The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘Three thousand.’

  ‘Three thousand. And what makes you think Andrea went anywhere near this Rivoli Ballroom? Her body was found within half a mile of Forest Hill train station, where she got off the train.’

  Marsh continued to pace up and down, thinking.

  Erika continued. ‘I now have two witnesses who saw Andrea in The Glue Pot the night she vanished.’

  ‘One of whom has vanished into thin air, and the other a known drug-addicted, alcoholic prostitute,’ said Marsh.

  ‘But sir, I think Ivy Norris is—’

  ‘Ivy Norris is scum,’ said Sparks. ‘One of her specialities is to shit on the bonnets of the squad cars in the car park.’

  ‘Sir, at least acknowledge that we have two lines of enquiry,’ said Erika. ‘If you think mine is unreliable, then you must admit that Sparks’s is purely circumstantial! I think that we could use this press appeal this afternoon for information about Andrea being seen with the man and the woman in The Glue Pot.’

  Marsh shook his head. ‘DCI Foster, we’re dealing with people here who the media are itching to hang out to dry. Lord Douglas-Brown, his wife and family, and of course Andrea, who isn’t lucky enough to still be here to defend her character from these accusations.’

  ‘Sir, it’s not an accusation!’

  ‘Sir, The Glue Pot is a known hangout for prostitutes,’ said Sparks. ‘It’s been raided repeatedly. A bloke got sent down for making kiddie porn in the flat upstairs.’

  ‘I agree with Sparks,’ said Marsh. ‘Anything we put out there about Andrea Douglas-Brown will instantly be twisted and shredded by the press. We have to be sure it’s fact.’

  ‘What if I can get Ivy Norris in here to make a statement?’

  ‘She’s unreliable. She’s made false statements before,’ said Marsh.

  ‘But, sir!’

  ‘That’s enough, DCI Foster. You will work with DCI Sparks to pursue the line of enquiry relating to Marco Frost and Andrea both receiving an invitation to this party at the Rivoli Ballroom. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ grinned Sparks.

  Erika nodded.

  ‘Right, you can go Sparks. And don’t be too happy. There’s still a dead girl; that hasn’t changed.’ Sparks looked chastised and left the office.

  Marsh eyed Erika for a moment. ‘Erika, try and cultivate some semblance of a private life. I’m all for my officers taking initiative, but you need to do things by the book and keep me informed of what you are doing. Take a night off, and perhaps do your laundry.’

  Erika realised she still had a sticky layer of beer on her leather jacket from the previous night.

  ‘Did you visit the doctor yet?’ Marsh added.

  ‘No.’

  ‘When you finish tonight, I want you to see our duty doctor. That’s an order.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Erika. ‘Here’s the contract for the flat.’

  ‘Okay, good. How did you find it, all okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  When Erika emerged from Marsh’s office, Woolf was waiting for her in the corridor.

  ‘I didn’t grass you; he got a call from the landlord at The Crown. Then he demanded the logbook from the front desk.’

  ‘It’s okay. Thank you.’

  As Woolf went off to get changed and go home after a long night shift, Erika wondered who else from London’s criminal underworld was able to pick up the phone and call Chief Superintendent Marsh.

  24

  By mid-morning, the incident room at Lewisham Row was hectic. Phones rang, faxes and printers churned, and police officers rushed in and out. Erika and Sparks were sitting in a corner with Marsh and Colleen Scanlan, the stern and rather matronly police media liaison officer. They were working through what was going to be covered at the press appeal.

  ‘So I finish with my introduction and then we’ll hear from Sir Simon,’ said Marsh. ‘I think he wanted to use autocue for this, if we can arrange that?’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll need his final text within the next couple of hours to get it emailed over and loaded up,’ said Colleen.

  ‘Okay,’ said Marsh. ‘So, Sir Simon will say: “Andrea was an innocent, fun-loving twenty-three-year-old with her whole life ahead of her . . .” Then we’ve got her picture flashing up on the screens behind us. “She never hurt anyone, never caused anyone pain, and yet here I am, a heartbroken father, making an appeal for witnesses to a horrific crime, the murder of my daughter . . .” Shouldn’t that be “an” horrific crime?’

