‘I haven’t finished here. I can discuss this with Marsh tomorrow,’ said Erika.
‘I have clear instructions. I’ve been made SIO and I would like you to leave the scene.’
‘You’d like me to leave?’
‘No. I’m ordering you to leave.’
‘DCI Sparks. I have just been to the crime scene and there are things . . .’ started Erika.
‘I said, I’m now in control of this crime scene and I’m ordering you to step aside!’ shouted Sparks, losing it.
‘I think you’ll find, if you have any knowledge of crime scene procedure, that the Forensic Pathologist has ultimate control over the crime scene, and therefore gives the orders,’ said Isaac, appearing behind Erika with Moss and Peterson. ‘DCI Foster entered the crime scene as SIO and I will finish my briefing and examination of the crime scene with her present as SIO. Now, DCI Sparks, you are in danger of contaminating the crime scene. If you wish to continue to observe, I’ll ask that you follow proper procedure, suit up and shut up.’
DCI Sparks opened his mouth to say something, but Isaac looked down at him and raised an impeccably shaped eyebrow, daring him to contradict.
‘Eight am tomorrow, there will be a briefing at Lewisham Row where we’ll be re-focusing this investigation. Be sure you attend promptly,’ said Sparks to Moss and Peterson. They nodded. Sparks gave Erika a long, hard look and then stomped away, accompanied by one of the uniformed officers.
‘Thank you,’ said Erika to Isaac.
‘I didn’t do it to be thanked. I’m not interested in police politics. All I’m interested in is preserving a scene so you can do your job and find who did this,’ said Isaac.
Erika removed her crime scene overalls, which were bagged up to go to the lab. She found shelter from the pouring rain under the peeling facade of the pavilion, lit a cigarette, and listened to her voicemails. There were four from Marsh, all growing increasingly angry. Simon and Diana Douglas-Brown had apparently been “horrified” when Erika had “hijacked the press appeal for her own agenda”, and Marsh was in agreement. He was ordering her to report to him immediately in the morning. The message finished with him saying, ‘Ignoring my calls will be seen as a further act of insubordination and a direct challenge to my authority.’
When she reached the final message in her mailbox, it began with lots of distortion; she heard a voice swearing and then the sound of coins dropping into a pay phone.
‘Yeah, it’s Ivy . . . Ivy Norris. If you can give me some money, I’ll tell you what you need to know. I need a hundred quid . . .’ There were three fast pips, more swearing and then the line went dead. Erika listened to the message again. It was timed seven hours ago. Erika put in a call to Sergeant Crane, who answered wearily.
‘Hi Crane, it’s DCI Foster, are you still at the nick?’
‘Yes, boss,’ he said wearily.
‘What was the response like to the appeal?’
‘We’ve had twenty-five calls, boss. They’ve died off over the last few hours. We’re just waiting to see if they run the number again on the evening news.’
‘Tell me we’ve got something useful?’ asked Erika hopefully.
‘Fourteen of them are known nutters and time-wasters; they tend to admit to every television crime appeal. One of these guys still maintains that he killed Princess Diana. We still have to go through and eliminate them all, which is taking time. Another ten calls have been from journalists, fishing, basically.’
‘I make that twenty-four.’
‘The last one was from Ivy Norris. She called a couple of hours after the appeal went out. We’ve traced the call to a payphone at The Crown public house. She was fairly incoherent, but left her name, and said she wanted to talk to you personally. Did you check your messages? I tried to call you, but there was no answer?’
‘Yes, and she tried to call me too. We’ve just discovered her body.’
‘Shit,’ said Crane.
‘Yes. Shit indeed. Look, I’ll be in first thing tomorrow, let me know if you get anything more.’
‘Um, boss . . .’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been told to give all new info to DCI Sparks.’
‘Okay, but the Ivy thing, it’s kind of personal too.’
‘Course, boss.’
Erika came off the phone as Moss and Peterson approached. She told them about the message from Ivy.
‘She’s cried wolf so many times before,’ said Moss. ‘And it was only a matter of time before she turned up dead.’
‘They’re about to move the body. The team needs to close down the site for forensics as fast as they can; they’re going to have to work fast in this rain,’ said Peterson. ‘I take it we report to DCI Sparks?’
‘Yes, it seems so,’ said Erika. There was a moment of silence; Peterson and Moss seemed disappointed.
‘Well, I’ll see you both soon, then,’ said Erika.
When she got back to her car she sat inside in the darkness, the rain pummelling on the roof. Moss and Peterson drove past, illuminating the inside of her car before plunging her back into darkness. The death of Ivy felt nasty. She pulled her hand out of her coat and flicked on the light above the mirror. The teeth marks were now fading, the scabs healing fast. What had Ivy been doing? Was she lured out to the Brockwell Lido? Did she go willingly? And what would happen to her grandchildren now she was gone?
Erika started her car and pulled out into the rain.
31
The figure leant forward, yanking off the thick balaclava, and threw up violently. The vomit hit the inky water with a nasty, high-pitched splatter, even louder than the rain, which was falling onto the surface of the pond in torrents. It was normal to purge after a kill. The figure then collapsed onto the wet earth, enjoying the sensation of the rain.
It had been easy, tracking down Ivy Norris. At her age she was a creature of habit, and had been lurking under a street light at the bottom of Catford High Street. She’d looked more disgusting than usual, with what smelt like dried vomit on the furry hood of her coat, and blood crusting around her nostrils.
‘My name’s Paulette, you want oral or full sex?’ Ivy had said, her eyes lighting up when the expensive car had pulled up beside her. She only saw the figure properly when she climbed into the passenger side, and the central locking was activated.
‘Hello, Ivy . . . I’m looking for something from you,’ the figure had said in a smooth voice.
Ivy had started to plead and panic, apologising, saying it wouldn’t happen again, the words tumbling out, spittle flying onto the dashboard of the expensive car. ‘I’m tellin’ you, I had to speak to that copper. She threatened me. She threatened to take me kids away . . . All she knows is that Andrea girl was with a bloke with dark hair and a girl with blonde hair . . . And I ain’t gonna say no more!’
The figure had then held out a gloved hand, offering Ivy two fifty-pound notes.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Ivy had asked, uncertainly.
I don’t know if she was just so beaten down by life, or if she thought there was a chance I would let her go afterwards, but she took the money.
Ivy hadn’t questioned the remoteness of the location, and when they had got there, she had allowed her hands to be tied behind her back. She hadn’t even suggested a safe word.
‘Just not me face,’ she’d said. ‘I know I’m not much to look at, but it makes life easier if it’s not me face . . .’
It was then that I snapped, and punched her in the face. She didn’t look surprised, just disappointed. When I did it again, harder, she looked consigned to her fate. Another disappointment to add to her collection. I ripped handfuls of her hair out . . . Broke her nose . . . She only looked surprised when my hands had been on her throat for longer than a minute. It was then that she realised she was going to die.
Far away, across the grass of Peckham Rye Common, a police car streaked past, sirens blazing out. The figure lay deep in the undergrowth next to a pond, enjoying the sensation of being cleansed by the rain.
My car is a few blocks away, but I can’t go back for it yet.
Not yet.
When it gets light.
When I’m clean.