‘Sorry. It’s so frustrating. Melanie Hudson was ready to charge Pearson and close the case, and now she gets to pursue things, and she’ll probably make an arse of it all.’
Erika’s phone began to ring in her bag, and Peterson passed it to her. When she pulled it out, she saw a number she didn’t recognise and she answered. Peterson watched her talk, swirling whisky in his tumbler. The news bulletin in the background moved onto a different story, about life for residents of the Olympic Village in East London.
‘Who was that?’ he asked when she finished the call.
Erika tapped the phone against her teeth. ‘Camilla Brace-Cosworthy, the Assistant Commissioner. She wants me to come in for a chat on Monday morning.’
‘A chat? Interesting choice of words.’
‘That’s what she said. A chat. Apparently there are some loose ends to tie up about Sparks’s death.’
‘Loose ends? It was suspicious?’ asked Peterson.
‘She didn’t elaborate… She’s just left me to stew over the weekend. She wants to see me in her office at New Scotland Yard.’
Erika thought back to when Sparks had believed he was being followed, and she wondered exactly what he had got himself involved in.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Darryl woke early on Saturday morning. The snow was tapping against the dark windows, and he heard through his bedroom wall the groan of bedsprings as his father got out of bed, and said a few short sharp words for his mother. Darryl couldn’t make them out, but the barking tone he recognised. The doors in the farmhouse all had latches instead of handles, and when his father left to do his rounds, he heard it lift and fall before he stomped down the hall, the floorboards creaking.
When the footsteps had faded, Darryl heard the ominous sound of his mother rolling over in bed, and the squeak of the small door in the base of her bedside table. This was when she took her first drink of the day, usually vodka, although like most alcoholics she wasn’t picky. His mother’s drinking was something he’d grown up with. It had intensified since the death of Joe, his younger brother, eleven years before.
Darryl turned over in bed, heard the cupboard squeak again, and decided to get up. He still occupied the same bedroom from his childhood, with high ceilings, wooden floors, and dark heavy furniture which seemed sinister against the Winnie the Pooh wallpaper. It was still dark when he padded downstairs in his slippers, and the kitchen was deliciously warm. Grendel lay in the shadows in front of the Aga, soaking up its heat. When he switched on the light, she blinked and got up, sniffing at his feet.
As long as you kept your wits about you, Grendel was good, but you couldn’t make any sudden movements. This was when she would panic and attack. Last summer she’d attacked a young excitable Polish girl working on the strawberry fields. She’d needed seven stitches and had nearly lost an eye.
‘Thank God Grendel went for the Polak, and not one of the locals,’ his father had joked after returning from the hospital. The girl had been working illegally, so pressing charges hadn’t been an option. John let him keep Grendel because she was a good guard dog. Just like he kept Morris because he was a good milker. Darryl mused that Morris and Grendel were probably both the result of too much inbreeding.
Darryl ate a bowl of cereal and fed Grendel, then they left the house. It was just starting to get light as he emerged from under the carport, Grendel bouncing along beside him on the compacted snow. He passed the huge straw barn, its corrugated roof thick with snow, and the other outbuildings. The air was crisp and cold, and underneath the freshness was the ever-present farm smell of manure mixed with rotting straw.
The milking sheds were brightly lit and busy with the sounds of mooing, hooves stomping, and the rhythmic suck of the milking machines. Two of the farm workers gave him indifferent stares as he passed, and Grendel raised her pale pink nose at the smell and the sound of the cattle. They passed John coming out of the shed housing giant silver tanks for the milk. He nodded curtly at Darryl, and his eyes passed over the pristine winter jacket he wore, and he shook his head. It had been a gift to himself, and Darryl resisted the urge to muddy it up a bit.
At the bottom of the yard, the farm buildings ended at a wide gate looking out over fields. Once they were through, he let Grendel off the lead. She ran along ahead along the track, delighting in disturbing a flock of birds huddled in the snow. She barked as they rose up into the sky, cawing.
