Peterson was at home watching television when the doorbell rang. He checked the time and saw it was just before eight; he muted the sound and went to the front door. He was surprised to see Erika when he opened the door; she was completely drenched from the rain. Her hair flat against her head. They stood there in silence for a moment, just the sound of the rain drumming on the windows.
‘Is it raining?’ he asked.
‘Just spitting,’ she replied. They both burst out laughing.
‘Come in, woman, before you freeze to death,’ he said, standing to one side.
‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ she said, going inside.
He closed the door, and she took his face in her hands and kissed him urgently. He hesitated, and then responded. They staggered to the bedroom, pulling at each other’s clothes until they sank down onto the bed.
* * *
‘You’ve got so much food in your cupboards,’ said Erika, when they had dragged themselves out of bed a couple of hours later, now hungry.
They each had a beer; Erika was wearing one of his huge sleeping T-shirts with a faded picture of Scooby-Doo on the front.
‘Have I?’ he said, sitting on the countertop opposite her, wearing just a pair of boxer shorts.
‘You have Kaffir Lime leaves… What the hell can you cook with those?’
‘Curry. Noodle dishes. Loads.’ He grinned, taking a sip of his beer.
‘Seems a shame that we’ve ordered pizza.’
‘I’ll cook for you some other time,’ he said, getting down and wrapping his hands around her waist.
She ran her hands down his smooth muscular back and felt the warmth of his skin pressed against hers.
‘I’d like that,’ she said, resting her chin on his shoulder. ‘I wish I was shorter, there’s something about resting your head on a guy’s chest… It’s comforting.’
‘You want me to rest my head on yours instead?’
‘Ha ha, very funny…’
They stood hugging in silence for a minute. Erika looked around his flat. It was a classic man pad with black leather furniture, and a giant television with a games console on the carpet in front. There was a picture of him, taken when he was a teenager with his parents and grandparents, and his sister. She remembered the story he’d told her, how his sister had killed herself when she was a teenager. She realised she wasn’t the only person in the world who had lost someone.
‘Mark was a little shorter than me. It really used to get to him. He hated me wearing heels, not that I did all that often, but sometimes I wanted to.’
‘I’m not trying to replace him,’ said Peterson, pulling back and looking her in the eyes. ‘I know I could never do that.’
‘I know you’re not, but I need to move forward, and I like you, a lot. And I think Mark would have liked you.’
Peterson leaned in and gave her a kiss. The doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be the pizza,’ he said.
* * *
They settled down in front of the late news with the hot pizza and a fresh beer each. The national news didn’t mention the death of Ella Wilkinson, but the local London news ran it as their first story. They had footage of the crime scene in Beckenham; luckily the news reporters had arrived at the crime scene after the pathologist’s work was complete, so all that they had to show was the police cordon across the car park entrance, and a lone police car. They did show a couple of short clips, interviews with concerned locals; a young woman with two small children and an old man in a flat cap.
‘Makes me worry about letting the kids go out to play,’ said the woman, holding on to her fidgeting young son and daughter.
‘It’s not the kind of thing you expect in these parts, terrible business,’ said the old man, squinting at the camera through his thick glasses.
Then they cut to a woman outside a set of iron gates, with a house in the distance down a long driveway. The road was dark and windy, and she was bathed in the glare of a spotlight. Her hair whipped across her face, and she brushed it away with a gloved hand.
‘Police last night raided this farm, just twenty miles away from the capital,’ she intoned. ‘No arrests were made, but concerned locals are asking if the death of Ella Wilkinson is linked to the deaths of Lacey Greene, a young woman from North London, and Janelle Robinson, a homeless woman whose body was found last summer. All victims were found in similar circumstances, dumped in refuse bins. We contacted the Met Police for further comment, but no one was available…’
The news report cut back to the studio, and the next story, about the lack of cycle paths in the borough of Islington.
‘I hate local news,’ said Erika. ‘They always manage to sound clueless, but end up scaring the shit out of people.’
‘Perhaps they should be scared,’ said Peterson.
‘And Melanie is inconsistent… We’re talking as friends now, okay,’ Erika added. Peterson nodded. ‘She really stepped up, authorising the raid the other night, but then she goes AWOL, and I can’t get hold of her.’
On cue Erika’s phone began to ring. She wiped her hands and went to her coat. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said holding up the handset. She answered.
‘Erika, have you seen the news?’ snapped Melanie.
‘I’m watching it.’
‘Why did it say no one at the Met was available to comment?’
‘Because no one was. I’ve tried to call you. Colleen is still working on follow-ups from the appeal, and Ella Wilkinson’s parents only identified her body a couple of hours ago.’
Melanie huffed and puffed on the end of the phone. ‘Well, we’ve been called into a meeting with the Assistant Commissioner tomorrow morning at nine. We need to be prepared.’
‘I am prepared. You’re the one who’s been incommunicado for the last couple of days,’ said Erika. She saw Peterson’s face wincing as she said this.
‘I am Acting Superintendent, Erika, and until you know what that entails keep your opinions to yourself. I will see you tomorrow at New Scotland Yard.’
With that she hung up the phone. Peterson was still shaking his head.
‘Why did you just go off on her like that?’
‘I’m pissed off!’
‘And how did it help, having a go at your boss?’
‘Hang on. I’m YOUR boss.’
‘Not right now. You’re just a fit bird eating pizza in my flat.’ He smiled.
‘Fit bird?’
‘What? You’re not fit?’
‘Well. I’m certainly not a bird.’
‘So you’re my girlfriend?’
Erika took another slice of pizza from the box. ‘Um. I suppose so… I’m not really a girl.’
‘So you’re not fit, you’re not a bird or a girl… But you are pissed off with your boss. Can we at least agree on that?’
Erika laughed. ‘Yes.’
‘It gets in the way of what a good copper you are,’ he said, his face serious. She stopped smiling and nodded.
‘I don’t endear myself to top brass, do I?’
‘No. Now eat your pizza,’ he said. ‘Keep that foul mouth busy.’
She nodded and took a bite. ‘Maybe I should go to this meeting tomorrow with a mouthful of pizza. It will keep me out of trouble.’
Chapter Fifty-Three