Last Breath (Detective Erika Foster #4)
Robert Bryndza
Prologue
It was three o’clock in the morning, and the stench of the dead body filled the car. The heat had remained unbroken for days. He drove with the air conditioning on full, but the smell of her still permeated from the boot of the car. She was decaying fast.
It had been two hours since he laid her there. The flies had been seeking her out, and in the darkness he’d had to wave his arms around to keep them off. He’d found it funny how he flapped and flailed. If she’d still been alive, she might have laughed too.
Despite the risk, he enjoyed these night-time excursions, driving along the deserted motorway, and into London through the suburbs. Two roads back, he’d shut off the car headlights, and as he turned into a run-down residential street, he cut the engine. The car freewheeled in silence, past houses, their windows dark, to the bottom of the hill where a small deserted print-works came into view. It was set back from the road with a car park. Tall trees lined the pavement, casting it in shadows, while the light pollution from the city threw a muddy orange glow over the surroundings. He turned into the car park, bumping and lurching over tree roots pushing up under the tarmac.
He drew up at a line of dumpsters next to the entrance of the print-works and turned the car sharp to the left, coming to a stop with less than a foot between the car boot and the last dumpster.
He sat in silence for a moment. The houses opposite were masked by the trees, and where the row of terraced houses met the car park it was just a brick wall. He leaned over to the glove compartment and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He stepped out of the car, and the heat swelled up at him from the cracked tarmac. The gloves were wet inside within seconds. When he opened the car boot, a bluebottle buzzed out and found his face. He waved his arms, and spat it away.
He pushed back the lid of the dumpster; the smell hit him, and more bloody flies that had been laying their eggs amongst the warm festering rubbish flew out at him. He batted them away with a yelp and more spitting, and then moved to the back of the car.
She’d been so beautiful, even up until the end, just a few hours ago, when she’d cried and pleaded, her hair greasy, her clothes soiled. Now she was a limp thing. Her body was no longer needed, by her or him.
In one fluid movement, he hoisted her up and out of the boot and laid her lengthways on the black sacks, then slid the lid of the dumpster closed. He looked around; he was alone, more so now she was gone. He got back in the car and started the long drive home.
* * *
Early next morning, the neighbour opposite walked over to the print-works with a bulging black sack. There were no rubbish collections on the bank holiday, and her in-laws had been staying with their new baby. She slid back the lid of the first dumpster to drop it in, and a mass of flies seemed to explode out at her. She backed off, batting them away. And then she saw, lying on top of the black bags, the body of a young girl. She’d been savagely beaten: one of her eyes was swollen shut, there were gashes on her head, and her body was crawling with flies in the early morning heat.
Then the smell hit her. She dropped the black sack, and threw up over the hot tarmac.
Chapter One
Monday, 9 January 2017
Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster watched Detective James Peterson as he towelled flakes of melting snow from his short dreadlocks. He was tall and lean, with just the right mix of arrogance and charm. The curtains were drawn tight against the whirling snow, the television murmured comfortably in the background, and the small kitchen-cum-living room was bathed in the soft warm glow of two new lamps. After a long day at work, Erika had been resigned to a hot bath and an early night, but then Peterson had called from the fish and chip shop around the corner, asking if she was hungry. Before she could think up an excuse, she’d said yes. They had worked together previously on several successful murder investigations, when Erika had been Peterson’s senior officer, but now they were in different units: Peterson was a member of the Murder Investigation Team, while Erika worked with the Projects Team – it was a role she had rapidly grown to hate.
Peterson went over to the radiator and draped the towel neatly, then turned to her with a grin.
‘It’s a blizzard out there,’ he said, cupping his hands and blowing into them.
‘Did you have a good Christmas?’ she asked.
‘It was alright, just my mum and dad. My cousin got engaged,’ he said, taking off his leather jacket.
‘Congratulations…’ She couldn’t remember if she’d heard about a cousin.
‘How about you? You were in Slovakia?’
‘Yeah, with my sister and her family. I shared a single bunk bed with my niece… You fancy a beer?’
‘I’d love one,’ he said.
He draped his jacket across the back of the sofa and sat. Erika opened the fridge door and peered in. A six-pack was wedged into the vegetable drawer, and the only food was a saucepan of days’-old soup on the top shelf. She went to check her reflection in the curved side of the stainless steel saucepan, but the shape of the metal distorted it, giving her a pinched face and a forehead bulging out like a freak show mirror. She should have lied politely that she’d already eaten.
A couple of months earlier, after drinks in the pub with colleagues, Erika and Peterson had ended up in bed together. Whilst neither of them had felt it was just a one-night stand, they had since kept things professional. They’d spent a couple more nights together before Christmas, and both times she had left his flat before breakfast. But now he was in her flat, they were sober, and the gilt-framed picture of her late husband, Mark, was on the bookshelf by the window.
She tried to push the anxiety and guilt from her mind, retrieved two beers and closed the fridge door. The red-and-white striped plastic bag containing the fish and chips sat on the countertop, and the smell was making her mouth water.
‘Do you like yours in the paper?’ she asked, popping the lids off the beers.
‘It’s the only way to have them,’ said Peterson. He had one arm slung over the back of the sofa, and sat resting an ankle over the opposite knee. He looked confident and comfortable.
She knew it would kill the mood but they needed to have a talk; she needed to set some boundaries. She pulled out two plates and took them over with the bag and the beers, setting them down on the coffee table. They unwrapped their chip paper in silence, steam rising from the fish in crisp batter and the chips, squishy and golden. They ate for a moment.
‘Look, Peterson, James…’ Erika started.
Then his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket.
‘Sorry, I should take this.’