Erika became aware that they were sitting in the dark. The sun had set. Erika went to the kitchen drawer and took out the note she’d received. She came back and placed it in front of Moss on the coffee table.
‘Shit. Where did you get this?’ Moss asked.
‘I found it in my pocket.’
‘When?’
‘Just after I was suspended.’
‘Why didn’t you hand it in?’
‘That’s what I’m doing now.’
Moss looked up at Erika.
‘I know. Jeez, this means we’ve got a serial killer out there,’ said Erika.
‘A serial killer who got close enough to put this in your pocket. Do you want me to arrange for a car outside?’
‘No. They think I’m crazy enough. I’ve been asked to attend a psych evaluation. The last thing I need is to stoke things up. Saying I’ve got a stalker . . .’ Erika saw Moss’s face. ‘Over the years, I’ve had plenty of disgusting hate mail.’
‘But was it all hand delivered?’
‘I’m fine, Moss. Let’s focus on what we can do next.’
‘Well, okay . . . I’ve got Crane cross-checking the dates against Marco Frost’s movements, but we don’t know the exact time of death for these girls.’
‘We need to get that phone. Andrea could have been communicating with this guy. There could be his number, voicemails, and his email. Even pictures on the phone itself. That phone is the key,’ said Erika.
‘We need the resources to retrieve it,’ said Moss.
‘I’ll have a crack at Marsh,’ said Erika.
‘You sure? Isn’t that a bit risky?’ asked Moss.
‘I’ve known him a long time.’
‘He was an ex?’
‘God, no. I trained with him, and I introduced him to his wife. That’s got to count for something,’ said Erika. ‘And if it doesn’t, well, what have I got to lose?’
37
Chief Superintendent Marsh was forcing himself to eat his second crème brûlée. He was already full, but they were just so good. He gripped the ramekin and plunged his spoon through the crisp caramel with a satisfying crunch. Marcie had bugged him for one of those cook’s blowtorches for Christmas, promising she’d make him crème brûlée every week. She’d almost kept her promise.
He looked at her, bathed in the candlelight of their dining room. She sat next to him at the long dining table, and was deep in conversation with a round-faced man with dark hair whose name escaped Marsh. He’d been listening out all evening to see if Marcie mentioned this man by name, but so far she hadn’t. Forgetting the name of the head of her art class would guarantee nothing would happen in the bedroom later – and Marsh wanted her badly. Her long dark hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she wore a long floaty white dress which clung to the curve of her breasts. He looked around the table at their other three guests, thinking how unattractive they were in comparison: a middle-aged woman with scarlet lipstick, who was managing to look both grubby and elegant, an old man with a straggly beard and long fingernails, who Marsh was convinced had only come along for the free food, and a thin camp guy with mousy hair tied back in a ponytail. They were deep in conversation about Salvador Dali.
Marsh was wondering if it would be rude to offer them coffee whilst desert was still being eaten, when the front door knocker clattered. Marcie tilted her head to Marsh and frowned.
‘Don’t let me disturb you, I’ll go,’ he said.
Erika reached up impatiently and knocked again. She could see people were home; the curtains were drawn at the large bay window, and laugher seeped out with the soft glow of light. Moments later, the hall light came on and Marsh opened the door.
‘DCI Foster. What can I do for you?’
She noted he looked quite handsome in crisp beige chinos and a blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
‘Sir, you’re not picking up my calls and I need to talk to you,’ she said.
‘Can it wait? We’ve got company,’ said Marsh. He noticed Erika was clutching a pile of what looked like case files.
‘Sir, I believe the murders of Andrea Douglas-Brown and Ivy Norris are linked to three other murders. Young girls found in the same circumstances as Andrea. The murders have happened periodically since 2013. All found dumped in water in the Greater London area . . .’
Marsh shook his head, exasperated. ‘I don’t believe this, DCI Foster . . .’
