‘PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!’ shouted Portman.
The blond man did so, holding the kitten above his head where it blinked and mewled in the torch light.
‘I haven’t got any weapons, officers! Nor has mother; she’s asleep upstairs…’ he said.
‘Where is the third person who lives here?’ shouted Portman.
‘My father? He’s dead! He died last month. Pneumonia…’ said the man, this situation with the armed police starting to dawn on him. The kitten held above his head was starting to panic and scratch his arms. ‘Please, can I put my hands down? She’s going to cut me to ribbons.’
* * *
Back in the incident room at West End Central, Erika and her team had listened with mounting confusion to what was unfolding on Oakwood Farm with the two Specialist Firearms teams. When they’d heard the shot fired in the Oast House, DI Kendal at the control centre had started to shout out, demanding to know what was happening, and if any officers had been injured. After a few moments of chaos and confusion, they heard Sergeant Spector’s voice.
‘It’s okay. No one’s injured. I repeat. There are no officers injured. The inside of the building… It’s full of mannequins… bloody shop mannequins…’
‘Please can you clarify, why was a shot fired? Over,’ came DI Kendal’s voice.
‘We believed the suspect was armed, but the suspect was a mannequin holding a plastic gun,’ said Spector.
‘Again, please can you clarify? Over,’ came Kendal’s voice.
‘The Oast House, it’s full of plastic shop mannequins in outfits, some of them are just torsos, and a few are propped up against the walls… And there’s rails and rails of costumes. We’ve secured the building and there’s no threat. No one here, over,’ said Spector. He sounded shaken, and embarrassed.
Back in the incident room at West End Central a look passed between Erika, Moss and Peterson. John rolled his eyes and put his head in his hands.
‘To be sure, we’re going to search the rest of the outbuildings and take a look at the car,’ came Spector’s voice through the radio.
An hour passed, and then two. They all listened to the two teams moving throughout the farm buildings. There was no sign of Ella Wilkinson.
‘Boss, look at this,’ said Crane, handing Erika a printout from Yelp.
She took it from him and read:
‘Mr Bojangles, The Premier Kent supplier of quality theatrical and historical costumes throughout Ireland & the UK, Oakwood Farm, Thornton Massey, Maidstone, Kent…’
‘The company is registered to Darius Keefe. He also has a red Citroën registered in his name, but it’s a different model to the one in our CCTV footage,’ said Crane.
‘Fuck,’ said Erika, slamming her hand down on the desk.
* * *
It was two thirty in the morning when Erika and the team emerged from West End Central. Taxis had been arranged to take everyone home, and were parked in a line by the kerb. The early morning trains wouldn’t start running for another three hours.
The atmosphere was muted as the members of her team said good night and climbed into the waiting cars.
‘Night, boss, get some rest,’ said Moss, giving Erika’s arm a squeeze.
She hung back as the cars started to pull away, and noticed Peterson beside her.
‘What’s this?’ he said, indicating the remaining two taxis waiting.
‘I just fancied a night in my own bed, alone,’ said Erika, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and stripping off the cellophane.
‘No, no, no, don’t start smoking again,’ said Peterson, reaching over to take the packet.
She pulled her arm back.
‘Please, just leave me.’
‘But you’ve done so well…’
‘You think what happened in there tonight was me doing well?’ she shouted.
He watched her with concern as she opened the packet and, pulling out the foil, put a cigarette in her mouth. She lit up and exhaled.
‘I meant you’d done well giving up smoking for so long… And you couldn’t have foreseen that we’d get the wrong address…’
‘You should get home, James,’ she said.
‘I’m on your side,’ he said, leaning towards her angrily. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘I know. I just want to be alone.’
‘Yeah, maybe you should be,’ he said.
He went to the waiting taxi and got in. Erika watched it drive away, then she smoked another two cigarettes. The building opposite was wrapped in scaffolding and a bright security light shone over it, casting a grid over the pavement around her. Like she was in a cage. It made her think of Ella Wilkinson, trapped somewhere.
