The Girl in the Ice

32

Erika didn’t sleep for a long time. She lay awake, listening to the rain pounding relentlessly against the window. She couldn’t get the image of Ivy out of her mind. Of her blank eyes wide with horror, as if still seeing her killer’s face. Erika wondered what that face looked like. Was it old or young? Dark or fair? Was the killer physically threatening, or an everyman who just blended in?

She didn’t remember drifting off to sleep. She opened her eyes and the light was filtering softly through the curtains in her bedroom. The day had dawned and for the first time since she could remember, it had been a dreamless sleep. She pulled the curtain to one side and saw it had stopped raining but the sky was a pale grey. It was light. She leaned over to the bedside table and picked up her phone to see the time. It was on its charger, but dead.

She cursed, moving through to the living room where she saw the digital clock on the oven was dark. She opened the tiny cupboard housing the electricity box, yanked out Marcie’s blotchy painting and flicked the mains switch on and off, but nothing. Peering out of the front bay window at the empty street below, she had no clue what the time was. She opened her front door, crossed the landing to the door opposite and knocked. A few seconds later she heard a key turning, bolts shooting back and the rattle of a chain. The door opened a few inches and a small elderly lady with a meringue of white hair peered through the gap.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Erika. ‘Could you tell me what the time is?’

‘Who are you? Why do you want to know the time?’ the lady asked suspiciously.

‘I’m your new neighbour. I think we’ve had a power cut, and my only clock is on my phone, which is also dead.’

The old lady pulled back the thin sleeve of her cardigan and peered at a tiny gold watch biting into the flesh of her wrist. ‘It’s ten and twenty past,’ she said.

‘Ten twenty in the morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure?’ said Erika in horror.

‘Yes dear, I’m the one with the watch. My electricity seems to be working,’ she said, flicking her hall light on and off. ‘I think you need to feed your meter, dear. The tenants before you got very behind on their bills. The police even came in at one point – I don’t know why the police were wasting their time chasing up unpaid bills. Although your landlord is apparently quite a high-up policeman, so I’d be careful . . .’

Erika arrived breathlessly at Lewisham Row Station at quarter to eleven. Woolf was on the front desk. He crossed round to her side.

‘DCI Foster, I’ve been asked to take you in to see Chief Superintendent Marsh; it’s urgent.’

‘I know where it is,’ snapped Erika. She went through to Marsh’s office and knocked. Marsh opened the door.

‘Come in and sit down,’ he said coldly. Assistant Commissioner Oakley sat in Marsh’s chair. Marsh had been relegated to a chair beside his own desk. His office had been hastily tidied. The corner of a Christmas card poked out from one of the cupboard doors.

‘Good morning, DCI Foster. Please have a seat,’ said Oakley, in calm, clipped tones. He was immaculately dressed: his uniform crisp, his grey hair neatly parted, not a hair out of place. His skin was tanned and shiny. He was like a sleek fox. Not in any way sexual, but cunning and immaculately groomed. Erika remembered she’d read that if foxes are fed on the finest food they have the glossiest coats. Erika sat and noticed that Marsh was pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

‘Please can we see your mobile telephone?’ said Oakley.

‘Why?’

‘You are the last person to have received a phone call from the murder victim Ivy Norris. The voicemail and your phone is now evidence in the investigation.’ His tone was final; no questions were to be asked. Erika took out the phone and handed it to Marsh.

‘It’s not switching on,’ said Marsh, turning the phone over and pressing the power button.

‘The battery’s dead,’ said Erika.

‘This is your designated phone, for work purposes, and it’s dead?’ asked Oakley.

‘I can explain . . .’

‘Please read out the serial number,’ said Oakley, ignoring Erika. Marsh worked quickly, pulling the back off the phone and reading the number out as Oakley wrote it down.

‘It’s possible to access my voicemail independently, without needing the handset,’ said Erika, as Marsh placed her phone into a fresh plastic evidence bag, and sealed it up.

Oakley ignored her and opened a file. ‘DCI Foster, do you know why you are here?’

‘I think so, sir. I’m not sure why you are though?’

‘Three days ago, an official report was filed by Desk Sergeant Woolf. It details an incident between yourself and Ivy Norris’s seven-year-old grandson, Matthew Paulson. Ivy Norris, whose body was discovered last night.’

‘I’m aware of that, sir. I was one of the first responders at the scene,’ said Erika.