‘Sir. They were all young Eastern European girls,’ said Erika. She flicked open a file and held up the crime scene photo of Karolina Todorova. ‘Look. This girl was just eighteen; strangled, her hands were bound behind her back with a strip of plastic and her hair was pulled out at the temples. She was dumped in the water like rubbish.’
‘I want you to leave,’ said Marsh.
She ignored him and pulled out two more photos, ‘Tatiana Ivanova, nineteen and Mirka Bratova, eighteen. Again, strangled, hands bound in exactly the same way, hair pulled out and dumped in water. All in a ten mile radius around central London. Even the type of girl is the same. Dark, long hair, hourglass figure . . . Sir, DCI Sparks has had this file for two days. The similarities are so obvious, even to a copper straight out of—’
A door down the corridor opened, releasing a burst of laughter. Marcie approached the front door. ‘Tom, who is it?’ she said. Then she saw the picture Erika held up, of Karolina half-naked and rotting in the water.
‘What’s going on?’ she said, looking between Erika and Marsh.
‘Marcie. Please go back inside, I’m dealing with this . . .’
‘Let’s see what Marcie thinks,’ said Erika, opening another folder and holding up a large photo of Mirka Bratova’s body photographed lengthways, her face staring in terror. Leaves and vegetation clung to her pale flesh; her pubic hair was matted with blood.
‘How dare you! This is my home!’ cried Marcie, putting her hand over her mouth. Erika refused to close the file.
‘This girl was just eighteen, Marcie. Eighteen. She came to England thinking she had work as an au pair, but she was forced into prostitution, no doubt raped regularly, and picked up and brutally strangled. Time goes so fast, doesn’t it? How old are your two little girls now? They’ll be eighteen before you know it . . .’
‘Why is she here? Why aren’t you dealing with this at work?’ cried Marcie.
‘That’s enough, Erika!’ shouted Marsh.
‘He’s not dealing with it at work!’ said Erika. ‘Please, sir. I know that there has been a trace on a phone belonging to Andrea Douglas-Brown. Give me the resources to find that phone. There’s stuff on that phone about Andrea’s life. Stuff she kept secret. I believe that information could lead us to catch who killed her and these girls. Look at their photos again. Look at them!’
‘What is this? Tom?’ asked Marcie.
‘Marcie, go back inside. NOW.’
Marcie took one more look at the pictures and went back into the front room. There was a moment of loud laugher and then it was snuffed out as she shut the door again.
‘How dare you, Erika!’
‘No, sir, how dare we. This isn’t about me. Yes, I’m out of order to show up on your doorstep; it’s bang out of line. But I can live with being a cunt. What I can’t live with is what happened to these girls. Can you really sleep tonight not knowing we tried? Think back to when we first joined the force. We had no power. You can make this decision now, sir. You. Fuck it, you can bill me for the search team, fire me at the tribunal, I honestly don’t care right now – but look at these, take a look!’ Erika held up the photos again.
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Marsh. He slammed the front door and Erika heard the locks shoot home.
‘Well, at least I tried,’ she said to the photos. She closed the file, placed it gently back in her bag and walked back onto the street.
38
The figure had materialised in the alleyway opposite Erika’s flat when darkness fell, just before DI Moss had come out of the front door and driven away in
her car.
What was the fat little lezzer doing there? This is a new development.
Watching DCI Foster’s movements had become almost addictive. Coupled with the torrential rain, it had been easy to follow her with a hood up, head down and three different waterproof jackets in a backpack.
The secret of blending in, is don’t try to. Everyone is so fucking self-obsessed.
The figure’s eyes were drawn upwards to Erika, who was staring out of the window, smoking.
What is she thinking? What was that other cop, Moss, doing there? DCI Foster is supposed to be off the case . . .
Abruptly, Erika got up and closed the blinds. Moments later, she came out of her front door. She was carrying her bag and headed towards the station. The figure retreated and sprinted back down the alleyway to a car, and then drove out onto the main road, trying to keep slow, be normal, blend in.
