The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  Marsh was silent for a moment.

  ‘It’s Andrea Douglas -Brown’s funeral tomorrow. I don’t want to see you there. And I don’t want to hear you’ve been poking your nose in anywhere else. And when this is over, and if you are reinstated, I’m going to make sure you’re transferred to nick a long, long way away. Have I made myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Marsh hung up. Erika sat back on the sofa. Fuming. She cursed Marsh, and then herself. Had she lost the plot? Were her instincts off on this one?

  No. They weren’t.

  She had a cigarette and then went to pick out something suitable for a funeral.

  45

  Erika woke before it was light, and sat smoking and drinking coffee by the front window. The day stretched ahead in front of her, full of obstacles, and she had to navigate it as smoothly as possible. She took a shower, and when she emerged just after nine, the sky still had a grey-blue tinge. Erika felt it wasn’t right to be going to the funeral of someone so young. Perhaps the day was protesting, refusing to begin.

  She’d searched through her suitcase for something suitable to wear to Andrea’s funeral, only to realise that most of her wardrobe was suitable for a funeral. At the bottom, she found the elegant black dress she’d worn over a year ago to a Christmas party organised by the Manchester Met Police. She remembered that night so clearly; the lazy afternoon beforehand when she and Mark had made love, and then he’d run her a bath, pouring her favourite sandalwood oil into the steaming water. He’d sat on the side of the bath and they’d chatted and drunk wine as she’d wallowed in the water. When it came to put on the dress, it had felt snug, and she’d protested she was fat. Mark had slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her into him, telling her she was perfect. She’d gone to the party, proud to be on his arm, the warm feeling of being loved, of having someone special.

  Now, as she pulled the dress on in front of the tiny mirror in the bare damp bedroom, it hung loose on her slender frame. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine that feeling of Mark beside her, pulling her into him for a hug. She couldn’t conjure it up. She was alone. She opened her eyes and stared at her reflection.

  ‘I can’t do this without you. Life . . . Everything . . .’ she said. Then, in her head, she heard what Mark used to say when he thought she was being over-dramatic: Get off the cross, someone needs the wood!

  She laughed, despite her tears, saying, ‘I need to get a grip, don’t I?’

  She wiped her eyes and reached for her make-up bag, untouched for months. She wasn’t a massive fan of make-up, but she applied a little foundation and lipstick and stared at her reflection. She’d been wondering why she was going today, defying her bosses again. She was doing it for Andrea, for Karolina, Mirka . . . Tatiana.

  And for Mark. As with the girls, the person who’d killed him had never been caught.

  The church of Our Lady of Grace and St Edward on Chiswick High Road was a dreary, industrial-looking building. Its square red brick structure was more suited to being a Victorian water pumping station than a church. In its tall plain tower, a bell tolled, but the traffic moved past unceasingly. A hearse gleamed in the grey morning light, the back windows packed with a rainbow of flowers. Erika waited on the opposite side of Chiswick High Road, watching between the traffic as the mourners filed in.

  She could just make out, amongst the gloom of the front doors, Simon, Giles, and David. They were dressed in black suits and giving out the order of service. The mourners were well dressed, and much older than Andrea. As Erika watched, three former members of Tony Blair’s cabinet climbed out of a sleek Mercedes and were greeted warmly by Simon when they entered the church. A small group of photographers had been permitted to attend the funeral, and they were stationed on the pavement at a distance, their shutters clicking almost respectfully.

  It was a story that needed no prompting or staging. A girl had died, far too young, and people were here to grieve. Of course, this wasn’t the final chapter. Marco Frost was due to stand trial in the coming months, and no doubt the complex and sordid details of Andrea’s life and death would be replayed, rehashed, and debated anew. However, for now, this was a full stop, the closing of one part.

  A smart BMW pulled up at the kerb. Marsh and Assistant Commander Oakley emerged in black suits. Marcie and the Assistant Commander’s smart middle-aged wife followed behind, also in black. They moved quickly to the church entrance, pausing to talk to Simon and Giles, and to hug David, who seemed vulnerable, despite being taller than both Giles and his father.

