The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster crime thriller novel Book 1) (23 page)

T
here was
a fight going on in the reception area when Erika entered Lewisham Row Station. Two teenage boys hit the concrete floor with a hollow thud, and began to roll around, goaded on by assorted siblings and their equally young mothers. The larger boy clambered on top of the smaller and started to punch his face, the teeth of the smaller boy blurring pink with blood. Woolf waded into the fray, supported by a couple of uniformed officers. Erika ducked through the fighting and was buzzed in through the inside door by Moss.

‘Shit, it’s good to see you back here,’ she said, as they started down the corridor.

‘Steady on. I’ve just been summoned, not invited,’ said Erika, feeling nervous and excited.

‘Well, Marsh is freaking out,’ Moss explained.

‘That’s what happens when you let outside parties dictate an investigation,’ said Erika.

They reached the door to Marsh’s office. Moss knocked and they went straight in. Marsh was pale and standing over his computer, watching the breaking news running across the BBC News website announcing that Marco Frost had been released.

‘Thank you, Detective Moss. DCI Foster, please sit.’

‘I’d like Moss to stay, sir. She’s been working on this whilst I’ve been—’

‘I’m aware of your,
investigations
.’

There was a brisk knock at the door and Marsh’s secretary poked her head round. ‘I’ve got Sir Simon Douglas-Brown on the line, says it’s urgent.’

Marsh pushed his hand through his short hair and looked harassed.

‘I’m in an important meeting here, please relay that, and I’ll call him back asap, thanks.’

The secretary nodded and left, closing the door.

‘I’m your important meeting?’ asked Erika. Marsh came round to his desk and sat. Erika and Moss each pulled up a chair.

Marsh attempted a smile. ‘Look, DCI Foster – Erika. What has happened is unfortunate. I admit you may have been treated unfairly, and I will address this properly in due course. However, we find ourselves suddenly in the midst of a crisis. We’re on the back foot here. I need all the information and insights you have from your alternative investigation.’

‘Which, I hope, will now become your priority investigation?’

‘I will be the judge of that. Just tell me everything you’ve got,’ said Marsh.

‘No,’ said Erika.

‘No?’

‘Boss. I’ll tell you everything, and I’ll outline my theories, when you’ve returned my badge and reinstated me as SIO on this investigation.’ Erika sat back and stared at Marsh.

‘Who do you think you are, to come in here—’ he started.

‘Okay. I’ll leave you to your chat with Sir Simon. Say hi from me.’ Erika got up to leave.

‘What you’re asking is near impossible. You’ve got a serious allegation against you, DCI Foster!’

‘I call bullshit. Assistant Commissioner Oakley was acting on orders from Simon Douglas-Brown to remove me from this case. Little Matthew Norris has been in and out of youth detention for years. He’s assaulted several social workers and, I’ll repeat, at the time I hit him, his teeth were latched into the back of my hand. Now if that’s what this whole case swings on, then fine, but you’ll be waving goodbye to someone who can catch this guy. And of course, I’ll repeat this to the press, because I won’t go quietly.’

Marsh ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Sir, Marco Frost has just pulled together an alibi and made you all look like a bunch of bumbling comedy policemen. Didn’t DCI Sparks think to do a few background checks? I mean for God’s sake. CCTV from a newsagent! Oh, and I’ll also make sure that the press know there’s a killer still out there on the loose thanks to you, DCI Sparks, and of course the sleek fox himself, Assistant Commissioner Oakley.’

Marsh looked as if he were going to explode. Erika stared at him, not looking away.

‘Put me back on the case and I’ll catch this bastard,’ she said.

Marsh got up and went to the window, looking out at the bleak January landscape. He turned. ‘For fuck’s sake. Okay. But you are on a very short leash, do you understand, DCI Foster?’

Moss gave Erika a small, triumphant smile.

‘I understand. Thank you, sir.’

Marsh came and sat back down. ‘Well, go on, give me your insights.’

‘Okay. Let’s go public with this. Launch a fresh appeal, and if you can pull some strings, let’s get a television reconstruction going. We’re going to face flack for Marco Frost, sir, and you need to be ready to bombard the press with all the things we
are
doing, so they concentrate on that, not all the things that we didn’t do.’

Marsh looked at Erika. She went on, ‘We’ve already celebrated once that we caught the killer. We can’t do it again unless we really do catch him. So let’s get ahead of the news cycle. Make George Mitchell our main focus. Flood the press with the image of him with Andrea . . . We also need a scapegoat. The press will want to see that someone is paying for this fuck-up. And I know just the person.’