‘It says in Woolf’s report that during the incident in the reception area of this station you physically struck the boy on the back of his head. What do you have to say about that?’ The Assistant Commissioner looked up at her from the file.

‘Is it also mentioned in the report that at the time, the boy had latched onto my hand with his teeth?’ said Erika.

‘What were you doing in such close proximity to the child?’

‘He was sitting on my suitcase, sir. He wouldn’t get off.’

‘He was sitting on your suitcase,’ repeated Oakley, leaning back. He tapped his pen against his teeth. ‘Were you injured during this attack by a small seven-year-old boy?’

‘Yes, my hand was cut,’ said Erika.

‘Yet there is no further entry to this incident in the report. Procedure would dictate that you are examined by a doctor, who can verify this. Were you examined by a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘And why not?’

‘It wasn’t life-threatening. Unlike some people, I like to engage more in police work than pushing paper around.’

‘Not life-threatening. Yet these things can fast become career-threatening,’ said Oakley. Erika looked to Marsh but he said nothing.

Oakley flicked through the file. ‘I had CCTV images pulled from the reception area, which does indeed show the full altercation. Ivy Norris threatened you with a knife, and the situation was diffused by the desk sergeant. However, six minutes later you are seen in the car park where Ivy Norris and her three grandchildren get into your car.’

He passed a large photo across the desk that showed a remarkably sharp image of Ivy and the children outside Erika’s car. The next image showed Erika holding something out through the open window, and the next was of Ivy and the children climbing into Erika’s car.

‘It was freezing cold. I felt sorry for them, I gave them a lift.’

‘And what were are you holding out to Ivy in the photo?’

‘Cash.’

‘You gave them a lift? Where?’

‘To Catford High Street.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘I dropped them where they wanted to go.’

‘Which was?’

‘By a Ladbrokes betting shop; Ivy didn’t want me to see where she lived. They left the car and vanished in between the shops.’

‘Left the car, or fled the car? What happened when they were in your car? Was there any further physical violence, from either party?’

‘No.’

‘You were then seen again twenty-four hours later with Ivy Norris, this time harassing her at a private wake.’

‘It was a glorified lock-in, sir, and Ivy was in a public place. I wasn’t harassing her.’

‘Did you know the landlord of The Crown filed an official complaint about police harassment?’

‘Did he? Was that in-between working as a police informant? Or was that part of his work as a police informant?’

‘I would tread very lightly here, DCI Foster,’ said Oakley, icily. ‘These allegations are stacking up in quite an alarming fashion. Your phone number was found at the crime scene on Ivy Norris’s body, plus she was found with a hundred pounds in cash. You are in this photo giving her cash . . .’

‘I gave her my number, and asked if she could call me with any information.’

‘We have a transcript of the voicemail she left on your phone, where she states, I quote, “If you can give me money I’ll tell you what you need to know. A hundred minimum should do.”’

‘Hang on, you’ve already pulled my private mobile phone messages? Are you suggesting I murdered Ivy Norris?’

Erika looked at Marsh, who had the decency to look away.

‘No, we are not suggesting you murdered Ivy Norris, DCI Foster. Looking at this evidence though, it’s building a picture of an officer who is frankly a concern, perhaps a little out-of-control,’ said Oakley.

‘Sir, you know we all have our narks. Our informants who we take for a drink and a chat – a little money and a little information changes hands, but I did not give Ivy Norris one hundred pounds.’

‘DCI Foster, can I remind you that it’s not official police policy to pay for information,’ said Marsh, finally speaking up. Erika laughed at this ludicrous statement.

Marsh’s voice went up an octave. ‘You also directly defied my order with regards to the official statement we made at the press appeal. You jumped in, unapproved, unscripted. Used it as a mouthpiece for a wild hunch. Who knows what damage you have done . . .’

‘Hunch? Sir, I have a strong lead on a man who was seen with Andrea Douglas-Brown just hours before she was killed, and this was witnessed by a barmaid and Ivy Norris.’

‘Yes, the barmaid who doesn’t seem to exist, and an unreliable witness, who is now dead,’ said Assistant Commissioner Oakley, remaining irritatingly calm. He went on, ‘Do you have an agenda against Lord Douglas-Brown?’

‘No!’

‘His role supplying defence contracts has been controversial, and has impacted policy in all departments of the police and armed forces.’

‘Sir, my only agenda is to catch the killer of Andrea Douglas-Brown, and Ivy Norris. Am I going to be the first who says that the circumstances are remarkably similar?’

