32
Erika didn’t sleep for a long time. She lay awake, listening to the rain pounding relentlessly against the window. She couldn’t get the image of Ivy out of her mind. Of her blank eyes wide with horror, as if still seeing her killer’s face. Erika wondered what that face looked like. Was it old or young? Dark or fair? Was the killer physically threatening, or an everyman who just blended in?
She didn’t remember drifting off to sleep. She opened her eyes and the light was filtering softly through the curtains in her bedroom. The day had dawned and for the first time since she could remember, it had been a dreamless sleep. She pulled the curtain to one side and saw it had stopped raining but the sky was a pale grey. It was light. She leaned over to the bedside table and picked up her phone to see the time. It was on its charger, but dead.
She cursed, moving through to the living room where she saw the digital clock on the oven was dark. She opened the tiny cupboard housing the electricity box, yanked out Marcie’s blotchy painting and flicked the mains switch on and off, but nothing. Peering out of the front bay window at the empty street below, she had no clue what the time was. She opened her front door, crossed the landing to the door opposite and knocked. A few seconds later she heard a key turning, bolts shooting back and the rattle of a chain. The door opened a few inches and a small elderly lady with a meringue of white hair peered through the gap.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Erika. ‘Could you tell me what the time is?’
‘Who are you? Why do you want to know the time?’ the lady asked suspiciously.
‘I’m your new neighbour. I think we’ve had a power cut, and my only clock is on my phone, which is also dead.’
The old lady pulled back the thin sleeve of her cardigan and peered at a tiny gold watch biting into the flesh of her wrist. ‘It’s ten and twenty past,’ she said.
‘Ten twenty in the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’ said Erika in horror.
‘Yes dear, I’m the one with the watch. My electricity seems to be working,’ she said, flicking her hall light on and off. ‘I think you need to feed your meter, dear. The tenants before you got very behind on their bills. The police even came in at one point – I don’t know why the police were wasting their time chasing up unpaid bills. Although your landlord is apparently quite a high-up policeman, so I’d be careful . . .’
Erika arrived breathlessly at Lewisham Row Station at quarter to eleven. Woolf was on the front desk. He crossed round to her side.
‘DCI Foster, I’ve been asked to take you in to see Chief Superintendent Marsh; it’s urgent.’
‘I know where it is,’ snapped Erika. She went through to Marsh’s office and knocked. Marsh opened the door.
‘Come in and sit down,’ he said coldly. Assistant Commissioner Oakley sat in Marsh’s chair. Marsh had been relegated to a chair beside his own desk. His office had been hastily tidied. The corner of a Christmas card poked out from one of the cupboard doors.
‘Good morning, DCI Foster. Please have a seat,’ said Oakley, in calm, clipped tones. He was immaculately dressed: his uniform crisp, his grey hair neatly parted, not a hair out of place. His skin was tanned and shiny. He was like a sleek fox. Not in any way sexual, but cunning and immaculately groomed. Erika remembered she’d read that if foxes are fed on the finest food they have the glossiest coats. Erika sat and noticed that Marsh was pulling on a pair of latex gloves.
‘Please can we see your mobile telephone?’ said Oakley.
‘Why?’
‘You are the last person to have received a phone call from the murder victim Ivy Norris. The voicemail and your phone is now evidence in the investigation.’ His tone was final; no questions were to be asked. Erika took out the phone and handed it to Marsh.
‘It’s not switching on,’ said Marsh, turning the phone over and pressing the power button.
‘The battery’s dead,’ said Erika.
‘This is your designated phone, for work purposes, and it’s dead?’ asked Oakley.
‘I can explain . . .’
‘Please read out the serial number,’ said Oakley, ignoring Erika. Marsh worked quickly, pulling the back off the phone and reading the number out as Oakley wrote it down.
‘It’s possible to access my voicemail independently, without needing the handset,’ said Erika, as Marsh placed her phone into a fresh plastic evidence bag, and sealed it up.
Oakley ignored her and opened a file. ‘DCI Foster, do you know why you are here?’
‘I think so, sir. I’m not sure why you are though?’
‘Three days ago, an official report was filed by Desk Sergeant Woolf. It details an incident between yourself and Ivy Norris’s seven-year-old grandson, Matthew Paulson. Ivy Norris, whose body was discovered last night.’
‘I’m aware of that, sir. I was one of the first responders at the scene,’ said Erika.
‘It says in Woolf’s report that during the incident in the reception area of this station you physically struck the boy on the back of his head. What do you have to say about that?’ The Assistant Commissioner looked up at her from the file.
‘Is it also mentioned in the report that at the time, the boy had latched onto my hand with his teeth?’ said Erika.
‘What were you doing in such close proximity to the child?’
‘He was sitting on my suitcase, sir. He wouldn’t get off.’
‘He was sitting on your suitcase,’ repeated Oakley, leaning back. He tapped his pen against his teeth. ‘Were you injured during this attack by a small seven-year-old boy?’
‘Yes, my hand was cut,’ said Erika.
‘Yet there is no further entry to this incident in the report. Procedure would dictate that you are examined by a doctor, who can verify this. Were you examined by a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘And why not?’
‘It wasn’t life-threatening. Unlike some people, I like to engage more in police work than pushing paper around.’
‘Not life-threatening. Yet these things can fast become career-threatening,’ said Oakley. Erika looked to Marsh but he said nothing.
Oakley flicked through the file. ‘I had CCTV images pulled from the reception area, which does indeed show the full altercation. Ivy Norris threatened you with a knife, and the situation was diffused by the desk sergeant. However, six minutes later you are seen in the car park where Ivy Norris and her three grandchildren get into your car.’
He passed a large photo across the desk that showed a remarkably sharp image of Ivy and the children outside Erika’s car. The next image showed Erika holding something out through the open window, and the next was of Ivy and the children climbing into Erika’s car.
‘It was freezing cold. I felt sorry for them, I gave them a lift.’
‘And what were are you holding out to Ivy in the photo?’
‘Cash.’
‘You gave them a lift? Where?’
‘To Catford High Street.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘I dropped them where they wanted to go.’
‘Which was?’
‘By a Ladbrokes betting shop; Ivy didn’t want me to see where she lived. They left the car and vanished in between the shops.’
‘Left the car, or fled the car? What happened when they were in your car? Was there any further physical violence, from either party?’
‘No.’
‘You were then seen again twenty-four hours later with Ivy Norris, this time harassing her at a private wake.’
‘It was a glorified lock-in, sir, and Ivy was in a public place. I wasn’t harassing her.’
‘Did you know the landlord of The Crown filed an official complaint about police harassment?’
‘Did he? Was that in-between working as a police informant? Or was that part of his work as a police informant?’