‘The events leading up to the disappearance of Andrea are confusing, and we need your help. We would appreciate anyone coming forward who saw Andrea on the night of the eighth of January. It was a Thursday night. We believe Andrea spent some time between eight pm and midnight in a pub called The Glue Pot on London Road – that’s South London, in Forest Hill. Andrea was seen by a member of the bar staff talking to a dark-haired man and a blonde-haired girl. Members of the public may have also seen Andrea walking up London Road between eight pm and midnight, towards the Horniman Museum, where her body was found. If you have any information, however small, please come forward. Phone the incident room number which will be coming up shortly.’
‘Was that planned?’ asked Peterson, back in the incident room.
‘Nope,’ said Moss.
On screen there was a moment where Chief Superintendent Marsh couldn’t find his place, or what to say next. He shot Erika a look and pulled back the microphone. ‘We’d like to, erm, add that this is, um, er . . . it’s a lead that Andrea was seen . . . We also believe that Andrea could have been on her way to a party at the Rivoli Ballroom, which is close to Forest Hill Station, where she alighted on the night of the eighth of January,’ countered Marsh, more forcefully. There was a moment of silence. The camera cut again to a wide shot of the press conference.
‘Jeez, he’s making a mess of it. It’s like he’s making it up, not Foster,’ said Moss.
The cameras flicked between wide shots of the conference room and the gathered press, which added to the confusion, before settling back onto Chief Superintendent Marsh, who finally got back on track and finished the scripted appeal. He ended with: ‘We have officers standing by now to answer your calls and emails. Thank you.’
The camera then cut away from the press conference to the anchor in the BBC News studio. The screen behind her was filled with the contact number and email address for the incident room. She read out the details, asking again for anyone who had information, and repeating the name of both The Glue Pot and the Rivoli Ballroom, apologising that they only had a photo of the Rivoli Ballroom.
The officers back in the incident room at Lewisham Row looked at each other uneasily, and then the phones started to ring.
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.
28
When Erika emerged from the concourse at Brockley Station, she was confused to see her new home in daylight. The street was busy; a Royal Mail van moved past and parked at a post box. A fresh-faced young postman got out and opened the box, pulling out a full sack of letters. There was a café opposite the station where two women sat at a table outside, huddled in jackets against the cold and smoking cigarettes, thick red lipstick smeared on the edge of their white china cups. A handsome waiter with a pierced lip came to their table. He said something as he took their empties, and the women shrieked with laughter.
Erika fumbled in her bag and pulled out her cigarettes. Her hands shook as she lit up. Her feeling of anxiety had increased during the train journey back. Her heart was pounding in her chest and it was like she was seeing the world through slightly blurred glass. The handsome waiter was still chatting to the woman, and they were flirting back with ease.
‘Ooh – no, no, no, no, no,’ said a voice.
Erika looked round. A paunchy man in a South West Trains uniform stood beside her. He had grey hair and a greying moustache.
‘Excuse me?’ asked Erika.
‘You just quite fancy a one thousand pound fine, do you love?’
‘What?’ she said, feeling dizzy.
‘It’s illegal to smoke at train stations. But I know how we can resolve this. All you need to do is take one step forward, go on.’
Erika, confused, stepped forward.
‘There love, all solved, you’re no longer on station property!’ He pointed to her feet, where she now stood on the smooth tarmac running past the station concourse.
‘Okay,’ she said uneasily.
The man regarded her warily. It was only then that she realised he was being kind, but it was too late and he went off, muttering. Erika stumbled away, heart racing faster, drawing on her cigarette. The women at the café were now browsing the wine list, laughing and chatting with the handsome waiter. An old man twirled a metal stand of greeting cards around outside a newsagent’s on the corner. Two old ladies walked slowly, weighed down by shopping bags and deep in conversation.
Erika grabbed the low wall outside a house and steadied herself. It occurred to her that she had no clue
how to be a ‘normal’ person. She could look at dead bodies and deal with interviewing violent sex offenders, she’d been spat at and threatened with a knife, but living in the real world as a member of society, it frightened her. She had no clue how to be single, alone, with no friends.
