Cold Blood

Book 5: Detective Erika Foster

by Robert Bryndza

Genres: Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

‘OMG what a story … you seriously need to read this one. I devoured this in one sitting, it is certainly one pulse-racing, nail-biting, gritty read… I thought my heart was going to explode … will definitely keep you on the edge of your seat from start to finish.’ Chelle’s Book Reviews The suitcase was badly rusted, and took Erika several attempts, but it yielded and sagged open as she unzipped it. Nothing could prepare her for what she would find inside… When a battered suitcase containing the dismembered body of a young man washes up on the shore of the river Thames, Detective Erika Foster is shocked. But it’s not the first time she’s seen such a brutal murder… Two weeks earlier, the body of a young woman was found dumped in an identical suitcase. What connects the two victims? As Erika and her team set to work, they quickly realise they are on the trail of a serial killer who has already made their next move. Yet just as Erika starts to make headway with the investigation, she is the target of a violent attack. Forced to recover at home, and with her personal life falling apart, everything is stacked against her, but nothing will stop Erika. As the body count rises, the case takes an even more twisted turn when the twin daughters of Erika’s colleague, Commander Marsh, are suddenly put in terrible jeopardy. The stakes are higher than ever before, but can Erika save the lives of two innocent children before it’s too late? She’s running out of time and about to make a disturbing discovery… there’s more than one killer. Brilliantly gripping, Cold Blood will have you hooked from the first page and holding your breath to the heart-stopping and shocking ending. Read what everyone is saying about Cold Blood : ‘Unputdownable ... I couldn't read it fast enough and stayed up way too late ... best thriller I have read in ages and I've read some good ones ... this is as good as it gets, and for me it was brilliant. I loved it. ’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars ‘Robert Bryndza never fails to amaze me, he is such a gifted writer and I love the fact that he is able to maintain such a high standard of writing whilst keeping the series highly original in content. Would I recommend Cold Blood? It's a "thousand" hell yeses and if you haven't read this series yet you really need to.' The Book Review Café ‘I absolutely LOVE Robert Bryndza’s writing and the Erika Foster series is probably one of the best female detective series I’ve read…..no wait, not just female, but the best detective series ever! …Wow, wow, wow!! Erika is back with a bang. ’ Stardust Book Reviews ‘ Blindingly excellent ... These books should come with a disclaimer as once you start reading you aren’t going to want to walk away. This is a book you are going to want to feast upon and devour as fast as you can.’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews, 5 stars ‘ This is a heart racing, hold your breath, drama packed instalment of one of the best crime thriller series available! Robert Bryndza is a genius and raises the bar for the genre! ’ The Quiet Knitter ‘ As always the author had me from the gripping and intriguing start and didn't let me go until the emotional ending… Cold Blood is without a doubt my new favourite book in the Erika Foster series. Dark, gritty, hard hitting and emotional, this is a crime read that would be truly criminal to miss.’ By The Letter Book Reviews ‘ Wowza. Another fantastic gripping book from Robert. It is so good to have this detective back in my life. She brings a sense of calmness, cleverness, and female power to a book...such a great character.’ Trisha’s Blog ‘ Incredibly gripping and had me utterly hooked... so completely enjoyable ... I can't wait for the next one!’ Novel Deelights 5 stars

Release date: September 20, 2017

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 616

Sample

Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster shielded her eyes from the pelting rain as she and Detective Inspector Moss hurried along the South Bank, a paved walkway lining the southern bank of London’s River Thames. The tide was low, cutting a brown swathe through the silt, bricks and rubbish littering the exposed riverbed. In the pocket of her long black jacket, Erika’s radio gave a tinny burst and she heard the officer at the crime scene asking their location. She pulled it out and replied: ‘This is DCI Foster. We’re two minutes away.’

It was still the morning rush hour, but the day was already darkening, with a gloomy fog descending. They picked up the pace and hurried on past the tall IBM headquarters, and the pale squat ITV Studios building. Here the South Bank curved sharply to the right before widening out to a tree-lined avenue leading down to the National Theatre and the Hungerford Bridge.

‘It’s down there, boss,’ said Moss, slowing breathlessly.

On the exposed riverbed, ten feet below, a small group of people gathered on a man-made beach of pale sand. Erika massaged her ribs, feeling where she was getting a stitch. At just over six feet tall, she towered over Moss, and her short blonde hair was plastered to her head by the rain.

