'Let's go to the dessert lounge over there. It only shuts at 1am. Then we can talk properly. Are you OK with that?' Subeera spoke in a London accent. She pointed to a cafe with a shiny black storefront which said 'Heavenly Desserts' in pink neon lighting. It was just before 9pm but felt much later.
'Sure,' Rita said, the apprehensive feeling growing inside her. She felt a few drops on her clothing. The air was cold and damp; worst holiday ever, she found herself thinking. They walked away from the underground station. There weren't many cars on the road behind the station and a fox ran across the street.
'If anyone would understand, it would be you,' Subeera gulped. 'This place looks quite busy. I'm guessing we can sit here without being noticed.' Rita followed her inside as she walked to a bench near the back. The floor and walls were black and shiny, and the sofas and armchairs were made of soft red leather. Impossibly gorgeous, stylised desserts, cakes and ice creams were laid out on a glass counter. The revolving disco ball on the ceiling and soft 80s style music took Rita back to a time when she was younger.
'I'll get a matcha latte and a baklava fudge cake,' Subeera said. 'What do you want, Rita? I'll get this.'
'I'll get some peppermint tea and a dark chocolate chip cookie,' Rita said, although she really didn't feel like eating. Subeera paid, grabbed a spoon from the counter and they went to sit down on a soft, crimson sofa at the back of the shop. Although Subeera had been so keen to talk, Rita observed that her body language now indicated nervousness. She kept licking her lips and sat up unnaturally straight.
'What's up?' Rita said.
Subeera took a deep breath. 'So. I might as well come out with it, I'm in enough trouble as it is. Where do I begin?' When the waiter brought the drinks and cakes, she grimaced and then just stared at them as if they were artifacts from Mars, shook her head and stirred the latte meaninglessly with her spoon. 'Why do I always order this stuff? I'm trying to lose weight.'
The baklava cake was much bigger than normal restaurant cakes, had thick layers of icing, and looked deadly. Rita took a glance at the other customers. A group of men were sat by the window, engrossed in conversation. A young couple feeding each other ice cream. A group of teenage girls.
'So,' she said eventually. 'Given what we dealt with last year, and as you aren't working in the Met, I guessed you would understand.' Suddenly, Subeera looked as if she was going to cry. She took in a gulping breath, and when she spoke again, it was in a bitter, harsh tone. 'It was so stupid. The whole thing was so stupid. From start to finish. I can't believe it.'
'What happened?' Rita said.
Subeera hesitated, and then said, 'My 17 year old niece went to a Palestinian protest two months ago. As I was in the area, I met her and picked her up as the protest ended. Afterwards, we went out for a meal together. The irony is, I actually told her to be careful about going to such events.'
'I'd actually forgotten about it, until today, when I got called into a disciplinary and learned that someone had emailed my boss with the photos. If I was him, I'd definitely think it looked bad. She was wearing a Palestinian flag t shirt.' Subeera took a deep breath, then laughed bitterly. Guessing what was coming next, Rita felt her stomach churn.
'I mean, I get it, but for fuck sake, why shouldn't she have worn something like that,' Subeera gulped. 'It's so bad, Rita. I could lose my job. They think I was there. One guy at work is now demanding to look through all my social media accounts to check that I haven't said something problematic.' Suddenly her eyes were shining with tears.
'You didn't go, you just met her at the scene once it finished,' Rita said, keeping her voice gentle.
Subeera nodded. Suddenly, she was crying. 'All I've done the last year is bury myself in work so I didn't have to think about it. I've been battling with myself, it's felt so wrong, not even being able to make a stand because of my job...and just today I learned my family in Gaza have been killed.'
Rita got up and walked over to give the other woman a hug. 'I am so sorry.'
'It's OK. I didn't know them that well. I should have kept in touch more. I should have seen them when it was a bit more possible...I should...'
'Oh. Subeera. You didn't do anything wrong.'
'Work is the only thing that's keeping me sane,' Subeera sobbed, pulling away after a few minutes. 'All I wanted to do is be a detective, and now I don't know...I don't know what I'll do if I lose my job... this is a mess. With the Erica Scott case, I am sure the timing's not a coincidence.'
