‘What does he mean, running out?’ scoffed Marsh.
On the screen, the reporter carried on, ‘Sir Simon Douglas-Brown has been faced with a fresh round of newspaper revelations over his links to Saudi Arabian arms deals. An extramarital affair has also been hinted at.’
The camera then cut back to the news anchor,
‘This press conference was a marked departure in the police investigation. Whereas in previous weeks the Met seemed to be dancing to the tune of the Douglas-Brown family, are they are now putting forward a credible line of enquiry, based upon evidence which the family would perhaps rather be kept out of the media?’
The camera cut back to the reporter outside Lewisham Row. ‘I think yes. I believe this press conference may have hurt the relationship between the establishment and the police force, but it may well give the police more credibility and autonomy, which will, I’m sure, help to gain back the support of the public.’
‘There, you see; that’s the angle we’re looking for. I’ll make some calls and get the tape of these comments circulated,’ said Colleen.
Marsh felt a prickle of sweat forming on his brow and he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw it was Simon Douglas-Brown.
55
The past few days had passed in a haze of frustration. To have come so close, and then to have to pull back, had left the figure raging inside. Not only had DCI Foster survived, she’d come back from it stronger.
She’s been put back on the fucking case!
After witnessing the appeal from Lewisham Row, where DCI Foster had publicly linked the murders, the figure was torn. There was an instinct to flee far away, to start again, but there was also an itch which needed to be scratched. The link had been made, but the police had nothing. The figure was sure of this.
So, at six pm, the figure drove up to Paddington Train Station, where the cabs dropped off and picked up passengers, and where the girls hung around . . .
The girl looked confused when the figure pulled up in the car. She was standing a little way down the end of a dirty slip road which was used by cabs to turn around, or by people on the lookout for a good time.
‘I can give you a good time,’ she said, automatically. She was a thin girl with a strong Eastern European accent. She shivered in tight leggings, a spaghetti strap top and a large, ratty, fake fur coat. She had pale pointed features and shoulder length, poker-straight hair. Her eyes were surrounded by glittery eye shadow and she was chewing gum. She leaned back against the skip, waiting for a response.
‘I’m looking for a good time . . . Something a bit different, a bit rarer.’
‘Oh yeah? Well, you know, when stuff is rare, it costs more.’
‘I know your boss,’ said the figure.
She scoffed at him. ‘Yeah, they all say that . . . If you’re looking for a discount, you can fuck off,’ she said, going to turn away.
The figure leaned forward and told her a name. She stopped and came back to the window, dropping all pretence of being alluring. Her eyes were frightened. Fear surrounded by glitter.
‘Did he send you?’ she asked, looking around at the cars roaring past.
‘No. But he knows I put a lot of business his way . . . So he’ll expect me to get what I want.’
The girl narrowed her eyes. Her instincts were good. This might be harder than expected.
‘So, you come here and drop the name of my boss. What do you want me to do?’
‘I like outdoor scenes,’ said the figure.
‘Okay.’
‘And I like it when the girl plays scared . . .’
‘You mean you want a rape fantasy?’ said the girl bluntly, rolling her eyes. She looked around and pulled down her top, showing her small pert breasts. ‘That will cost more.’
‘I can afford it,’ said the figure.
She pulled her top up. ‘Yeah? Show me.’
The figure pulled out a wallet and opened it, pushing it under her nose. The money was in a crisp block, glinting under the street lights.
‘Fifteen hundred. And we have a safe word,’ she said, pulling a mobile phone from her leggings. The figure put a hand out and covered the phone.
‘No, no, no, no. I want this as real as possible. Within the realms of fantasy. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.’
‘I have to call.’
‘An extra five hundred. The boss doesn’t have to know.’
‘No way. He finds out, and I don’t get to have a safe word.’
‘Okay. All above board. Two grand. And the safe word is Erika.’
‘Erika?’
‘Yes. Erika.’
The girl looked around and chewed on her lip. ‘Okay,’ she said. She pulled open the door and got into the car. The figure drove off, activating the central locking, telling her this, too, was part of the game.
56
The incident room was rather quiet after the press conference. Officers milled around as the occasional phone rang. An air of expectation needed to be quenched. The few calls that did come through were from the usual time-wasters.
‘Jesus. You’d think that someone would come forward with information,’ said Erika, looking at her watch. ‘I can’t bear this; I’m nipping out for a cigarette.’
She had just reached the steps of the police station when Detective Crane appeared behind her.
‘Boss, you’ll want to take this,’ he said.
‘Who is it?’ asked Erika.
‘We’ve got a young girl on the line who says she’s Barbora Kardosova, Andrea’s long lost best friend,’ said Crane.
Erika hurried back with him to the incident room and took the call.
‘Is this the police officer who was on the television this afternoon?’ asked a young female voice with an Eastern European accent.
‘Yes. This Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster. Do you have information about George Mitchell?’
‘Yes,’ she said. There was a pause. ‘But I can’t talk on the phone.’
‘I can assure you that anything you say here will be treated confidentially,’ said Erika. She looked down, and saw it was a withheld number. Erika looked over at Crane, who nodded to show he was already working on a trace.
‘I’m sorry, I won’t talk on the phone,’ the girl said, her voice shaking.
‘Okay, that’s okay. Can I meet you?’ asked Erika. ‘It can be anywhere you like.’
Peterson was hastily scribbling on his notepad. He held up a sign, which read: GET HER TO COME IN TO STATION?
‘Are you in London? Would you like to come to the station here at Lewisham Row?’
‘No . . . No, no . . .’ The girl’s voice was now panicky. There was a pause. Erika looked up at Crane, who mouthed that it was a pay-as-you-go phone.
‘Hello, Barbora, are you still there?’
‘Yes. I’m not saying any more over the phone. I need to talk to tell you things. I can meet you tomorrow at eleven am. Here’s the address . . .’
Erika scribbled it down hastily and went to ask more, but the line was dead.
‘It was a pay-as-you-go, boss; no joy,’ said Crane.
‘She sounded really rattled,’ said Erika, replacing the phone.
‘Where does she want to meet?’ asked Peterson. Erika tapped the address into her computer. A picture on Google Maps popped up on screen. It was a vast expanse of green.
‘Norfolk,’ said Erika.
‘Norfolk? What the hell is she doing in Norfolk?’ asked Moss.
Erika’s mobile phone rang. She saw it was Edward. ‘Sorry, I just have to take this. Can you work out a route, and we’ll decide how to proceed when I come back,’ she said, and left the incident room.
The corridor outside was quiet and she answered her phone.
‘So lass, I take it you’re not coming?’ said Edward. Erika saw that it was five past five.
‘I’m so sorry . . . You’re not still waiting there? On the platform?’
‘No, lass. I saw you on the telly this afternoon, and I thought, unless you can fly, you wouldn’t be here at five o’clock.’
Erika thought back. The morning seemed like a million years ago.