The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster crime thriller novel Book 1) (29 page)

M
arsh was pacing
up and down in front of the window when Erika knocked on the door of his office. When she entered, he stopped and stared at her. He wore crisp white chinos, an open-necked shirt, and had an arty flat cap on his head. Despite everything, Erika had to suppress a smile.

‘Are you going for the David Beckham look, sir? Or is that your painting outfit?’

‘Sit down,’ he said, pulling off the hat and chucking it on the papers piled high on his desk. ‘Are you out of your mind, DCI Foster? Do you know the shit storm you’ve stirred up, arresting the Douglas-Browns? I’ve had calls coming in from the cabinet office.’

He seemed weary, fed up of the whole situation.

‘Sir, if you’ll listen . . .’

‘No. I’m ordering you to release Sir Simon, Linda, Giles Osborne
and
Igor Kucerov from custody, do you understand? You’ve exposed someone in the witness protection scheme, you’ve been openly discussing the details of a criminal trial marked CMP . . .’

‘Sir, Barbora Kardosova killed herself, which means she is no longer in witness protection.’ Erika went on to explain the money transfer between Simon, Giles and Igor, and the statement from Barbora, linking Igor to the trafficking of Eastern European women. She left out the doubt about him being in the UK at the time of Andrea’s murder. ‘You’ve got to admit, sir, even as a coincidence all this stinks.’

Marsh had listened intently. He was now breathing heavily, and continued to pace up and down. She could almost see the cogs turning.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s coming up to five,’ said Erika.

‘And when is their twenty-four hours in custody up?’

‘Nine am tomorrow.’

‘Have they had an evening meal break?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Okay, and they are entitled to an uninterrupted eight hours’ rest.’

‘I know, sir. I need more time. Will you consider extending, giving me another twelve hours? I can’t authorise it and you can. I’m waiting on forensics. They took Simon’s laptop, and Linda’s too. There are also bank statements we’re going through.’

‘No. I can’t extend.’ Marsh came and sat down. ‘Look, Erika. You are a brilliant officer . . .’

‘Sir, you always say that, right before you tell me not to do something.’

Marsh paused. ‘I say it because it’s true. Also, because I can see how this is going to end. You’re going up against powerful people here, and the odds are not in your favour.’

‘Sounds very Hunger Games . . .’

‘I’m serious, Erika. Release your suspects and I will do the best I can to protect you.’

‘Protect me?’ asked Erika, incredulously.

‘Erika, are you blind to how things work? The establishment always wins. We’ve both seen it. You lack credible evidence. Please. Walk away. Save your career. Sometimes you have to let things go.’

‘No. I’m sorry, sir. That’s not good enough. Five women have died.
Five
. What right do people in the so-called establishment have to get away with covering it all up? So they can make more money? Keep hold of their cosy lives?’

‘You know what will happen, don’t you? You could lose your badge, your reputation.’

‘Sir, I’ve had almost everything taken from me. Mark, a life I loved up north surrounded by friends, a place I can call home. The only thing I have to hold onto is a sense of morality, and that until nine am tomorrow I might still get justice for these women.’

Marsh stared at her. The anger between them had gone. All that was between them was a messy desk, but it was as if they sat on either side of a vast canyon. And Erika was on the side that had the least stability.

‘Okay. You’ve got until nine am tomorrow to make a case. And you’ll take the consequences,’ said Marsh.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Erika got up and left his office, noting the sadness in his eyes.

E
rika
and her team continued to question the suspects, but as early evening slipped away, the case seemed to go with it. Igor, Simon, Giles and Linda sensed their lack of evidence and grew confident, clamming up and running circles around their questioning. Their solicitors were incredulous when Erika announced that they would be kept overnight and questioned again in the morning.

It was close to midnight, and Crane and Erika were the last two left in the incident room.

‘Is there anything else I can do, boss?’ said Crane, appearing at her shoulder. ‘We’re still waiting on the airport CCTV on Igor Kucerov. I don’t think anything will come through for the next few hours.’

Erika was reviewing the details of the case going back to Andrea’s abduction. Her computer screen blurred in front of her. ‘No. Go home and get some rest,’ she said.

‘You too. Are you back at your flat?’

‘No. The Met has sprung for a hotel room. Until I get sorted.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Park Hill Hotel.’

Crane whistled. ‘It’s nice. Had my nan’s ninetieth there. Nice golf course, too. Night.’

‘See you tomorrow, bright and early,’ said Erika as he left.

I
t was
after midnight when she arrived at the hotel. When she came into her smart, elegant room, she felt a million miles away from the case. The distance didn’t help.