  The last mourners to arrive were Andrea’s mother, Linda, and the elderly lady with the hooded eyes. A limousine pulled up at the pavement and Linda bustled out and round to the opposite door, where she helped Diana from the car. Both she and the old woman, whose name Erika still didn’t know, were painfully thin, chic and elegant in black. Linda was swathed in a shapeless black tent, a dark woollen jacket, and she had a large wooden crucifix hung around her neck. Her mousy hair was neat, but looked as if someone had placed a bowl on her head and cut round it. Her face was devoid of make-up and she looked, even in the chill, to be sweating. The photographers took a keen interest and clicked away. Diana and the old woman bowed their heads, but Linda stared up at the cameras defiantly. Erika waited a few more minutes until it looked like the last mourners were inside, crossed the road and slipped into the church.

  She took a seat at the end of a pew at the back of the packed church. A beautiful ornate wooden coffin rested on a plinth in front of the altar, decked in a spray of white flowers. The Douglas-Brown family sat on the front pew, and as the church organ petered out, Erika noticed Diana looking frantically around as the church hushed. The vicar, dressed in crisp white robes, moved to the front and seemed to look for a signal that it was appropriate to begin. However, Simon shook his head. He then leaned in under the brim of Diana’s huge hat, where they seemed to confer. Linda leaned in on the other side and joined the discussion. Erika realised what they were talking about: David was missing from the pew. Linda then got up, and standing at the front in full view of the congregation, just a few feet from Andrea’s coffin, placed a call on her phone. The vicar was now waiting awkwardly by the altar. Linda said a few words before being cut off. She tried the number again, and held the phone out to her father.

  ‘Linda . . . Linda,’ said Simon, beckoning her over. Linda huffed and stood her ground, before relenting and walking over. Her father took the phone and the conversation became quite heated. Erika couldn’t make out what was being said, but his angry tone reverberated around the church. The congregation was now shifting uneasily. The scene juxtaposed uncomfortably with the polished, flower-topped coffin. The murmur of Simon’s voice stopped abruptly, and Erika shifted in her pew to see what was happening.

  It was then that she heard, from her seat by the door, the faint sound of a mobile phone ringtone. Simon stood and moved off to the side of the church, a phone to his ear. Erika rose from her seat and slipped out of the church.

  Houses and shops were heavily built up nearby, leaving the courtyard out front and a thin strip of flagstones along one side of the church, which backed onto a high wall. David stood by the high wall with an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He tucked his phone inside his suit jacket.

  Erika moved over to him. ‘Need a light?’ she asked, pulling out her cigarettes and lighter.

  He peered at her for a second and then leaned in to her lighter, cupping his hands around the flame, and puffing furiously as the end of the cigarette glowed red. Erika lit one herself and took a drag.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked, tucking her cigarettes back in her coat pocket. David was painfully thin, with sunken cheeks. His skin was honey-coloured, and there was a smattering of acne under his cheekbones. Despite this, his face was still handsome. He had the same brown eyes and full lips as Andrea. He squinted at Erika and shrugged.

  ‘Why aren’t you in there for the service?’ asked Erika.

  ‘It
’s all bullshit . . . My parents have planned this pretentious tribute, which is nothing to do with who Andrea was. She was a slut, she was loud and crass, and she had the attention span of an insect. But she was so good, so much fun to have around. I hate that phrase, “she lit up a room”. It’s trotted out all the time, but it was true of her. God, why did it have to be Andrea and not Lin . . .’ His voice tailed off and he looked ashamed.

  ‘Linda?’

  ‘No. I didn’t mean that. Although I think Linda is so desperate for attention she’d quite like to be brutally murdered. It would be more interesting to write on her Facebook profile than, “I work as a florist and I like cats . . .”’ David began to cry. ‘Shit, shit, shit; I vowed I wouldn’t use these,’ he said, pulling a little pack of tissues from his pocket.