‘You should ease off the cigarettes,’ said Moss, looking up at her. She pushed wet strands of red hair away from her face. Her plump cheeks were flushed from running, and her face was covered in a mass of freckles.

‘You should ease off the Mars Bars,’ Erika shot back.

‘I am. I’m down to one for breakfast, one for lunch and a proper dinner.’

‘I’m the same with the cigs,’ smiled Erika.

They came to a set of stone steps leading down to the Thames. They were stained at intervals with tidemarks, and the last two steps were slippery with algae. The beach was four metres wide and ended abruptly where the dirty brown water churned past. Erika and Moss pulled out their warrant cards, and the huddle of people parted to let them through to where a special constable was attempting to protect a large, battered, brown cloth suitcase, half buried in the sand.

‘I’ve tried to move them all up, ma’am, but I didn’t want to leave the scene unattended,’ said the young woman peering up at Erika through the rain. She was small and thin, but had a determined glint in her eye.

‘You on your own?’ asked Erika, glancing down at the suitcase. Through a ragged hole in one end two pale bloated fingers were poking out.

She nodded. ‘The other special I’m on duty with had to go and deal with an alarm going off in one of the office blocks,’ she said.

‘This isn’t on,’ said Moss. ‘There should always be two specials. So you’re coming off the night shift in central London, alone?’

‘OK, Moss—’ started Erika.

‘No, it’s not okay, boss. These people volunteer! Why can’t they pay for more police officers?’

‘I joined the specials to gain experience to become a full-time officer—’

‘We need to clear this area before we lose all chance of forensic evidence,’ interrupted Erika.

Moss nodded and she and the special started to herd the gawking people towards the steps. Erika noticed at the end of the small beach, next to the high wall, two small holes had been dug out by an older man with long grey hair, wearing a multicoloured poncho. He was oblivious to the people and the rain, and carried on digging. Erika pulled out her radio and called in for any uniformed officers in the vicinity. There was an ominous silence. She saw the man in the coloured poncho was ignoring Moss, and carrying on digging.

‘I need you to move up there, back up the stairs,’ said Erika, moving away from the suitcase towards him. He looked up at her and carried on smoothing his pile of sand, which was saturated by the rain. ‘Excuse me. You. I’m talking to you.’

‘And who are you?’ he asked imperiously, looking her up and down.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster,’ she said, flashing her warrant card. ‘This is a crime scene. And you need to leave. Now.’

He stopped digging and looked almost comically affronted.

‘Are you allowed to be so rude?’

‘When people obstruct a crime scene, yes.’

‘But this is my only income. I’m allowed to exhibit my sand sculptures here. I have a permit from Westminster Council.’

He rummaged in his poncho and retrieved a laminated card with his photo, which rapidly spotted with rain.

A voice came from Erika’s radio. ‘This is PC Warford, with PC Charles…’ She could see two young officers hurrying towards the crowd of people by the steps.

‘Coordinate with DI Moss. I want the South Bank closed off, fifty feet in each direction,’ she said into her radio, then stuffed it back in her pocket. The man was still holding out his permit. ‘You can put that away.’

‘You have a very unfortunate manner,’ he said, squinting up at her.

‘I do, and it would be very unfortunate if I had to arrest you. Now go on, up there.’

He slowly got to his feet. ‘Is that how you talk to a witness?’

‘What did you witness?’

‘I uncovered the suitcase when I was digging.’

‘It was buried in the sand?’

‘Partly. It wasn’t there yesterday. I dig here every day; the sand gets shifted by the tide.’

‘Why do you dig here every day?’

‘I’m a sand sculpture artist,’ he stated pompously. ‘That is usually my spot. I do a mermaid sitting aloft a rock with fish jumping; it’s very popular with—’

‘Did you touch the suitcase, or move anything?’ said Erika.

‘Of course not. I stopped when I saw… When I saw the suitcase was split and there was… fingers, protruding…’

Erika could see he was scared.

‘Okay. Go up to the walkway, we’ll need to take a statement from you.’

The two officers and the special had cordoned off the walkway. Moss joined her as the old man staggered off to the steps. They were now the only two people on the beach.

