‘It’s Erika Foster,’ said Celia. Moss took the phone and went along the landing to the small bedroom they used as an office. She closed the door.
‘Sorry to call you at home, Moss,’ said Erika.
‘That’s okay, boss. What’s up?’
‘Everyone kind of scarpered today.’
There was an awkward pause from Moss. ‘We did. Sorry about that. I thought you would be busy with Marsh?’
‘Oh, I was. Did you have a good day off?’
‘Yeah, we’ve been to St James’s Park. It was lovely.’
‘Can you talk?’
‘Yes. I’ve just finished reading The Hungry Caterpillar to Jacob and I’m now craving salad – which I think is a first.’
‘I’ve been reading one of the DCI Bartholomew books, the ones Stephen Linley writes, wrote…’
‘And you want to start a book club?’ said Moss.
‘Very funny. No, I started reading From My Cold Dead Hands and I’m finding it pretty disturbing…’
‘In what way?’
‘I’m fine with gore, but this is deep, dark stuff. There’s this serial killer who abducts women at night and then he keeps them in his basement and tortures them.’
‘Like The Silence of the Lambs?’
‘No, The Silence of the Lambs has an elegance and restraint in its description of violence. This is just torture porn. I’ve just forced myself through pages and pages of a long, drawn-out series of graphic rapes, and in between the killer pours boiling water on their naked bodies.’
‘Jeez.’
‘It’s almost as if he’s getting off on writing this… This is a long shot, but what if the Night Stalker killed Stephen because of his attitude to women?’
‘I thought the new line of investigation was that Isaac Strong killed Stephen? And I thought you were off the case?’
‘Do you believe that Isaac could have done it, Moss?’
‘No. But then again, I didn’t know him that well.’
‘I was at the crime scene, Moss. Everything about it points to this being the same killer. I’ve just Googled Stephen Linley and he sells a shedload of books, but he’s often run into a lot of controversy at literary events. He’s had quite a few people come and question his treatment of violence towards women; there’s something about a boycott of his work. What if that’s the link? What if his book inspired someone to be violent towards the Night Stalker? During the phone call I had with her, she told me that her husband had tortured her, but he had dropped dead before she could kill him.’
‘It’s a good theory, boss. Or are you trying to work out whodunnit from a whodunnit?’ asked Moss.
‘I just think that we haven’t looked into the motive clearly. We wasted time thinking that it was a spurned gay lover with Gregory Munro, and the whole thing with Jack Hart being in the public eye sort of skewed it too.’
‘There’s only one problem, boss. We’re off the case. I’ve been temporarily reassigned to a CCTV steering group,’ said Moss.
‘What about Peterson?’
‘I don’t know. I heard he’s been reassigned too, but I’m not sure where.’
‘Well, I’m on holiday,’ said Erika, ironically.
‘Then you know what people normally do when they’re on holiday? They go and visit friends… Maybe you should go and see Isaac. If you can’t be a policewoman right now, be a friend.’
63
Erika lined up for visiting at the Belmarsh Prison visitors’ centre, waiting to go through security. It was a long, low, dank concrete building and space was cramped for the forty people waiting to go through the metal detectors. It was raining outside, and the high, thin windows were all steamed up. The smells of damp skin, body odour and perfume mixed in with the stink of industrial floor cleaner. There were a few men and women there on their own. Some looked in shock at having to visit a friend or a loved one for the first time. A rowdy group of prisoners’ wives with their screaming kids were holding things up ahead at the metal detectors. A woman had objected to the guard asking to see what was inside her baby’s nappy.
When everyone was through security, there was a further wait in a long reception room before they were shown through to what looked like a huge gymnasium, with row after row of plastic chairs and tables. The prisoners were all sitting still as Erika entered. They were wearing yellow sashes, so that they couldn’t blend in with the visitors and walk out at the end of visiting.