  ‘“An” would actually be incorrect,’ said Colleen. ‘Although it’s a common misconception. You only use it as an indefinite article when the following word begins with a vowel sound…’

  ‘We want this press conference to be an open, down-to-earth line of communication to the public’, snapped Erika. ‘Let’s not waste time debating the correct bloody grammar!’

  ‘Okay, so, “a horrific crime”,’ said Marsh.

  It pained Erika that the press conference was being built around evidence she felt was circumstantial, and that the team who she thought she’d bonded with had seized upon Sparks’s weak theory with such zeal. She had to admit that to an outsider, the Rivoli Ballroom theory had more credence. She cursed herself for being so stupid and going off on her own to pursue the Glue Pot barmaid and Ivy Norris. She should have taken Moss or Peterson. She looked over at them both working the phones, trying to track down Marco Frost.

  She turned the Frost theory over in her brain, and a sliver of doubt flashed through her – but then her gut instinct kicked in. Her gut was telling her she was on to something with Andrea meeting the dark-haired man and blonde girl in The Glue Pot. Even if her two witnesses had been unreliable, was it likely that they would be unreliable in exactly the same way? Both Ivy and Kristina were people who existed uncomfortably on the wrong side of the law. It would be easier for them to say they knew nothing, that they hadn’t seen Andrea . . . Erika suddenly realised that Marsh was talking to her.

  ‘DCI Foster, what do you think? Should we mention the Tina Turner video? Colleen thinks yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Rivoli Ballroom. It’s a very famous old venue, and Colleen thinks a fact like that will stick in the public’s memory, make them remember the appeal, and it could lead to increased word-of-mouth.’

  Erika still looked nonplussed.

  ‘Tina Turner filmed her Private Dancer video at the Rivoli Ballroom back in 1984,’ said Colleen.

  ‘She did?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Yes. So shall we put that in with the appeal, with the photo of the venue?’

  Erika nodded and looked down at the itinerary they were compiling. ‘Where are we going to say that Andrea was in Forest Hill? Her clutch bag was recovered on London Road.’

  ‘With media appeals we need to narrow things down, present a clear concise message. If we say she was in one place and then another, people will get confused; they need continuity,’ explained Colleen, a little condescendingly.

  ‘I understand how these things work, thank you. But this appeal is a great opportunity to gather information. This skates over vital clues as to how Andrea went missing,’ said Erika.

  ‘We’re aware that she may have been in the location in question, but we have no hard evidence. There is no CCTV footage, or witnesses. The killer must have used a car; he could have thrown that bag out of the car window on London Road,’ stated Marsh.

  ‘I know the details of my own case, sir!’

  They finished an hour later, with Erika having reluctantly agreed to the content of the press conference, which made no mention of Andrea being anywhere near The Glue Pot, and played down the fact she could have been on the London Road.

  Erika came out to the vending machine and saw Sergeant Crane feeding in coins and selecting a cappuccino.

  ‘All right, boss? We got the bus footage through from TFL, and some stuff from a couple of black cabs who went along London Road,’ he said. The machine beeped
and he bent down and pulled out the plastic cup, blowing on the froth.

  ‘Let me guess, nothing?’

  Crane took a gulp of coffee and shook his head. ‘But this Marco Frost seems tough to track down. The last place of work we have is the Caffè Nero on Old Compton Street, and he doesn’t work there anymore. His mobile number’s been disconnected too.’

  ‘Keep trying. Perhaps he went off with Barbora Kardosova.’

  ‘Ha! That’s another theory, boss.’

  ‘Well, add it to the list,’ said Erika darkly, as she fed coins into the machine and selected a large espresso.

  25

  The incident room at Lewisham Row had been set up as the response centre for the appeal, which would be going out live on the BBC, Sky and other rolling news channels. Six uniformed officers had been drafted in to man the phones.

  Erika, Sparks, Marsh and Colleen had left Lewisham Row an hour before, to go over to the Thistle Hotel near Marble Arch, where the appeal would be taking place.

