She quickly outlined the events of the previous evening, and the rapid conviction and release of Charles Wakefield. She moved along to where there was a photo of Vicky she hadn’t seen before. It was a black-and-white 10 x 8 headshot. Vicky stared right at the camera with a Mona Lisa-esque smile.
‘Who found this?’
‘I just pulled that off a website called Spotlight, a registry for actors,’ said Crane. ‘She’s done a bit of theatre and minor TV work, but nothing in the last two years.’
‘I don’t like the coincidence that Charles Wakefield had these two dead cats, tried to hide them from us, and Vicky Clarke had recently recorded an investigative podcast episode about the Croydon Cat Killer. I’ll put up a link to the podcast. It’s worth a listen.’
‘Do you think Charles Wakefield is the Croydon Cat Killer?’ asked McGorry.
‘That’s not our focus right now.’
‘Is he completely off-limits?’ asked Crane, who was sitting with his arms folded and frowning at the crime scene photos pinned up on the large whiteboards running across the back wall of the incident room.
‘No. We just have to be very careful how we approach him,’ said Erika. She moved along the whiteboard to the crime scene pictures, of Vicky’s body lying on the sofa bed. ‘I think she knew the person who did this,’ she said, tapping the photo. ‘There was no sign of forced entry into her flat. The main entrance to the building has a card key entry system on the front door, and her front door has a Yale lock and a deadbolt. It’s a small flat with only a front and back window. The front window was closed, and the back room which she used as a recording studio is blocked up with polystyrene.’
Erika moved to the crime scene photos taken from the makeshift recording studio. The black desk was covered with deposits of silver fingerprint power, which glinted in the light from the camera flash.
‘I need you to push our colleagues in forensics. We need the results from the post-mortem, fingerprints, DNA, blood analysis. The cyber team has Vicky’s hard drive. I need to know what was on it ASAP. I want her phone records, and her bank details. We need to look at her immediate family and friends. As with all cases, we need to build a picture of her life and we need to build it fast… Pull in any favours you’re owed. Who has the results of the door-to-door?’
‘That’s me,’ said Moss, standing up. ‘We’re a bit like the police station that had all its toilets stolen.’
‘I don’t follow?’
‘We have nothing to go on,’ said Moss. Despite herself, Erika smiled. ‘The neighbours opposite didn’t see anything, nor did people from the surrounding houses. Only three neighbours in Honeycomb Court were home at the time of Vicky’s death: Charles Wakefield, an elderly lady upstairs called Mrs Wentworth, and the owner of the building, Henrietta Boulderstone.’
‘I’m planning to go back after this briefing to talk to her,’ said Erika.
McGorry put up his hand.
‘I know that the whole cat killer thing is a bit controversial,’ he said. ‘But a mate of mine has been working on Operation Figtree for the past two years. I can have a quiet word and see if there is any link, however small, to the area. I could skirt around the whole issue of Charles Wakefield, just mention the building name.’
Erika hesitated.
‘If you can fish around without dropping any names, then please, go ahead. But I can’t emphasise enough that my arse is on the line, and if I go near Charles Wakefield I have to have a very good reason.’
‘Absolutely,’ said McGorry. Erika went back to the acting headshot of Vicky.
‘We should also look into her career as an actress. Did she go for auditions? Does she have an agent? How much of her acting life bled into her private life? Her sister mentioned a boyfriend, Shawn, but actors live different, unpredictable lives. It would be useful to get as much background on her acting life as possible. Let’s meet again tomorrow morning at 9am.’
With that, the officers went to work and the room filled with the busy chatter of activity.
12
Erika thought Honeycomb Court looked softer in the grey light of day. Its concrete structure appeared less brutalistic amongst the rows of red brick Victorian terraced houses.
She parked her car on the road outside and got out along with Moss and Peterson.
Charles Wakefield was outside on the small front lawn, holding a black bin liner with a tiny, wizened woman beside him. They were staring at the ruined grass, where it had been churned up the previous evening by the police cars and vans. Erika hadn’t taken much notice of the front garden, which was next to the concrete pathway up to the front door. There was a wide, curved border of pampas grass and some dead flowers and an apple tree heavy with fruit. Quite a few apples lay around the tree, squashed into two deep tyre tracks.