The Girl in the Ice

9

‘So what you’re telling me is, you’ve got nothing?’ said Marsh. He was red in the face as he paced up and down his office. Erika had just underlined the progress made during the first day of investigations.

‘This is day one, sir. And as I said, there’s a positive ID on the victim; I’ve kept it out of the press. I think there’s one or two pubs where Andrea might possibly be placed the night she vanished.’

‘Might possibly be placed; what does that mean?’

‘It means we’re hampered by a CCTV black spot all up the London Road and around the train station. We need time and resources to keep on at people, asking questions. Everyone has worked bloody hard, especially when the weather has slowed proceedings . . .’

‘And what the hell did you think you were doing, getting into a row with the Douglas-Browns?’

Erika took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘I admit, sir, that I should have handled the victim’s parents better.’

‘Too bloody right you should have. I thought Lady Diana would have found some common ground, with you being Slovak?’

‘Yes, well, that was the problem. She thought I was common. Not good enough to be leading the murder investigation.’

‘Yeah, well, you didn’t choose to be a police officer so people could be nice to you, DCI Foster. There is a course I can send you on – dealing with the public.’

‘That’s the problem. We’re not treating them as members of the public. In fact, is Sir Simon leading the investigation? He seems to think he’s in charge . . . Anyway who told you about what happened? He called you, did he? Knows your direct line number?’

‘You’re on thin ice, DCI Foster,’ said Marsh. ‘He called DCI Sparks, actually, who relayed the message to me.’

‘How good of him.’

Marsh shot her a look. ‘I’ve stuck my neck out on this, to get you on this case—’

‘I don’t want your pity, sir!’

‘—and if you’re not careful, you’ll be gone before you’ve even started. You need to learn how to keep your mouth shut. I got you on this case because you’re a bloody good copper. One of the best I know. Although, right now, I’m questioning my judgement.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just been a long day – tough conditions, and no sleep. But you know me, I don’t make excuses and I will find who did this.’

‘Okay,’ said Marsh, calming down. ‘But you need to apologise sincerely to the Douglas-Browns.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And get a decent night’s sleep. You look like shit.’

‘Thanks, sir.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘A hotel.’

‘Good. Now bugger off, and come to work tomorrow with your head screwed on,’ said Marsh, waving her away.

Erika was furious when she left Marsh’s office; furious that she’d been given a dressing-down, and furious with herself that she’d messed up. She went back down to the incident room and grabbed her coat. Andrea’s picture stared boldly back at her from the centre of the whiteboard. The handwritten notes on the case blurred in the bright lights, and Erika rubbed her tired eyes. It felt like she was looking at everything through murky glass. She couldn’t get a handle on the details. Tiredness and anger washed over her again. She pulled on her coat and left, flicking off the light. When she came out of the incident room she met Desk Sergeant Woolf in the corridor.

‘I was just coming to tell you. We’ve sorted you a car. It’s a blue Ford Mondeo,’ he said, holding out a key fob, his jowly face more sullen that it had been that morning.

‘Thanks,’ said Erika, taking the key. They made for the main entrance, Woolf struggling a little to match her stride.

‘I didn’t put your suitcase in though; I did my back in a few years ago. Had to have a disc removed. It’s behind my desk . . .’

They emerged into the reception area, where a thin, bedraggled woman was leaning over Woolf’s desk, using his phone. She wore filthy ripped jeans, and an old parka jacket that was stained and covered in cigarette burns. Her long grey hair was tied back with an elastic band, and underneath her eyes were deep dark circles. Two unkempt little girls beside her were shrieking encouragement at a little boy with a buzz cut who sat on Erika’s suitcase. He wore a pair of stained white tracksuit bottoms and was gyrating his hips with one hand on the suitcase handle and the other in the air, like he was riding a bucking bronco. Woolf hurried behind his desk and put his finger on the phone, cutting off the call.

‘I was fuckin’ talking!’ snarled the woman indignantly, displaying a mouth of crooked brown teeth.

‘Ivy. This is a police phone,’ said Woolf.

‘Well, it ain’t rung for the past ten minutes. Think yerself lucky the criminals are having a rest!’

‘Who do you want to call? I can do it for you,’ said Woolf.

‘I know how to use a fuckin’ phone!’

‘Who is this woman?’ asked Erika.

Ivy held the receiver away from Woolf and gave Erika the once over, saying, ‘Me and Droopy go way back, don’t we Droopy? I call ‘im Droopy. Ugly fuckin’ bastard, ain’t he?’

‘You. Get off my suitcase,’ said Erika to the boy, who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. He ignored her and carried on whooping and riding the suitcase. Woolf grappled with Ivy for the receiver, and finally managed to prise it from her grip.

‘I should be allowed to use this bloody phone. It’s only a local call and besides, I pay your wages!’

