‘Excuse me,’ said Erika. ‘Can I sit here?’
The young guy was kissing the girl. He opened an eye to look at her, but carried on.
‘Hey. I’m talking to you! Could you please move your bags,’ said Erika, showing that her hands were full.
The couple broke apart and the girl said, in an infuriatingly ironic tone, ‘Um, sorry, but we’ve got, like, a friend coming.’ She turned back to kiss the young guy.
‘When is your friend coming?’
‘I don’t know. Soon.’
‘Well, until he does show up, can I please sit here?’
The girl sat back and her eyes widened in shock.
‘Look, lady, I’ve just told you my friend is coming, okay? You’re making me feel uncomfortable.’
Her condescending tone made something snap in Erika. She slammed her coffee cup and sandwich down on the table. She picked up the shopping bags and dropped them on the floor.
‘Hey! That’s so rude. And there’s, like, expensive stuff in those bags. Can’t you see they’re from the Apple Shop!’ said the guy.
Erika sat down, tore into the wrapping on her sandwich and took a bite.
‘Excuse me,’ said the girl, attracting the attention of a barista carrying a plastic tub filled with used coffee cups. ‘This woman has just been rude and abusive and she’s damaged my shopping. She threw my bags on the floor!’
The young male barista seemed to be taken in by the girl’s doe-eyed stare, and he turned to Erika, who looked dishevelled in her coat and mucky shoes, cramming the sandwich into her mouth.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. If that’s the case, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Erika chewed her sandwich and looked up at the young barista, who was bearing down on her with a firm, condescending smile. She chewed the last mouthful and swallowed.
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No. I’m not leaving.’
‘He just, like, told you to leave,’ said the girl indignantly. ‘You do realise that coffee shops invite you to be in them until they say otherwise? It’s, like, the law.’ The boyfriend nodded solemnly.
Erika took another bite of her sandwich and then a sip of her coffee.
‘Do I have to go and get my manager?’ asked the barista.
Erika reached in her pocket and pulled out her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster. I suggest you go back to clearing cups. Have you seen what a mess it is in here? And you? You need to learn some bloody manners.’
‘What? You can’t talk to me like that!’ said the girl.
‘We can all talk to each other however we want. This is a democracy. Of course, as a police officer, I have the power to stop and search. I can detain you if it really takes my fancy. Now, you could’ve just given up the spare seat, but no, you’re part of this entitled young generation who think you can do exactly what you want. You reap what you sow. You were rude to me, and in turn I could make life very difficult for you. Or you can all fuck off, let me sit in this chair for ten minutes, and leave me to eat my sandwich in peace.’
The young girl and guy got up and picked up their shopping bags, watched by the surrounding tables. The barista eyed her, but he seemed unsure if she was in the right as a police officer. He went off to the cash desk.
Erika ate the rest of her sandwich quickly, under the gaze of the other customers, then grabbed her coffee cup and left, before anyone in charge came to talk to her.
Forty-One
Erika walked back to the NCP car park where she had left her car, her blood still pumping after the encounter in the coffee shop. She started the engine and put the heater on, rubbing her hands to warm up. The snow was whirling past outside the car park, and the warm air and the comfy seat made the tiredness wash over her even more. She sat back and closed her eyes.
It seemed like seconds later that her phone rang. She had fallen asleep, and was soaking with sweat under her coat. It was coming up to 8 p.m. She pulled out her phone and groggily answered.
‘Boss, you okay?’ asked Moss.
‘Yeah,’ she said clearing her throat.
‘We just got a call from UCL. Ivan Stowalski died half an hour ago.’
‘Shit… I was just there.’
‘Do you think he was a viable suspect? From everything we’ve heard he was a bit wet, and was dominated by Marissa.’
‘He was obsessed with her,’ said Erika. ‘And the quiet timid ones can flip out just as much as the hotheads.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘You still there?’ asked Moss.
‘Yeah. It’s just been a long day, and hearing one of our suspects has kicked the bucket is never good news.’
‘Yeah, it’s less satisfying when you have to prove the dead guy did it,’ said Moss.
Erika wound down the window and let some fresh air inside the stuffy car.
‘Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Let’s catch up tomorrow.’
Erika hung up, and was still staring at the phone in her hand when it rang again.
‘Hello, is this Erika Foster?’ asked a woman’s voice.
‘Yeah. Who is this?’
‘I’m calling from the NHS Health Centre at St. Thomas’s Hospital. For data protection, can I just take your date of birth?’
Erika’s head was still reeling from hearing that Ivan was dead. ‘Hang on, what are you calling about?’
‘I need your date of birth before I can talk any more about your medical records.’
‘Fourteenth of August, 1972.’
‘And your postcode?’
‘SE23 3PZ.’
‘Thank you. I’m calling with results of your blood tests. Dr Isaac Strong sent samples over yesterday, and asked us to contact you with the results…’
The tone of the nurse’s voice induced a mild panic in Erika. She thought back to when she had last had any kind of blood test. There had been an incident when she was working on the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder case, when a young boy had bitten her. She’d had blood tests three months later, which were thankfully negative for anything untoward. She turned off the heater.
