Authors: Robert Bryndza
E
rika was called
to Chief Superintendent Marsh’s office when she arrived the next morning. She carried with her a cheque for the rent and the signed contract for the flat. She was surprised, when she entered the office, to see DCI Sparks sat opposite Marsh. Sparks had a smug look on his face.
‘Sir?’
‘What the hell were you playing at, going into The Crown last night?’ demanded Marsh.
Erika looked between Sparks and Marsh. ‘I stuck to orange juice . . .’
‘This isn’t funny! You crashed the wake for Pearl Gadd, and caused no end of chaos. Do you know the Gadd family?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘They’re a bunch of low-life scum who own a massive lorry transportation network in the south of England. However, they’ve been working with us.’
‘Working
with us
, sir? Do you want me to allocate one of them a desk in the incident room?’
‘Don’t get smart.’
Sparks was trying not to enjoy this, watching their exchange with his chin resting on the heel of his hand. Erika noticed how he’d let the nail grow long on each index finger.
‘Sir. If you've called me in here for a bollocking, I’d rather be bollocked in private.’
‘You don’t outrank DCI Sparks, and he’s here as part of the investigation. You’re supposed to be working together. I take it your visit to The Crown was part of your enquiries?’
Erika paused, and took the seat next to Sparks.
‘Okay. If this is a meeting, fine. Tell me all about our colleagues in the South London underworld.’
Sparks removed the hand from under his chin. ‘The Gadd family has been feeding us information for the past eight months. Information that will hopefully lead to the seizure of millions of pounds’ worth of counterfeit cigarettes and alcohol.’
‘In return for what?’ asked Erika.
Marsh interrupted, ‘I don’t have to spell it out, DCI Foster. We’re stretched to the fucking limit with what we can and can’t do. Do you know what a delicate eco-system it is here in South London? In return for this information we’ve been turning a blind eye to . . . well, lock-ins and things. Then you barrel in there last night with your ID and your attitude.’
‘They said it was a wake, sir.’
‘It was a fucking wake!’
‘Okay, I’m sorry. It seems you do things a little bit differently here than when we were in Manchester.’
‘We don’t do things differently,’ said Sparks, with an annoying calm. ‘Although we do thoroughly check our intelligence before we move in.’
‘What did you just say?’ said Erika.
‘I’m talking about last night.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Marsh, slamming his fist on the table.
Erika swallowed down her anger, and her hatred for Sparks. ‘Sir. My visit to The Crown had a purpose. It helped me secure new information about Andrea’s killer.’
Marsh sat down. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I now have a second witness who saw Andrea on the night she died in The Glue Pot, talking to a tall dark man and a blonde woman. This new witness went so far as to hint that Andrea could have been in a relationship with the man.’
‘Who is this new witness?’
‘Ivy Norris.’
Sparks rolled his eyes and looked at Marsh, ‘Do me a favour – Ivy Norris? Also goes by the names Jean McArdle, Beth Crosby, Paulette O’Brien?’
‘Sir, she—’
‘She’s a known time-waster,’ said Marsh.
‘But sir, I got the feeling she was scared when I pressed her about this man. It was genuine fear. I also believe, especially now we’ve found the phone packaging under Andrea’s bed, that Andrea had a second mobile phone, a phone she didn’t tell anyone about. I think she had friends that she didn’t want her fiancé, Giles Osborne, to know about . . .’
‘The records from Andrea’s old phone, the one she lost last year, came in last night,’ said Sparks.
‘No, I think Andrea had another phone. One she was still using. She bought a top-up voucher four months ago, we found it under her bed with the box,’ explained Erika.
‘It means nothing. It could’ve been for a friend,’ said Sparks. ‘Anyway, back to the records for the old phone that actually exist. I took the opportunity to go through them last night, and some interesting information has come to light.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Erika.
‘Several names come up in her call log, which I’ve cross-checked with Andrea’s Facebook messenger account. One of them is a bloke called Marco Frost . . . Ring any bells?’
Marsh looked at Erika.
‘Yes. He’s a barista who Andrea was, I dunno, dating a while back. An Italian guy, works at a coffee place in Soho?’
Sparks nodded and went on, ‘He made hundreds of calls to Andrea’s old phone. The calls were over a period of ten months, between May 2013 and March 2014.’
‘Why wasn’t I told that the phone records had come through?’ demanded Erika.
‘It was late last night. I thought you might have wanted to get your beauty sleep,’ said Sparks.
‘Sparks, get on with it,’ said Marsh.
‘Okay. So I went back through the interview I did with the Douglas-Browns, when Andrea had first gone missing. And they mentioned this Marco Frost. Andrea did date him briefly for a month at the beginning of 2013. Then she ditched him, and the phone calls started. He turned up at the house several times. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sir Simon actually had a police officer visit Marco Frost and speak to him about his unhealthy interest in Andrea.’
‘Why wasn’t this mentioned to me before?’ asked Erika.
