,’ said Melanie. ‘We’re signing you off for a month, that’s to begin with. You’ll need to keep us posted with what the doctor says. But I’ve been informed that you may need longer to recuperate. And I just want to say to you, that’s fine. There will be no pressure to return until you feel able. Moving forward, let’s keep communicating.’
‘I’ll need a couple of weeks,’ said Erika, putting up her hand with the cast to wave the suggestion away. Melanie nodded sympathetically, deciding not to press the issue further. She looked around Erika’s flat, at the sparse furnishing, the mess in the kitchen, piles of dirty dishes, an overflowing rubbish bin. ‘Do you need any help?’
‘What? Home help? Like some old biddy?’
‘That’s not what I meant…’
‘You’re offering to wash up?’
Melanie’s eyes shifted back to the sink, and Erika wondered mischievously for a moment if Melanie would actually do her washing up if she asked. ‘No, I’m fine. You could take the cellophane off this,’ she said, pulling out a packet of cigarettes from the side of the armchair.
‘Of course.’ Melanie took the packet, peeled it off and opened the box, handing them back.
‘You want one?’ asked Erika, teasing one into the corner of her swollen mouth and lighting it with her good hand. For a moment, Melanie looked like she was going to say yes.
‘No. Thank you. I gave up six years ago. Willpower and cold turkey.’
‘Lucky you,’ she said, exhaling with a wince. ‘Who has the case? The double murder?’
‘It’s been passed over to DCI Jackson,’ said Melanie. She saw a teacup on the coffee table overflowing with cigarette ends. She got up and went over to the kitchen.
‘Never heard of him. What are you doing?’
‘Looking for an ashtray.’
‘Try one of the drawers.’
Melanie opened the top drawer with the photo of Mark. She paused for a second, but didn’t say anything, closing it quickly. She carried on searching until she found a cut-glass ashtray in the bottom drawer. She came back and Erika took it, balanced it on the arm rest, and tapped the ash off her cigarette.
‘You need to make sure DCI Jackson has the ANPR data that Moss was working through. The traffic cameras… I don’t want it getting lost in the cracks.’
‘The case files, and everything to do with the investigation, are all being passed over,’ said Melanie. ‘I will supervise the handover.’
‘Okay… And there’s a cab… a minicab…’ Erika paused, losing her train of thought. She took another wincing drag on her cigarette. Melanie waited patiently for a moment as she put a hand to her forehead trying to remember.
‘Have you ordered a minicab?’
‘What? No, it’s the bloody pills they’ve got me on, they’re making my brain fuzzy. I’m still talking about the case. There was the cab driver, minicab driver who picked up Thomas Hoffman and Charlotte.’
‘Charlene.’
‘Yeah, Charlene. I was trying to get in contact with him, before, but he’s been away on holiday… Australia. That needs to be followed up by the new team. He could be the only witness to…’
‘Please. You need to rest. You need time to recuperate. You were involved in a nasty attack. Have you got anyone coming in to help? Friends or family?’
‘Course I have,’ said Erika defensively.
Melanie nodded. She knew Erika didn’t have much family, and that they were in Slovakia. She was aware of a relationship of sorts with Peterson, and that Moss was a friend, but the rest of Erika’s life was a bit of a mystery. Although, looking around the sparse flat, she wondered if Erika had much of a private life outside work.
Erika could see Melanie sizing her up, and the pity on her face was worse than the pain she was feeling.
‘Are we done?’ she said. Melanie picked up her bag and stood up.
‘Yes, Erika. Phone me if you need anything, any time. If there’s an emergency. If you need a lift to the hospital or to get some shopping. I can be your friend as well as your boss…’
Erika fixed her with a hard stare. She hated being pitied.
‘But you’re going on holiday next week?’
‘Well, yes. I am.’
‘For two weeks.’
‘Yes.’
‘So, you’re just being polite?’ There was an awkward pause, Melanie opened and closed her mouth. ‘And where are you going? Yekaterinburg, in Russia?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a cold and miserable place. Why aren’t you taking him to Disneyland like every other normal parent?’ Erika exhaled and fixed her with a cold stare. Melanie retrieved her coat from the back of the sofa.
‘I’m just going to pretend that’s the pain medication talking,’ she said, and she let herself out of the flat, slamming the door.
Erika tipped her head back and flinched as her swollen face hit the side of the chair.
‘Shit,’ she said.
Chapter Thirty-Two
MONDAY, 28th AUGUST 2017
Max has been locking me inside the flat for the past week. I should have said something the first time he did it, but I didn’t, and when he came home, I’d made a big effort with my hair and make-up, and got dressed up. I served him dinner and then we had sex, and I felt an all-consuming lust and love for him. Nothing feels right without him. I need him. There’s a voice inside me which disagrees, but it seems to be growing fainter by the day, a voice which tells me this isn’t right.
I’ve been rationalising it in my mind, why he locks me in the flat. I keep telling myself I have all the food I need, clean clothes, a TV, computer. We’ve even got Netflix.