She woke at four-thirty, drenched in sweat, from the now familiar dream. Gunshots ringing around her, and Mark collapsing to the ground. She closed her eyes, the last image burned into her brain: the back of his head blown away by a shotgun.

It was sweltering. She got out of bed and went to the window, feeling the radiator underneath pumping out heat. Her room was on the sixth floor, and beyond the inky blackness of the golf course she could see houses, rows of houses packed together towards Lewisham. A few had lights on, but most were in darkness. The window only opened two inches. An anti-suicide lock stopped it.

‘I just want cold air,’ she said. ‘I’m not going kill myself.’

Erika dressed and came downstairs to the large plush lobby, which was empty save for a bleary-eyed receptionist. He looked up from playing solitaire and gave her a nod.

She relished the sensation as she hit the freezing air outside. There was a row of benches along the front of the building. She chose the first, and pulled a cigarette from the packet, lighting up and exhaling a stream of smoke into the night sky. She shivered, shaking the dream off her, and forced her thoughts back to the investigation.

Maybe this would be that case. The one that got away. Every police officer was haunted by an unsolved case. She flicked her ash on the gravel and there was a miaow as a large black cat appeared from under the bench and rubbed itself against her legs.

‘Hello,’ she said, leaning down to stroke it. The cat purred and strutted off to a couple of little dishes under one of the bay windows. It lapped at some water and then sniffed the bowl next to it, which was empty.

Linda Douglas-Brown came to the front of Erika’s mind.
Linda the cat lady.
So much evidence linked back to her. Linda was supposed to meet Andrea that night at the cinema, but didn’t. She’d watched the film with David. They knew that much, but what had happened afterwards? Linda, and her obsession with cats. What did she know about Linda? Was she a victim in life? She was obviously not a favourite with her family. She was bitter and envious. She
could
have killed Andrea, but what about the other women? The prostitutes who had been involved with Igor? Linda knew of Igor, she’d met him. What if she also knew that Igor had killed the three prostitutes? She could have seized the opportunity to make Andrea’s murder look like a copycat killing? Copycat. Linda the cat lady.

It went round in Erika’s mind. Yet Linda didn’t have a cat. Peterson had asked her in the interview if she had a cat. She had answered him weirdly –
not right now
– and a look had passed across her face, a strange look. Erika hadn’t picked up on it at the time, but now it blared out at her.

Erika went back up to her room, where she dressed quickly, and, after passing the disinterested lad on reception for the second time, she drove over to Lewisham Row Station. It was now just after five in the morning. She wasn’t familiar with the night desk sergeant, but he signed out the keys to her for the Douglas-Brown house.

The roads were quiet as she drove over to Chiswick. The office buildings loomed tall and empty as she navigated her way through Elephant and Castle, crossing the Thames at Blackfriars Bridge and then following the river along the Embankment. The view of the water was dimmed by a low fog, which turned blue as the dawn broke.

Erika placed a call to Moss, but she got her answering machine.

‘Hi, it’s Erika. It’s coming up to five-thirty. I’m just on my way over to the Douglas-Brown house. Something is bugging me about Linda. I want to take a look at her bedroom. If I’m not back by seven, interview her again – and get Peterson to lead; she seems to have taken a shine to him. Get her talking about cats; I know it sounds mad but I think there’s something there, I can’t put my finger on it . . . She’s cat crazy, but she doesn’t have a cat . . .’

Her phone gave three bleeps and then cut off.

‘Shit!’ Erika cried, looking down at her dead phone. She’d barely been back at the hotel long enough to charge it.

She arrived on Chiswick High Road. She tucked her phone in her pocket and parked on one of the back streets, realising she would have to be quick, and would need to travel back on the underground to have any hope of making it to the station before the twenty-four hours expired.

T
he Douglas-Brown
house sat resplendent at the end of the cul-de-sac, dominating the street like a polished, buttery block. Mist hung in the air, and the street lights blinked off as she reached the house. The front gate was well-oiled and opened soundlessly. The bay windows stared back at her blankly. She went to the front door and pressed the bell, hearing it ring deep from within the house. A moment passed, then she started to try the bunch of keys in the front lock. The third key she tried opened the door. She listened for a moment and then came inside, closing the door behind her.

She made for the hallway, past the grandfather clock with its swinging pendulum, and into the vast steel and granite kitchen. It was still and immaculate. Copper pots hung from a frame above a large black granite island, and the back wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. Beyond, she could see the landscaped garden. A blackbird landed on the smooth grass, but seeing Erika move inside, it took flight.

