The Night Stalker (Detective Erika Foster 2)

‘Yeah, I bet you will,’ grinned Erika, rolling her eyes.

42

The Railway in Forest Hill was very close to where Gregory Munro’s mother, Estelle, lived. The irony wasn’t lost on Erika, as she pulled up in the car park. It was an old-fashioned public house, clad in porcelain tiles, polished brass lamps above every window and a swinging sign high above the car park.

A summer terrace extended into the car park, and she could see Crane sitting on his own at one of the tables, trying to look inconspicuous amongst the crowds enjoying a drink in the afternoon sun.

‘He just went inside a couple of minutes ago,’ said Crane, standing up when she approached the table.

‘Good. Whose photo did they use? Who does he think he’s meeting?’ asked Erika, as they picked their way through the tables to the front entrance.

‘DC Warren’s… I thought it needed someone a bit better-looking than me!’

‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ said Erika. ‘As my husband used to say, every pan has its lid.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment – I think.’ Crane grinned.

The inside of the pub had all the original fittings, but the walls had been painted white, soft mood lighting had been added, and there was an expensive gastro-pub-style menu above the bar. There weren’t many people inside and Erika saw the young lad straight away, sitting in a corner booth, nursing a half of lager and a shot.

‘How do we do this?’ murmured Crane.

‘Softly, softly,’ said Erika. ‘I’m glad he picked a booth.’

They moved over to where the lad was sitting and stood at either side of the curved seat, so he couldn’t run for it. He was wearing a shiny red and black tracksuit, and his hair was shoulder length and loosely parted in the middle.

They flashed their IDs. ‘JordiLevi?’ asked Erika. ‘I’m DCI Foster, this is Sergeant Crane.’

‘What? I’m having a drink? Nothing illegal about that…’

‘And you’re waiting for this guy, who you’ve arranged to meet up with,’ said Crane, pulling out Warren’s photo.

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes, I do. I arranged it,’ said Crane.

The boy pursed his lips and downed the shot. ‘Well, nothing illegal about meeting someone in a pub,’ he said, slamming the shot glass down on the table.

‘No, there isn’t,’ said Erika. ‘We just want to talk to you. What are you drinking?’

‘Double vodka. And I’ll have some Kettle Chips.’

Erika nodded at Crane and he went off to the bar. She took a seat.

‘Jordi. Do you know why we want to talk to you?’

‘I can take a wild guess,’ he said, downing his pint and placing the glass back down.

‘We’re not from Vice. We’re not interested about what you do for a living,’ said Erika.

‘What I do for a living! I’m not a bloody dental hygienist…’

‘I’m investigating the murder of Gregory Munro, a local doctor. He was killed ten days ago.’ Erika pulled a photo of Gregory Munro from her bag. ‘This is him.’

‘Well, I didn’t bloody do it,’ said Jordi, barely glancing at the photo.

‘We don’t think you did. But a neighbour saw you coming out of his house a few days before he died. Can you confirm you were there at the house?’

Jordi sat back and shrugged. ‘I don’t have a calendar, all days blur into one.’

‘We just want to know what happened and if you saw anything. You’ll be helping with our investigations. You are not a suspect. Please, look at the photo again. Do you recognise him?’

Jordi looked down at the photo and nodded, ‘Yeah, I recognise him.’

Crane returned with the tray of drinks. He handed a double vodka and the crisps to Jordi, and gave Erika one of the two glasses of coke from the tray. Crane slid into the seat on the opposite side. Jordi tucked his hair behind his ears and opened the crisps. He had a whiff of body odour about him and his fingernails were grubby.

‘Okay. We need to know if you were at Gregory Munro’s house between Monday, the 20th and Monday, the 27th of June?’ asked Erika.

He shrugged. ‘I think so.’

Erika took a sip of her coke. ‘In your opinion, was Gregory Munro gay?’

‘He never said his real name, and yeah, he was gay,’ said Jordi, through a mouthful of crisps.

‘And you know that for sure?’

‘Well, if he wasn’t, I’m not sure what my cock was doing up his arse.’