I’ve been watching the kids outside the window, playing in the car park. They give our front door a wide berth, and I miss them. I only gave them food and drink that one time; there’s something healthy about talking to little kids. They see the world in such a pure, honest light. I’m sure if Max had locked them in, they’d have piped up: ‘Why have you locked me in this room?’ Just like the little boy asked Max: ‘Why did you do that to me?’ I’ve heard them knocking on the door of the old lady at the end. She’s not very friendly, but she gives them water.
Last night, Max came home and actually made a joke about locking me in but I didn’t realise at the time. He had a flower, a white lily, and he tucked it behind my ear, saying, ‘You’re my little Aung San Suu Kyi…’ I didn’t know who that was, so I just laughed, vacuously, hoping that this was the correct response. Later in bed, after we’d had sex and his breathing had settled down to a slow rhythm, I noticed one of the books piled up around the walls was written about Aung San Suu Kyi. I got up and slipped it out from its place between books about Nazi Germany. I flicked through it, and realised why he’d used that name. She was a political prisoner, who spent a long time under house arrest. Does Max think I’m dangerous, that I’ll talk about things? That he has me under house arr
est? He shifted in bed, so I quickly replaced the book and came back to lie beside him. I spend so much time running back over conversations we’ve had, and if we row, I try to work out how it happened. And what I did wrong.
I don’t really sleep much at night. I like to watch Max sleep and feel his body close to mine, but I can’t relax. I also have nightmares. I see the old man who stepped in front of the car. The man I killed. There. I’ve written it down. I killed a man. That’s what I did. I killed him. He might have lived, and he probably would have died, but I took his life at that moment. I also have nightmares about that walk we did across Dartmoor to the waterfall. In the nightmare, Max and me are on the run and we’ve come to his hiding place, the cave under the waterfall. In my dreams, it’s just like I remember it; the smooth half-hidden entrance, the high ceiling of undulating rock, but when we go inside, Dean, is there, waiting. He’s dead and rotting. Bits of flesh are hanging off his body. Max holds me down as Dean comes towards me, the veins pulsing in his forehead. Luckily, at that point I’ve always woken up. His body must still be there, buried deep in that well.
I’ve buried everything so deep in myself that I worry, one day, it’s all going to come spewing out. For months after that journey home from Blackpool, I worried I would blurt it out to a stranger, or in a shop, or when I was on the phone with my mum.
I don’t have to worry about the last one any more. That’s why I decided to write this diary. I have to put that voice down on paper, the voice in my head that’s slowly diminishing.
I’m terrified, but I’m in love, and this person who I put my soul into, who I can’t live without, is someone I don’t understand. Someone who wants to keep me, like a possession.
There’s a huge mirror screwed to the wall in our bedroom, and I keep this diary hidden between the back of it and the wall.
Chapter Thirty-Three
WEDNESDAY, 30th AUGUST 2017
Max arrived home with two people tonight. He didn’t offer any explanation as he unlocked the door and they filed into the kitchen after him. There was a big, scruffy dark-haired guy and this pretty blonde woman. The guy introduced himself as Thomas. The woman said she was Charlene. Thomas was lanky and a bit sweaty, but he had a rugged handsomeness. Charlene was pretty with nice clothes, and she had a Mulberry handbag, which I assumed was a fake. Max took them through to the living room and told me to make some drinks.
‘What kind of drinks? Tea?’ I asked.
‘No. Something stronger. That Black Label Smirnoff with Coke, in the decent glasses.’
I fixed four drinks and stuck in some ice, then came through to the living room. Max had the TV on VH1, and they were watching Lady Gaga’s Poker Face video. Thomas was sitting next to Max, and Charlene was in the armchair. They were all smoking. I put down the drinks and as I reached down to get the ashtray from the shelf under the coffee table, I smelt the leather of her Mulberry bag. The rich fragrance of supple leather.
‘Is that real or fake?’ I asked.
‘Real,’ she said, absentmindedly sipping at her drink. She swallowed and did that gurning thing with her chin that druggies do.
‘Can I hold it?’ I asked.
Charlene shrugged and nodded, then her eyes sort of rolled back in her head for a moment. Thomas didn’t seem to be on drugs, and was talking to Max about his ex-wife, Mariette.
‘She’s getting worse with her cleaning. When I saw her the other day, her hands were red raw from all the bleach. It hurt me to look at them…’ he was saying.
My attention went back to Charlene’s bag. I picked it up. It was soft and luxurious, a beautiful dark blue, and it had a buttery coloured lining. ‘I’ve always wanted a handbag like this. They’re crazy expensive.’
‘Yeah, they are…’ she said, but her eyes were on Max. He had placed a long wide wooden box on the coffee table. It was old, with a two-tone pattern of light and dark wood.
He lifted the lid and nestled inside, in neat rows, were bags of white powder, pills, a block of something brown which looked like muscovado sugar, but I knew it was cannabis resin. Lady Gaga’s Paparazzi, was now playing on the TV, but the atmosphere in the room was almost studious. Max took out eight little bags of cocaine from the wooden box.