E
rika took
a deep breath and opened the door to the incident room. DCI Sparks stood talking at the front by the white boards, which were stripped bare. The rest of the team sat around the room despondently.

Sparks looked angry and haggard, his long dark hair pulled back from his face and spots of grease blooming where his hair touched his collar. ‘I’ll be talking to you one by one, and I’ll be asking tough questions. We’re going to go back to the beginning and root out exactly who failed to check the basic fucking timeline of Marco Frost’s journey from boarding the train at London Bridge to . . .’

Sparks’s voice tailed off as he saw Erika enter with Moss.

‘You here to pick up your P45, Foster?’ he sneered. The rest of the officers remained stony-faced.

‘No, my badge, actually,’ said Erika, flashing it to Sparks. He looked confused. ‘Do you take the title SIO seriously, DCI Sparks?’

‘Well, seeing as only one of us has it, yes,’ he said. ‘Can I help you? I’m in the middle of a briefing here.’

‘SIO means Senior Investigating Officer. The “senior” part doesn’t mean you’re older then everyone and entitled to bully them when the shit hits the fan. It means you take responsibility for your fuck-ups.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Sparks, losing a little of his resolve.

‘That’s been the problem. I’ve been reinstated as SIO. And my first order is that you need to piss off to Marsh’s office.’

DCI Sparks froze.

‘Now, DCI Sparks.’

He stared at Erika, along with the rest of the incident room, and then he went slowly to his desk, picked up his coat and walked out. Before he was out of the door, Crane started to applaud. Other officers joined in, and Peterson put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Erika was touched, and looked down as she blushed.

‘All right you lot,’ she said. ‘It’s much appreciated, but there’s still a murderer out there.’ The applause died down. Erika went to the whiteboard at the front. She pinned up the picture of Andrea and George Mitchell.

‘This is our prime suspect, George Mitchell. Andrea Douglas-Brown’s lover, and ultimately, her killer. Also suspected in the rape and murder of Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova, Karolina Todorova and Ivy Norris.’

The room was silent.

‘Until today, the focus has been on the murder of Andrea Douglas-Brown. Her face has been on the front of every newspaper, Internet browser and television screen, and has worked its way into the national conscience. Yes, she was rich and privileged. But she experienced a terrible death: alone, scared and helpless. Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova, Karolina Todorova and Ivy Norris may have been prostitutes, but I can guarantee this was not a world they entered into willingly. Given different circumstances, they could have been as lucky as Andrea in life. They, too, had a harrowing demise. I say all this because I want you to forget where these women stood in society. Don’t do what we do in this country, day in, day out, and divide them into their social classes. They are all equals, all victims, and they deserve our equal attention.’

Erika paused. Crane had started to pin up photos of the victims.

‘So, this is our person of extreme interest and our main focus,’ said Erika, pointing to the photo of George Mitchell. ‘He was in a sexual relationship with Andrea, and they were photographed together four days before Andrea went missing. I also believe she met him and an unidentified blonde woman on the night she was taken. I want you all to review the full contents of Andrea Douglas-Brown’s second phone on the intranet. Please look at them with fresh eyes. There are no stupid questions. We find this man, and I believe we unlock this case.’

The officers nodded in unison.

Erika went on, ‘This afternoon we’re going to make a fresh public appeal for information. We’re going out with full guns, naming George Mitchell as a suspect. Hopefully it will lead to new information, or flush him out from wherever he is hiding.’

Erika paused, checking that she had their full attention. She continued. ‘Please also focus on our other victims. The murders of Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova, and Karolina Todorova are unsolved cases which have never been linked before. I want the evidence pulled on all three murders and revisited. Look for links, any similarities; did the victims know each other? If so, how and why?’

There was a knock at the door of the incident room, and Colleen, the police press officer, entered.

‘Sorry to interrupt, DCI Foster; I’m expecting a conference call from Reuters at any moment. I thought you’d want to sit in on it,’ she said.

‘Right, thank you everyone. We need to get ahead on this. Put Marco Frost to the back of your minds. Tune out the press; drop your pre-conceived ideas. Concentrate on what is in front of us here and now. We get ahead of the news cycle and we’ll start to win this.’

Erika rose and left the incident room as it began to buzz with activity.

T
he press appeal
was in stark contrast to the previous press conference in Marble Arch. Erika had insisted it was held on the steps of Lewisham Row Station, and that it should be more genuine and urgent than the polished nature of the previous press conference, with its video screens and elegant conference room.

In addition, Erika had insisted that Marsh not be present, which hadn’t gone down well. The light was fading by the time that Erika, Moss and Peterson gathered on the steps of Lewisham Row in front of the assorted television and print journalists. A harsh light was trained on them, which bounced off the chipped wood of the station’s main entrance behind.

