The Girl in the Ice

48

Moss moved fast, calling for backup, and within minutes Erika’s flat was teeming with police. Then a team of CSIs arrived and took swabs from her fingernails and neck, and then they said they’d need to take all her clothes.

The elderly lady next door had been reluctant to open her front door to Moss, but when she’d seen the police, ambulance and forensics surging up and down the stairs, her attitude had softened and she’d let them in.

Erika wore a set of white overalls; everything in her flat was now part of a crime scene. Two paramedics came through and bandaged her arm as she sat on the little sofa in the old lady’s front room. Two budgies hopped and pecked in a cage high up on the wall.

‘Oh dear, would you like a cup of tea?’ the woman asked, as a male and female paramedic examined Erika.

‘I don’t think hot tea is a good idea,’ said the male paramedic.

Erika caught sight of herself in a gilt mirror above the mantelpiece, which was tilted at an angle to show the whole living room. Her throat and neck were swollen with angry red weals; the whites of her eyes were pink and streaming. In the corner of her left eye, a spot of red bloomed.

‘You’ve burst a small blood vessel in your left eye,’ confirmed the paramedic, shining a pen torch into her eyes. ‘Can you open wide for me? It’s going to hurt, but wide as you can manage, please.’

Erika swallowed painfully and opened her mouth.

The paramedic shone the torch into her throat. ‘Okay, that’s good, now can you keep your mouth open and make a sighing noise . . .’

Erika tried, but began to gag.

‘Okay, easy does it . . . I don’t see any evidence of laryngeal fracture, or upper airway edema.’

‘That’s good, yes?’ asked Moss, who had appeared in the doorway. The paramedic nodded.

‘How about a nice cold drink? I’ve got some blackcurrant cordial in the fridge,’ suggested the old lady, who stood by in a long dressing gown, a neat row of blue curlers under her hairnet.

‘Just a little plain water,’ said the female paramedic. ‘Do you have any other injuries? Apart from the arm,’ she added, turning back. Erika shook her head, wincing.

‘Just stay put for now, boss. I’m going to talk to the team who are inside your flat,’ said Moss, leaving.

‘We’ll be downstairs waiting; we’ll need to get that arm sewn up,’ said the female paramedic, who had applied a pressure bandage to the cut. Erika nodded as they clipped up their first aid box and left. The old lady came back in with a small glass of water. Erika took it gratefully, and gingerly sipped. She coughed and choked and the old lady rushed forward with a tissue.

‘Try again dear, take very tiny sips,’ she said, holding the tissue under Erika’s chin. Erika managed a tiny sip, but it burned.

The woman went on, ‘This area. When I first moved here in 1957 we all knew each other. You could leave your door open; we had a real community. But these days . . . Not a week goes by without you hearing there’s been a robbery or a break-in . . . You’ll see I’ve got bars on all my windows, and I have a personal response alarm.’

She tapped a small red button round her neck. There was a knock on the front door. The woman got up, and came back a few moments later.

‘There’s a tall black feller who says he’s a police officer,’ said the woman, cautiously coming into the room with Peterson.

‘Jeez, boss,’ he said.

Erika smiled weakly.

‘You’re his boss?’ asked the woman. Erika shrugged, and then nodded.

‘You’re a policewoman?’

‘She’s a Detective Chief Inspector,’ said Peterson. ‘We’ve got a ton of officers doing a house-to-house but, nothing . . . Whoever it was, scrammed.’

‘My God. And to think this happened to a Detective Chief Inspector! What about the rest of us? Whoever did it must have no fear. What are you?’ asked the old lady, of Peterson.

‘I’m a policeman.’

‘Yes, dear; what rank are you?’

‘Detective Inspector,’ said Peterson.

‘You know who you remind me of?’ said the woman. ‘What’s that programme about the black policeman?’

‘Luther,’ said Peterson, trying not to look annoyed.

‘Ooh yes, Luther. He’s very good. Has anyone ever told you, you look a bit like him?’

Despite everything that had happened, Erika smiled.

‘People like you normally do,’ said Peterson.

‘Oh, thank you,’ said the old lady, not getting what he meant. ‘I do try to watch quality drama on television; none of those reality shows as they call them. What rank is Luther?’

‘A think he’s a DCI. Look . . .’

‘Well, if he can do it, so can you,’ said the old lady, patting him on the arm.

‘Would you please excuse us for a minute, madam?’ asked Peterson. The woman nodded and left. He rolled his eyes. Erika tried to grin, but it hurt.

‘Jeez, boss, I’m so sorry.’ Peterson pulled out his notebook and thumbed through to a clean page. ‘Was anything taken?’

Erika shook her head and then shrugged. She could only nod or shake her head and Peterson asked all the standard questions, but beyond the figure being tall and strong, she couldn’t give any information.

‘It’s pathetic,’ swallowed Erika painfully. ‘I should have . . .’ She mimed pulling off a balaclava.

‘Boss. It’s okay. It always seems simple in hindsight,’ said Peterson. Moss came back in, carrying the housing of the extractor fan.

‘He got in using the ventilation pipe,’ she said.

‘It was – I don’t know, I think it was a him,’ croaked Erika.

‘Boss, they’re going to be working through the night with forensics. Do you have anywhere you can stay?’ asked Peterson.

‘Hotel,’ croaked Erika.

‘No, boss, you’re staying with me,’ said Moss. ‘I’ve got a spare room. I’ve also got something you can borrow to wear . . . You look like you’re about to go out clubbing in the late 1990s.’

Erika tried to laugh again, but it was painful. In a weird, warped way she felt pleased. He’d come for her. She was on to him.