BETHNAL GREEN WORKING MEN’S CLUB
‘That must be the name she performs under, Miss Honey Diamond,’ said McGorry.
Erika noticed a diamond shape embroidered in gold on the bodice of the black corset on the second tailor’s mannequin. ‘This diamond logo is the same as it is on the poster. It’s also embroidered on the other two costumes,’ she said, looking at the other two mannequins.
‘A diamond for Miss Honey Diamond,’ said McGorry, coming over to run his finger over the stitching.
‘We need to check if this is a brand of clothing, or if it’s been stitched on afterwards. And our first port of call – along with phone records –should be her social media.’
‘Forensics said there wasn’t a laptop or a PC in the house,’ said McGorry. ‘There wasn’t a mobile phone, and they didn’t find one on her body.’
‘So her phone is missing.’
Erika went to the wardrobe and opened it, seeing more of Marissa’s burlesque clothes. Two additional bras were embroidered with the diamond logo. There was also some civilian gear: jeans, jumpers, a few ‘conventional’ dresses and shoes. Tacked to one of the wardrobe doors were several pictures of Dita Von Teese performing burlesque, and one of her lying in a giant martini glass.
They moved back out along the landing, past a grotty little bathroom, to a small bedroom at the back of the house. It was nothing more than a box room, sparsely furnished with a single bed and a wardrobe. The bed was covered in bin bags full of clothes and towels. Perched on the windowsill was a hairbrush and some face cream. On the radiator was an enormous pair of greying knickers.
‘Jeez,’ said McGorry, holding them up. Erika gave him a look, but didn’t say anything. ‘She gave up the best bedroom for Marissa and her stuff?’
‘She said she charged her extra housekeeping.’
‘Doesn’t look like she sleeps in here.’
Erika saw that the plastic bags had a layer of dust.
‘She said she was in bed around 10 p.m.’
‘Did she mean she slept on the sofa?’ asked McGorry. They came back downstairs and went into the living room. The sofa under the bay window was covered in a creased duvet and a pillow. On the floor was an empty litre bottle of cheap own-brand vodka and two empty tubes of Pringles.
‘She didn’t say that she sleeps on the sofa,’ said Erika. She went to the window. It was grimy with dirt and condensation, and the spray of Marissa’s blood. There was a single pane of glass, and a freezing draft was blowing through the rotten window frame, and they could hear very clearly the noise from the road outside.
‘Maybe she was too pissed to remember,’ said McGorry, indicating the empty bottle of vodka.
Erika heard the door of the support van slam, and the crunch of snow as someone walked past on the road behind the hedge. She wondered if the killer had been lying in wait.
‘I wonder if Marissa had the chance to scream,’ said Erika, more to herself than to McGorry.
Eight
Erika and McGorry came back to the police support van, where a group of six officers were taking a quick break. They had been chatting away, but fell silent when they saw Erika.
‘Don’t mind me,’ she said.
‘Refreshments have arrived, ma’am,’ said one of the officers, indicating the table in the corner with an urn and a cluster of pre-packaged sandwiches.
‘Thanks. What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘PC Rich Skevington, ma’am.’
Erika and McGorry grabbed a sandwich each and filled paper cups with steaming coffee. The sound of the coffee hitting the paper cup was loud in the silence. Erika looked around. She didn’t recognise any of them; they all seemed so young.
‘Who can give me an update on the house-to-house?’ she asked, ripping the plastic off her sandwich and taking a bite.
‘We haven’t been able to get an answer from Don Walpole and Ivan Stowalski. We’re waiting on their mobile phone numbers,’ said Kay, the young officer who’d lent Erika her shoes.
‘What about the rest of the street? Are people being helpful?’ asked Erika, washing down a mouthful of the dry sandwich with a gulp of coffee.
‘Half the houses are empty, but the locals who knew Marissa Lewis also knew about the affair she had with Don Walpole and that she was sleeping with Ivan Stowalski behind his wife’s back.’