Erika knew she would be hauled over the coals for what had happened. And the identity of the true killer was still unknown. She ground out her cigarette on the pavement, and got into the taxi for the journey back to her cold empty flat.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Thirty-eight-year-old Martyn Lakersfield was a full-time carer for his wife, Shelia, who was living with multiple sclerosis. Just four years ago, they’d been living a happy life, with busy careers. Shelia had worked in advertising, and he had worked for Citibank. They’d often said they passed like ships in the night, but now they were both prisoners of their third floor flat in Beckenham, just a few miles from Lewisham. It was a decent enough area, and they were lucky to own the property, but this was not how they had seen their life together panning out. In recent months, Shelia had found sharing a bed difficult and stressful, so Martyn had taken the decision to sleep in the spare room. It had broken his heart.
On Tuesday morning, Martyn had woken at three, and had been unable to get back to sleep. After checking on Shelia, who was sleeping soundly, he went into the living room to watch TV. At three thirty, his eyes were scratchy, but he was still wide awake, so he decided to take out the rubbish, something he hadn’t managed to do the day before.
He came out of the main entrance and stopped on the steps, breathing in the cold air. He walked over to the line of dumpsters which were at the front of the building, to the left of a paved car park overlooking the street. He was surprised to see what he thought was another neighbour at the black dumpster, but he didn’t recognise the small figure, with its face obscured in the shadow of a baseball cap pulled down low. As he moved closer, the figure heard his feet on the gravel path and turned. It stood still for a moment, arms hanging down, feet braced and then darted away onto the street, passing under an orange streetlight before vanishing around the hedgerow.
There was something about the way they had behaved that made Martyn stop. The person had started at him, almost weighing up what to do, fight or flight. Martyn gently placed the bag of rubbish down on the ground, and not taking his eyes off the entrance to the car park, he crouched down and picked up a large rock from the row lining the path. He moved swiftly to the entrance, with the rock braced in his hand, and stepped out onto the pavement. The road was empty and silent, pools of orange light stretching away in both directions. The windows of the surrounding flats were dark.
He was relieved whoever it was had chosen to flee. He came back and retrieved his rubbish bag, and keeping hold of the rock, he went to the dumpster.
The lid was open and what he saw inside made him cry out in shock. He stumbled back and fell onto the cold, hard ground.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Erika was woken by her phone ringing in the darkness. She rolled over in bed, reaching out with her fingers. The space beside her was empty, and the mattress firm. She was at home. She’d been dreaming she was back in Manchester, as a Specialist Firearms Officer. It was a recurring dream she hadn’t had in a long time; the ill-fated drug raid where she relived the death of her husband and five members of her team.
She was thankful the phone had woken her, until she saw who it was.
‘Crane, what is it? It’s five thirty in the morning,’ she said. She sat up and flicked on the bedside lamp and winced at its
brightness. She saw she’d fallen asleep wearing her clothes.
‘Boss. The body of a young girl’s just been found in Beckenham… She’s got dark hair, and she’s been left in a dumpster.’
Erika sat up. ‘Is it Ella Wilkinson?’
‘We don’t know for sure, but everything points to it being her.’
Erika felt the floor under her feet fall away, and she had to steady herself on the edge of the mattress. ‘I’ll be there right away.’
* * *
It was just starting to get light as Erika pulled onto Copers Cope Road, in Beckenham, a long wide residential street dotted with large trees and a mixture of smart flats and older houses. She slowed past a couple of old houses, set back from the street with large polished bay windows, and then an apartment block came into view. Squad cars were lined up outside with their lights flashing, along with a large support vehicle, and the pathologist’s van. Erika parked at the end of the row and got out.
