‘I’ll be issuing the official police statement at this time. Our press officer, Colleen, is very good, and of course we want to emphasise that this is the murder of an innocent girl. However, we need to be prepared that the press will find a political angle,’ said Marsh, ruefully.
‘Well, they need to sell papers,’ said Erika. There was a pause, and Marsh drummed his fingers on the desk.
‘I need to know what angle your investigation is taking,’ he said, finally.
‘I’m looking for the murderer, sir.’
‘Don’t be flippant.’
‘Well you were just there, in the incident room. This witness, Kristina, saw Andrea in The Glue Pot on the night she went missing. She says Andrea was with a blonde-haired woman and a dark-haired man. I’m looking for those people.’
‘And where is she now. This Kristina?’
‘Well, she ran away, and I didn’t get the chance to pursue any more information.’
‘Was she aware you were a police officer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think she could have felt it was in her best interest to give you a positive ID of Andrea?’
‘Sir?’
‘Look, Erika. She is more than likely an illegal immigrant, terrified of being deported. She probably would have told you she saw Elvis at the juke box if she thought it might save her arse.’
‘Sir, no, I think I have a lead here. And another woman, a local, Ivy Norris. Her reaction to The Glue Pot was . . .’
‘I read last night’s duty log, Erika. It says you hit Ivy Norris’s grandson and then she pulled a knife on you.’
‘Yes, the boy bit me, and I reacted badly. But that’s not relevant. Sir, Ivy Norris knows this area, and something about that pub scares her.’
‘Did you know that last month four people were beheaded at the Rambler’s Rest in Sydenham? She’s probably not keen on going there for a drink either.’
‘Sir!’
Marsh went on, ‘I’ve had the Assistant Commissioner up my arse; I have to report to someone at the bloody cabinet office with updates on this investigation. They want assurances that unsavoury or unsubstantiated details of the Douglas-Brown family won’t be dredged up and played throughout the media.’
‘I don’t control the media. Nor do I leak details of investigations. You know that, sir.’
‘Yes but I need you to—’
‘Sir, I need to do my job. Be straight with me. Are you telling me there are things I can’t investigate?’
Marsh screwed up his face. ‘No!’
‘Then what are you telling me?’
‘I’m telling you to stick to the facts. We’ve long suspected The Glue Pot is involved in placing illegal immigrants in work, and it’s a regular hang-out for prostitutes. You need concrete facts before you start saying Andrea Douglas-Brown was in there on the night she vanished.’
‘What if I find that barmaid and get her on record with a photofit ID?’
‘Well, good luck with that, because she’s probably already packed in the back of some lorry and bound for Calais!’
‘Sir! We’ve got Andrea on CCTV. She did board a train to Forest Hill the night she vanished, and her body was found close to the high street. Christ, is it any more obvious that I could be right?’
Marsh looked exasperated. ‘Okay. Just tread easy; be subtle in your investigation. The press is watching us.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘And I want to be kept informed. Everything, you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Marsh gave her a look and she left his office.
14
The morgue seemed to leach what little warmth Erika had left in her body as they walked down the long, fluorescent-lit corridor. They reached a metal door, where Moss buzzed through on an intercom. Forensic pathologist Isaac Strong buzzed them in.
‘Good morning,’ said Isaac softly, projecting an aura of calm and order. The white lab coat covering his tall frame was neatly pressed and spotless, a dark leather mobile phone case poking from its top pocket. He wore black skinny jeans and Crocs, and his dark hair was swept away from his high forehead. Again, Erika was drawn to his soft brown eyes below his thinly arched eyebrows. His autopsy room was a heady mix of steel and Victorian porcelain tile. Along one wall was a row of stainless steel doors, and in the centre of the room, three autopsy tables also of stainless steel, surrounded by gutters. Andrea Douglas-Brown lay under a white sheet, on the table closest to where they had entered. Andrea’s eyes were now closed. Her hair had been washed and neatly brushed back from her forehead. The bruising had darkened, but her face was still swollen. Erika had hoped, for her family’s sake, that Andrea would look as if she were sleeping, but despite the efforts to clean her up, her body still looked battered.