‘Are you still there, Erika?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be pleased to hear that there’s nothing nasty or untoward showing in your blood after you were exposed to the high levels of carbon monoxide. The tests all came back clear. However, the levels of oestrogen in your blood are very low. Can I ask if you are still having regular periods?’
Erika switched off the car engine and racked her brains to think when she’d had her last period.
‘Six, eight weeks ago?’
‘Right. Have you had sex in the last month?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. I’d recommend a check-up with your doctor. You may well be pre-menopausal, but all signs are showing that you may have started the menopause.’
‘Menopause?’
‘Yes,’ said the nurse, with a kinder tone. ‘You are in the age range. We would expect your oestrogen levels to drop as you advance into your forties. Have you had any other symptoms? Thinning hair, dryness of the skin and the vagina, hot flushes, night sweats, irregular changes in mood… You mentioned irregular periods?’
Erika put a hand to her head and opened the car door a little. Cold air came flooding in.
‘Look, I’m at work. Can I call you back?’
‘There’s no cause for alarm, Erika. I just wanted to inform you of this; everything in your blood shows that you are perfectly healthy. Iron levels good. Unfortunately, the menopause comes to all of us.’
Erika thanked her and put the phone down. The shock of what she had heard hit her hard. She had spent so long working, and focusing on her career, and getting through each day, and now this was full stop, a dead end. Her body would no longer be able to give her children.
She started the engine and drove back to South London. She thought long and hard about her life, and about the evening she’d had with Pete
rson. She didn’t want to have a child with him, but she’d felt happy with him, and despite the fact that their outing last night had been work-related, she’d enjoyed his company. She tried to call him, but his phone rang out and went to voicemail. Then she tried the station and got Crane, who said that Peterson had headed home for the night. It suddenly felt imperative to Erika that she sort things out with him, to stop this strange limbo – to maybe even rekindle their relationship.
She knocked on Peterson’s front door just before 9 p.m. He lived in a small block of flats in Ladywell, a little way from her flat in Forest Hill. A moment later, he opened the door. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and was carrying a little mixed-race boy, who must have been about six or seven.
‘Hello,’ Erika said, looking confusedly between him and the little boy, who gave her a toothy grin. He was very cute, and wore Spiderman pyjamas.
‘Erika, hi,’ Peterson said. There was a look of shock on his face, but then his eyes narrowed in concern when he saw how pale and upset she was.
‘Daddy, the bath will run over,’ said the little boy. A blonde-haired woman in her late thirties appeared behind them.
‘James, who is it?’ the woman asked, eyeing Erika suspiciously.
‘Why did he just call you “Daddy”?’ asked Erika, holding on to the doorframe.
‘Because he’s my daddy,’ said the little boy.
There was a horrible pause.
‘Fran, can you just take Kyle and turn off the water in the bathroom?’ said Peterson.
Fran glanced nervously at him, and took the little boy in her arms. ‘Is this…?’ she asked.
‘“This”? What do you mean, “this”?’ started Erika.
‘Okay, okay, okay, let’s talk about this outside,’ said Peterson. He ushered her out into the corridor. Erika stared at him.
‘You have a son?’
He nodded.
‘How old is he?’
‘Six. He’ll be seven in April.’
‘How? What?’ She was lost for words.
‘Erika. I only found out two weeks ago.’
‘And that woman, that’s his mother? Who is she?’
‘Fran was my girlfriend; we broke up in 2012, a couple of months before the Olympics.’
‘What have the fucking Olympics got to do with it?’ she shouted.
‘I’m saying that it was a long time ago! We broke up, and she went to work in Germany. She’s a graphic designer, and she found out she was pregnant very late.’
‘She didn’t tell you?’
‘No.’
‘And now she’s in your flat, and you’re running baths for her kid? And you’ve brought me out into the fucking hallway to tell me!’
‘Erika, I didn’t know how you’d react.’
‘This isn’t helping!’ she cried. She stared at him and her eyes began to fill with tears.
‘I’ve been trying to tell you. I tried at work and then I tried to tell you the other night when I came over, and then we went out and it was for work, and then we had coffee, but you had to go.’
‘You should have tried harder, you fucking wimp! And now I have to find out like this, just as I drop by your flat!’
‘Who just drops by these days? What do you expect?’
‘I called your phone, James.’
‘What about my landline?’
‘I don’t know your landline number.’
‘If you didn’t bother to learn my bloody landline, that’s not my problem.’
Erika slapped him around the face. They both froze. A door further along opened, and a little old lady’s face peered through the gap where the chain was on.
‘James, is everything alright?’
He turned to her. ‘Yes, sorry Doris, everything is fine. We’re just…’
He heard the communal door close and saw Erika walking away towards her car. He ran outside after her.
‘Erika!’
But she started the engine and drove away, swerving dangerously in the snow. He watched as her car vanished over the top of the hill. ‘Shit,’ he said, looking down at his bare feet in the snow.
