Erika walked back to the NCP car park where she had left her car, her blood still pumping after the encounter in the coffee shop. She started the engine and put the heater on, rubbing her hands to warm up. The snow was whirling past outside the car park, and the warm air and the comfy seat made the tiredness wash over her even more. She sat back and closed her eyes.

It seemed like seconds later that her phone rang. She had fallen asleep, and was soaking with sweat under her coat. It was coming up to 8 p.m. She pulled out her phone and groggily answered.

‘Boss, you okay?’ asked Moss.

‘Yeah,’ she said clearing her throat.

‘We just got a call from UCL. Ivan Stowalski died half an hour ago.’

‘Shit… I was just there.’

‘Do you think he was a viable suspect? From everything we’ve heard he was a bit wet, and was dominated by Marissa.’

‘He was obsessed with her,’ said Erika. ‘And the quiet timid ones can flip out just as much as the hotheads.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘You still there?’ asked Moss.

‘Yeah. It’s just been a long day, and hearing one of our suspects has kicked the bucket is never good news.’

‘Yeah, it’s less satisfying when you have to prove the dead guy did it,’ said Moss.

Erika wound down the window and let some fresh air inside the stuffy car.

‘Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Let’s catch up tomorrow.’

Erika hung up, and was still staring at the phone in her hand when it rang again.

‘Hello, is this Erika Foster?’ asked a woman’s voice.

‘Yeah. Who is this?’

‘I’m calling from the NHS Health Centre at St. Thomas’s Hospital. For data protection, can I just take your date of birth?’

Erika’s head was still reeling from hearing that Ivan was dead. ‘Hang on, what are you calling about?’

‘I need your date of birth before I can talk any more about your medical records.’

‘Fourteenth of August, 1972.’

‘And your postcode?’

‘SE23 3PZ.’

‘Thank you. I’m calling with results of your blood tests. Dr Isaac Strong sent samples over yesterday, and asked us to contact you with the results…’

The tone of the nurse’s voice induced a mild panic in Erika. She thought back to when she had last had any kind of blood test. There had been an incident when she was working on the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder case, when a young boy had bitten her. She’d had blood tests three months later, which were thankfully negative for anything untoward. She turned off the heater.

‘Are you still there, Erika?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll be pleased to hear that there’s nothing nasty or untoward showing in your blood after you were exposed to the high levels of carbon monoxide. The tests all came back clear. However, the levels of oestrogen in your blood are very low. Can I ask if you are still having regular periods?’

Erika switched off the car engine and racked her brains to think when she’d had her last period.

‘Six, eight weeks ago?’

‘Right. Have you had sex in the last month?’

‘No.’

‘Okay. I’d recommend a check-up with your doctor. You may well be pre-menopausal, but all signs are showing that you may have started the menopause.’

‘Menopause?’

‘Yes,’ said the nurse, with a kinder tone. ‘You are in the age range. We would expect your oestrogen levels to drop as you advance into your forties. Have you had any other symptoms? Thinning hair, dryness of the skin and the vagina, hot flushes, night sweats, irregular changes in mood… You mentioned irregular periods?’

Erika put a hand to her head and opened the car door a little. Cold air came flooding in.

‘Look, I’m at work. Can I call you back?’

‘There’s no cause for alarm, Erika. I just wanted to inform you of this; everything in your blood shows that you are perfectly healthy. Iron levels good. Unfortunately, the menopause comes to all of us.’

Erika thanked her and put the phone down. The shock of what she had heard hit her hard. She had spent so long working, and focusing on her career, and getting through each day, and now this was full stop, a dead end. Her body would no longer be able to give her children.

She started the engine and drove back to South London. She thought long and hard about her life, and about the evening she’d had with Peterson. She didn’t want to have a child with him, but she’d felt happy with him, and despite the fact that their outing last night had been work-related, she’d enjoyed his company. She tried to call him, but his phone rang out and went to voicemail. Then she tried the station and got Crane, who said that Peterson had headed home for the night. It suddenly felt imperative to Erika that she sort things out with him, to stop this strange limbo – to maybe even rekindle their relationship.

She knocked on Peterson’s front door just before 9 p.m. He lived in a small block of flats in Ladywell, a little way from her flat in Forest Hill. A moment later, he opened the door. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and was carrying a little mixed-race boy, who must have been about six or seven.

‘Hello,’ Erika said, looking confusedly between him and the little boy, who gave her a toothy grin. He was very cute, and wore Spiderman pyjamas.

‘Erika, hi,’ Peterson said. There was a look of shock on his face, but then his eyes narrowed in concern when he saw how pale and upset she was.

‘Daddy, the bath will run over,’ said the little boy. A blonde-haired woman in her late thirties appeared behind them.

‘James, who is it?’ the woman asked, eyeing Erika suspiciously.

‘Why did he just call you “Daddy”?’ asked Erika, holding on to the doorframe.

‘Because he’s my daddy,’ said the little boy.

There was a horrible pause.

‘Fran, can you just take Kyle and turn off the water in the bathroom?’ said Peterson.

Fran glanced nervously at him, and took the little boy in her arms. ‘Is this…?’ she asked.

‘“This”? What do you mean, “this”?’ started Erika.

‘Okay, okay, okay, let’s talk about this outside,’ said Peterson. He ushered her out into the corridor. Erika stared at him.

‘You have a son?’

He nodded.

‘How old is he?’

‘Six. He’ll be seven in April.’

‘How? What?’ She was lost for words.

‘Erika. I only found out two weeks ago.’

‘And that woman, that’s his mother? Who is she?’

‘Fran was my girlfriend; we broke up in 2012, a couple of months before the Olympics.’

‘What have the fucking Olympics got to do with it?’ she shouted.

‘I’m saying that it was a long time ago! We broke up, and she went to work in Germany. She’s a graphic designer, and she found out she was pregnant very late.’

‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘No.’

‘And now she’s in your flat, and you’re running baths for her kid? And you’ve brought me out into the fucking hallway to tell me!’

‘Erika, I didn’t know how you’d react.’

‘This isn’t helping!’ she cried. She stared at him and her eyes began to fill with tears.

‘I’ve been trying to tell you. I tried at work and then I tried to tell you the other night when I came over, and then we went out and it was for work, and then we had coffee, but you had to go.’

‘You should have tried harder, you fucking wimp! And now I have to find out like this, just as I drop by your flat!’

‘Who just drops by these days? What do you expect?’

‘I called your phone, James.’

‘What about my landline?’

‘I don’t know your landline number.’

‘If you didn’t bother to learn my bloody landline, that’s not my problem.’

Erika slapped him around the face. They both froze. A door further along opened, and a little old lady’s face peered through the gap where the chain was on.

‘James, is everything alright?’

He turned to her. ‘Yes, sorry Doris, everything is fine. We’re just…’

He heard the communal door close and saw Erika walking away towards her car. He ran outside after her.

‘Erika!’

But she started the engine and drove away, swerving dangerously in the snow. He watched as her car vanished over the top of the hill. ‘Shit,’ he said, looking down at his bare feet in the snow.