The enormity of what she had just done came back to her. She’d hijacked the press conference of a major murder enquiry. What if she was wrong? She hurried back to the flat, the dizziness intensifying, a cold sweat prickling under her collar.
When she was indoors, she slumped into the sofa. The room was spinning and a fuzzy blur was creeping into the side of her vision. She blinked, looking around the small living room. The blur moved with her vision. She felt her stomach contract and she ran to the bathroom, only just making it as she threw up in the toilet. She kneeled and retched, and threw up again. She flushed and washed her mouth out in the sink, having to hold on to its sides as the floor seemed to lurch and sway underneath. The reflection staring back at her was gruesome: sunken eyes, her skin tinged white-green. The blurry patches were growing, spreading in the centre of her vision. Her face was now a blur in the mirror. What was happening to her? She staggered back through to the living room, holding on to the wall, the doorframe, then making a dash for the edge of the sofa. The centre of her vision was now flooded with a blur. She tilted her head, having to use her peripheral vision to locate her leather jacket, half-hanging over the armrest. She found her phone in one of the pockets, and tilting her head, she saw it was still switched off from the press conference.
Blood roared in her head and nausea and panic rose in her. She was dying. She was going to die alone. She found the button on the top of her phone and switched it on, but a spinning disc on the screen told her it was booting up. She slumped forward, face on the sofa. She was terrified; a powerful headache was forming at the back of her skull. She realised that this could be the start of a migraine, just as the room seemed to give an almighty spin and then everything went black.
29
Erika felt she was moving through darkness, fumbling towards a far-off ringing. It seemed to move closer, and then her ears popped and it was close to her head. The side of her face was pressed against something soft with a faint smell of fried food and cigarettes. Her knees were against a hard wooden floor. She sat back on her heels, and lifted her head, realising she was in her new flat. Her phone was ringing. It dark outside and the street light was shining through the bare window.
The phone glowed and vibrated on the coffee table and fell silent. Her mouth was dry, and she had a terrible headache. She pulled herself up unsteadily and went to the sink and drank a large glass of water. She put the glass down and it all came flooding back. One glimmer of hope was that her vision had returned to normal. Her phone rang again, and, thinking it was Marsh, she answered, wanting to get it over and done with.
A familiar voice said, ‘Erika? Is that you?’
She bit back tears. It was Mark’s father, Edward. She’d forgotten how much he sounded like Mark, with his warm Yorkshire accent.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said, finally.
‘I know it’s been a long time – well, I’ve phoned to say I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Why are you sorry?’
‘I said things. Things I regret.’
‘You had every right, Edward. I can’t bear to look at myself half the time . . .’ Her diaphragm lurched and she was sobbing, hiccupping, the words coming out in a jumble as she tried to tell the man who she’d loved like another father how sorry she was, that she had failed to protect his son.
‘Erika, love, it wasn’t your fault . . . I read a copy of the transcript from the hearing,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘I requested it. Freedom of Information Act . . . They hauled you across the coals.’
‘I deserved it. I should have dug deeper, could have triple-checked things . . .’ she started.
‘You can’t live your life by should and could, Erika.’
‘I will never forgive myself. If only I could go back again, if only. I would never . . .’ she said, wiping hot tears away with the heel of her hand.
‘Now, that’s enough of that, I don’t want to hear another word, or there’ll be hell to pay!’ he joked.
The joke felt forced. There was a silence.
‘How are you?’ Erika asked. Stupid question, she thought.
‘Oh. I’m keeping busy . . . I’m playing bowls now. Never thought I would but, well, you have to keep busy. I’m a mean bowler for an old duffer . . .’ He trailed off again. ‘Erika love. There’s now a gravestone. I’ve had the stone put in for Mark. It looks grand.’
‘It does?’ said Erika. She closed her eyes. She thought of Mark underground, and morbidly wanted to know what he looked like. Just bones, bones, in a nice suit.
‘And you are welcome to come and see it. You’re welcome anytime, love. When do you think you’ll be coming home?’
Home. He called it home. Erika had no clue where home was anymore.
‘I’m back at work; I’m in London,’ said Erika.
‘Oh. Right.’
‘I will come. But right now I have to work.’