Half a mile down the track they passed a long low building with a circular tower, topped off with a roof like a bent funnel. The dawn was just beginning to break, and it made a sinister black outline against the blue sky. It was the old Oast House. It had been built in the 1800s for drying hops, when this was the farm’s main crop. It had been abandoned for as long as Darryl could remember, and growing up it was a great place to play. He and Joe had spent many summer evenings climbing up the inside, through the three slatted wood levels where hops had been laid out to dry. The base of the tower had housed a furnace, and above it were beams where you could perch and peer through the spouted chimney and see across the countryside for miles. In the winter months, it was eerie, and took on a desolate air. On a winter’s night, when conditions were right, you could hear the wind groaning through the ventilation system from the farmhouse.
It was also where his brother Joe had hung himself, aged fifteen.
Darryl slowed and came to a stop outside the large brick building. A gust of wind disturbed the dry powdery snow, and gave a high pitched whine as it blew over the spout of the tower.
‘Joe,’ whispered Darryl. He moved off, passed the large brick building, and then picked up pace, walking another mile or so across snow-covered fields and past a bank of bare trees. As the horizon turned from light blue to pink a vast frozen lake came into view. Darryl called for Grendel, who came loping back, tongue lolling to one side. It started to snow again, fast twirling flakes, and an ice crystal landed on one of her black eyes and made her blink. He scratched her ears, and gave her a dog treat. She trotted obediently alongside him as they picked their way down the track to the edge of the lake. A concrete barrier lined the water where it met the footpath. The ice was thick, and dusted with snow. The footprints of geese and small birds dotted the surface. Grendel leapt up onto the concrete barrier, and landed on the ice with sure paws, looking back as if to say the coast was clear. Darryl tentatively followed, stepping out slowly, listening for the tell-tale squeaking sound of weakness, but the ice was like concrete. He walked out to where Grendel was barking and circling a giant tree trunk which emerged through the ice.
‘It’s okay girl,’ said Darryl, reaching out carefully. Grendel froze with her teeth bared and shot him a wild-eyed look, but he slowly moved his hand closer, until she let him rest it on her soft furry head. ‘It’s just a tree. It was floating the other day, remember?’
She let him pat her, then cocked her head, rolled over onto the ice and let him tickle her belly. He sat on the frozen trunk and ate a chocolate bar, watching Grendel race after birds at the edge of the ice, and checking his emails and social media on his phone.
* * *
It was light when he and Grendel arrived back at the farmhouse, and as they turned the corner by the carport, Morris was sitting on the open boot of his car. He had on one wellington boot, and was just pulling on the second over a bare foot with long yellow toenails. Darryl tightened his grip on Grendel’s lead.
‘You keep that bloody dog on its lead,’ said Morris, flinching as Darryl squeezed past with Grendel, who was growling.
Darryl glanced inside the open boot and saw a coiled length of thin chain, and a leather hood with eyeholes.
Morris turned and swiftly slammed it shut.
‘Got a problem?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Darryl, moving quickly to the steps up to the back door.
‘Me and… er… the girlfriend, she likes it kinky,’ said Morris, tipping his head at the closed boot.
Darryl shrugged. ‘None of my business.’
‘No. It’s not… And it’s up to us what we do in the bedroom…’
Morris was shaking, almost a little afraid.
‘I didn’t see anything,’ said Darryl. He was now at the back door and he reached for the handle. Morris moved to the bottom of the steps, and Grendel’s growls went up a notch.
‘Good, you stick to that. Just remember your fucking mutt won’t always be there to protect you.’ He stared at Darryl for a long moment, then locked his car with the key fob, and limped off to the yard.