Pulling on latex gloves, they moved to the suitcase. The fingers poking through the hole in the brown material were swollen, with blackened fingernails. Moss gently worked the sand away from the seams, and exposed the rusted zipper. It took Erika several gentle tugs, but it yielded, and the suitcase sagged open as she unzipped. Moss moved to help, and they slowly lifted it open. A little water spilled out, and the naked body of a man was crammed inside. Moss stepped backwards, putting her arm up to her nose. The smell of rotting flesh and stagnant water hit the back of their throats. Erika closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. The limbs were white and muscular. The flesh had the appearance of raw suet and was starting to flake away, in places exposing the bone. Erika gently lifted the torso. Tucked underneath was a head, with black wispy hair.

‘Jeez, he’s been decapitated,’ said Moss, indicating the neck.

‘And the legs have been chopped off to fit inside,’ finished Erika. The bloated, badly beaten face was unrecognisable. A swollen black tongue protruded from between large purple lips. She gently placed the torso back over the head, and closed the suitcase. ‘We need forensics down here. Fast. I don’t know how long we’ve got until the tide comes back in.’

An hour later the forensic pathologist and his team were at the crime scene. The rain continued to pour, and the fog thickened, obscuring the tops of the surrounding buildings. Despite the rain, crowds had gathered at each end of the police cordon to gawk at a large white forensics tent which had been erected over the body in the suitcase. It glowed ominously against the murky water rushing past.

It was hot inside the tent. Despite the cold, the bright lights in the small space were causing the temperature to soar. Erika and Moss had changed into blue crime scene coveralls, and were with Forensic Pathologist Isaac Strong, who was crouching down by the suitcase with his two assistants, and the crime scene photographer. Isaac was a tall, lean man. His soft brown eyes and thinly shaped eyebrows were the only things to identify who he was through his hood and face mask.

‘What can you tell us?’ asked Erika.

‘The body has been in the water for some time; you can see this yellow and green discolouration on the skin,’ he said, indicating the chest and the abdomen. ‘The cool temperature of the water will have slowed decay—’

‘That’s decay slowed down?’ said Moss, putting up a hand to her mask. The smell was overpowering. They paused, all staring at the battered naked body, at how neatly the pieces had been packed inside: a leg each side of the torso; the knee joints folded into the top right and bottom left corner; arms crossed over the chest and the decapitated head tucked neatly underneath. One of Isaac’s assistants unzipped a small pocket on the inside of the suitcase lid and pulled out a small clear plastic ziplock bag containing a gold wedding band, a watch, and a man’s gold chain necklace. She held it up to the light, her eyes wide over her protective mask.

‘They could be his valuables, but where are his clothes?’ said Erika. ‘It’s like he’s been packed, not dumped. Is there any ID?’ she added hopefully.

The crime scene photographer leaned in and fired off two shots. They winced at the flash. Isaac’s assistant searched the pocket with a gloved hand. She shook her head.

‘Dismembering the body in this way, the precision, and packing in the valuables shows forward planning,’ said Isaac.

‘And why pack in the valuables with the body? Why not take them? It’s almost like whoever did this is taking the piss,’ said Moss.

‘It makes me think it could be gangland or drug related, but that’s for you to find out,’ said Isaac. Erika nodded as one of his assistants lifted the torso and the photographer took a shot of the victim’s decapitated head.

‘Okay, that’s me done,’ said the photographer.

‘Let’s get the body moved,’ said Isaac. ‘We’ve got the tide to contend with.’

Erika looked down and saw one of the footprints in the sand was beginning to fill with swirling water. A young guy in overalls appeared at the opening of the tent with a fresh black body bag on a stretcher.

Erika and Moss stepped outside, and watched as Isaac’s assistants unzipped the body bag, spread it open, then gently lifted the suitcase towards the stretcher. Four feet off the sand it caught, and they almost lost their footing.

‘Hang on, stop, stop, stop!’ said Erika, moving back into the tent. A torch was shone onto the underside of the dripping suitcase. A length of pale rope had become entangled in the material, which was starting to bulge and fray under the weight of the body inside.

‘Scissors, quickly,’ snapped Isaac. A pair of sterile scissors were quickly unwrapped and handed to him. He leaned underneath and neatly clipped off the rope, allowing them to lift the suitcase clear. It disintegrated as it was laid on the stretcher. He handed over the scissors and rope, and they were bagged up and labelled. Then the body bag was zipped up, enveloping the suitcase.