‘How do you pay my wages?’ asked Woolf.

‘I’ve got money. I pay my taxes, and that’s what pays your wages!’

Erika went to lift the little boy off her suitcase, but he leaned over and sank his teeth into the back of her hand. The intensity of the pain surprised her.

‘Let go, now,’ said Erika, trying to keep calm. He looked up at her with a nasty grin, and bit down even harder. Intense pain shot through her hand and she snapped, slapping him hard across the face. He screamed, releasing Erika’s hand, and fell off the suitcase, hitting the ground with a thud.

‘Who do you think you fuckin’ are?’ growled Ivy, lunging across at her.

Erika tried to dodge out of the way, but found herself with her back flat against the wall. Woolf caught Ivy just in time, as a long blade glinted inches from Erika’s face.

‘Ivy, now come on, just cool it . . .’ started Woolf, restraining her under the armpits, but still struggling to hold her back.

‘Don’t you tell me to cool it, you fat ugly cunt!’ said Ivy, dangerously. ‘You touch my kids and I’ll cut your face, no problem, you bitch. I’ve got nothin’ to lose.’

Erika tired to control her breathing as she saw the flick-knife inch closer to her face.

‘Let go of the knife. Let go,’ said Woolf, finally gaining a grip on Ivy’s wrist, and twisting the flick-knife out of her hand. It clattered to the floor and he put his foot over it.

‘You didn’t ’ave to be so rough, Droopy,’ said Ivy, rubbing her wrist. Woolf kept his eye on her as he leant down and retrieved the knife from the floor. He found the small release button and the blade vanished back into its handle. The little boy and two girls had ceased to be threatening and rowdy. They were just kids, and they seemed more afraid of what Ivy was going to do next. Erika couldn’t imagine the life they must lead. She looked at the little boy, who was holding the back of his head.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . . What’s your name?’

He shrank back from her. What could she say to him? That she’d had a bad day? Erika took in their filthy clothes, their malnourished bodies . . .

‘I want to make a complaint,’ said Ivy with relish.

‘Oh, do you?’ said Woolf, moving Ivy towards the main door.

‘Yeah, police brutality – get yer hands off me – police brutality towards a minor.’

‘You’ll need to fill in a form,’ said Woolf. ‘Before you spend a night in the cells for pulling a knife on a police officer.’

Ivy narrowed her eyes. ‘No, I haven’t got fuckin’ time . . . Come on, kids. NOW!’ She gave Erika a last look, and they followed after her through the main door. There was a flash of coats as they passed the window.

‘Shit,’ said Erika, slumping against the main desk and rubbing at the back of her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have hit that kid.’

There was a white and purple ridge of teeth marks deep in her skin, and a blur of blood mingling with the little boy’s saliva. Woolf went to a box marked knife amnesty where he deposited Ivy’s flick-knife. He then moved back round the desk and pulled down a first-aid kit. He placed it on the table beside Erika and opened the lid.

‘You know her?’ asked Erika.

‘Oh, yes. Ivy Norris, or Jean McArdle, Beth Crosby – sometimes she goes by Paulette O’Brien. Bit of a local celebrity.’ He poured some alcohol solution on a sterile dressing and pressed it against the back of Erika’s hand, over the bite marks. The nasty stinging sensation was contrasted by a comforting smell of mint. Woolf went on, ‘She’s a long-term drug addict, prostitute, got a record as long as the Great Wall of China. She used to do a mother-and-daughter speciality, if you know what I mean, until the daughter died of a drug overdose.’

‘And the kids’ fathers?’

‘They’re actually her grandkids, and who knows? Stick your finger in the phone book.’

Woolf removed the dressing and started to clean the bloody bite mark with a fresh one.

‘Are they homeless?’

Woolf nodded.

‘Could we get them into emergency social services, bed and breakfast?’ asked Erika. She could still see Ivy, standing in the car park smoking under the harsh lights and mouthing off to no one in particular. The kids were huddled around her, flinching as she gestured with her arms.

Woolf laughed darkly. ‘She’s banned from most of the B&Bs and hostels for soliciting.’

He lifted off the bandage and applied a large square plaster to the back of Erika’s hand.

‘Thanks,’ said Erika, flexing her fingers.

Woolf started to pack up the first aid kit. ‘Now you know what I’m going to tell you. You need to see a doctor about the bite. Get a tetanus jab, and you know . . . Street kids, not healthy.’

‘Yeah,’ said Erika.

‘And I have to log this down. Everything what happened. She pulled a knife on you. He bit you . . .’

‘Yes, and I hit him. I hit a bloody kid . . . It’s fine. Do your job, and thank you.’

He nodded, took his seat again and pulled out some paperwork. Erika turned back to look outside, but Ivy and the kids were gone.