Closed the past.
He collapsed on to the sofa and turned on the television, immediately muting the sound. He was tired, but he knew he was not yet ready to sleep.
First he needed to switch off mentally, which meant emptying his head of all the thoughts swirling around in it.
They had nothing. The killer had left no detail, no trace, clue or weapon at the scene. No witnesses had yet come forward. There was no obvious motive.
They had a reference carved on a chest, a number left on a mobile phone, a missing, severed pair of hands. That was all. They were still fumbling for a way in. Foster wanted to find the detail, the piece of information that would flick the switch and illuminate the investigation.
The house was silent, save for the odd creak from some shifting floorboard or the rattle of an ageing radiator. The first spots of rain spattered against the bay window. Foster took another hefty slurp of wine, and then went back into the kitchen to make sure there was more. There was: he could see the bold vermilion lettering of a Petrus, albeit one of the 1980s bottles, which he found a bit underwhelming compared to the complex vintages of other years, but that was why it was one of his favourites among his dad's collection. Who wants wine that tastes the same every year? Not him, and not least when there were another six years downstairs to drink.
The wine was doing some good, smoothing the edges. He looked around for something else to do, an activity to help the wine take his mind off the day so that he could sleep, wake up in the morning and get this case out of neutral. He sat at the kitchen table and fired up his computer, a sleek silver laptop dormant. Then he uncorked the Petrus and poured himself a glass without allowing it to open up, an act he knew would make oenophiles swoon. It tasted tight. He knew he should buy in some lesser-priced, easy-drinking wines for times like these, but he never remembered. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing eleven.
The computer was primed and ready for action.
He opened his Internet connection and was straight on to the Net. Once online, the question was where to go. None of his favourite distractions appealed: Formula One racing websites, luxury car dealers and makers, spoof news sites. He checked his email but found only unsolicited invitations to enlarge his penis. As he pondered what to do, the images of the day seeped back into his mind, like smoke under a door.
One detail in particular: Why would someone not only commit murder but also sever the victim's hands while he was still alive, if not to inflict maximum pain? Someone truly hated Darbyshire.
His mobile rang, vibrating and trilling next to the bottle of wine on the sideboard. He answered it.
'Sir,' Drinkwater said.
'Yes, Andy.' Foster admired his young colleague's stamina. He'd been the first at the scene that morning and was still at it.
'Notting Hill have picked up the tramp who lived in the churchyard. Sheena Carroll, aka Ciderwoman.
She went back to the churchyard for the night.
They've got her at the station now.'
'What state is she in?'
'Roaring pissed, apparently. I could go and have a word with her tonight. If I don't get anywhere, we could always try again in the morning.'
Foster was tempted to let him handle it. It meant he could get some rest. If the call had come ten minutes later, he might have already been asleep. As it was, he was dressed and still - hopefully, at least under the limit. And he knew he could force himself to stay awake for another hour or two.
'I'll meet you at Notting Hill in half an hour,' he said eventually.
Foster walked into the interview room at Notting Hill police station and was almost floored by Cider woman's pungent scent, an unholy trinity of booze, grime and urine. She was sitting at the table, slouched back in her chair. Guessing her age was impossible.
Her ravaged, pink face might have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five. Her sagging skin looked as if it had tired of being attached to her body and was heading south. Her black hair was matted and few of her teeth were their original white. She looked up at Foster when he entered and scowled, her piggy eyes boring into him.
'What the fuck do you want?' she spat out, the words tumbling into each other as they fell haphazardly from her mouth.
Inwardly he smiled: he knew immediately that she was a frazzled, cantankerous drunk, and not mentally ill - though it was too early to gauge the effects of a two-litre bottle of cheap cider a day on her psyche.
'And what the fuck are you keeping me here for?'
she asked before he could answer. Her voice sounded as if she had been gargling with gravel.
'Well, you might be able to help us, Sheena,' he explained, sitting down. 'Which'd be a first.'
'It'll cost you a fucking cigarette,' she said.
'That's a price I'm willing to pay.' He turned to Drinkwater and motioned for him to purloin a few fags from someone who smoked.
'So, how can I help, Officer?' The last word was hopelessly mangled.
'You'll have noticed that your bedroom is closed to the public. That's because we found the body of a man there earlier today. In exactly the same spot where you usually class down. He'd been murdered.'
'Nothing to do with me,' she said instantly.
'Didn't say it was, did I, Sheena? Does anyone else class down there?'
She shook her head vigorously. 'Wouldn't fucking dare,' she said. 'It's my pitch. The only other people who go in there are a couple of kids. Smoke dope in the middle of the night.' She smiled, a train wreck of a smile - all mangled, with yellow teeth or blackened stumps. 'And the little bastards never give me any.'
There was a wheezing, rattling sound that seemed to emanate from the ground. It was Ciderwoman laughing. It culminated in a coughing fit, which ended with her spitting violently into her hand just as Drink water walked in with a couple of John Players. Once she had wiped her mouth, Ciderwoman tugged both from his hand and lit one. She inhaled mightily, like a diver about to go under.
'Yes,' Foster said, once the charade was over. 'They found the body. The question is, Sheena: where were you? I've been led to believe you sleep there every night. Why not Tuesday night? Or last night, even?'
In three large drags she had smoked almost half the cigarette. She blew the smoke upwards. 'Because I was told not to,' she said.
Foster leaned forwards. 'By who?'
'A man.'
'Which man?'
'How the fuck should I know? Some gadgey like you.'
'What do you mean? Did he look like me?'
She shrugged. 'Can't remember,' she said, taking another drag.
'What did this guy say?'
She paused to think. 'He said there was going to be some sort of clean-up. That they were gonna come down like a sack of shit on all the people sleeping rough, so I'd better clear off for a couple of days.'
'And you believed him?'
'Why the fuck not?' she said, looking indignant.
'He said he worked for Shelter, or something like that, and he didn't want to see me banged up.'
'Did he show you a card?'
She shook her head. Before she extinguished her cigarette, she put the second one in her mouth and lit it with the stub of the first.
'When was this?'
'I've only been away for two nights, so it was . . .'
'Tuesday,' Foster said, helping her out.
'If you say so.'
'Listen, Sheena, we think the guy who spoke to you might have been linked to this murder. Can you remember anything about him?'
She puffed silently on her cigarette. 'It was early afternoon,' she said. 'I'm never at my best then. He wasn't wearing a suit, because I would've thought he was the Old Bill and told him to fuck off. No disrespect.'