Darryl watched him, unease creeping into his stomach. Then he unclipped Grendel’s lead, and took her back into the warmth of the house.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Erika arrived at the New Scotland Yard building on Monday morning, she was shown straight in to the Assistant Commissioner’s office. Instead of indicating the chair in front of her desk, Camilla Brace-Cosworthy led Erika to a couple of armchairs by the large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Thames. Her assistant brought in a tray with a pot of coffee and biscuits as Erika sat down with her back to the glass. She thought how exhausted Camilla appeared; her blonde shoulder-length hair was as sleek as ever, but her pale face was haggard and devoid of make-up. The assistant, a smart young man with striking green eyes, gave her a nod and a smile, and left.
I’ve been summoned, but for coffee and biscuits; this could be interesting, thought Erika.
‘Shall I be mother?’ said Camilla, lifting the coffee pot. She was well spoken, with a fruity upper-class accent. It made Erika feel conscious that she flattened her vowels. ‘Childhood eczema flared up again for no rhyme or reason,’ she added, noting how Erika had studied her face. ‘I’ve had to retire the warpaint for a few days… Cream?’
‘No, thank you.’ They sat back and sipped at their coffee. Erika eyed the biscuits on the little three-tiered china stand; expensive-looking ginger thins half dipped in dark chocolate. She was starving, but felt that if she took one she’d somehow be buying into the bullshit that this was just a chat over coffee.
‘How are you, Erika?’
‘Fine, thank you, ma’am.’
‘Are you? One of your colleagues just died. You tried to revive him, and failed…’ She tilted her head in sympathy.
‘It was a terrible tragedy, ma’am, but my training kicked in. And I didn’t really know Superintendent Sparks. Nor did I fail. He had a colossal heart attack.’
‘Yes, of course… But you worked together on more than one case. When you were first assigned to Lewisham Row, you replaced him on the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder enquiry.’
The Andrea Douglas-Brown murder had been the highest profile case in Erika’s career; Andrea’s body was found under the ice in the boating lake of a South London park.
‘I had Sparks removed from that case.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s all on record, ma’am.’
‘Yes. You thought he was sloppy in his investigative style, and that he helped suppress evidence,’ said Camilla, sipping her coffee.
‘No. Andrea Douglas-Brown’s father was a high-profile member of the Establishment. And I thought Sparks had allowed himself to be star-struck by Simon Douglas-Brown. Sparks allowed him to influence our enquiries.’
‘Had you been in contact with him recently?’
‘Simon Douglas-Brown? No. He’s in prison.’
‘I’m talking about Superintendent Sparks, and in particular the meeting you had with him in Greenwich at the Crown pub the night before he died…’
Erika didn’t let her surprise show.
‘It seems odd you met him socially, Erika, if there was so much animosity between you?’
‘I’d been talking to him about joining one of his investigations. I’d doorstepped him to be honest, ma’am. He did say he thought he was being followed. I assumed he was being paranoid, but obviously not.’ Camilla tilted her head and kept her gaze even. ‘Ma’am. Is this a formal interview? The coffee and posh biscuits make me think not, but why am I here?’
‘Erika, I can confirm Superintendent Sparks was under covert investigation.’
‘By who?’
‘By whom? I can’t go into that. What I can tell you is that I have reason to believe we weren’t the only people paying his wages.’
‘Can I ask who else you think was paying his wages?’
‘No. You can’t.’
‘Me and Sparks were enemies. I don’t know the first thing about his work relationships, or his personal life. Well, I know him and his wife were having problems.’
‘What kind of problems?’
Erika briefly outlined what she had overheard when she went to Sparks’s home. When she had finished, Camilla rose, went over to the window and looked out at the view over the Thames. There was a long silence.
‘Erika, when you worked on the Andrea Douglas-Brown case, were you party to any meetings with Superintendent Sparks and Sir Simon Douglas-Brown?’
‘You mean Simon Douglas-Brown. He was stripped of his title. Let’s not forget that.’
‘Answer the question, please.’
‘From the beginning of the investigation, I was closed out of meetings with the family. Simon wanted to retain Sparks as SIO. His wife wasn’t keen on me either.’
‘Why not?’
‘Like me she’s Slovak. I think I reminded her of where she came from.’
‘And where is that?’
