The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster crime thriller novel Book 1) (17 page)

E
rika went
straight to the coffee shop when she got back to Brockley Station. She ordered a coffee, booted up her laptop and started to search the Internet. Armed with names and dates, it didn’t take her long to find details of the girls. The first victim was nineteen-year-old Tatiana Ivanova from Slovakia. A lone swimmer at Hampstead Heath ponds found her body in March 2013. It had been a warm start to spring, and her body was badly decayed. The press used a photo of Tatiana at a dance competition. She was dressed in a black leotard with sparkly silver fringing, striking a pose, hand on hip. She must have been part of a dance troupe, but the other girls had been cropped out. She was dark-haired, very beautiful, and looked younger than her years.

The second victim was Mirka Bratova, aged eighteen. She was originally from the Czech Republic, and was found eight months after her disappearance, in November 2013. One of the park wardens in the Serpentine Lido discovered her body floating in the water amongst leaves and rubbish by the sluice gate. In the press photo, she was also dark-haired and very beautiful, and pictured holding a black kitten on a sunny balcony. Behind her, blocks of flats stretched away in the distance.

The third victim was Karolina Todorova, again aged just eighteen. Her body was discovered in February 2014. A man was out walking early in the morning and his dog found her body by the edge of one of the lakes in Regent’s Park. Karolina was originally from Bulgaria. The press had used a photo taken in an automatic photo booth. She was dressed up for a night out, in a white low-cut top, and she had a streak of pink in her dark hair. Another girl was hugging her in the picture, presumably a friend, but her face had been blurred out.

It frustrated Erika that she couldn’t see more; details were sketchy and almost dismissive in the press reports of the deaths.

One other thing mentioned about all the girls was that they had come to England to work as au pairs, and that they had then “fallen into” prostitution. Erika wondered if it had been that gradual. Had the girls been lured to the UK on the pretence of a better life, of a good job? The chance to learn English?

Erika looked up from where she sat in the window of the café. Outside, it was raining hard. It hammered on the awning out front, where several people had gathered to shelter. She took a sip of her coffee, but it was cold.

Erika had left Slovakia when she was just eighteen, for the same reason, to be an au pair. She’d left the bus station in Bratislava on a bleak November morning, travelling to Manchester in England with little knowledge of English.

The family she’d worked for had been okay. The kids had been sweet, but the mother had had a cold attitude towards Erika, as if somehow Eastern Europeans were worth a bit less as human beings. Erika had found the suburban street where they lived to be sinister, and the atmosphere in the house was always tense between husband and wife. They’d refused to let her return home early that first Christmas, when Erika’s mother had fallen ill with cirrhosis of the liver, and eighteen months later, when they had decided they no longer needed an au pair, they had given Erika three days’ notice to leave. They hadn’t asked if she had anywhere to go.

Erika realised she was lucky, though, and blessed in comparison. Had Tatiana, Mirka, and Karolina said goodbye to family just like she had? Erika remembered the crumbling bus terminal in Bratislava: rows and rows of bus platforms. Each platform had rusting metal poles holding up an enormous long shelter, and it had been so damp. She had wondered if it was damp from the tears of all those teenagers who had to say goodbye, to leave a beautiful country where the only way to succeed is to get out.

Did the parents of the three dead girls cry? They had not known that their girls would never return. And what had happened when the girls arrived in London? How had they ended up working as prostitutes?

Tears rolled down Erika’s face, and when the waiter came to take her coffee cup, she turned her head away and angrily dried her eyes.

She had cried enough tears to last a lifetime. Now it was time for action.

T
he next afternoon
, Erika felt like she had exhausted all the options she could take as a civilian. She was making another cup of coffee and weighing up her options, when she heard a bell ringing. It took her a few moments to realise it was the front door. She left her flat and went down to the communal front entrance. When she opened the door, Moss was waiting on the front step, her face giving nothing away.

‘Are you making home visits?’ asked Erika.

‘You make me sound like a bloody Avon lady,’ said Moss with a wry grin.

Erika stood aside to let her in. She hadn’t expected to ever receive visitors in the flat, and had to clear off the sofa for Moss. She grabbed several days’ dirty plates off the coffee table, and the teacup overflowing with cigarette butts. Moss didn’t comment and sat down, shrugging off a backpack she was carrying.

‘Do you want some tea?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes please, boss.’

‘I’m not your boss anymore. Call me Erika,’ she said, tipping the dirty plates into the sink.

‘Let’s stick with boss. First names would be weird. I wouldn’t want you to call me Kate.’

Erika stopped, her hand hovering over a box of teabags, ‘Your name is
Kate Moss
?’ She turned to see if she was joking, but Moss nodded ruefully. ‘Your mother called you Kate Moss?’

‘When I was given the name Kate, the other, slightly thinner . . .’

‘Slightly!’ laughed Erika, despite herself.

‘Yes, the
slightly
thinner Kate Moss wasn’t a famous supermodel.’

‘Milk?’ said Erika, grinning.

‘Yes, and two sugars.’

She finished making the tea whilst Moss busied herself pulling paperwork from her backpack. Erika came over with mugs and biscuits.

