The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster crime thriller novel Book 1) (21 page)

E
rika arrived
at Brockley Crematorium a few hours later. It was on a small residential street, set back from the main road and within walking distance of her flat. She walked along the winding driveway, past tall evergreen trees, and saw Sergeant Woolf outside the glass double doors of the crematorium. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit, his jowly cheeks red from the cold.

‘Thanks for coming, boss,’ he said.

‘It was a good idea,’ she said. She took his arm as they went inside. The chapel was pleasant, if a little institutional. The soft red curtains and carpet were faded, and the rows of wooden seating were a little chipped.

At the front was a small cardboard coffin placed on a box with wood panelling, which, on closer inspection, was a conveyor belt.

A middle-aged Indian social worker sat in the front row with Ivy’s three grandchildren. They had been cleaned up; the two girls were wearing matching blue dresses, and the little boy was wearing a suit a little large for him. They scowled at Erika and Woolf with the same wariness they reserved for the rest of the world. Three more mourners sat near the back: the large woman Erika had seen at the pub with Ivy, and another thin, hard-faced woman who had yellow-blonde hair topped by three inches of black roots. Seated behind them was the landlord of The Crown. His strawberry-blond hair had been combed flat and he was just as big and imposing in a smart suit. He nodded at Erika as they slipped into seats near the door.

A priest rose and rattled through a respectful but impersonal service, calling her Ivy Norton throughout. Everyone was encouraged to say the Lord’s Prayer, and then Erika was surprised that Woolf got up and squeezed past her. He went to the lectern and put on a pair of reading glasses. He took a deep breath and started to speak:

When Woolf finished, Erika was tearful and felt almost angry. The reading had been a touching and beautiful thing to do, but she had expected to sit through a sad but inevitable funeral. Woolf’s reading had moved her deeply and transported her to a place she didn’t want to go. When Woolf came back to his seat, he saw Erika crying, gave her an awkward nod and made for the door. Music then played, and Ivy’s coffin rolled towards the curtain, which opened and closed with a whirr.

W
oolf was waiting
by a circle of small empty flowerbeds outside the main entrance when Erika emerged.

‘All right, boss?’

‘Yeah, fine. That poem was beautiful,’ she said.

‘I just found it on the Internet. It’s called,
To those whom I love and those who love me
by Anon. I thought Ivy deserved something to see her off,’ he said, embarrassed.

‘You coming to the wake?’ said a voice. They turned to see the landlord from The Crown.

‘There’s a wake?’ asked Erika.

‘Well, a few drinks. Ivy was a regular.’

Erika’s eye was caught by the two women, fat and thin; they stood smoking under a tree in the small memorial gardens.

‘Hang on, I’ll be back in a sec,’ she said. She hurried over, pulling out a copy of the photo of Andrea and the dark-haired man from her bag.

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ said the large woman, when Erika reached them.

‘I need to ask you,’ started Erika, but the woman tilted her head back and spat in her face.

‘You’ve got a nerve to sit there sobbing yer crocodile tears when you as good as killed Ivy, you bitch!’

She stalked away, leaving the ratty blonde to stare at Erika’s shock.

‘Yeah. And we don’t know anything,’ she said, eyeing the photo before moving off after her large companion. Erika fumbled in her bag for a tissue and wiped her face.

W
hen she came back
, she saw Woolf had gone, but the landlord was waiting for her.

‘Your mate got a call and had to go,’ he said. ‘You fancy a drink?’

‘You really want me back in your pub after last time?’

‘Oh, I dunno. I seem to be drawn to difficult blondes.’ He grinned and shrugged. ‘Come on, you owe me. I got you out of a sticky spot.’

‘As tempting as being picked up at a wake is . . . sorry, I’ve got to head off.’

‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘Is that who you’re after? George Mitchell?’

Erika stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’

‘That picture,’ he said. ‘What’s George been up to now?’

‘You know this man?’

He laughed. ‘I know of him. I wouldn’t count him as a friend, though.’

Erika held the photo up. ‘This man is called George Mitchell?’

‘Yes. And now you’re worrying me. He’s not someone you want to fuck around with. This isn’t going to come back on me, is it?’

‘No. Do you know where he lives?’

‘No, and that’s all I’m gonna say. I don’t know anything else. I never spoke to you, okay? I’m serious, okay?’

‘Yes. Okay,’ said Erika. All talk of a drink had vanished and she watched him walk out of the crematorium, get in his car and drive away. Erika turned to look back at the low building with its immaculately manicured grounds. A stream of black smoke trailed from a long tall chimney.

‘Go on, Ivy. Now you are free to fly,’ said Erika, excitedly. ‘I think I’ve just found the bastard who did this to you.’

I
t was shortly
after ten pm, and Erika had left several messages for Moss, Peterson, Crane and even Woolf. No one had been available when she’d called Lewisham Row, and she’d left messages on their mobile phones.

She had no clue if they were working still, but guessed that unlike her, they all had social lives outside work. When she’d come back from the funeral, she’d headed for the coffee shop and searched for George Mitchell online. Nothing had come back on the George Mitchell she was interested in finding.

She went to the fridge to pour herself another glass of wine, but saw the bottle was empty. She suddenly felt tired; she needed sleep.