Isaac moved around the trolley and gently removed the sheet. In addition to the bruising and lacerations over her naked body, there was now the coarse, neat stitching from where the Y-shaped incision had been made, running from each shoulder, converging at the chest and moving down between her full breasts to the sternum.
‘There was no fluid in the lungs, so she was dead when she went into the water,’ said Isaac. ‘The ice preserved decay, but you’ll note the blanching of the skin from prolonged exposure to water. Ligature marks on the neck and a fractured collarbone indicate death by strangulation. As I hypothesised, the bruising around the neck indicates a medium-sized hand, no unusual features such as missing fingers.’
He paused.
‘Toxicology results show there was a high level of alcohol in her blood, plus a small amount of cocaine. She hadn’t eaten for several hours; her stomach was empty apart from the broken front tooth, which she probably swallowed, unintentionally, during the attack.’
He picked up a small plastic phial containing the broken tooth and held it up to the light.
‘I found a residue of an adhesive chemical, found in most brands of masking tape, on her mouth and teeth.’
‘So she was gagged?’ asked Erika.
‘It would indicate so. There was no sign that she’d been raped. It does appear, however, that she had anal sex close to the time she died, and it appears to have been consensual. Again, I swabbed the anus for semen and blood, but there was none. But there was latex residue, and small amounts of lubricant.’
‘She used a condom?’ asked Erika.
‘Whoever had anal sex with her used a condom,’ corrected Isaac.
‘But how can you be sure that the anal intercourse was consensual?’
There was an uncomfortable pause.
Isaac explained: ‘There is a marked difference between consensual penetrative sex and non-consensual. With consensual sex, the body is usually relaxed. Non-consensual sex is often coupled with extreme stress, panic and resistance, causing muscles to tense and clench, which in turn can lead to internal bruising and abrasion of the flesh. There was no damage whatsoever to the lining of her rectum. Of course, another theory is that intercourse could have occurred post-mortem.’
‘Please God, no,’ said Erika. ‘I hope not.’
‘It’s possible, yes, but I doubt it. This appears to be a crazed and frenzied attack. The killer set upon her like an animal. Her hair has been pulled out at each temple – would he have had the will and control to stop to put on a condom?’
‘Were any condoms found at the scene?’ asked Erika.
‘The area around the boathouse and boating lake was littered with condoms. We’re working on analyzing them all, but it’s taking time.’
They paused for a moment.
‘Do you think Andrea was the kind of girl who did that kind of thing, anal sex?’ asked Peterson.
‘That’s a little judgemental,’ said Isaac.
‘Yeah, well you know, we can be politically correct here, or we can say it like it is. Doesn’t just a certain type of girl go in for anal sex?’ asked Peterson.
‘I don’t like that train of thought,’ said Erika.
‘B
ut we have to think like this,’ said Peterson.
‘You’re saying, only slutty girls love it up the arse. Ones who put themselves in dangerous situations?’ asked Moss.
‘Do you think this was al fresco sex gone wrong?’ Erika asked Isaac.
‘As I say, it’s not my job to hypothesise who a person was. When they come to me, I have to make my conclusions as to how they died. You can see here that her hands were tied with a cable tie. It cut into the skin quite deep. Also her legs were tied, and the ankle of the left leg has a small hairline fracture.’
‘This wasn’t naughty outdoor sex that went too far. This was an abduction,’ said Erika. ‘She could have had sex earlier in the day with the fiancé, and then . . . Jeez. We’re going to have to ask the fiancé. Is there any other DNA evidence at all?’
‘If there was, it was most likely destroyed by the water, when she was under the ice,’ said Isaac.
When they had finished, there were a few minutes of down time before the Douglas-Browns were due to arrive and identify Andrea’s body. Moss and Peterson took the opportunity to have a cigarette, and Erika found herself accepting an offer to join them, even though she had given up years ago. They stood in the doorway of a fire exit, looking out over the back at an auto-repair shop. They could see inside the long row of garages where the cars were jacked up, men working in glowing pits underneath.