‘The jury’s out as to whether or not Ivan Stowalski’s wife has left him,’ said Rich. ‘Their next-door neighbour, a beady-eyed old girl, says they’re both up north for Christmas visiting his family. We’ve also been on the lookout in gardens and dustbins for the victim’s mobile phone, in case it’s been dumped, but nothing so far.’
‘How are the team getting on over at the Estate?’
‘I’ve just come back,’ said another young male officer. ‘We spoke to the usual suspects. A couple of lads said they’d heard of Marissa Lewis.’
‘How do you mean, “heard of”?’ asked Erika.
‘They said she’s had a reputation in the past for being the local bike – their words, not mine. One of them has a record, did three years for rape. The other has a record for assault, GBH. Both of them say they have an alibi, they were out until 6 a.m. this morning at a club in New Cross Gate, H20. They told us to check the club’s CCTV.’
Erika rolled her eyes.
‘Haitch 20. I know it. I’ve lost count of the times we’ve requested CCTV from them. Okay, get someone on it…’ She took another bite of the sandwich. ‘What the hell is in these sandwiches?’ she said, through a mouthful.
‘“Festive Christmas dinner sandwiches”, that’s all they had at the petrol station,’ said Rich.
Erika spat a mouthful out into the packet. ‘I can see the appeal in turkey and cranberry, even some stuffing, but who puts roast potato in a bloody sandwich?’
Erika dumped the rest of the packet in the bin. She looked around at the team, who had averted their eyes, not wanting to risk her wrath. Every other officer her age had taken leave to be with their family or other halves. She missed the continuity of the officers she regularly worked with. Detective Inspectors Moss and Peterson, and Sergeant Crane. She wondered fleetingly if they were having a good Christmas. She was pleased that McGorry was with her, but he was still a relative newbie – and even he had volunteered to stay, risking the wrath of his girlfriend waiting at home.
Her phone rang. It was a number she didn’t recognise, so she came out of the van. It was now dark, and the cold air caught at the back of her throat.
‘Hey Erika, this is Lee Graham.’
‘Hi, Merry Christmas,’ she said.
‘Merry Christmas to you too. I’ve drawn the short straw today, and I’m in the lab.’
Erika liked Lee. He was a forensics and computer expert in the Met police, and they had worked together on a few cases. There had been a frisson of flirtation between them, but nothing more. She wondered now if he was single, and if that was the reason he had decided to work on Christmas Day.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ she asked.
‘Unfortunately, this isn’t a personal call. I saw your name on an urgent request for developing a camera film.’
‘Yes. How soon can you get it done?’
‘It’s already done. I’ve scanned them in, and I’m just emailing the photos over to your work email. I’ll get the hard copies over by snail mail.’
‘Thank you. I should buy you a drink sometime.’
‘Here’s hoping,’ he said.
Erika heard her phone beep. ‘I think I just got your email.’
‘Okay, I’ll let you go. Merry Christmas,’ he said and rang off.
She opened his email and scrolled through the attached photos. They were mostly taken from the tree opposite Marissa’s bedroom. There was a series of photos taken at night through Marissa’s bedroom window, where she was fresh out of the shower and wearing a towel, then naked and pulling on her underwear. There were also three photos, taken from above, of Marissa’s body lying in the snow. And
three more at a lower angle, which looked like they were taken at ground level, close to, or inside, the front garden.
‘Joseph Pitkin, you lying little shit,’ said Erika. She walked over to the front gate of Marissa’s house, where the frozen blood in the front garden was rapidly being covered by fresh snow. She could see up into the tree, with its thick bare branches. ‘Was that your regular spot, to spy on her, Joseph?’ Erika looked at the photos again, and saw that Lee had included a message at the bottom of the email:
The owner of this camera uses ILFORD DELTA 100 Professional 35mm film. They could be using a darkroom to process photos. Lee.
She was about to return to the van, when she caught an acrid smell of burning plastic. She looked around, and saw that at the end of the alleyway leading down to Joseph Pitkin’s house, smoke was rising into the sky.
