The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘You look like you could use some sugar.’

  They sipped for a moment.

  ‘I got one of the night-duty officers to run George Mitchell through the database. Nothing.’

  Erika swallowed and shook her head.

  ‘Boss, someone just tried to kill you. Do you think it’s connected?’

  Erika felt like she was done. She didn’t know if it was shock or exhaustion, but she didn’t care. She wanted sleep. She nodded. ‘Shower?’ she asked, looking down at herself in the overalls.

  ‘Sure thing, yeah, boss,’ said Moss. She regarded Erika for a moment. Worry, mixed with a little pity.

  Erika stood under the shower for a long time, her bandaged arm extended to avoid the water. She inhaled the steam, trying to take away the terrible rawness in her throat. Moss had lent her a pair of pyjamas, and Erika pulled them on. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes bulged out with a pinky tinge, and her throat was now so swollen that it gave her a toadish look. She opened the medicine cabinet but there were only painkillers in there, and Night Nurse. Erika had hoped for some anti-anxiety medication or sleeping pills. She gingerly took some Night Nurse, the pain almost unbearable as she swallowed.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, the house was dark and quiet, save for a small night light in the hallway. On her way to the spare room she stopped outside Jacob’s bedroom. His door was ajar, and he was sound asleep under a blue blanket. A mobile turned above his bed, soft lights sliding across the walls as a lullaby played.

  Moss put her life on the line most days, mingling with the crazies out there with knives and guns, vendettas and grudges. Jacob slept, his chest slowly rising and falling. His world was his two mummies, his toys, the mobile slowly turning above his head, its calming tune winding down. For the first time, Erika questioned if it was all worth it. You arrest one bad guy, and ten more fill the void.

  She found the tiny back bedroom at the end of the house, climbed into the single bed, pulled the covers over her head and tried to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the figure looming over her, squeezing the life from her body. The blank face under the woollen mask, just a pair of eyes glittering in the half-light.

  Was it fate that Moss had called at her door at the precise time she had? Why had Erika been spared? Mark was a much better person than she could ever be. He was kind and patient; a brilliant police officer. He’d carved out a place in this world for himself. He’d done much good, and he was capable of so much more.

  Why had he been taken, when she was spared?

  51

  Erika stayed with Moss and Celia for a few days. At first, she was exhausted and was able to sleep. But soon the pain from her throat and arm, the frustration of being unable to communicate, and the claustrophobia of Moss’s tiny back bedroom got to her.

  Celia was very kind, bringing up trays of warm soup and magazines, and Jacob came to visit her when he got back from school. A couple of times he brought his little DVD player and they sat in bed and watched Minions and Hotel Transylvania.

  The details of the case went round and round in Erika’s mind. She went back to when Andrea’s body was found under the ice, then to meeting her family – Simon and Diana, who lived such busy lives that they parented at arm’s length. Linda and David were like chalk and cheese, and had had vastly different relationships with Andrea, neither knowing what their sister was doing on the night she vanished. Not knowing why she went to a grotty, dangerous pub in South London to meet George Mitchell and the as yet still unidentified blonde-haired woman. And then there was Ivy Norris, who had seen Andrea and her companions that night, quite by chance. So too had the barmaid, Kristina. Neither of them was around to tell the full story.

  And then there were the three dead girls. Out of loyalty and kinship, Erika refused to call them prostitutes. Was there a link with Andrea? With Ivy? Or were they just on the wrong street corner at the wrong time? And then there was Marco Frost, whom DCI Sparks had seized upon as their prime suspect, using tenuous, yet compelling evidence which had linked him to Andrea.

  The details of the case spun and tangled in Erika’s head, like a giant cat’s cradle. Somewhere, there was a missing link. Something that could link the man who’d tried to kill Erika to all of the other deaths.

  In her dream, the man visited Erika again, but as he gripped her throat she was able to reach up and pull away the balaclava covering his head.

  It was a different face every time: George Mitchell, Simon Douglas-Brown, Mark, David, Giles Osborne – even Linda. In Erika’s final dream, when she pulled off the balaclava it was Andrea, just as she had appeared in death, with eyes staring, teeth bared and her long dark hair wet and full of leaves.

  As the days passed, Erika heard nothing from Marsh. Moss was busy with court appearances and other cases, and was only able to snatch brief chats in the evenings. The police database had drawn a blank with George Mitchell, and a search of electoral records and financial databases also yielded nothing. There was one development: a tiny hair follicle had been recovered from Erika’s nightclothes, which could have come from her attacker – but again, it was run through the DNA database and nothing came back.

  On the fourth morning, her throat was starting to heal, and she was able to speak. Erika knew she had to face up to things and go back to the flat. She thanked Celia and hugged little Jacob goodbye. He gave her a picture he’d drawn, of Erika dressed in a white boiler suit getting into a UFO to go up into space with a group of Minions.

  It pretty much summed up how she felt.

