The Night Stalker (Detective Erika Foster 2)

‘Sir, I’m sorry but, believe me, all I ever do is try and be the best police officer I can. I don’t set out to piss anyone off, but…’

‘You’re an acquired taste,’ finished Marsh. ‘Look. You’ve got three weeks’ holiday you haven’t taken. I suggest you get some sun. Sometimes it’s good to make yourself scarce.’

‘Sir, I’m not one for sunning myself by the beach.’

‘Well, try. Buy yourself some factor 50 and bugger off somewhere nice. You’ve dodged a bullet with this Night Stalker case, I promise.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, and Erika, if I hear you’ve been poking your nose in, it will be the quickest way to end your dream of that superintendent promotion.’

‘It’s not a dream…’

‘Well, either way. Take a holiday.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Erika gave Marsh a nod and left his office.

The incident room was empty. The fluorescent lights had been left on. Erika stood for a moment in the silence, looking over the whiteboards where all the evidence from the past three hectic weeks was pinned up. The hard work of her team.

A woman knocked and entered. It was one of the police support officers, Erika didn’t know her name. ‘Sorry, ma’am, are we okay to start processing the handover of evidence?’ the woman asked, looking around at the empty desks.

Erika nodded and left the room. She ran into Woolf coming towards her in the corridor.

‘Sorry about earlier, boss… Did you know Dr Strong well?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but now I think, no…’

‘Ah, well. It’ll all come out in the wash,’ Woolf grinned.

‘What does that mean, that saying?’

‘Blowed if I know. My mum always used to say it, God rest her soul. The miserable old bag. Anyway, I managed to get hold of this for you.’ He handed her an old Nokia handset. ‘It still works, no probs.’

‘You remembered,’ she said, taking it from him.

‘It was the first thing you ever said to me when you joined Lewisham Row. “Get me a phone with buttons, you fat bastard!”’

‘I never said “fat bastard”!’ grinned Erika.

‘Yeah, I made that up,’ he said. They looked through the glass partition at the support officers pulling down the crime scene photos from the whiteboard.

‘Where did everyone go?’ asked Erika.

‘Loads of them have been told to go home and wait to hear about being reassigned, and it’s a Sunday. I think they wanted to take advantage of an unexpected day off before another busy week begins.’

Erika felt disappointed, and a little bit abandoned. She shook these feelings off, realising how stupid she was being. This was work.

‘So what are you doing now, boss?’

‘I’m on holiday for the next three weeks.’

‘Oh, lovely. I would kill for three weeks off right now. Have fun!’ Woolf patted her on the shoulder and moved off towards reception.

Fun… Erika couldn’t remember the last time she’d had fun. She looked back at the whiteboards through the glass; they were now almost empty. She hitched her bag over her shoulder and left the station, unsure of what to do next.

61

Erika spent the rest of the morning driving around aimlessly, feeling powerless and frustrated. She drove past Isaac’s house in Blackheath and saw that it was being searched. There was an officer stationed outside the front door and police tape over the entrance. It felt strange seeing his smart house, with the two yucca plants outside the shiny black front door, and the sash windows gleaming in the sun, yet knowing that he was being held in custody.

She then drove over to Shirley, past Penny Munro’s house. The road was quiet and in several of the houses the curtains were drawn against the heat. Penny’s house stood out with its lush, green front lawn. It looked as if Gary was still flouting the hosepipe ban. Erika wanted to know what else he was doing and was about to slow the car down when common sense took over. She turned the car round and drove back to Forest Hill.

It started to rain again when she arrived home. She crashed about, searching for something to drink, but the fridge was empty and so were most of the cupboards.

She stalked around her flat, feeling like a caged animal, then switched her computer on and left it on the counter top as she poured herself the last of the whisky. She stared around at the room, hating her life, hating her career, hating everything. It was now raining harder. She opened the patio door and sheltered in the door frame, lighting up a cigarette. From behind her was a squidgy plopping sound – her Skype had popped up. It started to ring, and she rushed back inside, thinking it might perhaps be the Night Stalker.