‘That’s a good cup,’ said Moss, taking a sip. ‘How did you learn to make such a good tea? Not in Slovakia?’

‘No, Mark, my husband. He ingrained in me the tea ritual, and so did my father-in-law . . .’

Moss looked uncomfortable that she’d led the conversation down this path. ‘Shit, sorry, boss. Look, none of the team at the station enjoyed reading about . . . about, well, you know. And we didn’t know about . . .’

‘Mark. I’ve got to start talking about him sometime. When you lose someone, not only are they gone, but everyone around you doesn’t want to talk about them. It drove me slightly crazy. It was like he’d been deleted . . . Anyway, why are you here, Moss?’

‘I think you’re on to something, boss. Isaac Strong sent some case files over. DCI Sparks is refusing to see the link, but there were three young girls killed in similar circumstances to Andrea and Ivy. All three found in water with their hands bound, hair missing from their scalp. They’d been strangled. There was evidence of rape, but they were sex workers.’

‘Yeah, I know about those,’ said Erika.

‘Okay, well, there’s more. The phone box we found under Andrea’s bed. Crane requested a trace on the IMEI number written on the box. It matches the IMEI number of Andrea’s old iPhone, the one she reported missing. Crane then got in contact with network providers and gave them the IMEI number. They’ve confirmed that the handset is still active.’

‘I knew it! So Andrea reported the phone missing, but kept it and bought a new SIM card,’ said Erika, triumphantly.

‘Yes. A signal was last traced for that handset near to London Road on the 12th of January,’ said Moss.

‘Someone’s nicked it and they’re using it?’

‘No,’ said Moss, pulling out a large ordinance survey map and starting to unfold it. ‘The signal came from a storm drain running twenty feet below ground. It runs off London Road, beside the train track to Forest Hill Station, and then on towards the next station on the line, Honor Oak Park.’

Erika peered at the map.

‘The storm drain is a major tributary,’ Moss went on, ‘and over the past few days an enormous amount of meltwater from the snow and rain has seeped into the ground and will have rushed through the storm drain.’

‘Pushing anything with it, including a phone,’ finished Erika.

‘Yeah.’

‘So the phone battery is now dead, obviously?’

‘Nothing has been detected. It’s an iPhone 5S, and the network tells us that it will still broadcast its location to phone masts for five days after the battery has discharged – of course, that’s now passed.’

Erika looked at the map; she saw Moss had drawn a red line from London Road along to Honor Oak Park. It covered just over a mile and a half.

‘So, what? The theory is that the phone was chucked or dropped into a drain when Andrea was taken?’

‘Yeah. But it’s not a theory that DCI Sparks or Chief Superintendent Marsh want to hear. They’re convinced they have their man in Marco Frost, and they’re under pressure from Oakley
et al
to make a conviction. They’ve been through his laptop and there’s a lot of Andrea on there. Photos, letters he’d written to her, Google search history about places she’d been, and was going to . . .’

‘This is a major breakthrough, but why are you here, Moss?’ asked Erika, getting up to make more tea.

‘I’ve been there when we questioned Marco, and he is – was –

obsessed by Andrea. But, he just doesn’t seem like he’s got it in him. He also has very large hands. Isaac showed us the handprints on Andrea. And I don’t know, it’s not much more than a hunch.’

‘You don’t think he did it.’

‘I have doubts, but they are a hunch. I think that this phone could open up the investigation,’ said Moss.

‘Well, you’ve got to get a team down in that drain, to at least have a look,’ said Erika.

‘Yeah, but under whose authority, boss? I haven’t got any. Your hands are tied. It would cost a huge amount, plus the manpower involved, who would sign off on either of those right now? The team is now focusing resources towards the prosecution of Marco Frost.’

Erika thought. ‘Does anyone else share your doubts about Marco Frost?’

Moss nodded.

‘Peterson? Crane?’

‘And others. We’ve made copies of the files on Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova and Karolina Todorova.’

She handed them to Erika, who flicked through, looking at the photos of the girls – all lying on their backs, naked from the waist down, their wet hair plastered to their pale faces. Fear in their eyes.

‘Do you think he deliberately leaves their eyes open?’ asked Erika.

‘Possibly.’

‘If it
is
the same killer, how the hell does Andrea fit in with this?’

‘Whoever it was ventured out of their comfort zone? She’s a different kind of girl,’ said Moss

‘Only because she was rich. The girls are all similar. Dark, beautiful, good figures.’

‘Do you think Andrea was working as a prostitute? Did you see the stuff in the papers?’

‘She didn’t need the money. I think first and foremost she saw sex as a thrill,’ said Erika.

‘The thrill of the chase,’ finished Moss.

‘What if Andrea had fallen for the man who is doing this? She’s attracted to dark, handsome men.’

‘But what about Ivy Norris? Her death bore hallmarks of the previous killings, but she doesn’t fit the pattern. She wasn’t young. Or attractive like the rest of these girls.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t about that? She shares the common thread that she was a prostitute. What if she saw Andrea with the killer, in the pub? And she was killed to shut her up.’

Moss had no reply to this.

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?’

C
hief 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.

E
rika 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.