Erika hurried down the alley towards it, the smell growing stronger. By the time she reached the back wall of the Pitkins’s house, thick black smoke was billowing into the air from behind the line of evergreens. She climbed up on to the wheelie bin, finding it much easier in the borrowed trainers, and pulled herself up onto the wall. Through the trees, she could see Joseph in his long coat, huddled over a burning oil drum. On the snowy ground beside him was a box of papers. He picked up a handful and dumped them into the drum, a shower of sparks and flames floating up into the dark sky. The windows in the house behind him were dark, and he was only lit by the glow of the flames.
Erika dropped down softly onto the strip of earth between the wall and the line of trees and stepped through. Joseph heard her feet crunch on the snow as she came towards him,
‘Stop what you’re doing. Right now,’ she said. He grabbed at a spade propped up against the oil drum, but she moved faster and grabbed it from him. She thought he would attempt to run, but he sank back onto the snow with his head between his hands as she put in a call to McGorry.
Nine
‘Loads of these photos are of Marissa,’ said Erika, sifting through the box of photos on the snow beside the oil drum. She held up a black-and-white shot of Marissa performing in a burlesque gig. McGorry was picking up several which had dropped onto the snow. The fire inside the drum had died down, but it still beat out warmth into the cold evening.
‘Talk about a Kodak moment!’ said McGorry, holding up a photo of Marissa striking a pose on a stage wearing knickers and nipple tassels, and removing a long black glove with her teeth.
‘I don’t need silly comments. Just bag them up,’ said Erika. She looked back at the house. The lights were now on in the kitchen, and two uniformed officers were standing over Joseph, who was sitting in a chair. One was talking to him, the other was taking notes, and Joseph was crying. ‘Do you think those tears are real?’
‘He is a mummy’s boy,’ said McGorry.
Joseph had now lost his cool, and was pulling at his hair. He stood up, shouting at the officers. One of them pushed him roughly down into the chair, which almost toppled over, and started shouting back. Erika pulled off her latex gloves and lit up a cigarette. They weren’t able to salvage anything from the fire, and inside the drum was a blackened lump. She needed to move fast, and make up her mind whether or not she wanted to bring Joseph in for questioning. He had told them his parents had gone round the corner to visit their friends for a quick Christmas drink. She checked the time. It was coming up to 8 p.m. She took a deep drag on her cigarette, and her phone rang. She moved down to the end of the garden, and saw it was Marsh. As she silenced the ringing phone and put it back in her pocket, she accidentally dropped the lit cigarette. It rolled across the snow and under the line of trees. She pulled her phone back out and activated the torch, training it under the trees. She found the cigarette, tucked under one of the evergreens, still lit. She also saw that a small square of soil had been disturbed towards the end of the row of evergreens. It hadn’t been like that earlier in the day. She called back to McGorry to bring the spade propped up against the oil drum.
‘Look,’ she said, when he joined her. ‘The ground wasn’t disturbed when we came over the wall this morning. Get digging.’
She trained the light on the ground as McGorry began scraping at the soil. He only had to dig down a few feet before he uncovered something small and grubby, wrapped in plastic. Erika pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves and squatted down beside the hole. She shook off the soil, and gently started to unwrap several layers of plastic bags, thinking she was going to find a block of cannabis resin. The final layer of plastic uncovered an iPhone with a pink bejewelled case. Written across the back in clear Swarovski crystals was the name, ‘Marissa’.
‘Bloody hell,’ said McGorry.
‘Indeed. Let’s bring him in for questioning,’ said Erika. She checked the iPhone was switched off, and slipped it into a clear evidence bag.
* * *
They came back to the house, and went into the kitchen. David and Elspeth Pitkin had just arrived home.
‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ said David, still wearing his thick winter coat and grey bobble hat. Elspeth went to Joseph and started to examine his tear-streaked face.
‘What did they do to you?’ she said. He stared blankly at her.
‘Mr and Mrs Pitkin. Did you have a nice evening?’ asked Erika, smiling sweetly.
David turned to her. ‘What is this?’
