‘So it could have been a knife that someone has owned for some time?’
He nodded. ‘We weren’t able to lift any DNA samples from the body.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No. No bodily fluids, hair samples. She wasn’t sexually assaulted.’
One of Isaac’s colleagues came in and went to one of the large stainless steel doors along the back wall. He opened it with a click and the drawer slid smoothly out. Erika did a double take. It was the body of Joseph Pitkin.
‘What is it?’ asked Isaac.
‘This young lad, he killed himself in custody on Boxing Day… May I?’
Isaac’s colleague nodded and Erika and Isaac moved over to the body. Joseph seemed smaller in death, and his body was so thin. Angry red wheals surrounded his neck, and a deep purple line showed where the noose had cut into the skin under his chin, crushing his Adam’s apple.
‘I wanted to check his body again,’ said the colleague, a small woman with soft grey eyes. ‘I wanted to run something by you, Isaac.’ He moved round and she lifted up Joseph’s hands. ‘He has this pigmentation on the skin, very white spots peppering the backs of his hands and moving up the wrists. I’ve been back over medical records and there is no mention of skin disorders such as vitiligo in the family.’
Isaac peered at it. ‘Yes. I don’t think this is disease-related. It looks to be chemical bleaching rather than natural pigmentation.’
‘He was an amateur photographer, and he had a darkroom,’ said Erika.
‘Right, that answers my question,’ said the woman.
‘Dark room chemicals used in processing photographs can often cause pigmentation of the skin, if gloves aren’t used. Was there any scarring in the lungs?’
‘No,’ said the woman. ‘Very healthy. Like his organs.’
The woman’s words began to echo arounds Erika’s head: ‘Very healthy. Like his organs.’ She saw the drawing of the gas mask, and then the video of Joseph, the disembodied hand reaching into the shot and gripping his throat. His face turning red, then purple; the tendons on his neck straining… Erika saw the note again in her mind; the blank eyeholes of the gas mask bored into her head.
The dull pain intensified, and blazed through her skull. The room began to spin, and she had to grip the edge of the post-mortem table.
‘Erika?’ asked Isaac, as she felt the room start to fade out, and her vision fill with stars. Then everything went black.
Twenty-Nine
When Erika opened her eyes, she was lying on a small sofa in an office. It was warm and filled with packing boxes. Isaac knelt beside her with a look of concern on his face.
‘Here, drink some water,’ he said. She took the cup from him and drank. It was deliciously cold, and it washed away the nasty dry taste in the back of her mouth. ‘Can I take your blood pressure?’ he asked, pulling out a blood pressure cuff. She nodded and he pulled up her sleeve, slipping it over her arm.
‘What’s in the boxes?’ she asked.
‘Books.’
She watched as he pumped the pressure cuff and it tightened around her arm.
‘Did you eat today?’
‘I had some cereal this morning.’
He let it go, and placed the end of a stethoscope on her wrist and counted on his watch, listening as she felt her pulse beat through her arm. Then he released the pressure. ‘Blood pressure is a little low: a hundred over sixty-five.’ He pulled out a tiny torch and shone the light in her eyes. She winced.
‘Since when do you have a little torch to do that? Surely all the patients you deal with can’t dilate their eyes?’
‘I got this in a Christmas cracker. I swapped a pink hair clip for it.’
Erika grinned. Her head was still banging, but the pain had eased a little.
‘You were out for several minutes. Can I take some blood?’
‘If you must,’ she said. Isaac left the room, and returned moments later with a syringe and sample tube wrapped in sterile plastic. He pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves. Erika turned away whilst he took the blood from her arm, grimacing at the pricking sensation.
‘Okay, that’s one sample,’ he said, removing the little bottle and screwing another onto the end of the needle. ‘Have you had any other fainting episodes lately?’
‘No.’
‘Been to see a doctor?’
‘No… I was called out to a house, earlier today… A guy tried to top himself, turned on all the gas and sealed up the doors and windows…’ She explained what had happened.
‘You didn’t hang around to get checked out by the paramedics?’
‘No.’
‘Jesus, Erika. You were exposed to high levels of natural gas. What have you drunk today?’
‘An espresso.’
‘You need to flush the toxins out; you should be drinking gallons of water.’
‘Okay, okay.’
He went away and came back with a huge pint glass of water and a Mars bar. He watched as she took a drink and a bite of the chocolate.
‘Finish what you were telling me about the post-mortem.’
‘That was everything. Oh, there was something else. She had paraffin residue on the inside of her mouth. I can’t work out why it would be there. I’ve only ever seen this with people who commit suicide, or truly desperate alcoholics who try to get a high in the strangest places.’
‘She did fire-eating in her burlesque act,’ said Erika.
‘Ah,’ said Isaac. ‘Mystery solved.’
‘I’m going tonight to The Matrix Club where Marissa worked. I want to talk to some of the girls who she performed with. You wouldn’t want to come along?’
‘That sounds like a very weird date,’ he grinned. ‘Sadly, I have to work.’
‘Ah, okay.’
‘Although you need to take it easy.’
