‘It’s locked! And there’s no bloody key!’ she cried. They looked out of the window into the garden and saw that the photographer was already half over the fence. Above the washer and dryer were shelves holding cleaning products. Erika spied a heavy metal key on the bottom shelf. She grabbed it and quickly tried it in the lock. The door opened and they burst out into the garden. Erika sprinted to the right, seized the top of the wooden fence and hauled herself over, closely followed by Moss. She landed on the burnt grass on the other side and grappled for her radio as she ran across the garden.
‘He’ll come out on Dunham Road,’ shouted Moss from behind.
‘We have a suspect coming out of a garden which borders Dunham Road, Dulwich. I need back-up there now.’ Erika reached the opposite side of the second garden and pulled herself up and over the wall, landing easily on the other side. She could see the photographer was still ahead, his blue mohawk vanishing over the next fence. I cannot let this guy get away with photos of the crime scene – they could be uploaded online within minutes, thought Erika.
She dashed across the next garden, skirting round a plastic swing, and vaulted the fence, landing painfully up to her knees in a pond with a splash.
‘Hey, you’re trespassing! Those are koi carp!’ shouted a young woman in a short summer dress and sunglasses who emerged onto a terrace.
‘I’m a police officer!’ shouted Erika, sloshing up out of the pond and over to the next fence. She saw she’d gained on the photographer: he’d reached the fence at the edge of the next garden and was hooking his leg over the top.
‘Stop that man!’ cried Erika, and even though it was a valid thing to say, it sounded ridiculous. She turned and saw Moss flop over the fence behind her and land headfirst into the pond with a large splash. The woman on the terrace was now shouting even louder.
The heat was pounding down, and Erika was exhausted and overheating in all her clothes, with the crime scene overalls on top. Moss emerged from the water with pond weed in her hair.
“I’m okay, boss. GO!’ she shouted. Erika carried on, climbing up and over the next fence, feeling splinters push through her overalls and clothes into the back of her legs. She saw that the photographer had come to the edge of the last garden, which was lined with a high wall of pale brick.
‘Stop right there!’ she shouted.
The photographer looked round at her with a red face, his blue mohawk still jutting up like a fin. He hitched the camera over his shoulder, gave her the finger and jumped, grabbing the top of the wall, and hoisting himself up.
Erika ran across the bare, dusty earth of the last garden, through a group of cracked, lichen-covered birdbaths. The photographer slipped back a little, trying to scale the top of the wall, and Erika managed to grab at one of his legs. He kicked out, catching her in the face, and although he was only wearing trainers, the pain shot through her cheek where he made contact. She grabbed at his leg and managed to get one of his trainers off, but he slithered out of her grasp and away, over the curved top of the wall. She heard a thud and a yell as he landed on the other side.
Erika pulled herself up the wall easily, glad of her height. As she straddled the top of the wall, she saw the pavement was lower on the other side. With only one shoe, the photographer had landed badly on his bare foot. He was fumbling with his camera and trying to stagger away. Erika leapt down. Landing easily on the pavement, she was able to move faster and grab him. He fought her, trying to get away.
‘No… ou... on’t…’ she heaved, breathlessly. Moments later, Moss appeared at the top of the wall, slithered down, landed on the pavement and dashed over. She managed to pin the photographer’s hands behind his back and cuff him as Erika kept hold.
‘Fucking bitches!’ he shouted.
‘You need to calm down,’ said Erika.
‘Why? Are you arresting me?’
‘We’re detaining you,’ said Moss.
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that you didn’t stop, you fled the scene when all we wanted to do was talk to you. You kicked my colleague in the face,’ said Moss.
‘It ain’t illegal to take photographs!’ he said, trying to shake them off.
‘That was a crime scene,’ said Erika.
‘Well, it ain’t illegal to photograph a crime scene either!’
‘Yes, but I am seizing your camera as evidence. It may contain information helpful to our case,’ said Erika, trying to catch her breath. She had never seen Moss so angry. Her hair and overalls were soaking wet and she was sweating. Erika grabbed at the camera, which was still looped over the photographer’s shoulder on a strap. She opened the flap at the side and peered inside.