Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

  They held their phones up to Erika and showed her the picture they’d taken of her in the necklace. She looked gaunt and almost translucent; against the white fridge, she was so pale.

  ‘You look pretty,’ said Sophie.

  ‘But you look like you could do with some food,’ said Mia. Luckily, this broke the atmosphere and they all laughed.

  ‘Girls, go and wash your hands,’ said Marcie.

  Erika waited until the girls had left the room. ‘How are they doing?’ she asked.

  Marcie and Marsh looked at each other. ‘Surprisingly good, all things considering,’ said Marcie. ‘Sophie is much stronger. She’s been the one who looks after Mia.’

  ‘They keep disappearing off into corners to talk to each other in their own made-up language,’ said Marsh.

  ‘There’s no manual for what to do. I’m taking them to see a therapist in the new year,’ said Marcie.

  ‘How are you both doing?’ asked Erika. They looked at each other, as if seeing that they were a couple for the first time. They hesitated.

  ‘Taking each day as it comes,’ said Marsh, and he patted Marcie on the leg. She twisted out of his way.

  ‘Come on, let’s eat,’ she said.

  * * *

  Erika drove home later that evening. The gift from the girls brought her great comfort, and she kept reaching up to touch it on her neck. For once, she was relieved to come home to an empty flat. The atmosphere at Marsh’s had been so hostile, and despite the size of the house, it had seemed claustrophobic with all their guests.

  Erika was just pouring herself a vodka over ice when her phone rang. It was Melanie.

  ‘I’ve been through everything to do with Joseph Pitkin, and at this stage, I can only say it was a tragic accident.’

  ‘Okay. Did you tell his parents?’

  ‘Yes. As expected, they were devastated.’

  ‘Do they blame me?’

  Melanie sighed. ‘I’m not going to answer that. But they obviously see this whole situation very differently.’

  ‘Did you ask them about the photos and the note from the person called T?’

  ‘No, Erika. I didn’t…’ Melanie was silent on the end of the phone for a moment. ‘I do need you back at work tomorrow, though. I’m giving you a bigger team for the Marissa Lewis murder case. Get a good night’s sleep.’

  When Melanie had hung up, Erika went to the living room window. The lights were out, and she stared at the dark snowy street. A fox moved into the glare of the orange streetlight, pausing with its feet in the snow, its sleek body rippling under the light. It was waiting, checking out her building and whether it could ransack the dustbins. Erika watched from the shadows.

  ‘Come on. It’s safe, make a dash for it,’ she said. The fox crept forward slowly into the car park, past the white humps of the snow-covered cars, towards the rubbish bins, which were no doubt groaning with leftover food. ‘That’s it.’

  There was a creak from upstairs and a light went on in the window, illuminating a large square of the dark car park. The fox turned and dashed off, disappearing into the shadows.

  Eighteen

  Dark winter nights in the suburbs of London were always exciting for the man who liked to call himself ‘T’. He would leave the house under cover of darkness, dressed in black, with the leather gas mask stowed in one of the large pockets of his long coat.

  The sprawl of South London stretched for miles, and every time he felt lucky to find an area he had never seen before amongst the rows upon rows of terraced houses, dark alleyways, small tucked-away parks and scrubland. The suburban areas of South London were mostly free of CCTV cameras. The train stations only had them in the lit areas.

  He believed his face was the true mask. It was an ordinary face, not quite the guy next door, but acceptable enough. In all the months he had been doing this, the only mug shot the police had was of the gas mask.

  It always struck him how little people noticed in plain sight. Commuters were experts at not seeing. They just wanted to get to work and were eager to return home. They rarely engaged. Eyes blinkered. Almost afraid that they might have to get involved with the world around them. The unemployed, the drunkards, and the homeless were the ones you had to watch out for. They were differently tuned to their surroundings, and not just passing through from A to B. They were stuck in plain sight, forced to conjure the tools for their survival from a barren landscape. They were the expert watchers, instantly aware of who they could squeeze some change or a spare cigarette out of, and who wanted drugs.