‘Your son was burning photos of the murder victim in your garden.’
Elspeth shot a look at her husband, but he ignored her.
‘It is not illegal to take photographs; we’ve already been over this, DCI Foster.’
‘It is illegal to steal a mobile phone from a dead body and then bury it in the garden.’ Erika held up the mobile phone in the evidence bag. ‘It’s called withholding evidence.’
‘How do we know you didn’t plant it there!’ cried Elspeth, her voice cracking with emotion.
Erika nodded at the two uniformed officers. ‘Joseph Pitkin, I am arresting you on suspicion of withholding evidence…’
‘NO, NO, NOT MY BOY!’ cried Elspeth, moving to block the two officers.
‘…Withholding evidence pertaining to a murder enquiry. You do not have to say anything; but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘He was with us all last night! He didn’t go out!’ insisted Elspeth, reaching to grab at Joseph. One of the uniformed officers moved her to one side and handcuffed Joseph with his hands behind his back. ‘Don’t you touch me! Don’t you assault me!’ she screamed. David looked on, his face ashen.
‘Please, officers, my son is very vulnerable,’ he said.
‘Get his phone,’ said Erika. One of the officers reached into Joseph’s coat and pulled out a smartphone. She handed it to Erika, who switched it off and put it in a clear evidence bag. ‘I want this house searched, top to bottom. And as you are aware of the law, Mr Pitkin, you’ll agree that your son has given me enough cause to search without a warrant.’
‘Please! Don’t lock him away. Please!’ cried Elspeth. David had to hold her back, as Joseph was led away.
Ten
The custody suite at Lewisham Row police station was down in the basement, and separated from the rest of the offices in the station by a thick steel door. Erika had been a police officer long enough to remember that it used to be called ‘the cells’. However, the fancy term didn’t hide the fact that this was a dank and depressing part of the station: a thin corridor lined with big steel doors with hatches, painted a deep pea-green colour.
Ray Newton was the custody sergeant who was on duty. He was a small, rotund, balding officer with a thick moustache, and he was waiting for them when Joseph was led up to the desk by two uniformed officers.
‘He’s had a full body search,’ said Erika. ‘And we’re waiting on word about a solicitor.’
‘Right, young man,’ said Ray, pulling out a clipboard and handing him a pen attache
d to the desk with a thick piece of string. ‘We have to fill out some paperwork, so the officers are going to remove your handcuffs. I don’t want any funny business. You treat me well, and I reciprocate.’
Joseph’s mood flipped, and he started thrashing about with his arms still cuffed behind him.
‘You! You’re fucking cunts!’ he screamed, trying to turn around and see Erika and McGorry.
‘That’s enough!’ said Ray.
‘They stitched me up! I’ve done nothing! NOTHING!’
‘We’ll leave him with you,’ said Erika, indicating to McGorry that they should go.
They came up the stairs, through the thick doors, and into the main part of the station. They stopped at the vending machines by the stairs.
‘That’s a first, being called the C-word on Christmas day,’ said McGorry.
‘Makes you feel all cosy and festive, doesn’t it? Like you’re beside the fire with a glass of something warm.’
‘You want to let him sweat in the cells overnight?’ said McGorry.
‘I want to wait till morning to question him,’ corrected Erika. ‘Kay is working on unlocking the phones upstairs.’
Her phone rang and she had a brief conversation with one of the officers at the Pitkin house.
‘They found an improvised darkroom upstairs, in a small cupboard in Joseph’s bedroom, but there were no photos,’ she said when she came off the phone.
‘Burned them before we got to him,’ said McGorry.
‘Kay is trained to forensically examine electronic devices. I want to know what’s on his phone and Marissa’s, before we question him. Let’s hope there’s something.’
‘They’re a bit of a weird family, aren’t they? The posh ones always are a bit odd. Is he really stupid enough to have buried that phone, with Marissa’s personalised case still on it?’
‘Don’t underestimate how stupid people can be. I also want to run his prints against the ones we found on the plastic film holder in the alleyway.’