Fatal Witness (Detective Erika Foster #7) (7)

‘Evening, ma’am,’ he said. They were both so young, she thought, as she peered inside.

‘Can you lads cordon off the road, and once forensics have finished in the entrance of the building, go and find out how many neighbours are home, and if anyone saw anything?’

They nodded and got out of their squad car. It was suddenly very busy on the narrow road, and amongst the sound of talking and car engines, Erika heard shouting coming from the side of the building. Peterson and Moss were half carrying Charles, who was staggering, with a nasty gash on top of his bald head which was pouring blood.

‘I’m a British citizen! I own my own home! I have liberties!’ he was shouting, as rivulets of blood dripped off the edge of his chin.

‘What happened?’ asked Erika, moving over to intercept them in the front garden.

‘She! She broke into my flat! Shouldered the door!’ he shouted.

‘I caught him trying to jump out of his back window with the bin bag. His foot caught on the sill and he landed in the concrete alley,’ said Moss. She wore latex gloves. One hand was gripping his arm, and the other held the black plastic bin bag.

‘And that’s where I found him, lying in the alleyway,’ said Peterson. ‘Sir, you need to keep still!’ he added, as Charles struggled and tried to twist his way out of their grip, elbowing him in the chest.

‘Hey! Calm down,’ said Erika, pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves and taking the bin bag from Moss.

‘Wh… what are you arr… arresting me for?’ he stuttered. Blood was now running into his mouth and mingling with spit to give his teeth a pink sheen.

‘Sir. You are not under arrest, but you need medical attention,’ said Erika. There was a paramedic outside on the road with a policeman, and Erika beckoned them over.

‘Can you please see to Mr Wakefield? He’s had a nasty fall.’

‘Nasty fall? More like police brutality!’ shouted Charles.

‘Oh dear,’ said the paramedic, a small kind-looking woman in her fifties with twinkly brown eyes. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up, Mr Wakefield.’ She seemed to placate Charles for a moment, and he allowed her and the policeman to lead him to the ambulance. When they reached the doors, he looked back at Moss, who was still holding the black bin liner.

‘They’ve got my bag!’

‘Come on, sir, let’s get you inside and sat down,’ said the paramedic. They helped Charles into the ambulance, and the back doors closed.

‘I bet that cut’ll need stitches,’ said Moss.

‘Have you looked inside the bin bag?’ asked Erika.

‘No. But he was willing to jump out of a window to hide it,’ said Peterson.

Erika took the bag from Moss, placed it on the road and untied the neck. A nasty smell hit her; a sweet synthetic perfume mixed with decay. She had a strong stomach, but she felt the recently consumed fish and chips stirring for the second time that evening. She took a step back and a few breaths of fresh air, and then activated the torch on her phone, held her breath and shone it inside the bag. They all peered inside.

She could see four or five plastic solid-gel air fresheners, but the white plastic was smeared with blood and what looked like mud. There was something with fur amongst the rubbish, and when she angled the torch inside, she saw the end of a cat’s leg.

‘Oh no,’ she said, looking up at Moss and Peterson. They heard a muffled shout from Charles inside the ambulance. ‘Can you please get me a plastic sheet from forensics and some evidence bags?’

Moss went off, and returned with a thick square of sheeting. They moved over to the small front garden of the apartment building, and opened out the sheet on the grass. Peterson pulled on a pair of gloves, and Erika carefully tipped the contents of the bin bag out.

The smell of sweet decay was overpowering, even outside in the blustery weather. There were old tea bags, three empty cans of Newcastle Brown Ale, a milk carton and some other soiled pieces of tissue paper, and ten solid-gel air fresheners. Amongst this were the matted bodies and heads of two decaying cats. They’d both been decapitated. Erika reached out to gently touch them.

‘That’s weird. Their bodies are frozen inside. Feel that.’

Moss and Peterson both gently felt the bodies with their gloved hands.

‘Why would they be frozen?’ asked Peterson.

‘There haven’t been freezing temperatures in London yet, it’s still too early,’ said Moss.

‘Jeepers,’ said Peterson, sitting back and putting the crook of his arm over his nose. ‘Smells like they’ve been dead awhile. Neither of them have collars.’

‘A collar isn’t going to stay on a headless cat,’ said Moss, giving him a look.

‘I meant, there are no collars in the bag,’ replied Peterson, rolling his eyes.

‘He’s put in ten air fresheners,’ said Erika, counting through them. ‘The gel in all of them is full. They’ve just been opened.’

Another muffled shout came from inside the ambulance. It rocked violently, and then the back doors burst open and Charles Wakefield ran out with a piece of large white bandage flapping on the side of his head.

‘No. No! I don’t want that. I don’t like needles!’ he shouted. He was followed by the policeman, who grabbed him and restrained him over the bonnet of a nearby police car.