A door down the corridor opened, releasing a burst of laughter. Marcie approached the front door. ‘Tom, who is it?’ she said. Then she saw the picture Erika held up, of Karolina half-naked and rotting in the water.
‘What’s going on?’ she said, looking between Erika and Marsh.
‘Marcie. Please go back inside, I’m dealing with this . . .’
‘Let’s see what Marcie thinks,’ said Erika, opening another folder and holding up a large photo of Mirka Bratova’s body photographed lengthways, her face staring in terror. Leaves and vegetation clung to her pale flesh; her pubic hair was matted with blood.
‘How dare you! This is my home!’ cried Marcie, putting her hand over her mouth. Erika refused to close the file.
‘This girl was just eighteen, Marcie. Eighteen. She came to England thinking she had work as an au pair, but she was forced into prostitution, no doubt raped regularly, and picked up and brutally strangled. Time goes so fast, doesn’t it? How old are your two little girls now? They’ll be eighteen before you know it . . .’
‘Why is she here? Why aren’t you dealing with this at work?’ cried Marcie.
‘That’s enough, Erika!’ shouted Marsh.
‘He’s not dealing with it at work!’ said Erika. ‘Please, sir. I know that there has been a trace on a phone belonging to Andrea Douglas-Brown. Give me the resources to find that phone. There’s stuff on that phone about Andrea’s life. Stuff she kept secret. I believe that information could lead us to catch who killed her and these girls. Look at their photos again. Look at them!’
‘What is this? Tom?’ asked Marcie.
‘Marcie, go back inside. NOW.’
Marcie took one more look at the pictures and went back into the front room. There was a moment of loud laugher and then it was snuffed out as she shut the door again.
‘How dare you, Erika!’
‘No, sir, how dare we. This isn’t about me. Yes, I’m out of order to show up on your doorstep; it’s bang out of line. But I can live with being a cunt. What I can’t live with is what happened to these girls. Can you really sleep tonight not knowing we tried? Think back to when we first joined the force. We had no power. You can make this decision now, sir. You. Fuck it, you can bill me for the search team, fire me at the tribunal, I honestly don’t care right now – but look at these, take a look!’ Erika held up the photos again.
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Marsh. He slammed the front door and Erika heard the locks shoot home.
‘Well, at least I tried,’ she said to the photos. She closed the file, placed it gently back in her bag and walked back onto the street.
38
The figure had materialised in the alleyway opposite Erika’s flat when darkness fell, just before DI Moss had come out of the front door and driven away in her car.
What was the fat little lezzer doing there? This is a new development.
Watching DCI Foster’s movements had become almost addictive. Coupled with the torrential rain, it had been easy to follow her with a hood up, head down and three different waterproof jackets in a backpack.
The secret of blending in, is don’t try to. Everyone is so fucking self-obsessed.
The figure’s eyes were drawn upwards to Erika, who was staring out of the window, smoking.
What is she thinking? What was that other cop, Moss, doing there? DCI Foster is supposed to be off the case . . .
Abruptly, Erika got up and closed the blinds. Moments later, she came out of her front door. She was carrying her bag and headed towards the station. The figure retreated and sprinted back down the alleyway to a car, and then drove out onto the main road, trying to keep slow, be normal, blend in.
Erika was just turning into Brockley Station when the figure turned the car in to the station approach. Another car started to pull out of a space in front, and the figure used the opportunity to stop, watching Erika as she passed over the footbridge to the opposite platform. The driver in front finished pulling away from the space, and waved a hand in thanks. The figure grinned and waved in return, then sped back down Erika’s road, past her dark flat, and parked a few streets away.
When the car engine fell silent, the figure took a moment to visualise the back of DCI Foster’s building. A high wall curled round the back of the property with an alleyway running along one side. When it had been converted from a big house into flats, the back had been left a mess of old and new windows, downpipes, and guttering.
The figure climbed out of the car and took a backpack from the boot.
I wasn’t going to do this now, but it seems things have accelerated. Watching from outside is no longer giving me enough . . .