It was a modern red-brick building, set back from the road with a sweeping brickwork driveway. The pavement out front was cordoned off, and two large floodlights were accompanied by the whir of a petrol generator. To the right of the driveway was a small patch of lawn with some plants, and to the left a huge white crime scene tent had been erected, where lights glowed from inside. Glancing up, Erika could see that this building was overlooked on both sides. Lights were on in several of the windows, and the pale faces of residents could be seen peering down at the crime scene.
Erika showed her warrant card and pulled on a pair of pale blue crime scene coveralls. She ducked under the police tape, and was met by Crane, who looked just as rough as she felt. There was very little talking as they went over to the large white tent.
It was hot and cramped inside, and brightly lit by two large lights, where three large plastic dumpsters were housed under a small awning with a wooden roof.
Isaac Strong wore overalls and a face mask; he had two assistants working with him. The smell of the dumpsters under the hot lights made Erika’s stomach lurch.
‘Morning,’ he said softly. He indicated the middle dumpster, which was black. Its curved blue lid was pushed back.
Erika and Crane edged forward and looked over the edge and inside. A young girl lay on her back. She was filthy, and covered in dirt and dried blood. Her body was badly beaten, and her long dark hair was lank and greasy. As Lacey and Janelle had been, she was naked from the waist down. Her dark top was saturated with blood and it clung to her skin. Her forehead had a deep dent in it, and her left cheek had also collapsed. Crane looked away and put a hand to his mouth, but Erika forced herself to stare at the poor girl and take in what had been done.
‘That’s her,’ she said. ‘That’s Ella Wilkinson.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
Erika was glad of the cold air when they emerged from the tent and handed in their overalls.
‘We’ve got Martyn Lakersfield, the guy who found her,’ said Crane as they ducked back under the police tape.
An ambulance was parked further down the street, past the line of squad cars, with its back doors open. Martyn was sitting in the back dressed in jeans, a grubby Manchester United T-shirt, a denim jacket, and was wrapped in a red blanket. Erika thought how depressed he looked, with bags under his eyes and a bloated, unshaven face.
‘I understand that you found the body?’ said Erika, as she and Crane approached.
Martyn looked up at her and nodded. ‘I was just putting out the rubbish, when I saw him,’ he said.
‘Saw him?’ asked Erika, glancing at Crane.
‘I don’t sleep much. I always come out when it’s quiet and put it in the right bins. I don’t normally see anyone…’
‘Who did you see?’
‘A guy, I think, but he was wearing a baseball cap…’
‘Was he tall or short?’
‘Short. I think. A bit chubby. Although it happened so quickly. He had an odd stance.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Erika.
‘A stillness, a confidence. It was unnerving.’
‘And you’re sure you didn’t see his face?’
‘Positive. He ran off, but he looked like he was thinking whether he should stay and… I don’t know, deck me.’
‘Did he have a car?’ asked Crane.
‘He vanished around the corner. I think I heard an engine. He could have been parked round the hedge.’
‘Did you see a car?’
‘No.’
Erika ran her hands through her hair, not quite believing he’d managed to get away without being seen.
‘Which flat do you live in?’ she asked.
‘We’re the one there, third floor,’ he said, pointing to a window on the left-hand side of the building.
‘Is that window a bedroom or the kitchen?’ asked Erika.
‘Bathroom,’ he said. ‘All those windows at the front are bathrooms.’
Erika looked up and counted three floors with six windows.
‘Do you know if all the flats overlooking this front drive are occupied?’
‘There’s a woman downstairs; she’s old. I know they’re still trying to rent out the flat above. I know that because we had some noisy bastards in there who moved out last month… She looked like a young girl,’ he said, looking up at Erika and Crane. He started to heave and put a hand to his mouth.
‘Thank you. Let’s get you a cup of tea, and I’ll have someone take a formal statement,’ said Erika.
They moved away, back towards the crime scene.
‘I want everyone who has a view out front over this car park interviewed, and I want a door-to-door of the surrounding flats. This whole courtyard is overlooked and someone must have seen something,’ said Erika.
