The duty officer gently slid the hatch back up, and Erika left the custody suite.
61
Her car was still in the car park, and as Erika limped across to it, she wondered if she would be able to drive. She just managed and set off for Telegraph Hill.
Telegraph Hill was very close to Goldsmith’s Drama Academy. It was an affluent slice of London on top of a steep hill leading up from New Cross. There was a park and lots of red brick terraced houses. It reminded Erika of the plush area where Marsh lived. Colin’s house sat at the very top of the steepest hill. It was a grand-looking detached house set back from the road on a large plot of land. A small tower with a stone spire rose up out of the brickwork, which seemed a little ostentatious for South London.
‘Fancy,’ muttered Erika, peering up at it. ‘People in stone houses, act like kings,’ she added. There were no spaces on the road outside, and she saw there was a decent-sized driveway outside which led to a wooden car port. There was a space next to two other cars, so she pulled in off the road and used the parking spot.
It was very secluded from the road behind the high row of bushes and tall trees lining the front wall. A security light flicked on as she limped her way to the front door. A bell jangled from deep inside, and she half expected a creepy butler to answer the door.
It was Cilla who answered, wearing a baggy smock-like dress in a bright green fabric with deep pockets on each side. She had on a towering pair of high heels in emerald green, with a crusting of silver glitter on the toes. Her hair had changed colour since the funeral. It was now pillar-box red.
‘Good evening, you’re just in time for coffee,’ she said, greeting her with a theatrical enthusiasm. Erika stepped inside, wincing as she moved up the two steep steps inside, leaning on her crutches. ‘My goodness, what have you done to your foot?’ added Cilla when they were in the hallway.
‘I stood on a broken bottle, smashed by my cat,’ she said. Cilla helped Erika off with her coat, which she hung on a huge iron coat stand by the front door. Erika looked around at the large hallway. There was lots of wood panelling and a flagstone floor. A small stained-glass window faced the car port and it felt like she was inside a small castle, or a boutique with delusions of grandeur. A delicious smell of food wafted along the hallway, and Erika could hear men’s voices coming from the first door, and then laughter. She wished she hadn’t accepted this invitation to come over. It would have been easier to talk on the phone.
‘Do come through,’ said Cilla. Erika followed her into a large living room-cum-dining room. It was stuffed with white furniture and brass fittings, and there was a huge modern concrete fireplace where a fire was crackling in the grate.
‘Ah! Detective, good evening! Can we offer you coffee?’ asked Colin. His bonhomie was as forced as Cilla’s welcome. He was next to Ray at the table, and the two men were sitting very close. Ray shifted his chair, and Erika felt like her entry into the room had broken an intimate moment.
‘Black. Thank you,’ she said.
‘Have you been in the wars?’ asked Ray, tapping a packet of cigarettes on the table and pulling one out. He stared at her as he lit his cigarette.
‘It was a silly accident, I stood on a chunk of broken glass,’ she said.
‘Please, sit down,’ said Colin, indicating the chair opposite. Ray got up and moved around the table to pull it out for her to sit. Cilla came back into the room with a china cup of black coffee on a saucer.
‘Fag?’ asked Ray, holding out the packet.
‘No thank you,’ she said.
Ray went and sat back down with Colin.
Erika checked her watch. She took out her painkillers and popped two out. Colin was watching her.
‘Sorry,’ she said, swallowing them with a gulp of the hot coffee. ‘That’s better.’
Cilla sat down next to Erika. There were the remnants of a shepherd’s pie in a dish, with smaller dishes of vegetables.
‘Are you sure we can’t tempt you?’ asked Colin, indicating the food.
‘No, thank you,’ said Erika. Her stomach was grumbling, but she wanted to get on with this and then get home.
‘I wanted to ask you all a few questions about GDA, past students and Charles Wakefield.’
They all looked at her a little imperiously. Erika went on.
‘Can I ask why Charles Wakefield left the school as caretaker?’
‘Who is he?’ asked Ray, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another.
‘Charlie Wakefield was the caretaker for some of the student accommodation, he was in the post a few years back,’ said Cilla.