‘I’m going to chill at home for an hour, and get some food,’ she said. She downed the last of the water and got up.
‘I’ll run your bloods through all the usual tests. Save you a trip to the doctor,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m sorry about that lad, the one who killed himself in custody.’
‘I am too,’ she said.
* * *
Erika left the morgue and came out into the dark. The car park was busy, and there was a long queue waiting to leave at the barriers. She hunted around for her wallet in the folds of her coat and went to validate her parking ticket. As usual, she pushed down all her feelings about Joseph and Marissa and all the dead she had seen during her long career, brushing them under the carpet, just like she’d been doing for years.
Thirty
Erika came back to her flat, took a shower, and ate a huge portion of fish and chips that she’d picked up on the way home in front of her laptop. Peterson sent over an email with the details of the tailor who had worked on Marissa’s costumes, adding that he would be working that evening at the Matrix Club on Wardour Street in Soho.
Erika had just finished getting tastefully dressed up for an evening of burlesque, and was in front of the mirror, debating if she looked too severe, when the doorbell rang.
‘Evening,’ said Peterson when she opened the door. He was dressed in a fresh black suit with a navy-blue tie, and a long smart black winter coat.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I’m coming with you, to the Matrix Club,’ he smiled.
‘Why didn’t you call me? Or say in your email?’
‘Because you’d probably have told me to piss off.’
‘I would have said something more professional. As it was work-related.’
They both smiled.
‘You look great,’ he said.
‘I don’t look like an undercover copper trying to be glam?’ she asked, looking down at the smart blue tailored trousers and white sleeveless blouse. She touched her hair, which was rock solid. She had blow-dried it, then doused it in hairspray, trying to copy what they had done the last time sh
e had been to the hairdresser, but it had ended up a little severe.
‘No. You don’t,’ he said.
‘Good. And you look great; I mean, smart.’
‘Thank you. Are you happy for me to come along? It is police business, and I did find you the info about this tailor who worked for Marissa.’
‘Okay, I could use another pair of eyes.’
* * *
Despite the snow, Soho was buzzing, with people surging down Old Compton Street, making good use of the lull between Christmas and New Year. Snow fell lazily, and the white pavements were dappled with coloured light from the surrounding bars. Erika and Peterson joined the crowds walking up the centre of the road. They had talked about the case during the train journey from Forest Hill to Charing Cross. Erika told him about her visit to the morgue, where she’d seen Joseph Pitkin’s body. She left out the bit about her collapsing. Peterson updated her on Ivan Stowalski, who was still in hospital, and hadn’t regained consciousness. His wife had appeared at his bedside late afternoon.
‘They still don’t know if he has brain damage, from oxygen deprivation,’ said Peterson. ‘We also ran a background on Don Walpole. He extended his mortgage by eleven grand in the autumn, and sent ten grand to Marissa’s bank account… He doesn’t have a record, not even a parking ticket, poor bastard.’
‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her,’ said Erika.
They hadn’t had much of a chance to talk about anything other than work by the time they got off the train and walked up to Soho, through the crowds in Leicester Square. The Christmas decorations were magical, and Erika felt sad at the way things had turned out between herself and Peterson. She held a little hope that they might be able to salvage their relationship, but she put it to the back of her mind.
The Matrix Club was on the corner of Wardour Street and Old Compton Street. The entrance was a small black door with a neon sign above. A small strip of the pavement was roped off, and a tall, thin black man stood at the door, behind a podium. He was dressed in a long, thick winter coat, wore bright blue eyeshadow and had a tiny pink fascinator stuck to the side of his shaved head.
‘Two tickets, please,’ said Erika as they approached him.
‘What’s the name?’ he asked, giving them the once-over.
‘Erika and James,’ she said, looking back at Peterson. Somehow, saying their first names made it feel like a date.
‘Your full names? I’m not just making conversation,’ he said, rolling his eyes and pointing to a clipboard. His nails were painted bright pink.
‘I didn’t book,’ said Erika, feeling stupid.
‘Then sorry. You are the Weakest Link, goodbye.’ He waved them away, and beckoned to another couple arriving behind them.
‘Cheeky fucker,’ said Peterson, getting out his warrant card.
‘Shit. I wanted us to go in like Joe Public, without them knowing we’re coppers.’ She pulled out her warrant card, feeling inept. It wasn’t like her to make mistakes. The couple who had been behind them were on the guest list, and the rope was unclipped for them with a flourish.
They went back to the podium. The guy on the door eyed Peterson.
‘Have you got any Caribbean in you?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like some?’
Erika had to suppress a smile.
‘I don’t need this,’ muttered Peterson.
‘What do you need?’ said the guy, suggestively leaning forward and feigning comedy desire. Erika stepped forward.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster; this is my colleague, Detective Inspector James Peterson. This is an informal visit, but I would appreciate your cooperation. One of the women who worked here, died a few days ago. She worked as…’
‘Honey Diamond,’ finished the doorman. The bitchy veneer dropped away. ‘Terrible tragedy. We’re putting together a benefit show. Do you think someone here did it?’
