Over the next few days, there was a shift in the media coverage of Andrea’s murder, and Erika’s statement at the press appeal kindled a more negative press reaction. It smoked, at first, with hints of Andrea’s past relationships, then slowly sputtered to life with fiery revelations of Andrea’s many lovers, and the suggestion that she’d enjoyed both male and female partners. By the end of the week, the tabloids ignited in a fireball of disclosures. One of Andrea’s ex-boyfriends, who described himself as performance artist, came forward and sold his story to one of the tabloids. Stills from a video emerged of them engaging in oral and anal sex, and of Andrea being tied up and flogged in a sex dungeon while wearing a see-through plastic dress and a gag ball. The tabloids had prudishly pixellated the images, but readers could be in no doubt as to what she was doing. The broadsheets condemned the tabloids whilst simultaneously offering their own thoughts and opinions, stoking the fire. The right-leaning newspapers had found a new way to attack Simon Douglas-Brown, and in their eyes Andrea might, just might, have asked for it.
Erika passed four long and lonely few days in her new flat, attempting to settle in. She got her electricity sorted out and watched the media coverage unfold. She went for a medical check-up, taking the bus to Lewisham Hospital where she explained she was a police officer and she had been exposed to blood and bodily fluids. Samples of her blood and urine were taken, and she was told she would have to return for a further blood test in three months time. The whole encounter was cold and clinical, and made her feel very small and insignificant in the world. Alone in her flat, she kept staring at the note, trying to work out how it had been placed in her pocket. Was she losing it? How could she have not noticed something? Her mind went back over the days leading up to finding it, over all the places she had been – but it could have been anyone anywhere. For now, she kept it in a clear plastic evidence bag. She knew she should hand it in, but something in the back of her mind told her to keep hold of it.
On the fifth morning, Erika arrived at the newsagent opposite Brockley station to buy the day’s papers, when she saw the front page headline of the Daily Mail: TOP COP SUSPENDED FROM ANDREA CASE.
It detailed how, after a series of high-profile mistakes and blunders running the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder enquiry, DCI Erika Foster has been suspended from duty pending a full enquiry. It stated that Foster had been accused of erratic behaviour, of leaking information to the press relating to the case, and of misplacing confidential information regarding police informants, which “most probably” resulted in the death of Ivy Norris.
There was a photo taken of Erika through the passenger window of a car. Her eyes were wide and mouth gurning as she reached out for the dashboard. Under the photo the caption read: BLUNDERING COP ERIKA FOSTER. The photo had been taken by the press outside the Horniman Museum crime scene, when Moss’s car had slipped on the ice.
Erika threw the newspaper down and left without buying anything.
When she got back home, she made a strong coffee and switched on the television. The BBC News channel counted down to the hourly headlines, and then Andrea Douglas-Brown’s face appeared on the screen with the announcement that the police had arrested a man called Marco Frost in connection with her murder.
The report flicked back to the newsreader. ‘Twenty-eight-year-old Marco Frost was originally eliminated from police enquiries, but was subsequently found to have lied about being abroad when Andrea Douglas-Brown was murdered.’
The footage then showed Marco, a handsome, dark-haired young man, emerging handcuffed from the entrance to a block of flats. He had his head down and was led away by two uniformed officers to a police car. They held the back of his head as he was loaded in, and then the car sped away.
The camera cut to Simon Douglas-Brown and Giles Osborne, standing with Marsh outside the revolving Scotland Yard sign.
‘This morning, police raided the home of Marco Frost and discovered material of a disturbing nature related to the victim. It is believed the suspect had developed an unhealthy obsession with Andrea Douglas-Brown in the months leading up to her abduction and murder,’ said Marsh.
Simon then stood forward, his face pained, his hands twitching at his suit jacket pockets. ‘I would like to thank the Metropolitan Police for their diligence and continued efforts in what has been a problematic investigation. I would like to say that I have full confidence in the new investigative team and I thank them for their continued efforts in tracking down Andrea’s killer. We will, of course, continue to work closely with the police. Thank you.’
The report flicked back to the newsreader and moved on to another story. Erika grabbed the new prepaid phone she’d bought the previous day and called Lewisham Row. Woolf answered.
‘It’s Foster, can you put me through to Sergeant Crane?’
‘Boss, I’m not supposed to . . .’
‘Please. It’s important.’
There was a beep and then Crane answered.
‘Surely there isn’t enough on this Marco Frost to make an arrest?’ said Erika, getting straight to the point.
‘Give me your number and I’ll call you back,’ said Crane. He hung up and ten minutes went by. Erika was just thinking he had given her the brush-off when her phone rang.
‘Sorry, boss, I need to be quick cos I’m on my mobile freezing my tits off in the car park. Marco Frost lied about being in Italy. We only found out after trawling through hours of CCTV from London Bridge station on the night Andrea vanished. He boarded a train on the Forest Hill line twenty minutes after Andrea. Course, there’s no CCTV evidence to put him at the scene, but he’s damned himself by lying about his whereabouts and getting his aunt and uncle to give him a false alibi.’
‘It could have been an unlucky coincidence,’ said Erika.
‘His girlfriend, who lives out in Kent, has given him another alibi, but now he’s lied we have a motive. We’re holding him for the next three days.’
‘What about the murder of Ivy Norris?’
‘It’s been taken over by Vice,’ said Crane. ‘Look, boss. It’s not looking good for your theory.’
‘Oh, theory now, is it?’ said Erika. Crane did not respond. Erika could hear the cars whooshing past the station car park.
‘Are you okay, boss?’
‘I’m fine. And please spread the word on that. I’m sure everyone has seen the papers.’
‘I didn’t know about your other half. Sorry.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘You can keep me in the loop. Even if it does mean freezing your tits off in the car park.’
Crane laughed. ‘I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can, boss, okay?’
‘Thanks, Crane,’ said Erika. As she hung up, she reached for her coat. It was time to pay Isaac Strong a visit.
34
It was early evening, and Isaac Strong was in his office adjacent to the morgue. Shirley Bassey’s Performance album was playing, and he was preparing to write his report on the Ivy Norris autopsy. He relished this calm time. His favourite music, the lights low in his office. It was in stark contrast to the violence of slicing open a body, weighing its organs, analysing the contents of bowel and stomach, swabbing and scraping for DNA evidence, and piecing together the acts of violence inflicted on the corpse to form a narrative – the story of its demise.
A cup of peppermint tea steamed lightly by his computer monitor, the delicate leaf of mint still twirling in the freshly poured cup. There was a faint beeping sound, and a window popped up on his computer screen. It was a blue-grey CCTV image of DCI Erika Foster standing in the hallway outside the lab. She looked up at the camera. His hand hesitated, and then he buzzed her in.