‘The wrong side of the tracks… A working-class family. Look, I’m the last person who can give you any information about potential corruption in the force. I focus on policing, not politics.’
Camilla turned from the window and laughed.
‘So you infer that you are squeaky clean?’
‘I’m squeakier than most, ma’am. I’m not afraid to speak my mind. It’s the reason I was passed over for promotion by your predecessor.’
She came back from the window and sat down.
‘Erika, are you aware of the Gadd family?’
‘Yes. They’re well known to the police in South London. They’ve been allowed to operate their import/export business a little too freely, in return for keeping order in the area.’
‘How are you aware of that?’
‘It’s an open secret. Not really a secret, more unofficial policy. Was Sparks on their payroll?’
‘We believe so. I’m also looking into the cases Superintendent Sparks was working on, and his dealings with Simon Douglas-Brown may come under the microscope, and, of course, if this happens, the press will be all over it.’
‘Simon Douglas-Brown is high-profile news fodder.’
‘Yes. The cult of celebrity.’
‘Why are you investigating all this now? The Gadd family have been working unofficially with the Met for years. They’ve stopped a lot of drugs flooding into the capital.’
Camilla regarded Erika, her eyes now colder and devoid of mirth.
‘You’re close to Commander Marsh, correct?’
Erika felt her stomach lurch. Marsh had been Chief Superintendent at Lewisham when she and Sparks worked together.
‘Me and my late husband trained with Paul Marsh at Hendon, but as much as we are friends, we have clashed in the past on the direction of my investigations…’
‘You rented a flat from him; you were at his wedding, and the christening of his twins…’
‘He was also involved in the decision to promote Andy Sparks to superintendent over me.’
‘You deny you’re close?’ snapped Camilla.
Erika wondered if she had anything, or if she was just digging for dirt. She was obviously on some crusade. Was it to root out corruption? Was it a personal vendetta? Was it easier now to smear a dead officer? Either way Erika was finding this meeting a tedious waste of time. Time she could use being a police officer. Suddenly, a bulb flickered on in the back of her mind.
‘I’m saying we’re friends, yes. But I remain professional and impartial. There are advantages of being the outsider. You have less to lose.
I’d be willing to give evidence, of the limited information I have. Of course, I’d be willing keep my mouth shut when it comes to the press, you know how they love to get public opinion whipped up. People love to get enraged and take to social media, and I can see the headlines: the Met suddenly discovers its morals after twenty-five years cosying up to the Gadd crime family.’
Camilla tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair.
‘And what do you want in return, Erika? For toeing the line.’
‘I’d like to be considered for the vacant post of Superintendent. More than considered. And I’d like to be made SIO of a murder case. Lacey Greene…’
‘I asked you to come here to talk to me, Erika.’
‘With respect, ma’am, you called me in to dig up dirt on my colleagues. One of whom died when I was trying to revive him. If you’re having to pump me for information about police corruption, you must be pretty desperate. If I were you I’d concentrate on your predecessor.’ Erika’s heart was pumping so loudly that she was convinced Camilla would hear.
She stared at Erika for a long moment, sizing her up. Devoid of make-up, it was the first time Erika had noticed how blue her eyes were. It was a sharp cold blue, as if they were chips of glass.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Erika left the New Scotland Yard building and walked to a coffee shop on Victoria Street, where she ordered a large latte and took a seat in the corner. She took out her phone and called Marsh, but he wasn’t picking up, so she left a message explaining that she’d been called in to a meeting with the Assistant Commissioner, and to call her back asap.
When she came off the phone she had a new email asking her to report to West End Central Police Station tomorrow morning, where she would be taking over the Lacey Greene murder case.
‘You’re a fast worker, Camilla,’ said Erika. And then her phone chimed again. This time it was an email from Superintendent Yale asking where the hell she was. In the whirlwind of the past few days, she had neglected to keep him up to speed.
Erika downed the rest of her coffee and sped over to Victoria station.
Erika Foster 04 - Last Breath Page 7