‘No, we’d like to speak to some of the people she worked with. I understand Martin Fisher works here?’
‘Yes. He’s the dresser.’
‘He worked for Honey Diamond, Marissa. We’d like to talk to him, just to get some background.’
‘Right, okay, follow me.’
He unclipped the rope and ushered them through the door. The club inside was beautiful, with black polished tables and chairs, dotted around a small stage with a red curtain. He took them to a table near the front.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Erika.
‘Mistress Ebony. By day, I’m Dwayne Morris,’ he said, pulling out a chair for Erika and using a cigarette lighter to light the small candle on the table. ‘It’s table service, and feel free to vape.’
He went off and a waitress came and took their order. They stuck to orange juice and Coke.
The club soon filled up, and then the show began. Whilst there was no full nudity, Erika felt awkward being there with Peterson. The acts were women and men of all different shapes and sizes. Some did traditional striptease, but there was a stripping Adolf Hitler, a Star Wars stormtrooper, and then there was a woman who came on dressed as a suicide bomber. She slowly stripped off her clothes whilst a ticking noise got louder, to reveal wires and sticks of dynamite covering her modesty. Then the lights went out, there was the sound of a huge explosion and when they came back up again, she was completely naked.
And that was the end of the show.
‘Blimey,’ said Peterson. ‘The last show I saw was Riverdance with my mum before Christmas.’
‘Yes, that was much more than an Irish jig,’ said Erika.
Dwayne appeared through the members of the audience who were moving towards the bar.
‘Martin wants to talk to you,’ he said. They picked up their coats and followed him up to the stage and through the velvet curtain. It came out into a chaotic little backstage area filled with stacking chairs, racks of costumes, and old takeaway containers. The door to a small office was open, where a large middle-aged man with a balding head and glasses was working behind a sewing machine. There were racks of costumes along one wall and behind him was a desk with a phone and computer. A huge poster of the original Broadway production of Mame was up on the wall behind him, and the remaining wall was covered by a huge mirror.
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster, and her colleague, Detective Inspector James Peterson,’ said Dwayne, and he left, closing the door.
‘Did you see the show?’ Martin asked, pressing the pedal of the sewing machine and pushing a large panel of blue fabric past the needle.
‘Yes,’ said Erika.
‘What did you think of the suicide bomber?’
‘It was very clever.’
He gave a smirk and adjusted his glasses. He lifted the needle off the fabric and examined the seam. ‘You want to know about Honey Diamond? AKA Marissa Lewis?’
‘You did alterations for her, and you designed the diamond emblem she has sewn on her costumes?’ asked Peterson.
‘Yes. Although, she was always late paying… I’m not going to sugar-coat it. She was a little bitch. I’m very sorry that she’s dead, but that doesn’t change things for me.’
‘Why didn’t you like her?’
Martin put down the piece of fabric and gave them his full attention.
‘She was devoid of grace, without warmth, with a hideous drive and ambition. She’d tread on anyone to get where she wanted to go.’
‘Where did she want to go?’ asked Erika.
‘God knows, she just wanted to be famous. She wanted to be the next Dita Von Teese. What she didn’t realise is that she also needed to work on her craft. Anyone can go off and be a Kardashian, or at least they can try. We had some American footballer, don’t ask me who, come in last summer. She made no bones about trying to bed him; she even said she would try and make a sex tape with him.’
‘Did she?’ asked Erika.
‘No. He went with one of the blonde girls, Jenna Minx, who has a little more class than Marissa. Altho
ugh, that’s not saying much.’
‘How long had Marissa performed here?’ asked Erika.
‘Since January.’ He picked up a pair of scissors and started to cut a bright yellow piece of fabric. ‘To be fair to her, despite all her failings, she has real stage presence and she became one of the most popular dancers. Although there have been rumours that she’s done more than dance for some of the punters.’
‘Prostitution?’
He nodded. ‘A few times, rich types have taken her out afterwards, and she’s had no shame about saying what she did and how much she got for it.’
‘She told you?’
‘Yes, me, whoever else was in the room, and the kitchen sink.’
‘Did she ever talk about neighbours, friends, any relationships close to home?’
‘There’s a drippy Polish guy, Ivan, who she’s been bleeding dry for a long time. Poor bugger. Used to come often to see the show. Sat on the front row and kept his anorak on. All goggle-eyed, and crossing his legs over his erection. There was a girl here who had a boyfriend who works in TV, commissioning reality shows. Marissa went after him, but he wasn’t interested. There was a fight between the two girls just moments before curtain up. I was frantically trying to mend their costumes during the show.’
‘Did Marissa go into much detail about her relationship with Ivan?’
‘She used to joke that she kept him in the cupboard… on account of how pale he was. And she’d often ring him up to ask for more money, or a new frock, and she’d put him on speakerphone, for us all to laugh at. Poor bastard.’
‘Did Marissa ever say if he hit her, or if she was scared of him?’ asked Peterson.
‘No. Marissa wore the trousers. She was in control of him and his wallet.’
‘Did Marissa ever talk about her other work?’ asked Erika.