Erika came back out and climbed the sweeping staircase up to the second floor, moving past smart, neutral guest rooms, a marble bathroom, until at the end of the corridor, at the back of the house, Erika found Linda’s room. The door was closed with a small sign saying:
Welcome to Linda’s bedroom, please knock before entering
. Under it, and almost obliterated with crossings-out, was written:
cos i might not be wearing any knickers!
Erika couldn’t help but smile, and thought it must have been David. Little brothers liked to tease. She opened the door and went inside.

‘
I
’ve had
a message from the boss,’ said Moss, when she came into the incident room. Peterson had arrived at the same time, bringing in a tray of coffee. He was handing them out to the officers who were arriving bleary-eyed and taking off their coats.

‘She wants us to go ahead and bring Linda back first for questioning.’

‘Has her solicitor showed up yet?’ asked Peterson.

‘Yeah, I just saw him in reception. He doesn’t look happy, being pulled in at this ungodly hour.’

‘Oh well, it will all be over by nine,’ said PC Singh, coming up and going to grab the last coffee.

‘Sorry. I need that one,’ snapped Moss. ‘Go and get one from the machine.’

‘That was a bit harsh,’ said Peterson, when Singh had walked off.

‘She made it sound like we’re just clock-watching until nine am . . . Like it’s a formality.’

‘Isn’t it?’ asked Peterson, awkwardly.

‘No,’ said Moss, pointedly. ‘Now listen, the boss has had an idea . . .’

L
inda’s bedroom
was small and gloomy. A sash window with a deep cushioned window seat overlooked the garden, and from above Erika could see that the lawn was still dotted with a few patches of dirty snow. A heavy dark wardrobe stood beside the window. The door creaked as Erika opened it. On one side hung a selection of dark voluminous skirts; next to these was a block of crisply ironed white blouses, some with lacework on the collar; and the rest of the wardrobe was taken up by a huge selection of cat jumpers, all thick and heavy. At the bottom of the wardrobe was a jumble of court shoes, some sensible sandals, a pair of powder-blue running shoes, a dusty pair of ice skates, and a pink Thighmaster.

A single bed with a dark wood frame was tucked in the corner against the back wall, and above its curved wooden headboard was a thick metal crucifix. A line of toy cats sat guard on the neatly made patchwork bedspread. They were arranged in descending height order. Their Disney-esque eyes looked heartbreakingly optimistic amongst the sad gloom. Erika paused for a moment to consider that Linda had made her bed and arranged the cats before she was hauled into a police car.

On the bedside table was a small, Tiffany-style lamp, and a little curved plastic box containing a clear plastic bite guard. There was also a small picture in a frame taken a few years back, of Linda sitting on a swing chair in the garden with a beautiful black cat on her lap. It had white fur on its paws. Erika picked up the frame and turned it over, unhooking the metal clasps and pulling off the cardboard backing. On the back of the photo, in a neat hand was written:

My darling boy, Boots, and me.

Erika held onto the photo as she carried on looking around. An old-fashioned secretary desk in matching dark wood was against the wall at the end of the bed. It was filled with pens and a girly stationery set. A large square in the dust showed where the police had removed Linda’s laptop. A dressing table between the window and the secretary desk held the bare minimum of make-up, a large pot of E45 cream and a bag of cotton wool balls. A brush lay on its side, and strands of Linda’s mousy hair caught the light from the window. Beside the door was a large bookcase crammed with novels by Jackie Collins and Judith Krantz, and scores of historical romance novels. There were a couple of photos from the family holidays in Croatia, Portugal, and Slovakia – mainly of Linda and Andrea with various stray cats – and there was a photo of Linda standing at the base of a cliff with a large tanned guy with dirty blond hair. Linda wore climbing gear and a red plastic hard hat. She was grinning so hard that the chinstrap cut into her shiny tanned face. There was nothing written on the back of the photo.

On the wall beside the door was a large pinboard with a photo collage. The photos were pinned overlapping and were all of Boots, the beautiful black cat with the white paws: Linda sat astride a bike with a wicker basket where Boots perched on a blanket; Linda on a swing in the garden with Boots on her lap; Andrea and Linda eating breakfast in the kitchen, Boots sprawled on his back across the middle of the breakfast bar holding a piece of toast in his white paws. Linda and Andrea’s heads were thrown back laughing. There was a picture of Boots on Simon’s desk, lounging on a pile of paperwork. Despite him being in the middle of something, he had allowed Linda to take a photo of his work being disrupted. Erika began to remove the pins and take away the photos. In several of the photos, where they overlapped, a figure had either been cut out, or the end of the photo had been snipped off unevenly. Scanning the photos of family gatherings, Erika realised who the missing person was.