‘I need my handbag back,’ snapped Charlene, grabbing it from me. She started to rummage around inside for her wallet and took out a credit card and a £10 note.
Max opened one of the little bags and tipped a small amount of the white powder onto the glass tabletop. Charlene knelt down and cut two lines of the powder. Rolling up the note, she snorted one and then offered the note to Thomas, but he declined. She sat back on the carpet, and wiped her nose and snorted.
‘Told you it was good shit,’ said Max, watching and smiling as the effects washed over her. Thomas rubbed at his sweaty face with a huge hand.
‘You alright, love,’ he said, reaching out and touching her shoulder. He had a kinder face. Hers was pretty but pinched, and a bit mean.
‘How long have you two been together?’ I asked. Max shot me a look.
‘A couple of months,’ said Thomas proudly, getting up off the sofa and sitting on the carpet next to Charlene. Her eyes rolled in the sockets and her head flopped back. He pulled her into him for a hug. She farted loudly. It stunk, and a moment later I got up and opened the window. Max shot me another look, but there was mirth in his eyes.
‘Doing a line always gives her a bit of wind, especially after the purer stuff,’ said Thomas, as if she’d had nothing more than a couple of slices of brown bread with a high fibre content. There was something a bit creepy about the way Thomas protectively held Charlene, like he owned her. Like she was a possession. After a few minutes and a couple more Lady Gaga songs played on the TV, Charlene seemed to come back to her senses.
‘That is such good shit, Max,’ she said. Leaning forward, she swept the six bags of cocaine off the coffee table into her Mulberry. ‘I do have to owe you…’
There was a long silence. Max looked at them for a long moment.
‘You know she’s good for it, Max,’ said Thomas, putting his arm around her again, but she shrugged it off, and got to her feet.
‘He knows I’m good for it,’ she said confidently.
‘Course,’ said Max.
She licked her finger, and pressed it against the last of the white powder on the table and rubbed it into her gums.
When they were gone, I started to clear away the cups and clean the table.
‘How long have you been a drug dealer?’ I asked, spraying multi-surface cleaner on the coffee table and wiping it with a cloth. Max was stuffing the box in his backpack.
‘Sorry about that. I don’t like to do business at home,’ he said. He came over to me and I straightened up, shaking out the cloth.
‘It’s dangerous,’ I said, looking up into his eyes, which were glowing with warmth.
He shook his head. ‘I’m high up in the organisation. And it’s better for you not to know anything, okay?’
I nodded.
‘And business has been good lately. I was going to get you one of those Mulberry bags.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yeah, only the best for my girl.’
And the sad thing was, I believed him.
Chapter Thirty-Four
TUESDAY, 12th SEPTEMBER
Just after six this evening, a Jaguar drove into the car park. A small green Jaguar, like the one James Bond drives. It roared up in the shitty potholed car park out back, bouncing along past a few shitty old cars and kids playing. It screeched to a halt outside the window. Max climbed out, tucking his long blond hair behind his ears. He had on jeans and a brown leather jacket and he looked pretty damn sexy. He unlocked the door and was grinning. I hadn’t seen him grin for a long time.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘Your chariot. Fancy a spin?’
‘I was about to cook…’
‘Fuck that.’ He smiled.
He grabbed my arm, and p
ulled me over to it. Several of the neighbours had come out to their balconies and were staring, and the younger girls in particular, the pram faces who give me dirty looks, were so jealous.
He opened the passenger door, and I got in. It was so new and luxurious with leather seats and the dashboard was made of a polished wood. We drove through Kennington and up into central London. I was struck by the smell of the leather. Supple leather. It turned me on, and Max too. I could see he was getting hard in his trousers, but when I put my hand there, he took it gently and placed it back on my leg.
‘Later. I want to do something first,’ he said.
We drove up to Primrose Hill, and the sun was setting as we parked up, looking out over London. He unclipped his seatbelt, and went to the back, returning with a wicker hamper.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
He helped me to push my seat right back and he placed it in the footwell at my feet. Inside was a bottle of champagne with two of those long thin glasses, there was cheese and olives and crackers, and a lavender-coloured cardboard box filled with cakes – the posh types that glisten with fresh fruit on top. My mouth dropped open.
‘You catching flies, Neen?’
‘No. I’m just shocked… Happy shocked,’ I added quickly.
He squeezed open the champagne with a pop and filled the two glasses. The foam rose quickly in one of them and he leaned forward and sucked it up with a slurp, and then belched.
‘Shit, not very classy. You can tell I was never a waiter.’ He said, handing me a glass. ‘To us, to you, Neen. The best thing that’s happened to me.’ I clinked glasses with him. ‘I know I’ve been a nightmare, Neen. But it’s me and you. Me and you, and I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ I said. I was reeling inside. I looked around at the car, at him, and at the sun setting golden over London stretching out ahead of us.
Cold Blood: A gripping serial killer thriller that will take your breath away (Detective Erika Foster Book 5) Page 14