McGorry came out of the van. He noticed Kay and smiled and raised an eyebrow.
‘I’ll get the shoes back to you later today,’ said Erika.
‘That’s okay, take as long as you need with them,’ said Kay, and she went off to the forensics van, giving McGorry a curt nod.
‘Haven’t you got a girlfriend?’ asked Erika, seeing McGorry glance after her.
‘Yeah,’ he said, seeming a little annoyed.
‘You know, not every young female officer has to fall for your charms.’
‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’
Erika rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, let’s get to it.’
* * *
A police officer was stationed at the front door. The body of Marissa Lewis had now been removed from the front garden, leaving a vast pool of frozen blood. Snow had been cleared from the path, and the course of the blood spatter was marked with small yellow numbers.
The house was messy inside, with dated furniture and overpowering smells of damp and fried food. There was a tiny Christmas tree in the living room, and the kitchen was overflowing with dishes and grime. Stairs led up to a dingy landing, where the ceiling sagged. Doors led off to a bathroom and two bedrooms. Erika and John pulled on latex gloves. The bedroom at the front had a bay window looking out over the road, busy with police activity. The room looked freshly painted, and was neat and tidy with new furniture and a beautiful flowered bedspread. Three tailor’s mannequins lined one of the walls, and they were dressed in feathered costumes, one with a black corset. A set of shelves on the opposite wall contained seven wigs on polystyrene heads, and a dressing table under the window was covered in make-up. A row of high-heeled shoes in different colours were neatly lined up in front of a fitted wardrobe.
‘Does she toast marshmallows on the gas fire?’ asked McGorry, moving to a small fireplace and picking up one of several thin metal rods with blackened marshmallow shapes on the end, which were leaning up against the grate.
‘I think they are used for fire eating,’ said Erika, peering at them. There were a couple of framed photos on the wall. In the first, Marissa lay in a huge champagne glass, wearing see-through pink lingerie. In another she wore black stockings, suspenders and nipple tassels, and held one of the flaming rods close to her mouth. The final framed photo was a publicity poster, where Marissa lay on a chaise in a silver bodice, surrounded by muscled young men in underwear. A huge header read:
A NIGHT WITH MISS HONEY DIAMOND
JULY 14TH 2017
BETHNAL GREEN WORKING MEN’S CLUB
‘That must be the name she performs under, Miss Honey Diamond,’ said McGorry.
Erika noticed a diamond shape embroidered in gold on the bodice of the black corset on the second tailor’s mannequin. ‘This diamond logo is the same as it is on the poster. It’s also embroidered on the other two costumes,’ she said, looking at the other two mannequins.
‘A diamond for Miss Honey Diamond,’ said McGorry, coming over to run his finger over the stitching.
‘We need to check if this is a brand of clothing, or if it’s been stitched on afterwards. And our first port of call – along with phone records –should be her social media.’
‘Forensics said there wasn’t a laptop or a PC in the house,’ said McGorry. ‘There wasn’t a mobile phone, and they didn’t find one on her body.’
‘So her phone is missing.’
Erika went to the wardrobe and opened it, seeing more of Marissa’s burlesque clothes. Two additional bras were embroidered with the diamond logo. There was also some civilian gear: jeans, jumpers, a few ‘conventional’ dresses and shoes. Tacked to one of the wardrobe doors were several pictures of Dita Von Teese performing burlesque, and one of her lying in a giant martini glass.
They moved back out along the landing, past a grotty little bathroom, to a small bedroom at the back of the house. It was nothing more than a box room, sparsely furnished with a single bed and a wardrobe. The bed was covered in bin bags full of clothes and towels. Perched on the windowsill was a hairbrush and some face cream. On the radiator was an enormous pair of greying knickers.
‘Jeez,’ said McGorry, holding them up. Erika gave him a look, but didn’t say anything. ‘She gave up the best bedroom for Marissa and her stuff?’
‘She said she charged her extra housekeeping.’
‘Doesn’t look like she sleeps in here.’
Erika saw that the plastic bags had a layer of dust.
‘She said she was in bed around 10 p.m.’
‘Did she mean she slept on the sofa?’ asked McGorry. They came back downstairs and went into the living room. The sofa under the bay window was covered in a creased duvet and a pillow. On the floor was an empty litre bottle of cheap own-brand vodka and two empty tubes of Pringles.
‘She didn’t say that she sleeps on the sofa,’ said Erika. She went to the window. It was grimy with dirt and condensation, and the spray of Marissa’s blood. There was a single pane of glass, and a freezing draft was blowing through the rotten window frame, and they could hear very clearly the noise from the road outside.
‘Maybe she was too pissed to remember,’ said McGorry, indicating the empty bottle of vodka.
Erika heard the door of the support van slam, and the crunch of snow as someone walked past on the road behind the hedge. She wondered if the killer had been lying in wait.
‘I wonder if Marissa had the chance to scream,’ said Erika, more to herself than to McGorry.
Eight
Erika and McGorry came back to the police support van, where a group of six officers were taking a quick break. They had been chatting away, but fell silent when they saw Erika.
‘Don’t mind me,’ she said.
‘Refreshments have arrived, ma’am,’ said one of the officers, indicating the table in the corner with an urn and a cluster of pre-packaged sandwiches.
‘Thanks. What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘PC Rich Skevington, ma’am.’
Erika and McGorry grabbed a sandwich each and filled paper cups with steaming coffee. The sound of the coffee hitting the paper cup was loud in the silence. Erika looked around. She didn’t recognise any of them; they all seemed so young.
‘Who can give me an update on the house-to-house?’ she asked, ripping the plastic off her sandwich and taking a bite.
‘We haven’t been able to get an answer from Don Walpole and Ivan Stowalski. We’re waiting on their mobile phone numbers,’ said Kay, the young officer who’d lent Erika her shoes.
‘What about the rest of the street? Are people being helpful?’ asked Erika, washing down a mouthful of the dry sandwich with a gulp of coffee.
‘Half the houses are empty, but the locals who knew Marissa Lewis also knew about the affair she had with Don Walpole and that she was sleeping with Ivan Stowalski behind his wife’s back.’
‘The jury’s out as to whether or not Ivan Stowalski’s wife has left him,’ said Rich. ‘Their next-door neighbour, a beady-eyed old girl, says they’re both up north for Christmas visiting his family. We’ve also been on the lookout in gardens and dustbins for the victim’s mobile phone, in case it’s been dumped, but nothing so far.’