But Barry Paton wanted to get caught. She won’t catch me. She’s officially washed-up. A fuck-up. She led five police officers to their deaths, including her dumb husband. They’ve assigned her to this case because they know she’ll fail. They want a fall guy.
The temperature was dropping fast. It was going to be another freezing night. But being so close, watching DCI Foster, was thrilling.
A car appeared at the top of the road and the figure shrank back further into the alleyway, waiting for its headlights to pass. There was a soft purr as a black cat slunk along the top of the wall. It stopped and froze when it noticed the figure.
‘We’re almost twins,’ the figure whispered, lifting a gloved hand and gently moving closer. The cat let itself be stroked. ‘Good kitty . . . good.’
The cat locked eyes with the figure, then leapt soundlessly off the wall, disappearing over the other side. The figure regarded its leather gloved hands; turning them over, flexing the fingers.
I’d taken Andrea’s shit for so long, but I never expected I’d do it. Live out the fantasy of strangling her, choking the life from her body . . .
As the days had passed, the figure had grown confident, cocky almost, that Andrea’s body wouldn’t be found. That she would remain frozen under the ice. Winter would pass, and with the warmth of spring she would rot down – rot down until her mask of beauty was gone and she looked more like who she really was.
But four days later, she’d been found. Intact . . .
There was the sound of a door slamming. Looking back up, the figure saw that the light had gone out in DCI Foster’s window. She had left her flat and was stepping out onto the pavement to her car.
The figure smiled. It ducked down and retreated rapidly, melting into the shadows of the dark alley.
22
Erika liked driving. It wasn’t so much the type of car – it didn’t have to be anything exotic. It just had to be secure and warm. As she drove through the empty streets of South London, the car felt like a cocoon around her, and more like home than the flat.
She turned her head away slightly as she drove past Brockley Cemetery, the headstones glimmering under the street lights. The car lurched to the right, and she realised she had to slow down. The snow had melted a little during the day, but at night a freeze had descended, making the roads dangerous.
She put her phone on hands-free and put a call in to the nick. Sergeant Woolf answered, and she asked him to give her a list of the dodgiest pubs in the area.
‘Can I ask why?’ he said, his voice tinny on the end of the line.
‘I fancy a drink.’
There was a pause. ‘Okay. There’s The Mermaid, The Bird In The Hand, The Stag, The Crown – not The Crown that’s a Wetherspoon’s, there’s another Crown on the brink of the brewery pulling the plug. It’s at the top of Gant Road. And of course, there’s The Glue Pot.’
‘Thanks.’
‘DCI Foster, keep me posted where you are. If you need backup . . .’
Erika hung up, cutting him off.
She spent the next three hours making her way round some of the roughest pubs she’d seen in her long career. It wasn’t the squalor, the dirt, or the drunken people that bothered her. It was the despair in people’s faces as they propped up the bar. The hopelessness as they sat slumped in a corner, or poured what little money they had into fruit machines.
What was even more disturbing was that the pubs weren’t miles from affluent suburbs. A horrible dive called The Mermaid was next to an Indian fusion restaurant, which was advertising it had recently been awarded a Michelin Star. The bright interior, on show for everyone to see, was filled with happy, well-dressed people dining in groups. The Bird In The Hand, where Erika gave a haunted-looking young girl begging with a baby twenty pounds, was next to a posh wine bar filled with glossy women and their rich husbands.
Was she the only one who noticed this?
At midnight, Erika arrived at The Crown in Gant Road. It was an old-fashioned looking public house with brass lamps over a red frontage. A lock-in was underway, but Erika managed to get in, giving a lad on the door a crisp twenty-pound note.
The inside was packed and the atmosphere rowdy. The windows were steamed up and there was a smell of beer, sweat and cheap perfume. Everyone seemed rather rough round the edges, but had made the effort and was dressed in their best. Erika was questioning exactly what the party was in aid of, when she spied who she’d been looking for.
Ivy sat on a small bar stool at the back, next to a flashing fruit machine. Beside her sat a large young woman who had long black roots in her blonde hair and her lip pierced. Erika slowly made her way over, squeezing through groups of people who looked pretty far-gone. When she reached Ivy, she could see her pupils were dilated. Her eyes were now hideous pools of black.
‘What the fuck are you doin’ here?’ asked Ivy, struggling to focus.
‘I just wanted a word,’ shouted Erika, over the noise.
‘I paid for all this,’ shouted Ivy, waving a finger around. Erika noticed that there were several bags of shopping pooled around the stools.
‘It’s not about that,’ said Erika.
The girl beside Ivy glowered. ‘Everything all right, Ive?’ she said, leaning in, not taking her eyes off Erika.
‘Yeah,’ said Ivy. ‘She’s buying the next round.’
Erika passed the girl a twenty, realising she’d parted with a lot of cash that evening. The girl heaved herself off the little stool and vanished into the crowd.
‘Where are the kids?’ asked Erika.
‘’Oo?’
‘Your grandkids?’
‘Upstairs. Asleep. Why, do you want to hit ’em?’
‘Ivy . . .’
‘Well you can get in the queue, love. They’ve bin fuckin’ me off today something proper.’
‘Ivy. I need to talk to you about The Glue Pot,’ said Erika, perching on the warm, vacated stool.
‘What?’ said Ivy, trying to focus.
‘You remember? The pub we talked about. The Glue Pot, on London Road.’
‘I don’t go there,’ slurred Ivy.
‘I know you don’t go there. Why don’t you go there?’
‘Cos . . .’
‘Please. I need more. Why not, Ivy?’
‘Fuck you!’
Erika held up yet another twenty. Ivy attempted to focus, and then grabbed it, tucking it under the waistband of her grotty jeans.
‘So, what you wanna talk about?’
‘The Glue Pot.’
‘Bad stuff there. Bad man . . . bad . . .’ said Ivy, shaking her head.
‘There’s a bad man?’
‘Yeah . . .’ Ivy’s eyes were now rolling in her head and she seemed to be seeing things – things that weren’t in the bar. Her head snapped to one side.
‘Ivy. The bad man. What’s his name?’
‘He’s bad, I tell you, love . . .’
‘Did you hear about the girl who died, Andrea?’ Erika pulled out her phone and found the picture of Andrea. ‘This is her, Ivy. Her name was Andrea. She was beautiful, with dark hair. Do you think Andrea knew this bad man?’
Ivy managed to focus on the phone picture for a moment. ‘Yeah, she was beautiful.’
‘You saw her?’
‘Few times.’
‘You saw this girl, a few times, in The Glue Pot?’ said Erika, holding the phone up to Ivy.
‘I was beautiful once . . .’ Ivy’s eyes rolled in her head and she started to slide off the barstool.
‘Come on, Ivy. Stay with me,’ said Erika, grabbing her and righting her on the stool. ‘Please look at this picture once more.’
Ivy stared at it. ‘The bad ones are always the worst, but the best, too. You let them do anything to you, even if it hurts, even if you don’t want to . . .’