‘That’s good, love. What work are you doing?’ he asked. Erika felt she couldn’t tell him she was hunting a brutal killer. She wondered if he had seen the press conference on the news.
‘I’m with the Met Police, a new team.’
‘That’s good, lass. Keep yourself busy . . . When you get some holiday, I’d love to see you.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘I go past your house a lot. There’s a young couple renting it. They seem nice, although I haven’t been and knocked on the door or nothing. Not sure how I’d explain who I was.’
‘Edward, everything is in storage. I didn’t throw anything away. We should go through the boxes. I’m sure there are things . . .’
‘Let’s take it one step at a time,’ said Edward.
‘How did you get my new number?’ asked Erika, realising she was on her new phone.
‘I phoned your sister. She said you’d been kipping on her sofa; she gave me your number. I hope that’s okay?’
‘Of course it is. Sorry. It’s just the copper in me, always wanting to work things out . . .’
‘I just want you to know, Erika, that you’re not alone. I know people weren’t kind up here, and you can’t blame most of them, but you lost him too . . .’ Edward’s voice cracked. He went on, ‘I just hate to think of you being alone. You’ve got me, love, for what it’s worth.’
‘Thank you,’ said Erika softly.
‘Well, this will be costing me a fortune, ringing up London, so I’ll be off . . . It’s good to hear your voice, Erika. Don’t be a stranger.’
‘You too – I mean, no, I won’t.’
There was a click and a beep, and he was gone. Erika put her hand on her chest and took a deep breath. A rush of warmth flooded through her and she had to blink back the tears.
Her phone rang again in her hand. She saw it was Moss.
‘Boss. Where are you?’ she said.
‘Home.’
‘You’re not gonna believe this. Another body has been discovered. This time in the water at Brockwell Park.’
‘Is there an ID on the victim?’ asked Erika.
‘Yes. It’s Ivy Norris.’
30
The Brockwell Park and Lido in Dulwich was less than three miles from the Horniman Museum, where they’d discovered Andrea’s body. Erika hurtled past the clock tower, which was lit up and showing it was ten-fifteen. Large drops of rain burst on the windscreen and rapidly became a downpour. Erika flicked on the wipers and leaned forward to see through the whirling water. Two uniformed officers swam into view, standing beside a cordon at the lido entrance. Erika came to a lurching stop, and emerged into the rain, which was roaring as it hit the surrounding parked cars.
‘DCI Foster,’ shouted Erika above the noise and holding up her ID. The officers lifted the tape
and she passed through.
The park and lido were popular in the summer for swimming and picnics, but in the darkness of a rain-lashed January night they were bleak and depressing. Moss and Peterson were waved through the police tape just behind Erika, bringing a powerful torch, its beam illuminating their way along a series of concrete paths, past a boarded-up ice-cream hut and a pavilion with its paint peeling away. They emerged into a clearing, unable to make out anything. Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning lit up the vast open-air swimming pond. Up ahead was the glowing outline of a large white forensics tent. A path of polythene had been marked out along the muddy water’s edge. Three crime scene assistants in white overalls were kneeling in the mud, working fast to take an impression of a set of footprints. A crime scene officer met them at the tent, and they quickly suited up as the rain continued to roar on the canvas.
A bright halogen light shone down on the still form of Ivy Norris. She lay on her back in the mud, amongst a churned up mess of brown, smearing her clothes and body.
‘Please stand on the boxes,’ said a CSI, indicating where a series of platforms had been placed around the body to preserve evidence in the mud underneath.
They approached Ivy’s body, moving from platform to platform until they were at her side. Her greasy hair was pulled back from her yellowing face and her face was frozen in the same wide-eyed fear as Andrea. Her nose had been flattened amongst a mess of clotted blood. She wore the coat and jumper Erika had seen her in a few days previously, but she was naked from the waist down. Her legs were painful to look at: emaciated, with clusters of scars, bruises and needle marks. Her pubic hair was grey and matted.
A crime scene photographer took a picture and the tent was filled with a flash and a high-pitched squeal. Isaac Strong stood silently on one of the boxes. He nodded at them all.
The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller Page 14
