It happened suddenly: the door was kicked open, and a figure, head-to-toe in black, rushed at her and gripped her by the throat with a black leather glove. Eyes glittered through a balaclava. Erika was shocked at the power in the hand and she felt her throat and windpipe crushed. She grappled for the lamp, but it slipped from her grasp onto the bed. The figure pushed her back onto the bed, all the time gripping her throat.
Erika kicked, swinging her leg, but the figure twisted deftly to one side, pinning both of her legs down with a hip. She reached up with her hands, trying to grab at the balaclava, but the figure pinned her upper arms down painfully with sharp elbows.
The hands tightened around her neck. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything. She felt drool from her open mouth, running down her chin. Blood seemed trapped in her face and head, and the hands kept squeezing, squeezing so hard that she felt her head might explode before she suffocated. The figure was so quiet. So calm. Breathing rhythmically, arms trembling from the effort of maintaining the grip on her.
The pain was now unbearable; thumbs on her trachea pushing, crushing. She was staring to see black spots in her vision. They spread and grew.
And then Erika’s doorbell rang. The grip on her throat tightened and the last of her vision began to fail. The bell rang again, longer. There was a bang on the door, and she heard Moss’s voice.
‘Are you there, boss? Sorry to call so late but I need to talk . . .’
She was going to die, she knew it. She was overpowered. She flexed her fingers and felt the lamp on the bed beside her. Her vision was flooding with blackness. She summoned up all the energy she could and pushed her fingers against the lamp. It budged a little. Moss knocked once more. Erika used last of her energy and shoved at the lamp. It slid off the bed and hit the floor with a crash, the bulb shattering.
‘Boss?’ said Moss, hammering on the door again. ‘Boss? What’s happening? I’m going to break down the door!’
Suddenly the grip loosened on Erika’s neck, and the figure fled from her bedroom.
Erika lay there, gagging, attempting to draw air into her ravaged throat, down to her lungs. There was a thud as Moss attempted to break down the door. Erika gasped once, twice, heaved, and as a little oxygen reached the rest of her body, her vision swam back into view. With a superhuman will she crawled to the edge of the bed, tumbling off onto the wooden floor with a crash, feeling shards of the broken bulb pierce her forearm. She scrambled towards the door, not caring if the figure was still there, not caring.
There was now a louder thud as Moss shouldered the door. On the third attempt it burst open with a crack and a splinter.
‘Jesus, boss!’ shouted Moss, hurrying towards where she was lying on the floor. Erika was still gagging and clutching her throat. Blood from the cut poured down her arm, and was smeared over her chin and throat. Her face was grey and she sank back in the doorway.
‘Boss, shit, what happened?’
‘Blood . . . just my arm,’ Erika croaked. ‘Someone was . . . here . . .’
48
Moss moved fast, calling for backup, and within minutes Erika’s flat was teeming with police. Then a team of CSIs arrived and took swabs from her fingernails and neck, and then they said they’d need to take all her clothes.
The elderly lady next door had been reluctant to open her front door to Moss, but when she’d seen the police, ambulance and forensics surging up and down the stairs, her attitude had softened and she’d let them in.
Erika wore a set of white overalls; everything in her flat was now part of a crime scene. Two paramedics came through and bandaged her arm as she sat on the little sofa in the old lady’s front room. Two budgies hopped and pecked in a cage high up on the wall.
‘Oh dear, would you like a cup of tea?’ the woman asked, as a male and female paramedic examined Erika.
‘I don’t think hot tea is a good idea,’ said the male paramedic.
Erika caught sight of herself in a gilt mirror above the mantelpiece, which was tilted at an angle to show the whole living room. Her throat and neck were swollen with angry red weals; the whites of her eyes were pink and streaming. In the corner of her left eye, a spot of red bloomed.
‘You’ve burst a small blood vessel in your left eye,’ confirmed the paramedic, shining a pen torch into her eyes. ‘Can you open wide for me? It’s going to hurt, but wide as you can manage, please.’
Erika swallowed painfully and opened her mouth.
The paramedic shone the torch into her throat. ‘Okay, that’s good, now can you keep your mouth open and make a sighing noise . . .’
Erika tried, but began to gag.
‘Okay, easy does it . . . I don’t see any evidence of laryngeal fracture, or upper airway edema.’
‘That’s good, yes?’ asked Moss, who had appeared in the doorway. The paramedic nodded.
‘How about a nice cold drink? I’ve got some blackcurrant cordial in the fridge,’ suggested the old lady, who stood by in a long dressing gown, a neat row of blue curlers under her hairnet.
‘Just a little plain water,’ said the female paramedic. ‘Do you have any other injuries? Apart from the arm,’ she added, turning back. Erika shook her head, wincing.
‘Just stay put for now, boss. I’m going to talk to the team who are inside your flat,’ said Moss, leaving.
‘We’ll be downstairs waiting; we’ll need to get that arm sewn up,’ said the female paramedic, who had applied a pressure bandage to the cut. Erika nodded as they clipped up their first aid box and left. The old lady came back in with a small glass of water. Erika took it gratefully, and gingerly sipped. She coughed and choked and the old lady rushed forward with a tissue.
‘Try again dear, take very tiny sips,’ she said, holding the tissue under Erika’s chin. Erika managed a tiny sip, but it burned.
The woman went on, ‘This area. When I first moved here in 1957 we all knew each other. You could leave your door open; we had a real community. But these days . . . Not a week goes by without you hearing there’s been a robbery or a break-in . . . You’ll see I’ve got bars on all my windows, and I have a personal response alarm.’
She tapped a small red button round her neck. There was a knock on the front door. The woman got up, and came back a few moments later.
‘There’s a tall black feller who says he’s a police officer,’ said the woman, cautiously coming into the room with Peterson.
‘Jeez, boss,’ he said.
Erika smiled weakly.
‘You’re his boss?’ asked the woman. Erika shrugged, and then nodded.
‘You’re a policewoman?’
‘She’s a Detective Chief Inspector,’ said Peterson. ‘We’ve got a ton of officers doing a house-to-house but, nothing . . . Whoever it was, scrammed.’
‘My God. And to think this happened to a Detective Chief Inspector! What about the rest of us? Whoever did it must have no fear. What are you?’ asked the old lady, of Peterson.
‘I’m a policeman.’
‘Yes, dear; what rank are you?’
‘Detective Inspector,’ said Peterson.
‘You know who you remind me of?’ said the woman. ‘What’s that programme about the black policeman?’
‘Luther,’ said Peterson, trying not to look annoyed.
‘Ooh yes, Luther. He’s very good. Has anyone ever told you, you look a bit like him?’
Despite everything that had happened, Erika smiled.
‘People like you normally do,’ said Peterson.
‘Oh, thank you,’ said the old lady, not getting what he meant. ‘I do try to watch quality drama on television; none of those reality shows as they call them. What rank is Luther?’