Erika had dealt with more cases of rape and murder than she could remember. As they smoked in silence, she regarded the young men working opposite. They were young and strong. How close did the average man come in his life to raping women, killing them? How many held back? How many got away with it?
‘The key is Andrea. Was it someone she knew?’ asked Erika, exhaling cigarette smoke into the cold air, the long-forgotten rush of nicotine roaring through her blood.
‘Do you think she was lured into the museum grounds, or did she go of her own free will?’ asked Peterson.
‘There’s so little evidence to go on. No DNA. The CCTV cameras were down.’
‘Could that have been arranged?’ asked Moss. ‘The CCTV. Could it have been someone on the inside? Someone who’d a grudge against Sir Simon or the family?’
‘That’s government cutbacks, the crappy CCTV. And if it were a professional kidnapping and execution, would they really leave her phone and her ID at the scene? That seems messy,’ said Peterson.
‘They could have wanted her to be identified fast. Sending a message,’ said Moss.
‘She got plenty of male attention. What about a scorned lover?’ asked Erika.
‘It’s possible. But who? She was engaged. She seemed to have turned into a nun since she met this Giles Osborne. We need to talk to him,’ said Moss.
Isaac appeared at the doorway.
‘The Douglas-Brown family have just pulled into the car park,’ he said.
‘I hate this part of the job,’ said Moss, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette on the bottom of her shoe, and replacing it in the packet.
Simon and Diana Douglas-Brown arrived with their daughter, Linda, and son, David. It seemed strange to Erika that she was seeing Andrea’s brother and sister for the first time. She felt she knew so much about them from Andrea’s Facebook profile.
Diana and Simon were immaculately dressed in black, and Diana looked as if she had to be held up by Simon and David. David was very tall and thin and wore a fashionably tight black suit and glasses. Linda was next to her father, and appeared very matronly in a black A-line skirt and a thick winter coat. They all had red eyes from crying.
‘Good morning. We’re ready for you through here,’ said Erika, taking them to the door of the identification room.
Simon put a hand over his wife’s. ‘You stay here, David, and Linda, you too. I’ll do this.’
‘Dad, we’re here. Together,’ said David. His voice had a rich forceful command, like his father’s, which contrasted with his geeky appearance. Linda chewed her lip for a moment and then nodded in agreement. Erika showed them through. The identification room was small and institutional, with two chairs and a wooden table decorated with a hopelessly cheery bunch of plastic daffodils.
‘Please take your time,’ said Erika, leading them to a large glass window. On the other side of the glass, a curtain was closed. Erika noticed that the curtain had been hung the wrong way round, with the yellowing lining on show, some of the stitching coming away at the top. It was ironic that the dead were the ones who were shown the good side, whilst relatives and friends waited on the other, as if they were back stage.
Diana visibly tensed as a mortuary assistant drew the curtain back, revealing Andrea, who lay under a sheet, shrouded in white. A soft yellow light played over the wood panelling of the viewing room. Erika had never lost the feeling that viewing a body was almost abstract; theatrical. Some relatives remained impassive, others cried uncontrollably. One man, she remembered, had pounded on the glass so hard that it had cracked.
‘Yes. It’s her, that’s Andrea,’ said Diana. She gulped and her eyes watered. She pressed a neat square of white handkerchief to her beautifully made-up face. Linda didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, eyes wide with a morbid curiosity. David stared grimly, fighting back tears.
It was Simon who lost control and, with a wail, broke down. David went to embrace his father, but he shook the boy off violently. It was only then that David cried too, leaning over, sobs heaving out of him.
‘Let me give you some privacy. Take as long as you need,’ said Erika. Diana nodded as she retreated.
Five minutes passed, and the family finally emerged with bloodshot eyes. Erika was waiting in the corridor with Moss and Peterson.