  The good news for T was that no one took any notice of the homeless. No one who mattered. It would have been far easier to pick off a homeless person. Offer them a few quid to follow him into a dark corner. For a fiver, he could do almost anything he wanted, depending on how desperate they were.

  But that would be no fun. It was fear that he enjoyed, finding someone clean and upwardly mobile. Finding a nice, well-dressed, tax-paying pillar of society and ripping them out of their nice little bubble. There was always a look in their faces when he cornered them, as if to say: This kind of thing doesn’t happen to me. It happens to other people. Bad people. I’m good.

  The gas mask had its practical purpose, but it also added a sensory wow. The feel of the tight leather hood, the goaty smell of his own stale sweat, mixed with the smell of animal hide. The way the thick glass eyeholes distorted his vision, and slightly magnified the faces of his victims.

  Tonight, he would just be a spectator. The snow added an extra layer of protection. Muffling sounds. He would watch and wait. He never knew their names, but he did like to crack their routines. That was another thrill. To work out when they left the house. What time they left for work, what time they came home. People could be such creatures of routine. Even at Christmas.

  Learn their routine, and the rest was easy.

  Nineteen

  The next morning, Erika arrived early at Lewisham Row, and went down to the tiny kitchenette on the ground floor, next to the cloakrooms used by uniform officers. She was staring at an open cupboard full of mugs when two young officers came in still wearing their stab vests.

  ‘Morning, ma’am,’ they said in unison. They looked surprised to see her.

  ‘Morning. What’s the cup situation? Do these belong to anyone?’

  The young man, who was shorter than Erika, reached up and took out two mugs, handing one to the young woman, who seemed embarrassed to make eye contact.

  ‘No one uses the flowery ones, ma’am,’ he said. Erika took one out of the cupboard, and there was an awkward silence as the kettle came to the boil then clicked off. No one moved.

  ‘Go on, go first; you’ve earned it,’ she said. The young man spooned coffee from a large catering tin and filled their mugs. ‘Was it a rough night?’

  He nodded. ‘The usual nightmare around kicking-out time from the pubs. The young teenagers seem to get more drunk and abusive around holidays.’

  ‘And we were called out three times by people who thought they’d seen the gas mask attacker,’ said the woman.

  ‘Gas mask attacker?’ said Erika.

  ‘Yeah. It’s been in the local news in the past few weeks. You haven’t heard?’

  ‘No, I was pre-occupied with another case.’

  A guy wearing a gas mask has been assaulting women and men. He likes to target train stations, early in the morning, or late, after the last train has gone.’

  ‘How many victims?’

  ‘Five, going back to the middle of November.’

  ‘Does he rape them?’

  ‘Not all of them. His first two victims were strangled until they passed out, and when they woke up he was gone. The local news put out an appeal for information yesterday morning, after a woman was attacked on Christmas Day, next to Sydenham train station.’

  ‘She was less than a minute from her front door,’ the man said.

  ‘So we’ve had call-outs all night from people who think they’ve seen or heard somet
hing. They were all false alarms,’ the woman added.

  They took their tea and left. Detective Inspector Moss then came into the kitchen, wearing a huge winter coat. She was a short, solid woman. Her flame-red hair was dotted with melting snow, and her pale face was covered in a sea of freckles.

  ‘Morning, Boss. How was your Christmas?’ Moss undid the buttons on her coat and took out a mug.

  ‘It was…’

  ‘You worked, didn’t you?’

  Erika nodded. ‘On the murder case I’m about to brief you about.’

  ‘Did you get a nice lunch?’

  Erika shook her head. ‘I had my first, and last “Christmas dinner” sandwich.’

  Moss pulled a face. ‘I had my first and last Christmas pudding smoothie. And my brother Gary came to stay with his wife and kids.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘He’s just got the one wife.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Three kids.’

  ‘Do they get on with Jacob?’

