‘I would tread very lightly here, DCI Foster,’ said Oakley, icily. ‘These allegations are stacking up in quite an alarming fashion. Your phone number was found at the crime scene on Ivy Norris’s body, plus she was found with a hundred pounds in cash. You are in this photo giving her cash . . .’
‘I gave her my number, and asked if she could call me with any information.’
‘We have a transcript of the voicemail she left on your phone, where she states, I quote, “If you can give me money I’ll tell you what you need to know. A hundred minimum should do.”’
‘Hang on, you’ve already pulled my private mobile phone messages? Are you suggesting I murdered Ivy Norris?’
Erika looked at Marsh, who had the decency to look away.
‘No, we are not suggesting you murdered Ivy Norris, DCI Foster. Looking at this evidence though, it’s building a picture of an officer who is frankly a concern, perhaps a little out-of-control,’ said Oakley.
‘Sir, you know we all have our narks. Our informants who we take for a drink and a chat – a little money and a little information changes hands, but I did not give Ivy Norris one hundred pounds.’
‘DCI Foster, can I remind you that it’s not official police policy to pay for information,’ said Marsh, finally speaking up. Erika laughed at this ludicrous statement.
Marsh’s voice went up an octave. ‘You also directly defied my order with regards to the official statement we made at the press appeal. You jumped in, unapproved, unscripted. Used it as a mouthpiece for a wild hunch. Who knows what damage you have done . . .’
‘Hunch? Sir, I have a strong lead on a man who was seen with Andrea Douglas-Brown just hours before she was killed, and this was witnessed by a barmaid and Ivy Norris.’
‘Yes, the barmaid who doesn’t seem to exist, and an unreliable witness, who is now dead,’ said Assistant Commissioner Oakley, remaining irritatingly calm. He went on, ‘Do you have an agenda against Lord Douglas-Brown?’
‘No!’
‘His role supplying defence contracts has been controversial, and has impacted policy in all departments of the police and armed forces.’
‘Sir, my only agenda is to catch the killer of Andrea Douglas-Brown, and Ivy Norris. Am I going to be the first who says that the circumstances are remarkably similar?’
‘So you now believe that the murders are linked?’ said Assistant Commissioner.
‘Can I just add, sir, that this is not the line of enquiry we are pursuing,’ said Marsh, spinelessly.
Erika paused. ‘Yes, I believe these murders are linked. I believe to pursue my line of investigation would be in the best interests of catching this killer.’
‘I repeat that this is not the line of enquiry we are pursuing,’ said Marsh.
‘Then what line of enquiry are we pursuing?’ asked Erika, fixing Marsh with a stare. ‘DCI Sparks had a prime suspect for all of three hours, before he came back with an alibi!’
‘You would know, DCI Foster, if you had bothered to attend the briefing this morning at eight,’ Marsh said.
‘I had a power cut, at home, and my phone wasn’t charged. So I didn’t have access to any messages or alerts. You will know from my records that this has never happened before.’
There was a silence.
‘How are you? In yourself, DCI Foster?’ asked Assistant Commissioner Oakley.
‘I’m fine. How is that relevant?’ asked Erika.
‘The past few months you experienced would have been stressful for anyone. You lead a team of twelve officers on a drug raid in Rochdale; only seven of you came back . . .’
‘I don’t need you to read my own file back to me,’ said Erika.
Oakley went on, ‘You went in with insufficient intelligence . . . It seemed you were keen to get on with it, like you are now. Can you see how this might be construed as impulsive behaviour on your part?’
Erika gripped the arms of her chair; she was trying to remain calm.
The Assistant Commissioner continued, ‘Five officers died that day, including, tragically, your husband, DI Mark Foster. You were subsequently suspended. It seems you had the chance to learn a valuable lesson, but you didn’t, and—’
Erika found herself out of her chair, leaning over the desk and grabbing the file. She tore it in two and threw it back on the desk. ‘This is bullshit. I took the lead yesterday because I believe Andrea was seen with two people who could provide information about her killer. Simon Douglas-Brown didn’t like it, and he’s now dictating how this investigation should be run!’
She remained standing, in shock.
Assistant Commissioner Oakley sat forward in his chair and said, in a practised tone, ‘DCI Foster, I am formally relieving you of duty, pending an investigation into your conduct and a fresh psychiatric evaluation of your ability to serve in the police force of England and Wales. You will surrender any weapons, formal identification and official vehicles and await further correspondence. You will continue to receive full pay pending results of our investigation and you will present yourself, when requested, to be examined by an official police psychiatrist.’
Erika bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to say any more. She handed over her ID badge. ‘All I want to do is catch that killer. It seems you both have another agenda.’ She turned and left the room.
Woolf was waiting outside with two uniformed officers. ‘I’m sorry. We have to see you out,’ he said, his jowly face hanging guiltily.
Erika walked with him to the front entrance, passing the incident room. DCI Sparks was by the whiteboards, briefing the team. Moss and Peterson looked up and saw Erika being escorted out. They looked away.
‘Airbrushed out,’ said Erika, under her breath. They reached the front desk, where Woolf asked her to hand over her car keys.
‘Now?’
‘Sorry, yes.’
‘Come on, Woolf! How do I get home?’
‘I can arrange for one of the uniformed officers to run you home.’
‘Run me home? Fuck that,’ said Erika. She put her car keys on the counter, and walked out of Lewisham Row Station.
Outside on the street, Erika searched for a bus stop or taxi, but there was nothing in sight on the busy ring road. She set off for Lewisham station, checking in her bag for loose change, but all she had was her credit cards. She was searching through the old tissues and rubbish in the deep pockets of her leather jacket, when her hand felt something small square and rigid. She pulled out a little white envelope. It was thick and looked expensive. There was nothing written on the front. She turned it over and pushed her finger under the flap, opening it. Nestling inside was one sheet of folded paper.
She stopped dead in the street, the cars rushing by. It was a printout of a newspaper article about the raid where Mark and four of her colleagues had lost their lives. There was a photo of the path leading up to the house in Rochdale where dead bodies lay covered, surrounded by pools of blood and broken glass; another of police helicopters hovering above the house, airlifting two of her colleagues who would later die in hospital; and there was a grainy black-and-white picture of a barely recognisable officer lying on a stretcher and soaked in blood, his hand raised with limp fingers. It was the last photo taken of Mark alive. Above it was written in red marker pen: YOU’RE JUST LIKE ME, DCI FOSTER. WE’VE BOTH KILLED FIVE.
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