‘Thank you for doing that,’ said Erika, softly. ‘Would it be possible for us to talk to all of you, later this afternoon?’
‘What do you want to talk to us about?’ asked Simon. His bloodshot eyes were now cautious and embarrassed.
‘We’d like to find out some more about Andrea. So we can discover if she knew the killer.’
‘Why would she have known the killer? You think someone like Andrea would mix with killers?’ said Simon.
‘No, sir. I don’t. But we have to ask these questions.’
‘Where is Andrea’s fiancé?’ asked Moss.
‘Giles understood that we wanted to be left as a family. I’m sure he will pay his respects when . . .’ Lady Diana’s voice trailed off, perhaps realising she now had to organise a funeral.
They watched as the family walked slowly across the snowy car park to a waiting car. As they got in, Simon Douglas-Brown stared across at Erika. His bloodshot eyes bored into hers. Then he got into the car, and it drove away into the snow.
15
Yakka Events was based in a futuristic office block on a residential street in Kensington. It rose up between rows of ordinary terraced houses, like a pretentious sculpture that had been delivered to the wrong address. Erika, Peterson and Moss had to buzz in at two separate smoked glass doors before they were allowed access to the front desk. A young receptionist sat typing at her computer, wearing earphones. She saw them, but didn’t say a word and carried on typing. Erika leaned across and removed one of her earphones.
‘I’m DCI Foster, this is Detective Moss and Detective Peterson. We’d like to talk to Giles Osborne, please.’
‘Mr Osborne is busy. One moment, I’ll just finish this and get you booked in for an appointment,’ said the receptionist, making a show of replacing the earphone.
Erika leaned over again and pulled down on the cable, yanking both of the earphones out of the girl’s ears. ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. We’d like to see Giles Osborne.’
They all showed her their police ID. The girl’s attitude remained, but she picked up the phone on her desk. ‘What’s it regarding?’
‘The death of his fiancé,’ said Erika. The girl dialled a number.
‘What did she think we were here about? A cat stuck up a fucking tree?’ murmured Pe
terson. Erika shot him a look.
The receptionist replaced the receiver. ‘Mr Osborne will be out in a moment. You can wait through there.’
They moved through to a chill-out area with sofas and a low wooden coffee table, where design magazines were neatly fanned out. In the corner was a small bar with a giant fridge, lit up and stocked with rows of beers, and beside that was a giant, silver espresso machine. Along the wall hung a montage of photos, taken at various Yakka Events, which mostly seemed to involve gorgeous young girls and guys handing out free champagne.
‘He’d never employ me with my fat arse,’ muttered Moss as they sat. Erika gave her a sideways glance and saw, for the first time, that Moss was grinning. Erika returned the grin.
Moments later, Giles Osborne emerged through a smoked glass door next to the bar. He was short and plump with dark greasy hair, parted to one side. His beady eyes were close set, and he had a large nose but no chin. He had poured himself into skinny jeans and wore a V-necked t-shirt far too tight for his bulging belly. A strange pair of little pointed ankle boots, which gave him a Humpty-Dumpty-ish quality, completed the outfit. Erika was surprised that this was the man Andrea had chosen to marry.
‘Hello, I’m Giles Osborne. What can I do for you?’ he said, his accent confident and plummy.
Erika introduced everyone, adding, ‘We’d firstly like to offer our condolences.’
‘Yes. Thank you. It was a great shock. Something I’m still trying to process. I don’t know if I ever will . . .’ He looked pained, but didn’t invite them further.
‘Could we go somewhere a bit more private? We’d like to ask you a few questions,’ said Erika.
‘I’ve already spoken at length, yesterday, with a DCI Sparks,’ he said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
‘Yes, and we appreciate your time, but do understand this is a murder investigation and we really need to make sure we have all the information . . . ’
Giles regarded them for a moment and then appeared to snap out of his suspicion. ‘Of course. Can we get you a drink? Cappuccino? Espresso? Macchiato?’
The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster crime thriller novel Book 1) Page 8