  Moss rubbed her eyes and filled her cup with boiling water.

  ‘Yeah, they just don’t get on with each other, and they’re at that age: seven, eight, and nine. It was pandemonium. Our house is too small. And during Christmas lunch, the kids asked about the L-word.’

  ‘Lapland?’ said Erika.

  Moss grinned and stirred milk into her coffee. ‘Ha, ha. No. Lesbians. Namely, me and Celia, why we are married, how we are married, and how we managed to give birth to Jacob. Celia managed that of course, but there were a million questions. We didn’t even get around to telling the jokes inside the Christmas crackers. It was all fine, but not the conversation I expected to have.’

  Erika went to say more, when a tall, handsome black officer came into the kitchen. He stopped when he saw Erika and Moss.

  ‘Alright. Morning,’ he said, recovering his composure. It was Detective Inspector Peterson.

  Moss looked between Erika and Peterson, trying to work out what to say. ‘Bloody hell. He’s finally back at work!’

  He nodded and flashed his warrant card, giving them a big grin which made his serious face goofy.

  ‘You’re looking much better,’ said Erika. It was a surprise to see him. A nice surprise, she realised. ‘Did you have a good Christmas break?’

  ‘It wasn’t a break really; it was more of a countdown so I could get back to work… It turned out to be… Well, it was one of the best Christmases ever.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’ asked Erika, wondering if he had met someone else, and then wishing she hadn’t asked.

  ‘This is officially my first day back at work,’ he said, changing the subject. There was an awkward silence.

  ‘You’ve picked a good day. I’m briefing in five minutes down in the main incident room. Don’t be late.’ Erika picked up her mug and left.

  * * *

  Moss and Peterson stood in silence for a moment. Moss went to the door and checked Erika was out of earshot.

  ‘Did you see her over Christmas?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are things going to be okay with you two? I can’t be stuck in the middle of two of my favourite people.’

  ‘Am I one of your favourite people?’ he grinned.

  ‘Sometimes. Depends. You should have called her on Christmas Day. I know you two have broken up, but she ended up working. She was meant to take the day off… You know she’s a lonely old bird, and I mean that in the nicest sense. I invited her over to mine, but she didn’t want to intrude.’

  ‘I was going to go over and see her, and then something… happened,’ said Peterson. ‘I’m still trying to process it.’ He smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I can see by your face that it was something good?’ said Moss.

  He went to the door and closed it. ‘Make me a cup of coffee, and I’ll tell you,’ he said.

  Twenty

  The meeting was held in the largest incident room on the ground floor of the station.

  Erika stood in front of a huge map of London, which was three metres square, the maze of roads blending under the North and South Circular and the M25 forming increasing circles around central London, and the thick blue lines of the River Thames snaking across the centre. Twenty officers and civilian support staff had been called to work on the Marissa Lewis case, and it was the first time since Christmas Day that they had all been called back to one place.

  The team included officers Erika had worked with before: Sergeant Crane, a pleasant-faced officer with thinning sandy hair; Moss and Peterson, who she noted were still getting coffee; McGorry and Kay, who were sorting out their desks – they both nodded and smiled at Erika as she passed. Detectives Knight and Temple were working with PC Singh, a small and fiercely intelligent officer, to collate the information about the case onto the whiteboard.

  Superintendent Hudson slipped into the briefing and closed the door, taking a position perching on a desk at the back. She nodded and smiled.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ started Erika. ‘I hope you all had a good Christmas, and sadly it’s over all too quickly…’ She went to an ID picture of Marissa Lewis, taken from her passport. ‘Twenty-two-year-old Marissa Lewis was murdered on the doorstep of her house on Coniston Road in South London. I’m still waiting on details of the post-mortem, but time of death has been estimated as late on Christmas Eve…’ The door opened, and Moss and Peterson filed in, carrying their mugs of coffee. Moss mouthed an apology to Erika, so did Peterson, and they took their seats next to a photocopier underneath the long line of windows looking out over the corridor. ‘Thanks for joining us. I didn’t know it took that long for instant coffee to brew.’