Erika switched off the light, went to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. When she climbed out of the shower the combination of the cold air and whirling steam irritated her. She missed the luxurious bathroom of her house, which was now rented out, and she also missed the house in general. Her furniture, her old bed, the garden. She tried the extractor fan once more, and then rubbed at the mirror, wiping away the condensation. She decided if she didn’t hear from someone by morning, she would pay a visit to Lewisham Row Station.

As she climbed into bed, she tried Peterson again and then Moss. She left messages for both of them, repeating that she knew the name of the man in the photo. Then, feeling frustrated and pissed off, Erika switched off the light.

S
hortly before midnight
, Erika was sleeping softly. Commuters from the last train had walked past the flat, and the road outside settled into silence. A soft glow from the street lights bled through the living room, falling on the back wall of the bathroom. Erika rolled over in her sleep, shifting her head on the pillow. She didn’t hear the sound of the ventilator fan in the bathroom as it popped out of the wall and swung from side to side with a scrape.

E
rika woke suddenly
from a dreamless sleep. It was dark and her bedside clock glowed red, showing 00:13. She shifted her pillow and had turned over to go back to sleep, when she heard a very faint creak. She held her breath. The creak came again. A few seconds passed and then she heard a rustling of paper in the living room. Then she heard a drawer being opened, very quietly. Her eyes darted around the bedroom for a weapon; something to defend herself with.

There was nothing. Then she spied the bedside lamp. It was made of metal, and heavy, like a small candlestick. Very slowly and quietly, without taking her eye off the door, she leant down beside the bed and eased out the plug. Holding her breath, she wound the cable round the base of the lamp, and heard a faint creak outside her bedroom door.

Bracing the lamp in her hand, she eased herself off the bed. She heard a creak further down the hall, moving away from the door. She stopped and listened. Silence. Erika moved lightly to where her phone was charging on the floor by the wall, and switched it on, wishing she’d had a landline put in. She heard another creak. This time it was coming from outside the bathroom. Part of her just wanted whoever it was to realise that there was nothing worth taking, and then leave. As Erika crept towards the door, taking care to lay her bare feet down evenly and softy on the wooden floor, her phone blared out its start-up tone. It rang through the silence.

Shit, what a fucking idiot mistake
. Her heart started to race. There was silence, and then the sound of footsteps walking towards the bedroom. It was now a heavy footfall, confident, no creeping about and scared to be heard.

It happened suddenly: the door was kicked open, and a figure, head-to-toe in black, rushed at her and gripped her by the throat with a black leather glove. Eyes glittered through a balaclava. Erika was shocked at the power in the hand and she felt her throat and windpipe crushed. She grappled for the lamp, but it slipped from her grasp onto the bed. The figure pushed her back onto the bed, all the time gripping her throat.

Erika kicked, swinging her leg, but the figure twisted deftly to one side, pinning both of her legs down with a hip. She reached up with her hands, trying to grab at the balaclava, but the figure pinned her upper arms down painfully with sharp elbows.

The hands tightened around her neck. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything. She felt drool from her open mouth, running down her chin. Blood seemed trapped in her face and head, and the hands kept squeezing, squeezing so hard that she felt her head might explode before she suffocated. The figure was so quiet. So calm. Breathing rhythmically, arms trembling from the effort of maintaining the grip on her.

The pain was now unbearable; thumbs on her trachea pushing, crushing. She was staring to see black spots in her vision. They spread and grew.

And then Erika’s doorbell rang. The grip on her throat tightened and the last of her vision began to fail. The bell rang again, longer. There was a bang on the door, and she heard Moss’s voice.

‘Are you there, boss? Sorry to call so late but I need to talk . . .’

She was going to die, she knew it. She was overpowered. She flexed her fingers and felt the lamp on the bed beside her. Her vision was flooding with blackness. She summoned up all the energy she could and pushed her fingers against the lamp. It budged a little. Moss knocked once more. Erika used last of her energy and shoved at the lamp. It slid off the bed and hit the floor with a crash, the bulb shattering.

‘Boss?’ said Moss, hammering on the door again. ‘Boss? What’s happening? I’m going to break down the door!’

Suddenly the grip loosened on Erika’s neck, and the figure fled from her bedroom.

Erika lay there, gagging, attempting to draw air into her ravaged throat, down to her lungs. There was a thud as Moss attempted to break down the door. Erika gasped once, twice, heaved, and as a little oxygen reached the rest of her body, her vision swam back into view. With a superhuman will she crawled to the edge of the bed, tumbling off onto the wooden floor with a crash, feeling shards of the broken bulb pierce her forearm. She scrambled towards the door, not caring if the figure was still there, not caring.

There was now a louder thud as Moss shouldered the door. On the third attempt it burst open with a crack and a splinter.

‘Jesus, boss!’ shouted Moss, hurrying towards where she was lying on the floor. Erika was still gagging and clutching her throat. Blood from the cut poured down her arm, and was smeared over her chin and throat. Her face was grey and she sank back in the doorway.

‘Boss, shit, what happened?’

‘Blood . . . just my arm,’ Erika croaked. ‘Someone was . . . here . . .’

M
oss 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.