They both sipped their drinks, then spat them back in the cup.
‘What the bloody hell is that?’
‘Oxtail soup,’ he grimaced.
‘Did you press the coffee button?’
‘Yeah.’
They dropped their cups into the small bin by the machine. Erika pushed more change in, and selected a white coffee. When it was done she put the cup to her nose.
‘That’s bloody oxtail soup as well. They close down the canteen, and leave us with nothing but oxtail soup!’
‘They must have filled the machine up wrong,’ said McGorry.
Erika rolled her eyes and dropped the second cup in the bin.
‘What is it with this country? Potato sandwiches, and oxtail bloody soup! I’ve never met anyone who actually eats oxtail soup, yet in the world of second-rate vending machines that’s the third option after tea and coffee!’
‘You can buy it in tins…’
‘What?’
‘Oxtail soup. My Nan has a cupboard full of tins of oxtail soup. She loves it.’
Erika looked at him and grinned.
‘Go on, bugger off home, have your Christmas dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said.
* * *
Erika went up to her office on the fourth floor. It was tiny, with barely enough room for a small desk, a chair, and a bookshelf. Kay was working at a laptop with Joseph’s smartphone plugged into it.
‘Sorry, the coffee machine is buggered, and there’s nothing in the staff kitchen,’ said Erika. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘The iPhone is password protected. You’ll have to get it sent to the Cyber Crime Unit, and even then, they probably won’t have any luck. It’s virtually impossible to hack into an iPhone. I can also see from the IMEI number that this was a pay as you go phone.’
‘Which will make the phone records harder to track down. Shit.’
‘The good news is that Joseph Pitkin’s smartphone isn’t password protected.’ Kay indicated a window on the screen with all the downloaded files. ‘I’ve just pulled off a load of video files.’
Erika’s mood brightened and she pulled up a chair. Kay started to click down the list of image and video files; some were very short, of a tabby cat on a summer’s day stretching on the windowsill outside Joseph’s bedroom, another of Elspeth, red faced and taking a huge plaited loaf of bread on a tray out of the Aga, another of the tabby cat in the garden, amongst the flower pots, chasing after a red admiral butterfly in that playful-yet-lethal way cats enjoy.
‘All very charming,’ said Erika. When Kay clicked on the next video, the sound blared out from the computer, making them jump. Distorted music played, and the video was a blur of colour until it came into focus. Marissa Lewis was on a small stage in a crowded club. Behind her was a red velvet curtain. The video was taken a little further back in the audience, and some people’s heads were visible. Marissa’s dark hair was set in pin curls, and she wore bright red lipstick and huge lashes. She was slowly unbuttoning a long black coat, and then she let it drop to the floor. Underneath she wore a 1950s-style pink silk satin corset, stockings, suspenders and towering heels. The video seemed to tremble as she went through her act, stripping down to underwear and nipple tassels. Marissa took a bow to applause and sashayed off the stage.
‘Blimey, she was good,’ said Kay.
‘I thought her act would be sleazy, but this is – well, professional burlesque,’ said Erika. They clicked through photos of the same evening, of Joseph standing with Marissa among the tables in the club. They were posing for the camera; someone else must have taken the pictures.
‘Do you think it looks like Marissa knows him?’ asked Erika, as Kay clicked through six almost identical shots: Joseph with his arm slung around Marissa’s waist.
‘He looks like the creepy fan you want rid of. Why did he need six photos? By the sixth she looks like she wants to get away,’ said Kay.
‘When are these dated?’
‘Almost a year ago. Last January.’
Kay clicked through more photos of the same evening, of Marissa talking to other guests and posing for photos, then a couple of blurred ones as she went to the bar. Then the background changed. The next few photos were dark, and illuminated with a flash.
‘When is this?’ asked Erika.
‘The time stamp shows the same day, same time.’
‘Looks like backstage.’ There were photos of what looked like a dressing room. It was empty, with a large mirror surrounded by lights. There were close-ups of a rack of burlesque clothes; a pair of lacy black knickers discarded on the floor. A hand holding them up to the camera. There was a diamond symbol sewn into the fabric.
‘Honey Diamond,’ said Erika. ‘That diamond symbol was embroidered on Marissa’s burlesque costumes.’
Abruptly, the photos then changed to a video of Marissa Lewis’s house. It was taken high up, at night, looking down into the window of Marissa’s bedroom. It started off shakily, and they could hear wind distorting the phone’s microphone. Marissa came into focus, walking around the bedroom in a towel. She went to the dressing table and picked up a brush, dragging it through her wet hair. Then Marissa dropped her towel, and was naked. The video zoomed in closer and lost focus. When it came back into focus, Marissa was staring out of the window, directly at the camera.
‘Shit,’ came Joseph’s voice, above the wind distorting the microphone. He kept the camera trained on her. She stood, very still, watching. Then she cupped her breasts, and ran her hands down the front of her body. She stopped above her pubic hair, and waggled a finger and pulled the curtains together. The camera stayed on the glowing curtains for a moment, then the video ended.
‘She knew Joseph was watching her?’ said Kay.
‘She knew someone was watching her,’ said Erika. Kay clicked on another video, which showed the same view, at night. This time, Marissa’s bedroom was brightly lit, and she entered the room with a tall, older man. Marissa made sure they both came close to the window, and the camera caught his face. Kay ran the video forward, as they moved to the bed, starting to kiss and undress each other. The video was the longest on the phone, ten minutes in total, and it zoomed in as the couple had sex on Marissa’s bed. ‘We need to get a clear image of that man’s face, and find out who he is. When was this taken?’
‘December 14th, this year. Do you think she knew they were being filmed?’
‘Or she asked Joseph to film,’ said Erika. She rubbed her tired eyes and sat back in her chair. ‘What did you make of him?’
‘In the short space of time I was there? He seemed scared, but clingy with his mother.’
‘He’s ticking all the boxes so far. He was obsessed with Marissa. He stalked her, and spied on her. He stole Marissa’s mobile phone, and photographed her dead body. But I need forensics. I need DNA if I want to really nail him and make an arrest.’
* * *
In the basement of Lewisham Row, all was quiet in the custody suite. The long line of cell doors was propped open, ready and waiting for any offenders Christmas night had yet to offer. Only the cell door at the far end was closed. Ray, the custody sergeant, got up from his desk, and went to do his fifteen-minute check, his polished shoes squeaking on the floor. He opened the metal hatch on the closed door, and shone his torch inside. Joseph Pitkin lay on a bed in the corner.