‘So you now believe that the murders are linked?’ said Assistant Commissioner.

‘Can I just add, sir, that this is not the line of enquiry we are pursuing,’ said Marsh, spinelessly.

Erika paused. ‘Yes, I believe these murders are linked. I believe to pursue my line of investigation would be in the best interests of catching this killer.’

‘I repeat that this is not the line of enquiry we are pursuing,’ said Marsh.

‘Then what line of enquiry are we pursuing?’ asked Erika, fixing Marsh with a stare. ‘DCI Sparks had a prime suspect for all of three hours, before he came back with an alibi!’

‘You would know, DCI Foster, if you had bothered to attend the briefing this morning at eight,’ Marsh said.

‘I had a power cut, at home, and my phone wasn’t charged. So I didn’t have access to any messages or alerts. You will know from my records that this has never happened before.’

There was a silence.

‘How are you? In yourself, DCI Foster?’ asked Assistant Commissioner Oakley.

‘I’m fine. How is that relevant?’ asked Erika.

‘The past few months you experienced would have been stressful for anyone. You lead a team of twelve officers on a drug raid in Rochdale; only seven of you came back . . .’

‘I don’t need you to read my own file back to me,’ said Erika.

Oakley went on, ‘You went in with insufficient intelligence . . . It seemed you were keen to get on with it, like you are now. Can you see how this might be construed as impulsive behaviour on your part?’

Erika gripped the arms of her chair; she was trying to remain calm.

The Assistant Commissioner continued, ‘Five officers died that day, including, tragically, your husband, DI Mark Foster. You were subsequently suspended. It seems you had the chance to learn a valuable lesson, but you didn’t, and—’

Erika found herself out of her chair, leaning over the desk and grabbing the file. She tore it in two and threw it back on the desk. ‘This is bullshit. I took the lead yesterday because I believe Andrea was seen with two people who could provide information about her killer. Simon Douglas-Brown didn’t like it, and he’s now dictating how this investigation should be run!’

She remained standing, in shock.

Assistant Commissioner Oakley sat forward in his chair and said, in a practised tone, ‘DCI Foster, I am formally relieving you of duty, pending an investigation into your conduct and a fresh psychiatric evaluation of your ability to serve in the police force of England and Wales. You will surrender any weapons, formal identification and official vehicles and await further correspondence. You will continue to receive full pay pending results of our investigation and you will present yourself, when requested, to be examined by an official police psychiatrist.’

Erika bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to say any more. She handed over her ID badge. ‘All I want to do is catch that killer. It seems you both have another agenda.’ She turned and left the room.

Woolf was waiting outside with two uniformed officers. ‘I’m sorry. We have to see you out,’ he said, his jowly face hanging guiltily.

Erika walked with him to the front entrance, passing the incident room. DCI Sparks was by the whiteboards, briefing the team. Moss and Peterson looked up and saw Erika being escorted out. They looked away.

‘Airbrushed out,’ said Erika, under her breath. They reached the front desk, where Woolf asked her to hand over her car keys.

‘Now?’

‘Sorry, yes.’

‘Come on, Woolf! How do I get home?’

‘I can arrange for one of the uniformed officers to run you home.’

‘Run me home? Fuck that,’ said Erika. She put her car keys on the counter, and walked out of Lewisham Row Station.

Outside on the street, Erika searched for a bus stop or taxi, but there was nothing in sight on the busy ring road. She set off for Lewisham station, checking in her bag for loose change, but all she had was her credit cards. She was searching through the old tissues and rubbish in the deep pockets of her leather jacket, when her hand felt something small square and rigid. She pulled out a little white envelope. It was thick and looked expensive. There was nothing written on the front. She turned it over and pushed her finger under the flap, opening it. Nestling inside was one sheet of folded paper.

She stopped dead in the street, the cars rushing by. It was a printout of a newspaper article about the raid where Mark and four of her colleagues had lost their lives. There was a photo of the path leading up to the house in Rochdale where dead bodies lay covered, surrounded by pools of blood and broken glass; another of police helicopters hovering above the house, airlifting two of her colleagues who would later die in hospital; and there was a grainy black-and-white picture of a barely recognisable officer lying on a stretcher and soaked in blood, his hand raised with limp fingers. It was the last photo taken of Mark alive. Above it was written in red marker pen: YOU’RE JUST LIKE ME, DCI FOSTER. WE’VE BOTH KILLED FIVE.