The Girl in the Ice

27

The moment the press conference disbanded and the live camera feed was off, Erika stood up. Her heart was pounding. The journalists and photographers were crowding towards the exits. Simon turned to Marsh, a furious look in his brown eyes,

‘What were you lot fucking playing at?’ he hissed. ‘I thought we were clear about this and how it would work?’ He looked out, almost despairingly, at the press leaving.

Marsh and Sparks stood up. ‘DCI Foster, a word, now,’ said Marsh. Erika took a deep breath and left the platform, ignoring their voices behind her as she crossed the carpet, speeding up towards the doors at the back of the conference room. Once through, she found a fire exit and clattered down three flights of stairs before bursting outside onto a side street.

She stood and caught her breath, the rain pricking at her clammy skin. She knew there would be consequences for what she had just done, but didn’t she always stand by her convictions? Her convictions had told her this was the right thing to do. She had done something good, something for Andrea, who didn’t have the right to reply.

She started to walk, not noticing the rain, and joined the bumping and jostling of the crowds on Oxford Street, lost in a cocoon of thoughts. Her gut feeling, the certainty she’d felt, began to fade. She should have stayed and faced the music. In her absence, they would be discussing what she had done, reaching conclusions. They were making decisions without her, planning what they would do next.

She hesitated, then stopped. The rain pounded down on the pavements, and people streamed around her, their heads down, hoods and umbrellas up. They tutted and cursed as their smooth passage to the bus or tube was blocked. It was now the peak of rush hour. Erika needed to think, to plan what she would do next. If she went back, it would look weak. She set off again, moving with the crowd.

Behind her, a few people back, followed a figure. The same figure that had watched Erika smoking at her window. This time, the figure wasn’t completely clad in black, but easily blended in amongst the crowd with their hoods and umbrellas. The crowd seemed to swell and slow as they approached Marble Arch tube station, the figure shadowing Erika with a gap of just two people between them.

Erika was one of the few people on the street without a hood, and was walking with her head down, the collar of her leather jacket up.

She is, indeed, a worry to me. She’s been to that fucking pub and talked to people. She knows a great deal more than I thought. Has it been an act, all that angst and despair? Until that press conference I thought she was damaged goods. The burnt-out wreck of a once brilliant cop.

The figure was close to Erika now. All that separated them was a burly businessman in a pale raincoat mottled with drips of water. Erika pulled her collar closer, so that it touched the blonde hair at the nape of her neck.

She’s single and alone. Grieving. She could be suicidal. So many people are. I’d love to pay her a call, the scrawny bitch – surprise her in bed. Hold that skinny throat where the tendons bulge out and watch her eyes go dark. But there’s someone else who is due a visit . . .

The crowds reached Bond Street tube station and ground to a halt. Erika inched forward so she could just get under the large awning as she waited for the crowds to move forward. The figure edged closer, amongst the packed-in crowd, and slipped a neat white envelope into the pocket of Erika’s leather jacket. Seconds later, the blockage at the station entrance cleared. The figure left Erika and moved on through the crowd, blending in: just another person eager to get somewhere fast.