The Girl in the Ice

46

Erika arrived at Brockley Crematorium a few hours later. It was on a small residential street, set back from the main road and within walking distance of her flat. She walked along the winding driveway, past tall evergreen trees, and saw Sergeant Woolf outside the glass double doors of the crematorium. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit, his jowly cheeks red from the cold.

‘Thanks for coming, boss,’ he said.

‘It was a good idea,’ she said. She took his arm as they went inside. The chapel was pleasant, if a little institutional. The soft red curtains and carpet were faded, and the rows of wooden seating were a little chipped.

At the front was a small cardboard coffin placed on a box with wood panelling, which, on closer inspection, was a conveyor belt.

A middle-aged Indian social worker sat in the front row with Ivy’s three grandchildren. They had been cleaned up; the two girls were wearing matching blue dresses, and the little boy was wearing a suit a little large for him. They scowled at Erika and Woolf with the same wariness they reserved for the rest of the world. Three more mourners sat near the back: the large woman Erika had seen at the pub with Ivy, and another thin, hard-faced woman who had yellow-blonde hair topped by three inches of black roots. Seated behind them was the landlord of The Crown. His strawberry-blond hair had been combed flat and he was just as big and imposing in a smart suit. He nodded at Erika as they slipped into seats near the door.

A priest rose and rattled through a respectful but impersonal service, calling her Ivy Norton throughout. Everyone was encouraged to say the Lord’s Prayer, and then Erika was surprised that Woolf got up and squeezed past her. He went to the lectern and put on a pair of reading glasses. He took a deep breath and started to speak:

‘When I am gone, release me, let me go.

I have so many things to see and do,

You mustn't tie yourself to me with too many tears,

But be thankful we had so many good years.

I gave you my love, and you can only guess

How much you've given me in happiness.

I thank you for the love that you have shown,

But now it is time I travelled on alone.

So grieve for me a while, if grieve you must,

Then let your grief be comforted by trust.

It is only for a while that we must part,

So treasure the memories within your heart.

I won't be far away for life goes on.

And if you need me, call and I will come.

Though you can't see or touch me, I will be near.

And if you listen with your heart, you'll hear,

All my love around you soft and clear.

And then, when you come this way alone,

I'll greet you with a smile and a “Welcome Home”.’

When Woolf finished, Erika was tearful and felt almost angry. The reading had been a touching and beautiful thing to do, but she had expected to sit through a sad but inevitable funeral. Woolf’s reading had moved her deeply and transported her to a place she didn’t want to go. When Woolf came back to his seat, he saw Erika crying, gave her an awkward nod and made for the door. Music then played, and Ivy’s coffin rolled towards the curtain, which opened and closed with a whirr.

Woolf was waiting by a circle of small empty flowerbeds outside the main entrance when Erika emerged.

‘All right, boss?’

‘Yeah, fine. That poem was beautiful,’ she said.

‘I just found it on the Internet. It’s called, To those whom I love and those who love me by Anon. I thought Ivy deserved something to see her off,’ he said, embarrassed.

‘You coming to the wake?’ said a voice. They turned to see the landlord from The Crown.

‘There’s a wake?’ asked Erika.

‘Well, a few drinks. Ivy was a regular.’

Erika’s eye was caught by the two women, fat and thin; they stood smoking under a tree in the small memorial gardens.

‘Hang on, I’ll be back in a sec,’ she said. She hurried over, pulling out a copy of the photo of Andrea and the dark-haired man from her bag.

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said the large woman, when Erika reached them.

‘I need to ask you,’ started Erika, but the woman tilted her head back and spat in her face.

‘You’ve got a nerve to sit there sobbing yer crocodile tears when you as good as killed Ivy, you bitch!’

She stalked away, leaving the ratty blonde to stare at Erika’s shock.

‘Yeah. And we don’t know anything,’ she said, eyeing the photo before moving off after her large companion. Erika fumbled in her bag for a tissue and wiped her face.

When she came back, she saw Woolf had gone, but the landlord was waiting for her.

‘Your mate got a call and had to go,’ he said. ‘You fancy a drink?’

‘You really want me back in your pub after last time?’

‘Oh, I dunno. I seem to be drawn to difficult blondes.’ He grinned and shrugged. ‘Come on, you owe me. I got you out of a sticky spot.’

‘As tempting as being picked up at a wake is . . . sorry, I’ve got to head off.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘Is that who you’re after? George Mitchell?’

Erika stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’

‘That picture,’ he said. ‘What’s George been up to now?’

‘You know this man?’

He laughed. ‘I know of him. I wouldn’t count him as a friend, though.’

Erika held the photo up. ‘This man is called George Mitchell?’

‘Yes. And now you’re worrying me. He’s not someone you want to fuck around with. This isn’t going to come back on me, is it?’

‘No. Do you know where he lives?’

‘No, and that’s all I’m gonna say. I don’t know anything else. I never spoke to you, okay? I’m serious, okay?’

‘Yes. Okay,’ said Erika. All talk of a drink had vanished and she watched him walk out of the crematorium, get in his car and drive away. Erika turned to look back at the low building with its immaculately manicured grounds. A stream of black smoke trailed from a long tall chimney.

‘Go on, Ivy. Now you are free to fly,’ said Erika, excitedly. ‘I think I’ve just found the bastard who did this to you.’