NIGHT OWL: What does that mean?
DUKE: Nothing. It means that I’m careful. Like you should be.
NIGHT OWL: I’ve been watching the papers, the news. They know nothing.
DUKE: Let’s hope it stays that way.
NIGHT OWL: I need another one.
DUKE: Already?
NIGHT OWL: Yes. Time is moving fast. I’m watching the next one on my list. I want to do it soon.
DUKE: You sure?
NIGHT OWL: Positive. Can I trust you to organise things?
There was a pause. A bubble popped up, saying ‘DUKE typing…’ Then it vanished.
NIGHT OWL: U still there?
DUKE: Yeah. I’ll do it.
NIGHT OWL: Good. I’ll be waiting. This one won’t know what’s hit him.
15
Darkness was falling as Erika stepped out of the shower. She wrapped herself in a towel and padded barefoot through to the bedroom, flicking on the light. She’d rented a small ground-floor flat in what was an old manor house in Forest Hill. It was tucked back from the main road on a leafy street. She’d been in the flat for six months, but it was still bare, as if she’d just moved in. The bedroom was clean but spartan.
Erika went to a chest of drawers and looked at her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror propped on top. The face staring back at her didn’t exactly inspire confidence. Her short blonde hair stuck up in tufts and was shot through with grey. As a younger woman, she had never worried about her looks. She’d been blessed with an attractive Slavic face: high cheekbones, smooth skin and almond-shaped green eyes. But those same eyes were beginning to crease at the corners, her forehead bore too many lines and her face was beginning to sag.
She looked at a framed photo sitting by the mirror. A handsome, dark-haired man grinned back at her – her late husband Mark. His death was something she felt she would never get over, and this, coupled with the guilt that she was responsible for it, put a skewer through her heart many times each day. What she hadn’t expected was how she would feel about ageing. It was as if they were moving even further apart in her mind. The image of him was frozen in her memories, in pictures. As the years passed, she would morph into an old lady, yet Mark would always be young and good-looking.
A few days ago, when she was driving to work, she’d heard the song ‘Forever Young’ by Alphaville on the radio. She’d had to pull the car over to try and gain control of her emotions.
Erika ran her fingers over the frame for a moment, tracing the outline of Mark’s strong jaw, his nose and his warm brown eyes. She picked the picture up, feeling the weight of the frame in her hand. Opening the top drawer, she stared at her neatly folded underwear, and, lifting the first pile of garments, she went to tuck the framed photo underneath. She hesitated, and pulled her hand back. Closing the drawer, she placed the frame back on the polished wood surface.
In a couple of weeks it would be two years since Mark’s death. A tear formed in her eye and then fell onto the wood with a soft pat. She wasn’t ready to let him go. She dreaded the day she would be.
Erika wiped her face with the back of her hand and walked through to the living room. It was like the bedroom: neat and functional. A sofa and coffee table both faced a small television. A bookshelf lined the wall to the left of the patio windows and provided a dumping ground for takeaway leaflets, telephone directories and a paperback of Fifty Shades of Grey left by the previous tenant. Copies of the case files on Gary Wilmslow and Gregory Munro were open on the sofa, and the screen of Erika’s laptop glowed on the coffee table. The more she read about Gary Wilmslow, the more frustrated she felt. Peterson was right: Gary had a strong motive to kill Gregory Munro, and now she’d been told not to go near him.
Erika grabbed her cigarettes and opened the patio door. The moon shone on the small communal garden outside: a neat square of grass, with the silhouette of an apple tree at the bottom. The neighbours were busy professionals like her and kept themselves to themselves. She pulled a cigarette from the pack and craned her head upwards, to see if any lights were on in the windows above. The brickwork stretched up four storeys and radiated heat back onto her face. As she lit her cigarette, she hesitated, noticing the large white box strapped to the building with ‘HOMESTEAD SECURITY’ stamped on it in red letters.
Something sparked in the back of Erika’s mind. She hurried back indoors. Clamping her cigarette between her teeth, she grabbed the file on Gregory Munro and started to flick through, passing witness statements, photos. The phone rang and she answered, clamping it under her chin so she could continue looking through the file.
‘Hello Erika, it’s me,’ said Isaac.