  ‘Look. David. You’ll regret it if you don’t go in there. Trust me, you need closure. Another overused phrase, I know.’

  David blew his nose and pulled another tissue from the pack. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve come to pay my respects.’

  ‘You know, my parents blame you for the media coverage.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I think Andrea was always honest about dating men, about loving sex.’

  ‘What about Giles?’

  ‘He wanted a trophy wife. A nice thoroughbred to mix up the gene pool. Too many cousins have married in his family. You must have noticed he’s a little carny.’

  ‘Carny?’

  ‘Little carnival circus folk . . .’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m being an arse.’

  ‘You’ve got the right to be one, today of all days,’ said Erika.

  ‘Yes, and you’ve caught the killer. Marco Frost.’

  Erika took a drag of her cigarette.

  ‘You don’t think he is the killer, do you?’

  ‘How’s your mum coping?’ asked Erika.

  ‘If you want to change the subject, choose a less stupid question. You look far from stupid, though,’ said David, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

  ‘Okay,’ said Erika, pulling out a copy of the photo of Andrea in the bar with the dark-haired man. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

  ‘Smooth segue,’ said David.

  ‘David. Please. It’s important,’ said Erika. She watched his face. He took the photo and chewed his lip.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because Linda was there that night as well.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t,’ said David.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ said a voice. Erika turned and saw Simon was approaching across the courtyard. His head was tilted to one side and his brown eyes flashed with anger. Diana teetered behind on high heels, her hat and shades giving little away.

  ‘Do you have no respect?’ he said, squaring up to Erika, his face close to hers. She refused to be intimidated and stared back at him.

  ‘David, why are you out here?’ said Diana when she reached them, her voice breaking.

  ‘I’m asking David if he’s seen this man; a man I believe . . .’ started Erika. Simon snatched the photo, crushing it into a ball and throwing it down. He grabbed Erika’s arm and started to drag her across the courtyard.

  ‘I’m sick of you fucking around in my business,’ he shouted. Erika tried to pull away from his grip, but he held on fast and kept dragging her towards the road.

  ‘I’m doing this for you, for Andrea . . .’ said Erika.

  ‘No. You’re doing this to advance your grubby little career. If I catch you near my family again, there’ll be a restraining order. My lawyer says I have grounds!’

  They reached the kerb just as a taxi was pulling past. Simon put up his arm and it dived into the space in front of them. He wrenched open the door and shoved Erika inside, cracking her head on the door as he did.

  ‘Take this cunt far away,’ he spat through the driver’s window, throwing down a fifty-pound note.

  Erika stared at him through the door. His brown eyes were raging.

  ‘You all right, love?’ said the taxi driver, looking at her through the rear view mirror.

  ‘Yes, just go,’ she said.

  The taxi pulled out into the traffic and Erika watched Simon Douglas-Brown glaring after her from the kerb. David was slowly walking back to the church entrance, his mother’s arm hooked through his.

  Erika rubbed her arm through her leather jacket, throbbing from Simon’s powerful grip.

  46

  Erika 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 I am gone, release me, let me go.

  I have so many things to see and do,

  You mustn't tie yourself to me with too many tears,

  But be thankful we had so many good years.

  I gave you my love, and you can only guess

  How much you've given me in happiness.

  I thank you for the love that you have shown,

  But now it is time I travelled on alone.

  So grieve for me a while, if grieve you must,

  Then let your grief be comforted by trust.

  It is only for a while that we must part,

  So treasure the memories within your heart.

  I won't be far away for life goes on.

  And if you need me, call and I will come.

  Though you can't see or touch me, I will be near.

  And if you listen with your heart, you'll hear,

  All my love around you soft and clear.

  And then, when you come this way alone,

  I'll greet you with a smile and a “Welcome Home”.’

  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.

  Woolf 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.

  When 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?’