'Do you know who reported you?' Rita said gently as she sat back down on her seat.
'I haven't been told, but it's got to be one of two people,' Subeera said without hesitation. 'Either, that professor who murdered his wife. Oh, I'm sorry, I mean – allegedly murdered his wife. And sued us and got a massive payout when he got out of prison for a wrongful conviction. I suspect it was him.'
Rita looked around and saw that the group of men had gone. The waiter was staring at them sympathetically and trying not to make it obvious.
'The one who wrote the Jack the Ripper book?' she said.
'Yeah.' Subeera wiped her eyes and tucked her hair back inside her headscarf. She picked at the baklava cake. 'The same guy. You know, Erica Scott actually headed up the campaign to get him out of prison three years ago. It's how she got her start as a podcaster! And according to more than one witness, they'd been seeing each other.'
Rita thought back to the conversation in the Lebanese cafe. Jon Phillips had claimed that he had never known Erica, and had only met her a few times. Every time she thought of him, she got an uneasy, sickening feeling about him.
Why would he lie about that? Did he have a reason to distance himself from Erica?
Subeera lowered her voice. 'Whatever he says, Jon Phillips was the only serious suspect in the murder of Pippa Horsforth. All the evidence pointed to him. He has a grudge against me. It was the first major investigation I worked on. I interviewed him and testified against him in court. I was memorable to him.'
'Something's off about that guy,' Rita muttered, taking a bite of the chocolate cookie. It was not the best. It was too sweet. And she had suspicions it wasn't vegan. But after hardly eating the whole day, it would keep her going for a bit. The peppermint tea was at least nice and warming.
'You don't fucking say.'
'Yeah. After we left this morning we went to a cafe. He was there and started...a very creepy conversation with me about Henry Dixon. Then, Sandra Horsforth showed up. Pippa's sister. She really thinks he did it. And the way that he acted towards her. He was so chilling and so calm. He tried to say she had mental issues and it was a misunderstanding.' Rita thought of the sheer rage on Sandra's face. The patronising way Jon had acted to her. The creepy statements he had made, and the even creepier book with the strange drawings...
'Mental issues?' Subeera scoffed, the thought seeming to make her look a little brighter. 'What? He can talk. What did he say about Dixon?'
'He said his dad had been the head of the Taurine Club before, but that he wasn't involved. He said his dad claimed Henry ruined the club. I don't know why he said it to me. It was like he was fishing for a reaction,' Rita said. Subeera rolled her eyes.
'Wasn't involved? What nonsense. Before he went to jail and changed his name, he was one of the editors of the Taurine Club's 'world renowned' magazine, although he kept quiet in front of all his fellow lefty academics.'
'I'm not surprised,' Rita said.
'Still, it kind of fits with the way he acted with me. The moment that he found out I was Palestinian, he started claiming he sympathised with me. Dude – I don't care. You're a murder suspect. And the moment it was obvious I wasn't impressed by this – then, things got nasty.'
'Who's the other person?' Rita said in a lowered voice.
'Her real name is Kaylee Thurgood. A piece of work...got a lot of aliases. She had to change her name and go off social media after she scammed her Instagram followers and claimed she had cancer. Another time, she tricked an online boyfriend into giving her five thousand pounds, saying her landlord was kicking her out.' Subeera looked towards the door. 'Recently, she's been calling herself Carly Hill, but she's changed her name about four times.'
'That was the woman who found Erica's body. She was near hysterical,' Rita said under her breath. She had been so unsettled and wrong footed by Donna's odd behaviour that she had failed to register Carly's strange demeanour. The dramatic run up and down the corridor shouting. Then, beside the body, that vulnerable and childlike persona; asking Rita if she could go, claiming that she didn't have her phone, couldn't contact the police and couldn't speak to them now.
'Another one who left without warning and dumped the card, so we couldn't check her key against what she said her movements were. She does the whole poor innocent butter wouldn't melt act. Honestly, I was relieved she wasn't there given how quickly she can...get nasty.' Subeera visibly shuddered. It was reminiscent of what Donna had said. Maybe she had misjudged her. People responded to death in strange ways.
But then again.