Forty-Two
Isaac Strong loved to make bread. There was something deeply soothing about rolling up his sleeves and kneading dough. He loved his kitchen, tastefully decorated all in white: white cupboards, floor, walls, and surfaces. The absolute deal-breaker was the large white Butler sink, which had cost a fortune. He couldn’t have dealt with any stainless steel; he saw enough of that at work. As he kneaded, he listened to Gardeners’ Question Time, and to a very serious young woman who was having a terrible time with her indoor plants, which were suffering from Mealybugs. He was listening to the radio through the BBC iPlayer app on his phone, and the programme abruptly cut out as his phone started to ring. He saw it was Erika and answered with his elbow, carrying on kneading.
‘Are you home?’ she asked. Her voice sounded bleary and odd.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’m outside.’
When he opened the door, he saw an Erika he had never seen before. Her eyes were red and streaming with tears. She looked broken. He didn’t say anything, and reached out and gave her a hug. She came inside and they went through to the kitchen.
‘Drink?’ he asked, reaching for a bottle of whisky.
‘Please.’
She sat down at the table.
‘It’s James Peterson. He has a son…’
‘What?’
She launched into the story. Isaac listened, poured her another drink, and listened some more.
‘I never thought we would have children together,’ she finished. ‘And I knew from him, and from the times I’ve met his mother that he wanted kids… But there was this selfish part of me that thought we might end up as this childless couple… You know, happy and content.’
Isaac raised an eyebrow. ‘For someone as intelligent as you, Erika, that is the stupidest thing I’ve heard you say.’
She burst out laughing and wiped her eyes. ‘When he opened the door, he looked so happy. He was a father. It suited him. And there’s a little boy who now has a father. I could never take that away.’
‘Nor should you.’
Erika nodded and took another sip of whisky. She grimaced. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘You didn’t say that about the first two glasses. That is a twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal.’
‘It tastes like Benadryl.’
‘You fancy a beer?’
‘Yes, please.’
He went to the fridge and got her one and popped it open.
‘Thanks,’ she said, as he set it down in front of her. She took a long pull on it and wiped her mouth. ‘Oh god, this is such a mess. I have to work with James. He must have told Moss, because she was asking if we’d managed to have a “chat” the other night. God knows how long she’s known for? And what about everyone else on the team? Did they know, and I’m the only one, stomping about in the dark?’
‘Come on, this is Moss, I don’t think she would keep this from you out of malice. She’s loyal. Straight down the line… What’s Peterson’s son called?’
‘Kyle. He looked very sweet.’
‘And the girlfriend, or mother?’
‘I’ve forgotten her name…’ Erika took another deep pull on the beer. ‘She’s pretty, and she looks sorted.’
‘How does someone look sorted?’
‘She had a pullover slung over her shoulders, catalogue style, and her hair was sleek and straightened.’
‘What if she’s a catalogue model?’
Erika looked at him.
‘What if she was rehearsing for a job?’
‘A catalogue bitch,’ said Erika darkly, picking at the beer bottle label.
‘Don’t go down that road, Erika. You’re better than that. And the name Catalogue Bitch will stick in your mind, and you’ll end up calling her that at the wrong moment.’
Erika stared gloomily ahead and rubbed her eyes. ‘You’re right.
’
Isaac went back to his dough and dumped it in the bin, then he started to wipe down the counter. ‘How is the case going?’
‘Impenetrable,’ she said, draining the last of her beer. Isaac went to the fridge and got her another.
‘You’re not going to join me?’ she said.
‘I’m on antibiotics. I had a chest infection.’
‘Two cases have merged. The murder case, and now another case concerning a man in a gas mask who attacks his victims close to public transport late at night, or early in the morning. I am clueless on both counts.’ Her phone began to ring and she saw it was Crane. ‘Sorry, I have to take this. Hello?’
‘Boss, sorry to call so late. I got back the information about that number that called your house in the early hours of the morning. It’s a pay-as-you-go mobile, registered to an Edward Foster? Is this someone you know?’
Erika felt her blood run cold.
‘Oh my god, yes. That’s my father-in-law.’
Forty-Three
Erika made some calls, and discovered that Edward had been admitted to the Manchester Royal Infirmary Hospital in the early hours of the morning. He’d had a fall, and had to have an emergency hip replacement operation. There had been complications, and he had been placed in intensive care.
It was late, but Isaac offered to drive her up from London to Manchester, reminding her she was far over the limit. He had thrown some things for himself into an overnight bag, but she didn’t want to waste any more time driving back her to her flat, so they set off straight away.
The snow was falling steadily, and Erika was quiet in the car. When they reached the top of the M25 motorway, a huge sign appeared up ahead for THE NORTH’. As it passed above them on the dark motorway, she felt fear and trepidation. This would be the first time she’d returned to Manchester since Mark’s death.
‘What are we going to do when we reach the hospital?’ asked Isaac, looking at the GPS on the dashboard.
‘I’m going to ask to see Edward, of course.’
‘The GPS is saying we’ll get there just after three in the morning. They won’t let you in to see him.’