‘Boys or girls?’
‘A boy, a girl and a baby… She doesn’t know the sex.’
‘And the boy and girl are young?’
‘What time is it? Shit, I wanted to see the late news,’ said Erika. She jumped up and went back through the patio doors. Peterson followed and found her searching around on the sofa under cushions.
‘It’s here,’ he said, fishing the remote out from under an open takeaway box on the coffee table. Erika grabbed it and flicked on the TV.
The ITV news showed the revolving Scotland Yard sign, and the tail-end of an interview with Marsh, who looked weary.
‘…Our Homicide and Serious Crime unit has made this our top priority,’ he was saying. ‘We are following up several lines of enquiry.’
The screen then cut to a clip from The Jack Hart Show. The camera moved across a rowdy studio audience, who were up on their feet, booing, shouting and whistling. The shot cut to a young girl sitting on the stage with a lad dressed in a tracksuit and baseball cap. A caption underneath read: ‘I ABORTED MY IVF TRIPLETS TO GET A BOOB JOB’.
‘It’s my life – I can do what I want,’ the girl said, unrepentant.
The camera then cut to a close-up of Jack Hart, sitting to one side of the young couple, his brow suitably furrowed. He was immaculate and handsome in a blue suit.
‘But it’s not just your life. What about those unborn children?’ he purred.
A voiceover read, ‘Jack Hart was a controversial figure, idolised and hated in equal measure, and today he was found dead at his home in Dulwich, South London. Police have released no other information, but they have confirmed they are treating his death as suspicious.’
‘Jesus, someone killed him?’ said Peterson.
‘Where have you been all day?’ asked Erika. Peterson was silent. ‘He was killed exactly the same way as Gregory Munro – well, we’re still waiting for toxicology,’
On the screen, the studio audience was chanting, ‘Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!’ The young lad in the baseball cap rose to his feet and started to threaten people in the front row.
‘How long do you think we have until the press find out his murder is linked to Gregory Munro?’ asked Peterson.
‘I don’t know. Twenty-four hours, but I hope a bit longer.’
‘Have you spoken to Marsh?’
‘Yeah, I briefed him a couple of hours ago,’ said Erika.
The news report was now showing footage from earlier in the day: people crowding around the police cordon outside Jack Hart’s house, and then a wobbly long-lens shot of the body bag being stretchered out of the house.
‘Isaac Strong is doing the post-mortem tonight. We’ll have the results in the early hours.’
The late news ended and the screen cut to the weather. Erika turned the volume down and turned back to Peterson, who was silently watching the TV with the straw clamped in the corner of his mouth, sucking the last of the juice from the box.
‘Peterson, you’ve shown up at my flat, peering through my window. What’s going on? Where were you today?’
He swallowed. ‘I had to think.’
‘You had to think. Okay. And did you have to do it at the taxpayer’s expense? That’s what weekends are for.’
‘Sorry, boss. The whole Gary Wilmslow thing has screwed me up…’
Erika lit up another cigarette. Events with Gary Wilmslow seemed so long ago; so much had happened in the past few days.
Peterson continued, his voice cracking a little with emotion. ‘The thought that I’d compromised a massive paedophile investigation… What if it’s scared him off? What if they just pack up and disappear, still abusing kids, making those sick movies? It means I’m directly responsible for all those kids, all that hideous abuse.’ He put his fingers to his eyes and his bottom lip began to tremble.
‘Hey, hey! Peterson…’ Erika put an arm around him, rubbing at his shoulders. ‘Now, that’s enough. You hear me?’
He took deep breaths and wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands.
‘Peterson, he’s still under surveillance. Their cover isn’t broken. I can see if I can find out more tomorrow.’ Erika stared at him for a moment. His eyes had glazed over. ‘Peterson, what?’
He gulped, and took a deep breath. ‘My sister was abused, when we were little. Well, she was little, I was just old enough not to be of… of interest.’
‘Who was it?’
‘It was the bloke who ran our Sunday school, Mr Simmonds. An old white dude. My sister only told us last year. After she tried to kill herself. She took a load of pills. My mum found her just in time.’