  ‘Sorry, Boss,’ said Moss, looking mortified. Peterson stared down guiltily at his mug.

  Erika went on, ‘Marissa Lewis was slashed repeatedly with a sharp serrated blade.’ Erika indicated the pictures on the whiteboard, the close-up photos taken of the injuries on the dead body. ‘At this stage, we don’t have a murder weapon. But we do know from early forensic reports from inside the house that the crime scene was confined to the area in the small front garden. There is no evidence of blood spatter, or Marissa’s blood inside the house. We’re also waiting on more detailed results from forensics, and on the post-mortem…’

  ‘Does that rule out Marissa’s mother being involved?’ asked McGorry.

  ‘No. It just means if she did kill Marissa, she would have cleaned herself up, and disposed of whatever she was wearing before going back into the house. No one is being ruled out this early in our investigations. Everyone is a suspect.’

  Erika went on to explain everything that had happened with Joseph Pitkin, and his suicide the day before in custody. There was a moment of silence. Suicides in custody were a terrible reminder of how vulnerable prisoners could be.

  ‘At this stage, we are still treating Joseph Pitkin as a person of interest to this case. I feel that we need to arm ourselves with more evidence before we ask his family for any more information. We have video and photo evidence, taken from his mobile phone, that he had some kind of relationship with the victim. On several occasions, mostly at night, he filmed her covertly, when she was at home, in her bedroom. I believe that at some point she became aware he was filming her. We need to establish if this was something she encouraged, or if there was a reason why she allowed him to film her. There is a video of Marissa having sexual intercourse with a man who matches the description of a neighbour called Don Walpole.’

  Erika indicated some stills taken from the video, which were being pinned up to the board.

  ‘Don Walpole is married, in his early fifties, and is believed to have had a relationship with Marissa when she was a teenager. He also lives on Coniston Road. Another neighbour, again from the same street, is Ivan Stowalski. He also was involved with Marissa in a sexual relationship. He is in his mid-thirties, Polish, but lives in the UK with his wife. Marissa was a burlesque dancer who performed in clubs around London. She was also a carer for an elde
rly lady, who lives in Hilly Fields, just around the corner…’

  As Erika was talking, Detectives Knight and Temple were working with PC Singh to put up photos from the case files.

  ‘Marissa’s mother is also someone I would like us to look at closely. She told us that she sleeps upstairs in the back bedroom, and that this was where she slept on Christmas Eve. But when we looked round the house, we saw that the back bedroom hasn’t been inhabited for some time. The bed was covered with old clothes and a layer of dust. We found bedding on the living room sofa, which is on the other side of the single-glazed and poorly-insulated window where Marissa was stabbed and killed.’

  Erika paused and let everyone digest this. She went on, ‘Christmas and Boxing Day have slowed things down, hampering our ability to do a house-to-house. Thank you to everyone here who talked to neighbours, but we are going to have to go back and do it all again. I’d like backgrounds on Marissa Lewis and the neighbours I’ve mentioned, and anyone else you discover who was part of her life. Friends, family, colleagues, burlesque clubs. We are still working on getting into her iPhone to access emails and social media. We’ve requested her phone records. A request was also put in yesterday for any CCTV footage covering the area around Coniston Road, and from Brockley train station. We need to know if she took the train home after her burlesque gig on Christmas Eve, which is the normal mode of transport she used. Sergeant Crane will now be tasked with delegating tasks. We need to go back to the beginning and we’re playing catch up from the Christmas break.’

  The room sprang to life, and Erika went over to Moss and Peterson.

  ‘Sorry, again, Boss,’ said Moss.

  ‘Welcome back, James,’ said Erika. She seemed to take him off-guard.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, standing up.

  Several other officers and support staff came and patted him on the back, and welcomed him back before they dispersed around the incident room.