‘My notes were available in the file.’
‘I never got them.’
‘Well, they were available.’
‘All right, all right, all right. Let’s act like adults,’ said Marsh, impatiently. ‘Go on, DCI Sparks.’
‘Okay. So I went back to Andrea’s new phone, where, as we know, there’s not much to go on. She checked her emails on that phone too, and there was a load of e-invites to parties and events—’
‘Yes, the team has been through them, there are hundreds. She had memberships with lots of private clubs,’ said Erika.
Sparks continued, ‘There was an e-invite for an event at the Rivoli Ballroom on Thursday 8th January, the night she vanished. It was a fancy burlesque show organised by one of the clubs where she was a member.’
‘Yes, and on that same night Andrea had invites to several other parties in London. As I say, she was on loads of mailing lists . . . And she had already arranged to meet her brother and sister at the cinema.’
‘But the whole family have said she was a flake; she changed her mind with the wind. It wouldn’t be out of character for her to just decide to do something else,’ said Sparks.
Erika reluctantly had to agree with this.
Sparks went on, ‘The Rivoli Ballroom is actually bang opposite Crofton Park train station, which on the map looks fairly close to Forest Hill station – to be precise, it’s just under two miles away. To get to Forest Hill or Crofton Park you need to take a train from London Bridge, but the two train stations are on completely different lines. What if Andrea got on the wrong train? She rarely used public transport. That could be why she was all dolled-up in Forest Hill.’
There was a silence from Erika and Marsh.
‘And I saved the best bit until last,’ said Sparks. ‘Last night, I got onto the organiser of this burlesque party at the Rivoli Ballroom, and he sent me though their mailing list. Marco Frost was also on that list and was sent the same e-invitation. This gives us an opportunity…’
There was a silence. Erika could see Marsh rolling it over in his brain.
‘This is very promising,’ he said, getting up and starting to pace. ‘My next question is, where is this Marco Frost?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been up all night putting this together,’ said Sparks.
‘Look, Sparks, we’ve had our differences, and I’d like nothing more than this to be a strong lead. But it’s hardly a motive. How many people were on that mailing list of invites?’ said Erika.
‘Three thousand.’
‘Three thousand. And what makes you think Andrea went anywhere near this Rivoli Ballroom? Her body was found within half a mile of Forest Hill train station, where she got off the train.’
Marsh continued to pace up and down, thinking.
Erika continued. ‘I now have two witnesses who saw Andrea in The Glue Pot the night she vanished.’
‘One of whom has vanished into thin air, and the other a known drug-addicted, alcoholic prostitute,’ said Marsh.
‘But sir, I think Ivy Norris is—’
‘Ivy Norris is scum,’ said Sparks. ‘One of her specialities is to shit on the bonnets of the squad cars in the car park.’
‘Sir, at least acknowledge that we have two lines of enquiry,’ said Erika. ‘If you think mine is unreliable, then you must admit that Sparks’s is purely circumstantial! I think that we could use this press appeal this afternoon for information about Andrea being seen with the man and the woman in The Glue Pot.’
Marsh shook his head. ‘DCI Foster, we’re dealing with people here who the media are itching to hang out to dry. Lord Douglas-Brown, his wife and family, and of course Andrea, who isn’t lucky enough to still be here to defend her character from these accusations.’
‘Sir, it’s not an accusation!’
‘Sir, The Glue Pot is a known hangout for prostitutes,’ said Sparks. ‘It’s been raided repeatedly. A bloke got sent down for making kiddie porn in the flat upstairs.’
‘I agree with Sparks,’ said Marsh. ‘Anything we put out there about Andrea Douglas-Brown will instantly be twisted and shredded by the press. We have to be sure it’s fact.’
‘What if I can get Ivy Norris in here to make a statement?’
‘She’s unreliable. She’s made false statements before,’ said Marsh.
‘But, sir!’
‘That’s enough, DCI Foster. You will work with DCI Sparks to pursue the line of enquiry relating to Marco Frost and Andrea both receiving an invitation to this party at the Rivoli Ballroom. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ grinned Sparks.
Erika nodded.
‘Right, you can go Sparks. And don’t be too happy. There’s still a dead girl; that hasn’t changed.’ Sparks looked chastised and left the office.
Marsh eyed Erika for a moment. ‘Erika, try and cultivate some semblance of a private life. I’m all for my officers taking initiative, but you need to do things by the book and keep me informed of what you are doing. Take a night off, and perhaps do your laundry.’
Erika realised she still had a sticky layer of beer on her leather jacket from the previous night.
‘Did you visit the doctor yet?’ Marsh added.
‘No.’
‘When you finish tonight, I want you to see our duty doctor. That’s an order.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Erika. ‘Here’s the contract for the flat.’
‘Okay, good. How did you find it, all okay?’
‘Yes.’
When Erika emerged from Marsh’s office, Woolf was waiting for her in the corridor.