Erika was just turning into Brockley Station when the figure turned the car in to the station approach. Another car started to pull out of a space in front, and the figure used the opportunity to stop, watching Erika as she passed over the footbridge to the opposite platform. The driver in front finished pulling away from the space, and waved a hand in thanks. The figure grinned and waved in return, then sped back down Erika’s road, past her dark flat, and parked a few streets away.
When the car engine fell silent, the figure took a moment to visualise the back of DCI Foster’s building. A high wall curled round the back of the property with an alleyway running along one side. When it had been converted from a big house into flats, the back had been left a mess of old and new windows, downpipes, and guttering.
The figure climbed out of the car and took a backpack from the boot.
I wasn’t going to do this now, but it seems things have accelerated. Watching from outside is no longer giving me enough . . .
On the way back to DCI Foster’s flat, a couple of commuters walked past, deep in conversation, oblivious. Once outside Erika’s flat, the figure climbed up onto the surrounding wall, having thought carefully about how to get up to the top floor.
Inch along the wall to the back of the building, step onto the windowsill, grab the downpipe, hook one leg up to a higher windowsill and climb up, using the pipe.
The windowsills were smooth stone and the figure, breathless from the exertion, stopped for a moment. It had worked so far . . .
Use the lighting rod, a thick gutter pipe for leverage and then there are three more windows, staggered in a line. Tic, tac, toe . . .
The figure reached Erika’s bathroom windowsill, drenched in sweat from the exertion. The window was closed, and this was expected. However, there was a small extractor fan beside the window. It was conveniently cheap and had been poorly fitted. Covering the square plastic grille vent with a gloved palm, the figure gripped the edges and pulled. There was a crack and it came away, exposing a silver-lined ventilation pipe. The figure pushed an arm inside, feeling leather-clad knuckles come into contact with the back of the ventilator’s plastic housing on the inside wall. A swift punch and it was knocked out. It rattled and scraped against the bathroom wall as it swung loose from its wire.
The figure pulled a length of coat hanger wire from a side pocket of the backpack and inserted it through the ventilation pipe. It took a few fumbling attempts, but the wire finally hooked over the handle of the window inside and it popped open with a click. The figure moved quickly, crawling through headfirst, hands out, and connecting with the toilet seat.
I’m in.
It was exhilarating after so long watching DCI Foster from afar. The bathroom was small and functional. Opening the bathroom cabinet, the figure saw it was filled with a box of tampons, thrush cream, and a dusty packet of waxing strips. The expiry date had passed.
How heartbreaking. She carries a packet of old waxing strips with her.
The Figure gathered up the contents of the bathroom cabinet and moved through to the sparse bedroom. It smelt neutral. The smell of women could sometimes be interesting and exotic. The smell of others could repel . . .
All I get is stale cigarettes . . . fried food. A hint of cheap perfume.
The figure pulled back the bedcovers, neatly laid out the contents of the bathroom cabinet on the mattress, and replaced the covers, before moving through to the living room. It was dark, save for the orange glow of a street light. Strewn on the coffee table, amongst dirty cups and an ashtray were copies of police files.
The figure lifted one with a gloved hand, rage surging. There were pictures of Mirka Bravtova. Mirka Bratova alive, and then dead and decayed in the water.
DCI Foster knew. She’d connected the dots, and the fat little lezzer bitch was helping her!
There was a noise on the landing, a creaking of stairs, and the figure crept to the front door and peered through the spy hole.
An old woman with white hair reached the landing. She came close to the front door, her face bulging obscenely in the peep hole. She listened for a moment, then turned and went to her front door.
The figure felt a sudden need to get out of there, to go away, to plan.
DCI Foster has forced my hand.
I’m going to have to kill her.
39
When Erika returned home to the flat, she took a long, hot shower and wrapped herself in a towel. She came through to the bedroom and sat on the bed, running through the evening’s events in her head. They didn’t play back much better than when they had happened the first time round.