‘I’ll be in touch when I’ve completed the autopsy,’ said Isaac. He left with his two assistants as they started to push the stretcher, wheeling it awkwardly across the sand, leaving deep tracks.

When Erika and Moss had handed over their coveralls, they came back up onto the paved walkway of the South Bank and saw Nils Åkerman, the head of forensics, had just arrived with his team of five CSIs. They would now attempt to gather forensic evidence from the scene. Erika looked back at the water encroaching the beach and doubted they would have much luck.

Nils was a tall, thin man with piercing blue eyes, which today were a little bloodshot, and he appeared fed up and exhausted.

‘Nice weather for ducks,’ he said, nodding at them as he passed. He spoke excellent English with a faint Swedish accent. Erika and Moss were handed umbrellas and they watched as Nils and his team moved across the shrinking beach. The water was now less than a foot from the tent, and was speeding past, swollen by the rain.

‘I never get his sense of humour,’ said Moss. ‘Can you see any ducks?’

‘I think he meant ducks would enjoy this weather, and who says he meant it as a joke?’

‘But he said it like it was a joke. It’s the Swedish sense of humour, I’ve heard it’s really weird.’

‘Anyway, let’s focus,’ said Erika. ‘The suitcase could have been dumped further upriver and got snagged on the rope as it was carried by the tide.’

‘There’s miles of riverbank where it could have been chucked in,’ said Moss. Erika looked up at the buildings and across the busy water. A barge was chugging past, belching out black smoke, and two long, low Thames Clipper water taxis were slicing their way against the tide in the other direction.

‘This would be a pretty stupid place to chuck in a body,’ said Erika. ‘It’s overlooked by offices, open round the clock. And you’d have to carry it all the way along the South Bank, past all the bars and offices, CCTV, witnesses.’

‘Stupid is as stupid does. It could be a shrewd place for a ballsy person to dump a body. So many back roads where they could disappear,’ said Moss.

‘That’s not helpful.’

‘Well, boss, we shouldn’t underestimate whoever did this. Or should I say, misunderestimate?’

Erika rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, lets grab a sandwich and get back to the nick.’

It was late afternoon when Erika and Moss arrived back at Lewisham Row Police Station, and they were both drenched from the rain, which hadn’t let up. The construction work around the station, which was just beginning when Erika was first assigned to south London, was almost complete, and the eight-storey police station was now dwarfed by several high-rise blocks of luxury apartments.

Sergeant Woolf sat behind the front desk in the shabby reception area. He was a large man with pale blue eyes and a jowly white face with several chins which spilled over onto the front of his neatly pressed white shirt. A thin, horse-faced girl stood in front of him at the front desk, cradling a pudgy baby boy on her skinny hip. The baby had a huge bag of boiled sweets in his grip and was chewing nonchalantly, watching his mother’s exchange with Woolf.

‘How long you gonna keep us waiting?’ she demanded. ‘I got stuff to do.’

‘That depends on your boyfriend, and the 300 grams of cocaine we found up his bottom,’ said Woolf, cheerily.

‘You lot. I bet you’ve stitched him up,’ she said, jabbing at him with a long, pink manicured fingernail.

‘Are you suggesting we planted it on him?’

‘Fuck off,’ she said.

‘Your mother wasted all that money sending you to finishing school.’

The girl looked confused. ‘What you talking about? I finished school, like, years ago.’

Woolf smiled amiably and indicated a long row of faded green plastic chairs under a board of leaflets. ‘Please take a seat, madam. I’ll let you know when I have more information.’ The girl looked Erika and Moss up and down and traipsed over, taking a seat under a noticeboard swamped with community information leaflets. Erika recalled her first day in London after being transferred from Greater Manchester Police. She had sat in the same seat and harangued Woolf about how long she had been waiting, although her circumstances had been different.

‘Afternoon, ladies. Raining outside, is it?’ said Woolf, seeing them both with wet hair plastered to their heads.

‘Nah, just spitting,’ grinned Moss.

‘Is she in?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes. The superintendent is warm and dry in her office,’ he said.

The girl sitting with the baby shoved a handful of the boiled sweets in her mouth and made a sucking noise, glowering at them.

