‘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.
33
Over the next few days, there was a shift in the media coverage of Andrea’s murder, and Erika’s statement at the press appeal kindled a more negative press reaction. It smoked, at first, with hints of Andrea’s past relationships, then slowly sputtered to life with fiery revelations of Andrea’s many lovers, and the suggestion that she’d enjoyed both male and female partners. By the end of the week, the tabloids ignited in a fireball of disclosures. One of Andrea’s ex-boyfriends, who described himself as performance artist, came forward and sold his story to one of the tabloids. Stills from a video emerged of them engaging in oral and anal sex, and of Andrea being tied up and flogged in a sex dungeon while wearing a see-through plastic dress and a gag ball. The tabloids had prudishly pixellated the images, but readers could be in no doubt as to what she was doing. The broadsheets condemned the tabloids whilst simultaneously offering their own thoughts and opinions, stoking the fire. The right-leaning newspapers had found a new way to attack Simon Douglas-Brown, and in their eyes Andrea might, just might, have asked for it.
Erika passed four long and lonely few days in her new flat, attempting to settle in. She got her electricity sorted out and watched the media coverage unfold. She went for a medical check-up, taking the bus to Lewisham Hospital where she explained she was a police officer and she had been exposed to blood and bodily fluids. Samples of her blood and urine were taken, and she was told she would have to return for a further blood test in three months time. The whole encounter was cold and clinical, and made her feel very small and insignificant in the world. Alone in her flat, she kept staring at the note, trying to work out how it had been placed in her pocket. Was she losing it? How could she have not noticed something? Her mind went back over the days leading up to finding it, over all the places she had been – but it could have been anyone anywhere. For now, she kept it in a clear plastic evidence bag. She knew she should hand it in, but something in the back of her mind told her to keep hold of it.
On the fifth morning, Erika arrived at the newsagent opposite Brockley station to buy the day’s papers, when she saw the front page headline of the Daily Mail: TOP COP SUSPENDED FROM ANDREA CASE.
It detailed how, after a series of high-profile mistakes and blunders running the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder enquiry, DCI Erika Foster has been suspended from duty pending a full enquiry. It stated that Foster had been accused of erratic behaviour, of leaking information to the press relating to the case, and of misplacing confidential information regarding police informants, which “most probably” resulted in the death of Ivy Norris.
There was a photo taken of Erika through the passenger window of a car. Her eyes were wide and mouth gurning as she reached out for the dashboard. Under the photo the caption read: BLUNDERING COP ERIKA FOSTER. The photo had been taken by the press outside the Horniman Museum crime scene, when Moss’s car had slipped on the ice.
Erika threw the newspaper down and left without buying anything.
When she got back home, she made a strong coffee and switched on the television. The BBC News channel counted down to the hourly headlines, and then Andrea Douglas-Brown’s face appeared on the screen with the announcement that the police had arrested a man called Marco Frost in connection with her murder.
The report flicked back to the newsreader. ‘Twenty-eight-year-old Marco Frost was originally eliminated from police enquiries, but was subsequently found to have lied about being abroad when Andrea Douglas-Brown was murdered.’
The footage then showed Marco, a handsome, dark-haired young man, emerging handcuffed from the entrance to a block of flats. He had his head down and was led away by two uniformed officers to a police car. They held the back of his head as he was loaded in, and then the car sped away.
The camera cut to Simon Douglas-Brown and Giles Osborne, standing with Marsh outside the revolving Scotland Yard sign.
‘This morning, police raided the home of Marco Frost and discovered material of a disturbing nature related to the victim. It is believed the suspect had developed an unhealthy obsession with Andrea Douglas-Brown in the months leading up to her abduction and murder,’ said Marsh.
Simon then stood forward, his face pained, his hands twitching at his suit jacket pockets. ‘I would like to thank the Metropolitan Police for their diligence and continued efforts in what has been a problematic investigation. I would like to say that I have full confidence in the new investigative team and I thank them for their continued efforts in tracking down Andrea’s killer. We will, of course, continue to work closely with the police. Thank you.’
The report flicked back to the newsreader and moved on to another story. Erika grabbed the new prepaid phone she’d bought the previous day and called Lewisham Row. Woolf answered.
‘It’s Foster, can you put me through to Sergeant Crane?’
‘Boss, I’m not supposed to . . .’
‘Please. It’s important.’
There was a beep and then Crane answered.
‘Surely there isn’t enough on this Marco Frost to make an arrest?’ said Erika, getting straight to the point.
‘Give me your number and I’ll call you back,’ said Crane. He hung up and ten minutes went by. Erika was just thinking he had given her the brush-off when her phone rang.
‘Sorry, boss, I need to be quick cos I’m on my mobile freezing my tits off in the car park. Marco Frost lied about being in Italy. We only found out after trawling through hours of CCTV from London Bridge station on the night Andrea vanished. He boarded a train on the Forest Hill line twenty minutes after Andrea. Course, there’s no CCTV evidence to put him at the scene, but he’s damned himself by lying about his whereabouts and getting his aunt and uncle to give him a false alibi.’
‘It could have been an unlucky coincidence,’ said Erika.
‘His girlfriend, who lives out in Kent, has given him another alibi, but now he’s lied we have a motive. We’re holding him for the next three days.’
‘What about the murder of Ivy Norris?’
‘It’s been taken over by Vice,’ said Crane. ‘Look, boss. It’s not looking go
od for your theory.’
‘Oh, theory now, is it?’ said Erika. Crane did not respond. Erika could hear the cars whooshing past the station car park.
‘Are you okay, boss?’
‘I’m fine. And please spread the word on that. I’m sure everyone has seen the papers.’
‘I didn’t know about your other half. Sorry.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Anything I can do?’
‘You can keep me in the loop. Even if it does mean freezing your tits off in the car park.’
Crane laughed. ‘I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can, boss, okay?’
‘Thanks, Crane,’ said Erika. As she hung up, she reached for her coat. It was time to pay Isaac Strong a visit.
34
It was early evening, and Isaac Strong was in his office adjacent to the morgue. Shirley Bassey’s Performance album was playing, and he was preparing to write his report on the Ivy Norris autopsy. He relished this calm time. His favourite music, the lights low in his office. It was in stark contrast to the violence of slicing open a body, weighing its organs, analysing the contents of bowel and stomach, swabbing and scraping for DNA evidence, and piecing together the acts of violence inflicted on the corpse to form a narrative – the story of its demise.
A cup of peppermint tea steamed lightly by his computer monitor, the delicate leaf of mint still twirling in the freshly poured cup. There was a faint beeping sound, and a window popped up on his computer screen. It was a blue-grey CCTV image of DCI Erika Foster standing in the hallway outside the lab. She looked up at the camera. His hand hesitated, and then he buzzed her in.
‘Is this an official visit?’ asked Isaac when he met her at the door of the lab.
‘No,’ she said, hitching her bag up her shoulder. She wore jeans and a jumper. Her tired face was free of make-up. She looked around at all the freshly scrubbed steel.
‘Officially, you have no authority to be here. You’ve been removed from the case.’
‘Yep. No ID, no car. I’m just Jo Public.’
The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller Page 16