She went to plug in her phone, and then stopped. She pulled back the duvet cover. Underneath, the contents of her bathroom cabinet had been laid out on the mattress.
She stood quickly and went to the bedroom window. It was closed, and there was a sheer drop down to the alley below. She moved to the front room and flicked on the light. The room was as she’d left it. Blinds closed. Files and coffee cups littering the table. She passed the front door. There was no letterbox. Had she locked the door? Of course she had, she thought. She went back into the bathroom and opened the cabinet above the sink. It was empty.
The window had been closed when she’d taken her shower, and she hadn’t opened it. No, she thought; she was just tired and forgetful. She must have taken the things out of the cabinet herself. She noticed how steamed up the bathroom was and pulled the cord on the tiny extractor fan. She pulled it again. Nothing happened.
‘Shit,’ she said, wiping the condensation off the mirror with the back of her hand. Why did Marsh have to be her landlord too? The last thing she wanted to do was contact him. She flicked off the light, went back to the bedroom and took the things out of her bed, feeling uneasy. Had she taken them from the bathroom cabinet? And then there was the note she’d received.
But how had someone got in? They would have needed a key.
The next morning, Erika tidied the flat and was contemplating calling in to the station that she may have had a possible intruder – possible being a very accurate word – when she heard the post land on the mat downstairs. After sorting through the bills for her neighbours and leaving them on the table by the door, she found a letter addressed to her. Her first piece of mail in her new flat. It was a request from the Met Police that she attend a psychiatric evaluation in seven days’ time.
‘I’m not crazy, am I?’ said Erika to herself, only half joking. When she came back up to the flat, her phone rang.
‘Erika, it’s Marsh. You’ve got six hours with a team from Thames Water. If you don’t find the phone, then that’s it. You understand?’
Hope rose in Erika chest. ‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’
‘There’s virtually no chance it’s down there. Have you seen the rain we’ve been having?’
Erika looked out as the rain hammered against the window.
‘I know sir, but I’ll take those odds; I’ve solved cases on less.’
‘But you won’t be solving this. You’re suspended. Remember? And you’ll pass any evidence over to DCI Sparks. Immediately.’
‘Yes, sir’ said Erika.
‘Moss will be in touch with the rest of the details.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And if you ever pull a stunt like that again, showing up on my doorstep and waving sick crime scene photos in my wife’s face . . . You won’t just be suspended. Your career will be over.’
‘It won’t happen again, sir,’ said Erika. There was a click and Marsh hung up. Erika smiled. ‘Behind every powerful man is a woman who knows how to push his buttons. Good on you, Marcie.’
Erika walked over to meet Moss and Peterson. The manhole accessing the storm drain was beside the graveyard at Honor Oak Park Church, only a couple of miles from Erika’s flat. The church was a few hundred yards past the train station, perched on a hill. The rain had stopped, and there was a slight break in the clouds when Erika met Moss by a large van bearing the Thames Water logo. Peterson had a tray of takeaway coffees and was handing them out to a group of guys wearing overalls.
‘This is Mike. His team will be coordinating the search,’ said Moss, introducing them.
‘I’m Erika Foster,’ she said, leaning over to shake hands. The guys didn’t mess about. They gulped down their coffee and within minutes they were levering up the giant manhole cover and rolling it to one side with a clink.
‘Good to see you, boss,’ said Peterson, handing her a coffee with a grin.
Mike took them into the tiny van. It was equipped with a bank of monitors, a small shower, and radio comms for all the men going down into the drain. On one of the monitors, a satellite weather map continually refreshed, showing streaks and bulges of charcoal grey across a map of Greater London.
‘That’s the difference between life and death,’ said Mike, tapping a biro against the screen. ‘The sewers below combine storm water and waste water. A sudden downpour of rain can flood the sewers, and very quickly you have a tidal wave of water making its way towards the Thames.’
The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller Page 18
