I WRITE IN RESPONSE TO YOUR APPLICATION TO TRANSFER TO THE MURDER INVESTIGATION TEAM. UNFORTUNATELY, YOUR APPLICATION HAS NOT BEEN SUCCESSFUL AT THIS TIME.
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YOURS SINCERELY,
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BARRY MCGOUGH.
MPS HUMAN RESOURCES DEPARTMENT
‘Sparks…’ she said, sitting back in her chair. She picked up the phone and dialled Peterson. He answered after several rings, sounding groggy. ‘Bugger. I’ve woken you up.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘We were there till two this morning.’
‘What else did you find out?’
‘Not much. Melanie Hudson had me and Moss doing a door-to-door. None of the neighbours on Tattersall Road saw anything.’
‘Listen. Sorry if I railroaded you last night.’
‘Why did you?’
‘I hadn’t told anyone, but I’d put in for a transfer to come back to one of the Murder Investigation Teams.’
‘And work for Sparks?’
‘No, to solve murders. I’ve been stuck behind a desk for the past couple of months, writing bloody reports. Anyway. It doesn’t matter now. I’ve been turned down.’
‘Sorry. Did they say why?’
‘No.’
‘Erika, when they judge this stuff your rank and pay grade goes against you.’
‘I think being me goes against me. And I’m sure Sparks had a hand in the decision… If only they judged the application on the number of cases I’ve solved. The number of murderers I’ve put away.’
‘Putting them away doesn’t save money. Did you know that banging someone up in prison costs the same as it would to stay a night at the Ritz?’
‘Is that what it comes down to?’
‘For someone so smart, you can be pretty naive, Erika.’
‘We can’t think in those terms. Too many people think that money comes first…’
Peterson sighed on the end of the phone.
‘Look. I’ve had three hours’ sleep, Erika. I agree with you but I need some zees before I get into a debate,’ he said.
‘Okay. And sorry again about last night.’
‘’S’okay. Sit tight, something will come up.’
‘I know. I’m just sick of being stuck here in the backwaters, trawling through endless paperwork for Ronald McDonald…’
Erika heard someone clearing their throat and looked up to see a man with a shock of red hair, standing in the doorway. It was Ronald McDonald himself: Superintendent Yale.
‘Look, I have to go…’ She hung up. ‘Morning, boss, what can I do for you?’ she asked, cringing.
‘Erika, can I have a word?’ he said. Yale was a large man, tall and stocky, with a bushy red beard to match his hair. His face was red and blotchy, his large blue eyes watery. Erika thought he always looked on the verge of a nervous reaction to something he’d eaten.
‘Yes, sir. Is this about the knife crime statistics report?’
‘No.’ He closed the door and came in to sit down in front of her desk. ‘I’ve had Superintendent Sparks on the phone…’
Yale had a habit of leaving a sentence hanging, waiting for you to put your head through the noose and incriminate yourself.
‘How is he?’ asked Erika breezily.
‘He says last night you barged in on his crime scene.’
‘I arrived with DI Peterson; I was with him when he was called to the scene, and the weather was slowing down the other officers, so I decided to lend a hand and I went with him…’
‘Sparks says he had to order you to leave the crime scene.’
‘Can “fuck off” ever be interpreted as an order, sir? I’m quoting him directly.’
‘You then stayed at the scene, and took accounts from the three students who discovered the body of Lacey Greene.’
Erika raised her eyebrows. ‘He has an ID on the victim?’
Yale bit his lip, realising that he’d given away more than he intended.
‘For God’s sake, Erika. You keep banging on about being promoted, but you behave like a teenager!’
‘The three witnesses were left alone in an unheated police car. Tattersall Road is in a pretty rough area. It was late at night, and they weren’t dressed for minus temperatures. One of the girls was in her dressing gown, and the other was wearing a hijab…’ Erika let that hang in the air for a moment, then went on. ‘These were vulnerable young women, sir, and we’re having to deal with increased Islamophobia, especially around the more deprived areas…’
Yale raised a bushy eyebrow, and drummed his fingers on her desk for a moment. They were both aware she was going for the low option, but it was true.
‘Sir, I took accounts from the three witnesses, arranged a safe place for them to stay, and I emailed a full report with all the information to Superintendent Sparks.’
‘Erika, I know you’re not happy here. I get it. I don’t find working with you much fun either.’
‘I applied for a transfer, but I’ve been turned down.’
Yale got up. ‘Then we should make the best of things. I need to see the first draft of your report on knife crime statistics in the borough by the end of play today.’
‘Of course, sir.’
He went to say something else, then nodded and left. Erika sat back and stared out of her window. The high street stretched away up to the crossing, where it became a pedestrian zone. There was a sprawling queue outside the pound shop. A young Asian man emerged, pulling up the shutter, and the crowd surged forward.
Erika was about to make another cup of tea when her phone rang.
‘Is this Detective Erika Foster?’ said a young male voice.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, yes, speaking.’
‘Hi. This is Josh McCaul, from last night…’ His voice tailed off, and she heard the sound of a coffee machine in the background. ‘Can I talk to you?’
‘Josh, one of my colleagues will be getting in contact with you to take a formal statement.’
‘Before I do it formally, I need to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘The murder victim,’ he said in a small voice.
‘You said you didn’t know her?’
There was a long pause on the end of the line, then he said: ‘I don’t know her. But I think I know who killed her.’
Chapter Six
Erika agreed to meet Josh in the Brockley Jack, a traditional British pub on the busy Brockley Road, recently refurbished in a gastro-pub style. The bar was quiet at eleven in the morning, apart from two scruffy old men who each had a pint on the go, and another lined up.
Josh was behind the bar, wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt, arranging clean crockery on top of a large silver coffee machine. He looked scared.
‘Hello. Where do you want to talk?’ asked Erika.
‘Do you mind if we go in the beer garden? I need a ciggie,’ he said.
A middle-aged woman with heavy make-up and a ruched red blouse appeared from a door behind him, and gave Erika a hard stare. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting coffee?’ she snapped.
‘Black with no sugar,’ said Erika.
‘I’ll bring them over. Put the space heaters on if you need them, Josh.’
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