‘Never seen her,’ said the girl, a bit too quickly.
‘Really? My friend did say she was in here just a few days ago . . .’
‘I didn’t see her.’ The girl lifted up a wire tray half-filled with empty glasses and went to leave.
‘I’m not done yet,’ said Erika, placing her police ID on the bar.
The girl hesitated and put the wire tray back. When she turned, she saw the ID and looked panicked.
‘No it’s okay, I just need you to answer my questions. What’s your name?’
‘Kristina.’
‘Kristina . . .?’
‘Just Kristina,’ she insisted.
‘Okay. Just Kristina. I’ll ask you again. Have you seen this girl in here?’
The girl looked down at the picture of Andrea on the phone and shook her head so furiously that her cheeks wobbled.
‘Were you working here the night of the eighth? It was a Thursday, just over a week ago.’
The girl thought about it, and shook her head again.
‘Are you sure? She was found dead earlier today.’
The girl chewed her lip.
‘Are you the landlady?’
‘No.’
‘You just work here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s the landlady, or landlord?’
Kristina shrugged.
‘Come on, Kristina. I can find out this information easily, with the brewery. And those men were smoking in here, despite the smoking ban. Do you know how much that would cost in fines? Thousands of pounds. And then there’s the illegal employment agency. You just charged me twenty pounds to advertise. I could make a call and have a team of officers here in five minutes, and you’d be responsible . . .’
Kristina started to cry. Her huge chest heaved, her face went red and she scrubbed at her beady little eyes with a corner of a tea towel.
‘If you can just answer a couple of questions,’ said Erika, ‘I can make sure that you are seen as an innocent employee.’
Kristina stopped crying and caught her breath.
‘Okay . . . It’s okay, Kristina. Nothing bad is going to happen. Now, please, look at this photo again. Did you see this girl here on the night of the eighth? That was last Thursday. She was abducted and murdered. If you can tell me anything, you might help me find whoever did this.’
The girl looked down through swollen eyes at the picture of Andrea. ‘She sat there, in the corner,’ she said, finally. Erika turned and saw the small table by the dance floor. She also noticed that the two men drinking had gone, leaving half-full pints.
‘You’re sure it was this girl?’ said Erika, holding up the picture on the phone again.
‘Yeah. I remember how beautiful she was.’
‘Was she alone? Did she meet anyone?’
Kristina nodded. ‘There was a young woman with her, short blonde hair.’
‘As short as mine?’ asked Erika.
The girl nodded.
‘Anything else?’
‘They had a drink, or two, I don’t know, it was a really busy night . . . and . . . and . . .’
Erika could see she was becoming more worked up and scared, ‘Go on, Kristina. It’s okay, I promise.’
‘Then I don’t know when she went, her friend – but when I looked again, there was a man sitting with her.’
‘What did he look like?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Tall, dark . . . They argued.’
‘What do you mean, tall and dark? Can you be a bit more detailed?’ said Erika, trying to hide her frustration. This was a real breakthrough, but Kristina was being too vague. She made a decision and pulled out her phone.
‘Kristina, I want you to come with me to the station, and do what we call a photofit of the woman and man you saw Andrea sitting with.’
‘No, no, no, no,’ Kristina started, backing away.
Erika dialled the number for the duty desk at Lewisham Row. It started to ring. ‘Your information could lead to us finding out who killed this woman, Andrea.’
‘But I’m at work . . . and . . .’
‘I can get the officers to come here. We can do this now.’ The duty officer picked up the phone. ‘It’s DCI Erika Foster. I need uniform and a squad car to The Glue Pot pub on London Road in Forest Hill, and who do we have on duty who can do a photofit?’
There was a movement, and Erika realised Kristina had darted through a door at the back of the bar.
‘Shit! Hang on, I’ll call you back.’ Erika swung herself over the bar and through the doorway to a filthy little back kitchen. A door stood open. Erika stepped into the alleyway. It stretched away long and empty in both directions. A light dusting of snow began to fall. It was eerily silent.
Erika walked the length of the alley in both directions. The houses backing onto it were dark, and the roads at either end were empty. The snow started to fall more heavily, and the wind whistled through the buildings. Erika pulled her coat around her against the freezing cold.
She couldn’t shake off the feeling she was being watched.
12
Two uniformed police officers were called to The Glue Pot, but an extensive search came up with nothing. Kristina had vanished. The flat above the pub was unoccupied, filled with a mess of junk and old broken furniture. It was gone midnight by the time that the officers told Erika to knock off, and get some sleep. They would remain stationed at the pub, and at first light they would track down the landlord. If Kristina came back, they would bring her in.
Erika still felt spooked when she returned to her car, parked a few streets away. The streets were silent, and every noise seemed amplified, the wind keening as it blew around the buildings, a wind chime on the porch of a house . . . She could almost feel the gaze from the black windows of the houses all around.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow move in one window. She turned, but there was nothing. Just a dark bay window. Was someone watching her from the shadows? She realised she was in desperate need of rest. She would find the first hotel and book in. She unlocked her car and climbed in, activating the central locking. She sank into the comfort of the seat, leaned back her head, and closed her eyes.
It’s a baking hot day on a run-down street in Rochdale, and Erika’s protective police gear sticks to her skin. She shifts uncomfortably, crouched against the low wall of a terraced house looming tall in the heat. Two officers are beside her, mirrored by three officers on the other side of the front gate. Mark is with them. Second along.
From weeks of surveillance, the terraced house is burned into her brain. Bare concrete out front, overflowing wheelie bins. A gas and electric meter on the wall with its cover ripped off.
Through the front door, up the stairs, a door to the left of the landing leads through to the back bedroom. That’s where they cook the meth. A woman has been seen going in with a little kid. It’s a risk, but they are prepared. Erika has drilled the routine over and over to her team of eight officers. Only now, they are stationed outside. It is real. Fear threatens to roll over Erika, but she pulls back from it.
She gives the nod, and her black-clad team moves stealthily, surging down the path to the front door. The sun glints off the disc in the meter as it spins. Once, twice, almost matching the thunk of the battering ram. On the third attempt, the wood splinters, and the front door bursts inwards with a clatter.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Shots are fired. The window above the electricity meter explodes inwards. Shots are coming from the house behind them. Erika’s head spins round. The nice house across the street. Sash windows. Brass numbers on the door. Farrow & Ball paint on the walls inside. The couple had been so welcoming, so unassuming when the police had carried out their surveillance.
It falls into place as Erika’s eyes are drawn to their upstairs window. She sees a dark shadow, then pain explodes in her neck and she tastes blood. Mark is suddenly beside her, crouching down to help. She tries to speak, to tell him, ‘It’s behind you’ – but blood fills her throat. In the hysteria it’s almost funny. Then there is a cracking sound, and the side of Mark’s head is blown open . . .