‘Careful you don’t choke, madam; my recollection of the Heimlich manoeuvre is a bit hazy,’ said Woolf, buzzing Erika and Moss in through the door. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. ‘Retirement is so close I can almost touch it.’

‘How long?’ asked Erika.

‘Six months and counting,’ he said.

She smiled at him, and then the door clicked shut behind them. They moved down a long, low corridor, past offices where phones rang and support officers worked. It was a busy station, the largest south of the river, serving a large swathe of London and the Kent borders. They hurried down to the locker room in the basement, saying hello to some of the uniformed officers who were coming in to start their shifts. They went to their lockers and pulled out towels to dry themselves off.

‘I’m going to hit up missing persons,’ said Moss, scrubbing at her hair and face and then stripping off her wet jumper and unbuttoning her blouse.

‘I’m going to beg for more officers,’ said Erika, drying herself off and sniffing a white blouse which she’d found at the back of her locker.

When Erika had dressed in dry clothes, she took the stairs up to the superintendent’s office. Lewisham Row was an old dilapidated 1970s building, and with the cuts to police budgets, the lifts were now something you avoided, if you didn’t fancy getting stuck for half the day. She hurried up the stairs two at a time and then emerged into the corridor of the eighth floor. A large window looked out over south London, stretching from the gridlocked ring road running through the heart of Lewisham, past rows of terraced housing, to the green of the Kent borders.

She knocked on the door and went inside. Superintendent Melanie Hudson sat behind her desk, partially obscured by a mound of paperwork. She was a small, thin woman with a bob of fine blonde hair, but looks could be deceiving and she could be a tough cookie when the situation warranted. Erika glanced around the office. It was just as shabby as the rest of the building. The shelves were still empty, and even though she’d been on the job for several months, Melanie still hadn’t unpacked a row of boxes against the back wall. Her coat hung neatly by the door on one of three hooks.

‘I’ve just come from a crime scene on the South Bank. Male, violently beaten, decapitated and dismembered, and then packed neatly in a suitcase.’

Melanie finished writing and looked up. ‘Was he white?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you wouldn’t say it was racially motivated?’

‘You can be white and still be killed in a racially motivated attack.’

Melanie gave her a look. ‘I know that, Erika. I just need to be kept in the loop. Top brass is carefully watching racially motived crime since Brexit.’

‘It’s still early days. It could be gangland, racially motivated, homophobic. It was brutal. He was packed in the case naked, with a watch, ring and chain. We don’t know if they were his. I’m waiting on the post-mortem and forensics. I’ll let you know which box you can tick when I have more information.’

‘What’s your caseload like, Erika?’

‘I’ve got an armed robbery murder I’ve just wound up. There are a couple of others bubbling away in the background. I need to get an ID on this body but it’s not going to be easy. The face is badly smashed up, and he’s been in the water a long time.’

Melanie nodded. ‘Was it a big suitcase?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can’t buy big suitcases anymore. I’ve been trying to get a family one for when we go away at half-term, but they don’t do them cos of the weight limits. Anything over twenty-five kilos they charge you a fortune.’

‘You want me to see if I can get you the suitcase when forensics finish up?’

‘Very funny. It’s a valid point though. Not many companies make suitcases big enough to fit two weeks’ worth of beach gear, let alone a full-grown man.’

‘What about staffing? How many officers can you give me? I’d like Moss and DC John McGorry; Sergeant Crane is a good team worker.’

Melanie blew out her cheeks and searched through the paperwork on her desk,

‘OK. I can give you Moss and McGorry… and a civilian support worker. Let’s see how this plays out.’

‘OK,’ said Erika. ‘But there’s something weird about this. I have a feeling I’ll need a bigger team.’

‘That’s all you’re getting for now. Keep me in the loop,’ said Melanie, and she went back to her paperwork.

Erika got up to leave and stopped at the door. ‘Where are you off on holiday?’

‘Yekaterinburg.’

Erika raised an eyebrow. ‘Yekaterinburg, Russia?’

Melanie rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t ask. My husband is obsessed with out-of-the-way holiday destinations.’

‘Well, you won’t need sun cream in October in Yekaterinburg.’

‘Close the door on your way out,’ she snapped.

Erika suppressed a grin and left her office.