‘Thank you for attending today,’ Erika began, raising her voice above the crowd. She was faced with scores of lenses. The televisions cameras trained their lenses on the stairs, and cameras fired off flashes. Moss and Peterson stared straight ahead.

Erika continued, ‘I guess that many of you here today might already have written this story, and made up your minds about what I’m going to say. But before you drift off and metaphorically file your copy in your head, writing luridly about police incompetence, or before you decide that Andrea’s death is more newsworthy than that of someone who wasn’t born into a life of privilege, think back to why we are all here today. Our job is to catch the bad guys; your job is to report on that in a fair and just manner. Yes, we do use each other. The police use the press to further our cause, and to spread a message. You sell column inches. So, ladies and gentlemen of the press, I ask that we work together today. Let me give you a new story to run with.’

Erika paused. ‘Marco Frost was today released from custody due to insufficient evidence. He was able to supply us with an alibi and we had no choice but to release him. He’s an innocent man. But that is not your story. Your story is that the killer of Andrea is still out there, at large in society. After reviewing the evidence and refocusing the investigation, we have strong reason to believe that the death of Andrea wasn’t an isolated crime. The man we are looking for has killed previously. We believe he is responsible for the death of three young Eastern European women: Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova and Karolina Todorova. They all came to London in the belief that there would be a good job here for them. What happened, however, is that they were trafficked as prostitutes and forced to work to pay off a debt. We also believe that the same individual is responsible for the death of forty-seven-year-old Ivy Norris. Now, please, you will see a photo of our prime suspect in this case. His name is George Mitchell . . .’

B
ack in the incident room
, Chief Superintendent Marsh was watching the press conference with Colleen as it went out live on the BBC News channel.

‘It looks amateurish, and she’s coming across a bit schoolmarmish,’ he said, as the picture cut away from Erika, Moss and Peterson in the glare of the cameras to a photo of George Mitchell.

‘Of course, a woman is confident of her opinion and she’s
schoolmarmish
,’ said Colleen.

A number and email address flashed along the bottom of the screen. After a few moments, the screen cut back to Erika.

‘Please if you have any information about this man, contact us using the details on your screens. Your call will be dealt with in confidence. We also advise anyone who sees this man not to approach him. I thank the members of the press for your time and for your help with this matter.’

There was a pause on screen, and then journalists began to shout out questions.

‘Will Marco Frost be entitled to compensation?’ shouted one voice.

‘Marco Frost’s case will be treated in the same way as all others. The Crown Prosecution Service will be looking into it as a matter of urgency,’ said Erika.

The journalists started to bombard Erika with more questions.

‘Are these murders linked to the business activities of Sir Simon Douglas-Brown?’

‘I think what we need to remember that Sir Simon is a father whose daughter died in a horrific manner. Just like the other girls – they also have family who feel their loss every day. This investigation has already been hampered by the perceived manner in which we should do things. What we realise now is that Andrea’s secrets are the very thing that will lead us to the killer. Please don’t judge her, or her family.’

‘Christ, I knew this was a bad idea,’ said Marsh.

‘No. This is good. She’s really connecting with people. This press conference is much more real and genuine than before,’ said Colleen. Marsh gave her a sideways glance, but she was glued to the screen.

The press conference then cut away to a wide shot as Erika, Moss, and Peterson made their way up the steps and back into the station. The television cut back to the BBC News studio, where the news anchor asked the reporter at the scene for his comments.

‘This is a bold move by the police, who after several weeks still have very little in the way of evidence. With a suspect at large, time is running out.’

‘What does he mean, running out?’ scoffed Marsh.

On the screen, the reporter carried on, ‘Sir Simon Douglas-Brown has been faced with a fresh round of newspaper revelations over his links to Saudi Arabian arms deals. An extramarital affair has also been hinted at.’

The camera then cut back to the news anchor,

‘This press conference was a marked departure in the police investigation. Whereas in previous weeks the Met seemed to be dancing to the tune of the Douglas-Brown family, are they are now putting forward a credible line of enquiry, based upon evidence which the family would perhaps rather be kept out of the media?’

The camera cut back to the reporter outside Lewisham Row. ‘I think yes. I believe this press conference may have hurt the relationship between the establishment and the police force, but it may well give the police more credibility and autonomy, which will, I’m sure, help to gain back the support of the public.’

‘There, you see; that’s the angle we’re looking for. I’ll make some calls and get the tape of these comments circulated,’ said Colleen.

Marsh felt a prickle of sweat forming on his brow and he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw it was Simon Douglas-Brown.