There were groups of people now filling up the pavement on the other side of the road, standing around and watching curiously.
‘There’s no CCTV cameras on the road,’ said Crane. ‘Further down, there’s a private CCTV camera mounted outside a Fitness First gym and about four hundred yards along there’s New Beckenham station, but the cameras don’t cover the road, just the station approach.’
‘If he drove off in that direction then they may have caught something,’ said Erika. ‘This guy either has incredible luck, or he’s choosing the places where he dumps the bodies.’
Chapter Fifty
When Darryl had finished with Ella Wilkinson, she was unrecognisable, badly beaten and screaming like an animal. He’d broken her jaw, which had made her screams sound like she was drunk, but she still had some fight left in her, which was remarkable.
It was then that he took a scalpel and severed the artery in her leg. Watching the gouts of blood pour from her body gave him the biggest thrill, like an electric surge coursing through his veins. The light left her eyes and she was still.
He’d stumbled out of the Oast House into the darkness and the cold, his legs shaking uncontrollably, and he’d vomited into the snow by the frozen stream. When his stomach was empty he’d lain face down. The snow pressing against his hot face was delicious, and he lay there for a long time until his breathing slowed and he started to feel the cold seeping in through his clothes. The Oast House had a water supply, carried in a pipe under the soil, and it hadn’t frozen. After Darryl stashed Ella’s body in the car, he washed himself down in the furnace chamber, wincing at the snow-cold water from the hose. Then he drove across the field to the gate, and on to Beckenham to dump her body.
Darryl had returned to the farm just before five, cutting it fine with the early morning milking, but he hadn’t run into any of the farm workers. He had parked the car, taken a long hot shower, and fallen into bed.
* * *
He woke just before one in the afternoon, his bedroom bathed in dim blue light shining through the closed curtains. His body ached, and his throat burned. He reached out to the bedside table for a glass, and took a long drink of water. A shaft of sunlight appeared through the crack in the curtains, and he watched the
dust particles twirl in the weak sunlight which played a strip of white on the threadbare blue carpet.
A metallic twanging noise broke the silence, and he stiffened. It came again, like the soft tinny chime of a clock, but it was coming from inside the wardrobe. Darryl kicked off the bedcovers and stepped barefoot onto the carpet, moving over to the wardrobe. The furniture had been in this room for as long as he could remember, going back to when his paternal great-grandfather had built the farmhouse. Like the bed and desk, the wardrobe was antique, with heavy dark wood. It had double doors and was huge, seven feet tall, and almost reached the ceiling. The left door had a smoked glass mirror spotted with black, and in the right door a tiny tarnished key poked out from the keyhole with a Celtic-style pattern.
Ting, ting, came the noise again, like a metal coat hanger striking the inside of the wardrobe. He stopped at the door, and looked at his reflection. His pasty bare legs in boxer shorts, his pot belly with a fuzz of dark hair. And then he heard it: the creaking sound of a taut rope.
‘No,’ he whispered, taking a step back.
The creaking came again, followed by a choking, gagging sound. ‘No. This isn’t real, it’s not real,’ he said.
The little Celtic-patterned key rattled in the door, and then spun. The gagging sound came again, and the mirrored door slowly swung open.
Inside, nestled between old winter coats and his work shirt, his brother Joe hung from a noose. He wore the same blue jeans, white T-shirt and Nike trainers. Joe had been a handsome young man, but in death his face was grey and swollen, his eyes stared, bloodshot and criss-crossed with broken veins, and his mouth was fixed with a wide grin. Darryl closed his eyes, but when he opened them, Joe was still hanging there, the rope creaking slightly. His trainers swinging gently a few feet off the bottom of the wardrobe. A horrible laugh escaped from Joe’s fixed grin, and Darryl felt something warm and wet splatter onto the front of his boxer shorts. He looked down. The flies on Joe’s jeans were open, and he was holding his penis and peeing all over him.