Erika grabbed a coffee and some chocolate from the vending machine, then took the stairs to the fourth floor where she had a small office. It was nothing more than a box, with a desk awash with paperwork, a computer, and a set of shelves. The rain rattled against a small window looking out over the car park. She closed the door and sat at her desk with her chocolate and steaming cup of coffee. She could hear distant phones ringing, and there was a creak as someone walked past in the corridor. She missed the open-plan offices she’d worked in over the past few years in Bromley Station and West End Central. The four walls closing in on her were a reminder it had been eight long months since she’d last seen the inside of an incident room and had a big case to sink her teeth into.

There was an old map of the Thames on the wall in front of her desk, and she hadn’t paid it much notice until now. Tearing open the bar of chocolate, she took a large bite and moved around the desk to peer at it. It wasn’t an operational map, it was one of those arty ones, a black-and-white line drawing taking in the full length of the river. The source of the Thames is near Oxford, and it runs 215 miles, through London, before emerging out to sea at the Thames Estuary. Erika traced her finger along its route to where it became tidal at Teddington Lock, and on, as it wound through Twickenham, Chiswick and Hammersmith, on to Battersea, and then through central London, where they had discovered the body in the suitcase.

‘Where was that suitcase thrown in?’ she said, through a mouthful of chocolate. She thought of the places along the river where someone could throw it in without being seen: Richmond? Chiswick? Chelsea Bridge? Battersea Park? She then thought of the South Bank, heavily overlooked and there was CCTV everywhere. She shoved the last of the chocolate in her mouth and turned, looking around the tiny office. The polystyrene ceiling tiles above were stained with brown watermarks, and the small shelves were packed with the crap of previous occupants: a small furry cactus; a green plastic hedgehog which held pens between plastic spines on its back; a row of dusty operating manuals for long-extinct software. A niggling voice piped up in her head: was I wrong not to take the promotion? Everyone had expected her to accept the promotion to superintendent, but it had dawned on her that she would be stuck behind a desk ticking boxes, prioritising, toeing the line, and worse, making others toe the line. Erika was aware she had a healthy ego, but it was never going to be massaged by increased power, a fancy title, or more money. Being out on the street, getting her fingers dirty, solving complex cases and locking up the bad guys: these were the things which got her out of bed every morning.

Also, feelings of guilt had stopped her from taking the promotion. She thought of her colleague, Detective Inspector James Peterson. He wasn’t just a colleague; he was also her… boyfriend? No. At forty-five years old she felt too old for boyfriends. Partner? Partners worked in legal firms. Anyhow, it didn’t matter, she’d screwed it up. Peterson had been shot in the stomach during their last big case, the rescue of a kidnap victim. As his senior officer, it had been her decision to go in without backup. He had survived the gunshot wound, just, and they had saved a young woman’s life, and arrested a crazed serial killer but, understandably, it had affected their relationship. Peterson had lost seven months of his life in painful recovery, and it was still unclear when he would return to work.

Erika screwed up the chocolate bar wrapper and pitched it into the wastepaper basket in the corner, but she missed, and it landed on the carpet. She moved over to pick it up, and as she bent down there was a knock at the door and it opened, bashing into the side of her head.

‘Jeez!’ she cried, clutching at her forehead.

Detective Constable John McGorry peered around the door; he was holding a file.

‘Sorry, boss. Bit tight in here, isn’t it?’ He was in his early twenties and had a handsome face and smooth, clear skin. His hair was dark and cropped short.

‘You don’t say,’ she replied, dropping the wrapper into the bin and straightening up, still rubbing at her head.

‘Moss just told me about the body in the suitcase, and said I’m being reassigned to work with you on it.’

Erika went back round her desk and sat down.

‘Yeah. If you could talk to Moss, she’s started on identifying the victim. Where have you been working for the last few months?’

‘On the second floor, with DS Lorna Mills and DS Dave Boon.’

‘Mills and Boon?’ she said, raising an eyebrow.

McGorry grinned. ‘Yeah, but it’s done nothing for my love life. I’ve been working late on cataloguing racially motivated Brexit-related crime.’

‘Doesn’t sound very sexy,’ said Erika.

‘I’m pleased to be reassigned. Thanks, boss.’

‘I’ll email you later, if you can crack on with Moss with the ID.’

‘That’s one of the reasons I came up. I. . .