  Moss and Peterson were using the time before the appeal to work on the whereabouts of their prime suspect, Marco Frost. They had been working off address and payroll information from the Caffè Nero where he had worked in Old Compton Street. This had proved to be a dead end; Marco had quit working for them a year ago. They had tried his parents’ address, but Marco’s parents had died within six months of each other the previous year. Marco had been living with them in a rented flat, but had now moved. Moss had just been given a phone number from the landlord. Marco was now living with his aunt and uncle. Moss dialled the phone number, and the uncle answered after only a couple of rings.

  The conference room at the Thistle Hotel in Marble Arch was huge and windowless. An endless patterned carpet covered the floor, and the rows of chairs in front of a small platform were almost full. Members of the press waited with their cameras. Lights were being set up, and already a couple of TV journalists were standing practising their pieces to camera. Two large flat-screen televisions were on stands at the side of the room, and they showed live feeds from the BBC News Channel and Sky News. The sound was muted, but across both screens was a banner, trailing that there would shortly be a live press conference and police appeal about the murder of Andrea Douglas-Brown.

  On the platform was a long table, dotted at intervals with small microphones. A woman from the hotel staff moved along with a tray, placing a glass and a small carafe of water at each chair. Behind were three video screens showing the blue Met Police logo against a white background.

  It never failed to make Erika feel uncomfortable, the relationship the police had with the media; one day pushing them away, accusing them of intruding and twisting the facts, and the next inviting them to a press conference which had all the hallmarks of a theatrical performance.

  On cue, Colleen appeared at Erika’s side and asked her to come to the staging area for make-up.

  ‘Just a little powder to take the shine off your face,’ she added. But the way she looked at her watch indicated it might take a lot longer to get Erika to look half-decent on live television.

  The hotel had set aside a smaller conference room next door for police and family. A group of sofas had been pushed together and there was a table with water and orange juice.

  Marsh sat wearing his Chief Superintendent uniform. A young girl was working on his face with a tube of foundation and a triangular-shaped sponge. Beside him, another young girl was making up DCI Sparks. They were deep in conversation with Simon and Diana, who sat opposite. Again, Andrea’s parents were both clad in black, and whilst Simon did most of the talking, Diana held on to his hand, nodding and dabbing at her eyes. They looked across and Erika nodded respectfully. Diana nodded back, but Simon ignored her and turned back to Marsh and Sparks.

  ‘They shouldn’t be a moment, then it’s your turn,’ said Colleen. Erika went over to get a glass of water from the table, which was under a window looking out over the traffic grinding its way around Marble Arch. Linda and David appeared through the door at the back of the room, and approached the table.

  ‘Hello,’ said Erika, pouring herself some water.

  ‘Hi,’ said David. He held out his glass and let Erika fill it. He was dressed in jeans and a royal blue jumper and looked very white. Linda wore a long black skirt and a bright red sweater with a plastic moulded panel on the front, depicting a row of thin white cats standing on their hind legs, wearing can-can dresses. Above them was written, ‘WE’RE DOING THE CAT-CAT!’ It seemed garish and inappropriate.

  Colleen came back and told Erika they were almost ready.

  ‘I hate wearing make-up, too,’ said Linda, pouring herself a glass of orange juice.

  ‘You're not going to be on telly,’ said David, sipping his water.

  ‘Did you know Jimmy Savile always refused to wear make-up on television? He said he wanted people to see the real him . . . A horrible irony, don’t you think?’ said Linda, flicking her fringe away from her eyes with a twitch. Erika didn’t know what to say, and just nodded.

  ‘I wrote to his show when I was seven,’ Linda continued. ‘I wanted him to fix it for me to visit the Disney studios and draw a cat for an animation film. You know, they make animations with loads of pictures drawn with tiny differences . . .’

  ‘I’m sure DCI Foster knows how animation works,’ said David, rolling his eyes at Erika conspiratorially.

  ‘Of course, I never got a reply . . . Even Jimmy Savile rejected me.’ Linda laughed dryly.