‘I didn’t grass you; he got a call from the landlord at The Crown. Then he demanded the logbook from the front desk.’
‘It’s okay. Thank you.’
As Woolf went off to get changed and go home after a long night shift, Erika wondered who else from London’s criminal underworld was able to pick up the phone and call Chief Superintendent Marsh.
B
y mid-morning
, the incident room at Lewisham Row was hectic. Phones rang, faxes and printers churned, and police officers rushed in and out. Erika and Sparks were sitting in a corner with Marsh and Colleen Scanlan, the stern and rather matronly police media liaison officer. They were working through what was going to be covered at the press appeal.
‘So I finish with my introduction and then we’ll hear from Sir Simon,’ said Marsh. ‘I think he wanted to use autocue for this, if we can arrange that?’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll need his final text within the next couple of hours to get it emailed over and loaded up,’ said Colleen.
‘Okay,’ said Marsh. ‘So, Sir Simon will say: “Andrea was an innocent, fun-loving twenty-three-year-old with her whole life ahead of her . . .” Then we’ve got her picture flashing up on the screens behind us. “She never hurt anyone, never caused anyone pain, and yet here I am, a heartbroken father, making an appeal for witnesses to a horrific crime, the murder of my daughter . . .” Shouldn’t that be “an” horrific crime?’
‘“An” would actually be incorrect,’ said Colleen. ‘Although it’s a common misconception. You only use it as an indefinite article when the following word begins with a vowel sound…’
‘We want this press conference to be an open, down-to-earth line of communication to the public’, snapped Erika. ‘Let’s not waste time debating the correct bloody grammar!’
‘Okay, so, “a horrific crime”
,
’ said Marsh.
I
t pained
Erika that the press conference was being built around evidence she felt was circumstantial, and that the team who she thought she’d bonded with had seized upon Sparks’s weak theory with such zeal. She had to admit that to an outsider, the Rivoli Ballroom theory had more credence. She cursed herself for being so stupid and going off on her own to pursue the Glue Pot barmaid and Ivy Norris. She should have taken Moss or Peterson. She looked over at them both working the phones, trying to track down Marco Frost.
She turned the Frost theory over in her brain, and a sliver of doubt flashed through her – but then her gut instinct kicked in. Her gut was telling her she was on to something with Andrea meeting the dark-haired man and blonde girl in The Glue Pot. Even if her two witnesses had been unreliable, was it likely that they would be unreliable in exactly the same way? Both Ivy and Kristina were people who existed uncomfortably on the wrong side of the law. It would be easier for them to say they knew nothing, that they hadn’t seen Andrea . . . Erika suddenly realised that Marsh was talking to her.
‘DCI Foster, what do you think? Should we mention the Tina Turner video? Colleen thinks yes.’
‘What?’
‘The Rivoli Ballroom. It’s a very famous old venue, and Colleen thinks a fact like that will stick in the public’s memory, make them remember the appeal, and it could lead to increased word-of-mouth.’
Erika still looked nonplussed.
‘Tina Turner filmed her
Private Dancer
video at the Rivoli Ballroom back in 1984,’ said Colleen.
‘She did?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes. So shall we put that in with the appeal, with the photo of the venue?’
Erika nodded and looked down at the itinerary they were compiling. ‘Where are we going to say that Andrea was in Forest Hill? Her clutch bag was recovered on London Road.’
‘With media appeals we need to narrow things down, present a clear concise message. If we say she was in one place and then another, people will get confused; they need continuity,’ explained Colleen, a little condescendingly.
‘I understand how these things work, thank you. But this appeal is a great opportunity to gather information. This skates over vital clues as to how Andrea went missing,’ said Erika.
‘We’re aware that she may have been in the location in question, but we have no hard evidence. There is no CCTV footage, or witnesses. The killer must have used a car; he could have thrown that bag out of the car window on London Road,’ stated Marsh.
‘I know the details of my own case, sir!’
T
hey finished an hour later
, with Erika having reluctantly agreed to the content of the press conference, which made no mention of Andrea being anywhere near The Glue Pot, and played down the fact she could have been on the London Road.
Erika came out to the vending machine and saw Sergeant Crane feeding in coins and selecting a cappuccino.
‘All right, boss? We got the bus footage through from TFL, and some stuff from a couple of black cabs who went along London Road,’ he said. The machine beeped and he bent down and pulled out the plastic cup, blowing on the froth.
‘Let me guess, nothing?’
Crane took a gulp of coffee and shook his head. ‘But this Marco Frost seems tough to track down. The last place of work we have is the Caffè Nero on Old Compton Street, and he doesn’t work there anymore. His mobile number’s been disconnected too.’
‘Keep trying. Perhaps he went off with Barbora Kardosova.’
‘Ha! That’s another theory, boss.’
‘Well, add it to the list,’ said Erika darkly, as she fed coins into the machine and selected a large espresso.