Back in the incident room at West End Central, Erika and her team had listened with mounting confusion to what was unfolding on Oakwood Farm with the two Specialist Firearms teams. When they’d heard the shot fired in the Oast House, DI Kendal at the control centre had started to shout out, demanding to know what was happening, and if any officers had been injured. After a few moments of chaos and confusion, they heard Sergeant Spector’s voice.
‘It’s okay. No one’s injured. I repeat. There are no officers injured. The inside of the building… It’s full of mannequins… bloody shop mannequins…’
‘Please can you clarify, why was a shot fired? Over,’ came DI Kendal’s voice.
‘We believed the suspect was armed, but the suspect was a mannequin holding a plastic gun,’ said Spector.
‘Again, please can you clarify? Over,’ came Kendal’s voice.
‘The Oast House, it’s full of plastic shop mannequins in outfits, some of them are just torsos, and a few are propped up against the walls… And there’s rails and rails of costumes. We’ve secured the building and there’s no threat. No one here, over,’ said Spector. He sounded shaken, and embarrassed.
Back in the incident room at West End Central a look passed between Erika, Moss and Peterson. John rolled his eyes and put his head in his hands.
‘To be sure, we’re going to search the rest of the outbuildings and take a look at the car,’ came Spector’s voice through the radio.
An hour passed, and then two. They all listened to the two teams moving throughout the farm buildings. There was no sign of Ella Wilkinson.
‘Boss, look at this,’ said Crane, handing Erika a printout from Yelp.
She took it from him and read:
‘Mr Bojangles, The Premier Kent supplier of quality theatrical and historical costumes throughout Ireland & the UK, Oakwood Farm, Thornton Massey, Maidstone, Kent…’
‘The company is registered to Darius Keefe. He also has a red Citro?n registered in his name, but it’s a different model to the one in our CCTV footage,’ said Crane.
‘Fuck,’ said Erika, slamming her hand down on the desk.
* * *
It was two thirty in the morning when Erika and the team emerged from West End Central. Taxis had been arranged to take everyone home, and were parked in a line by the kerb. The early morning trains wouldn’t start running for another three hours.
The atmosphere was muted as the members of her team said good night and climbed into the waiting cars.
‘Night, boss, get some rest,’ said Moss, giving Erika’s arm a squeeze.
She hung back as the cars started to pull away, and noticed Peterson beside her.
‘What’s this?’ he said, indicating the remaining two taxis waiting.
‘I just fancied a night in my own bed, alone,’ said Erika, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and stripping off the cellophane.
‘No, no, no, don’t start smoking again,’ said Peterson, reaching over to take the packet.
She pulled her arm back.
‘Please, just leave me.’
‘But you’ve done so well…’
‘You think what happened in there tonight was me doing well?’ she shouted.
He watched her with concern as she opened the packet and, pulling out the foil, put a cigarette in her mouth. She lit up and exhaled.
‘I meant you’d done well giving up smoking for so long… And you couldn’t have foreseen that we’d get the wrong address…’
‘You should get home, James,’ she said.
‘I’m on your side,’ he said, leaning towards her angrily. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘I know. I just want to be alone.’
‘Yeah, maybe you should be,’ he said.
He went to the waiting taxi and got in. Erika watched it drive away, then she smoked another two cigarettes. The building opposite was wrapped in scaffolding and a bright security light shone over it, casting a grid over the pavement around her. Like she was in a cage. It made her think of Ella Wilkinson, trapped somewhere.
Erika knew she would be hauled over the coals for what had happened. And the identity of the true killer was still unknown. She ground out her cigarette on the pavement, and got into the taxi for the journey back to her cold empty flat.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Thirty-eight-year-old Martyn Lakersfield was a full-time carer for his wife, Shelia, who was living with multiple sclerosis. Just four years ago, they’d been living a happy life, with busy careers. Shelia had worked in advertising, and he had worked for Citibank. They’d often said they passed like ships in the night, but now they were both prisoners of their third floor flat in Beckenham, just a few miles from Lewisham. It was a decent enough area, and they were lucky to own the property, but this was not how they had seen their life together panning out. In recent months, Shelia had found sharing a bed difficult and stressful, so Martyn had taken the decision to sleep in the spare room. It had broken his heart.
On Tuesday morning, Martyn had woken at three, and had been unable to get back to sleep. After checking on Shelia, who was sleeping soundly, he went into the living room to watch TV. At three thirty, his eyes were scratchy, but he was still wide awake, so he decided to take out the rubbish, something he hadn’t managed to do the day before.
He came out of the main entrance and stopped on the steps, breathing in the cold air. He walked over to the line of dumpsters which were at the front of the building, to the left of a paved car park overlooking the street. He was surprised to see what he thought was another neighbour at the black dumpster, but he didn’t recognise the small figure, with its face obscured in the shadow of a baseball cap pulled down low. As he moved closer, the figure heard his feet on the gravel path and turned. It stood still for a moment, arms hanging down, feet braced and then darted away onto the street, passing under an orange streetlight before vanishing around the hedgerow.
There was something about the way they had behaved that made Martyn stop. The person had started at him, almost weighing up what to do, fight or flight. Martyn gently placed the bag of rubbish down on the ground, and not taking his eyes off the entrance to the car park, he crouched down and picked up a large rock from the row lining the path. He moved swiftly to the entrance, with the rock braced in his hand, and stepped out onto the pavement. The road was empty and silent, pools of orange light stretching away in both directions. The windows of the surrounding flats were dark.
He was relieved whoever it was had chosen to flee. He came back and retrieved his rubbish bag, and keeping hold of the rock, he went to the dumpster.
The lid was open and what he saw inside made him cry out in shock. He stumbled back and fell onto the cold, hard ground.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Erika was woken by her phone ringing in the darkness. She rolled over in bed, reaching out with her fingers. The space beside her was empty, and the mattress firm. She was at home. She’d been dreaming she was back in Manchester, as a Specialist Firearms Officer. It was a recurring dream she hadn’t had in a long time; the ill-fated drug raid where she relived the death of her husband and five members of her team.
She was thankful the phone had woken her, until she saw who it was.