  ‘Jesus. Can you just try and be normal for once? You come wearing that stupid jumper, making sick jokes!’ snapped David. Linda jumped as he slammed his empty glass on the table and walked away.

  ‘It wasn’t a joke. I really did want to visit the Disney studios,’ said Linda, blushing and twitching her hair off her forehead. Erika was glad when Colleen appeared and took her to the make-up girl.

  Marsh and Sparks were now standing near the door to the larger conference room with Simon and Diana. The make-up girl worked fast on Erika, and just as she finished, a young guy wearing earphones approached and said there were two minutes to go. Erika’s phone rang.

  ‘Sorry, I need your phone off, it interferes with the sound,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll just take this quickly,’ said Erika, seeing Moss’s name flash. She moved over to the window and answered the call.

  ‘Boss, it’s me,’ Moss said. ‘Are you there with the Super and Sparks? I’ve been trying their phones . . .’

  ‘They’ve switched them off; something to do with the microphones and sound,’ said Erika, realising she’d been third on Moss’s list.

  ‘We’ve tracked down Marco Frost. He lives with his uncle in North London.’

  Erika could see the press conference was about to start. Moss went on, ‘Marco Frost was in Puglia in Italy until two days ago. He went with his uncle and aunt for an extended Christmas break to visit relatives. They drove in the uncle’s car. The uncle owns a convenience store near Angel, and they brought back a shedload of olive oil and meats, etcetera, etcetera.’

  ‘So Marco Frost has an alibi,’ said Erika, the excitement rising in her.

  ‘Yup. He even used his credit card when he was abroad. He can’t have killed Andrea.’

  Colleen appeared at Erika’s elbow. ‘We have to go, DCI Foster, and that has to be turned off,’ she said.

  ‘Good work, Moss.’

  ‘Is it? This means we’re none the wiser about who killed Andrea . . . Well, there’s your theory.’

  ‘I’ve got to go Moss, I’ll talk to you later,’ said Erika, and hung up. She switched off her phone as she saw the others move towards the conference room. Simon went first, followed by Marsh, then Sparks.

  So Marco Frost didn’t kill Andrea, thought Erika. Sparks’s theory has just fallen apart. The conversations she’d had with The Glue Pot barmaid and Ivy needled at her brain. Andrea had been seen with a dark-haired man and a blonde woman . . . They were still out there. Whoever did this was still out th
ere.

  Marsh, Sparks and Simon had now disappeared into the press conference. Diana remained on the sofa. She was crying again and was being comforted by Linda and David.

  ‘We need you in there, now,’ hissed Colleen to Erika.

  Giles Osborne burst through the door at the back. He was rugged up in a huge winter coat. He rushed over to Diana, unwinding his scarf and apologising for being late.

  ‘Have I missed the appeal?’ he said. Diana shook her head through her tears.

  ‘Now, DCI Foster!’ said Colleen.

  Erika made a decision – a decision which would have far reaching consequences . . . She took a deep breath, smoothed down her hair, and went into the press conference.

  26

  Moss, Peterson, Crane, and the rest of the team were back at Lewisham Row, gathered around a large flat-screen television. The BBC News channel counted down to the hourly bulletin, and then a wide shot of the press conference came onto the screen. Seated at the long table were DCI Sparks, DCI Foster and Chief Superintendent Marsh. Next to Marsh sat Simon Douglas-Brown, who looked haunted and drawn.

  Simon read his statement from the prepared script, and footage of him was interspersed with the driving licence photo of Andrea that had been doing the rounds in the press, plus a newer photo: Andrea on her last family holiday with Linda, David and their parents. They were all smiling at the camera, with a backdrop of the sea behind. David smiled bashfully. Linda’s face remained set in the same pudgy-faced scowl.

  ‘DCI Foster was right, this is all very touching,’ said Crane. ‘But it’s like a well-packaged display of grief. Will it prompt anyone to call in?’

  On the screen, Simon Douglas-Brown finished his statement, and the camera pulled out to a wide shot. Chief Superintendent Marsh was about to speak, when Erika leaned over and shifted his microphone towards her. She addressed the camera and started to speak.