'They both sound like criminals, but I don't see what motive either of them have for this,' Rita said. More people had arrived at the dessert lounge. Rita couldn't recall seeing any of them before, and felt herself relax as she studied their faces.
'We know from Donna that Erica had recently found out about Carly's Kaylee Thurgood identity. She's convinced Carly is the murderer. Absolutely convinced. Erica's mum also thinks so. But I agree. Donna would make more sense as a victim in that case. Donna was the one who told Erica about her history.'
'And Jon Phillips? If she was the one who campaigned to get him out of prison, what could be his motive? Jealousy? Sadism? It would fit with all this...'
'Yeah. Confuses me too. The murder wasn't sadistic. She died quickly and the perpetrator didn't hang around.' Subeera turned around. She had eaten barely a quarter of the cake. 'But we made a discovery which may be significant. I've already said too much. If he did report me, let's just say - that's convenient. For him, or whoever he's protecting.'
‘So, he's wealthy and willing to sue. He’s got connections. He’s already been 'exonerated' of one murder,’ Rita said, trying to remind herself that none of this made him Erica's killer. ‘I can see why some of your colleagues wouldn’t want to touch him.’
‘Exactly.’
****
Wayne stood out in the garden with a spliff and a can of beer. He knew he had done a half arsed job today on the landscaping job. He knew he should have done a better job and he should care about it more. But he couldn't think of anything else except Erica. It was sinking in that she was dead. And he didn't know how to feel about it.
Her shows always said the husband or boyfriend was the most likely suspect, the one police checked out first. Wayne didn't know whether that meant the lack of police returning to the house was good or bad. Maybe they'd ruled him out. Or maybe they were just watching. The irony is, if anyone was the expert on this situation, it would be Erica. She'd have been the one fighting his corner, too, right? She always wanted a good underdog story, a story of an impossible suspect, or better yet, a good conspiracy. Wayne winced.
He had been crying a lot more than he wanted to admit. His mate Barry was meant to be phoning him soon about the tractor he had 'obtained'. Wayne felt around in his pocket but when he realised the phone wasn't there, he felt liberated from all their shitty demands and complaints, being hunted by the law because of their bullshit. He felt a raindrop but the last thing he wanted was to go back inside.
Erica had loved the garden, he thought.
'Hello, Wayne.'
He turned around and saw his neighbour Timothy, who was being weirdly nice to him in the last 24 hours. If he had had this conversation with Erica, they would have both fallen about laughing, the bullshit with the neighbours never failed to make her smile. It was weird but since she was gone he had forgotten what he had resented her for.
He only thought of the good times.
'Hi,' Wayne said awkwardly.
'How are you?' Timothy said. 'How are you coping with everything?'
'OK, you know, as good as I can be,' Wayne said, wishing the man would go so he could have a drink in peace.
'If anything happens,' Timothy said. 'I want you to know how truly sorry I am. For everything.'
'Oh,' Wayne said. 'Well, there was a lot of noise with the extension. Building works are always a disruption, right? And Erica – but also me as well, we could both be divas at times, right? Probably. You probably had your own stuff going on...'
'Know this, please. It wasn't my choice that things ended up like this,' Timothy said. His posh accent gave his voice gravitas but Wayne wasn't sure what he meant.
'You mean – with the building works? I should have given you more warning. We should have...' Wayne's voice cracked.
'With everything. I'm sorry about everything. I wish things had turned out differently,' Timothy said. He stared at Wayne, who stood under the garden floodlights, knowing he looked a state. His head was just as much of a total mess.
'What do you mean?' he said.
But Timothy had already disappeared inside. Wayne stared around his garden. His job – his legit job – was a gardener. He looked at the flowers around the garden, the buds starting to bloom. Suddenly, with Erica not there, he hated all of it.
Something was shining at the end of the garden, the light reflected by the moon, by the floodlights or something. Wayne walked towards it. He hadn't seen it before. It was probably one of those gadgets Erica had liked having around the garden and he didn't care for. But as he walked closer he saw that it was lying on its side. It was a ball lamp, a luxury one like the ones Erica liked, like the ones you got in five star hotels. The cable was twisted and knotted. There was no lampshade.
And the side of the lamp was stained with blood.