‘He’d like to see you in his office. Says it’s important.’
‘Maybe he’s going to tell you we’re getting decent air-con,’ grinned Peterson.
‘I live in hope,’ said Erika. She tucked in her blouse, pulled on her jacket and left the incident room, climbing the four flights of stairs up to Marsh’s office.
She knocked and he shouted for her to enter. She was surprised to see that he’d tidied the office: gone was the mess of discarded files and clothes, and the dismantled coat stand. There was a bottle of eighteen-year-old Chivas Regal on the table.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked.
‘Okay. Seeing as it’s Friday.’
Marsh went to the corner of the office, and Erika saw that where the pile of coats and paperwork had been, there was now a small fridge. Marsh opened the fridge and retrieved an ice cube tray from the freezer compartment. She watched as he added ice to two plastic cups, and then poured a generous measure of whisky into both.
‘You do take ice?’ he said.
‘Yes, thank you.’
He put the cork back in the bottle, placed it down on the desk, then handed her one of the cups.
‘I know tomorrow is the second anniversary,’ he said quietly. ‘I just wanted to have drink with you. To let you know I hadn’t forgotten. To toast Mark.’
He raised his cup and she bumped hers against it. They both took a sip.
‘Do sit down, please.’
They both sat, and Erika looked down at the amber liquid clinging to the rapidly melting ice. She was touched, but determined not to cry.
‘He was a good man, Erika.’
‘I can’t believe it’s been two years,’ she said. ‘For the first year, I’d wake up most mornings and I’d often forget that he was gone. But now I’ve got used to him not being here, to a certain extent, which is almost worse.’
‘Marcie asked me to send her regards too.’
‘Thanks…’ Erika wiped her eyes with her sleeve and changed the subject. ‘We had the e-fits back. They’ve all given us a reproduction of the actress from Crimewatch.’
Marsh nodded. ‘Yes, I saw.’
She went on, ‘I fear our only breakthrough will be when she kills again. We’re going to stay on it, though. Next week I’m going to get the team to revisit all the evidence. We’ll start from scratch. There’s always something, however small…’
Marsh sat back in his chair. He looked pained.
‘You know how this works, Erika. She could strike again in the next few weeks, or days… Or it could be months. I worked on Operation Minstead. At one point, the attacker stopped for seven years.’
‘Is this you letting me down softly?’
‘No, I’m happy to give you more time, but I have to remind you that resources are not infinite.’
‘So what’s the whisky for?’
‘It’s a genuine gesture. Nothing to do with work.’
Erika sipped at hers and they sat in silence for a moment. She looked out at the view behind Marsh: the blue sky, the houses receding in the distance, giving way to patches of green on the horizon.
‘What are you doing tomorrow? Will anyone be with you?’ asked Marsh.
‘Mark’s dad did offer to come down to London, but I thought, with the case…’ She trailed off.
‘Take the day off, Erika. You’ve been on for three weeks without a break.’
‘Yes, sir.’
She drank the last of the whisky and placed the plastic cup back on the table.
‘I think she’s planning her next murder, sir. She’s not going into hibernation. I don’t think it will be seven weeks, let alone seven years.’
51
Simone followed the man on three more occasions. He liked to spend his afternoons in a gay sauna in Waterloo, tucked away behind the train station. Twice, she’d tailed him there, discreetly waiting in an Internet cafe further down the street. His visits had lasted several hours. On another morning, he’d taken the tube from the Barbican. She’d sat further down the carriage, tucked in amongst a row of commuters, pretending to read the Metro as the train trundled and lurched around the Circle line until it reached Gloucester Road underground station.
She’d felt uneasy shadowing him in West London. It was alien to her. It reeked of money, with its mix of smart Georgian houses and exotic people drinking at pavement cafes. He had called in at a smart office on a residential street and vanished inside without looking back.
She’d returned that day to watch the building where he lived. The Bowery Lane Estate was a large and rather bleak U-shaped six-storey block of flats, with an oblong of grass in the centre. It was a concrete brutalist design, built as council flats after the Second World War, when much of London had been a bomb site. Now, sixty years later, the flats had been hailed as a site of architectural importance. The concrete structure was a listed building, and each flat sold for several hundred grand or more – the newer, moneyed residents rubbing shoulders uncomfortably with the remaining council tenants.