  It was quiet in the car as they drove back, Erika wearing a borrowed set of clothes from Celia. Moss eyed her from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Boss, you all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I dunno. Wind up the police tape, and then I’m going to go and see my father-in-law.’

  ‘What about the case?’

  ‘Find George Mitchell, Moss. He’s the key.’

  ‘But what about you?’

  ‘What about me? I’m suspended. The sensible thing to do is to wait it out until the hearing, where hopefully I’ll get my badge back without losing my dignity. Well, I don’t give a shit about my dignity, but I can’t do anything without my badge.’

  They’d arrived at Erika’s flat.

  ‘Thanks. I really appreciate everything,’ said Erika.

  ‘Want me to come in?’

  ‘No, you get to work.’

  ‘I won’t give up on the case, boss,’ promised Moss.

  ‘I know. But you’ve got a family. Do what you have to do.’

  When Erika got back to the flat, it was in disarray. The surfaces were covered in the black magnetic powder used to dust for fingerprints, and crime scene tape still adorned her front door. She went to the bedroom and stared at the bed. She could see the outline of her body in the duvet, and the long legs of her assailant, the marks deeper at the knees where he’d lain on top of her. She reached over and pulled the edge of the duvet. The imprint vanished. She worked quickly, packing her suitcase. She went to the bathroom and gathered up her toiletries, noting the fingerprint power on the mirror, and the taped-over hole where the extractor fan used to be. She left the house and wheeled her suitcase round to the station. It was a cold, bright day and she stopped at the coffee shop opposite the station, thinking she’d attempt a coffee, even if it hurt.

  ‘Sugar, or are you sweet enough?’ grinned a handsome waiter with a pierced lip as he took her order.

  ‘I need sweetening up,’ said Erika.

  ‘That can be arranged,’ he said. She watched him as he worked and when he handed over her coffee he did so with a wink. Erika grinned back and walked over the road to the station.

  ‘Morning, I hope you’re not going to be smoking on my nice concourse,’ said the ticket officer, opening the ticket machine beside Erika.

  ‘No, I’ve given up,’ said Erika. She chose a single ticket to Ma
nchester Piccadilly Station, and fed in her credit card.

  ‘Good for you, love,’ said the ticket officer, closing the machine. He grinned and walked back off to the station. Erika’s ticket shot out into the little steel drawer.

  There were a smattering of people on the platform. She pulled out her phone and dialled Edward’s number. He answered after a few rings. His voice lit up when he realised who it was. Erika explained that she was coming up to see him, adding, ‘I hope it’s not too short notice?’

  ‘No, not at all, love. I just need to make up the bed in the spare room,’ he said, sounding happy. ‘Give us a bell when you’re close and I’ll pop the kettle on.’

  ‘It’ll just be a couple of days . . .’

  ‘You stay as long or a short as you want.’

  Erika ended the call as the train rounded the track up ahead. She had drained the last of her coffee and was looking for a bin, when her phone rang.

  ‘Boss, it’s me,’ said Moss, breathlessly. ‘Marco Frost has just been released.’

  The train passed under the footbridge and carriages blurred past.

  ‘Released? Why?’ asked Erika.

  ‘The solicitor has been working on Marco’s alibi. He found some CCTV from a newsagent’s shop in Micheldever.’

  The train was now slowing; Erika could now make out commuters inside the carriages.

  ‘Where’s Micheldever?’ she asked, feeling excitement prickling in her stomach.

  ‘An hour south from London Bridge Station. Marco stated, in his second alibi, that that’s where he was going on the night of the eighth of January. As you know, there was insufficient evidence to back that up. Micheldever is a tiny station with no CCTV . . . That’s been the story of this case, no CCTV,’ said Moss.

  The train came to a stop. People on the platform rushed at the train.

  ‘The CCTV from the newsagent shows Marco Frost stopping outside to light a cigarette at 8.50pm. The newsagent’s is a thirty-five minute walk from the train station, so he did arrive off the 8.10pm train from London Bridge.’

  The train doors opened with a beep, and passengers surged around Erika.

  Moss continued, ‘So Marco Frost can now be placed an hour and thirty-five minutes from London around the time Andrea vanished. It’s highly unlikely he could have made it back to the station for the last train into London that evening. He’s in the clear.’

  The passengers had now boarded the train. The guard stood on the edge of the platform, waiting as the seconds on the electronic clock ticked by to the departure time.

  ‘Of course, now Marsh is shitting a brick. The CPS had been crowing to the press how we’ve caught Andrea’s killer, and now a duty solicitor who phoned up a newsagent and asked for a copy of their CCTV video has blown all the case apart . . . You still there, boss?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Erika.

  The guard blew his whistle. ‘Get back if you’re not boarding the train!’ he shouted, signalling for Erika to get behind the yellow line. She looked at the inside of the carriage. There was a seat just by the door, and warm air flowed out. The doors lit up and gave the warning beep.

  ‘I thought you’d be really pleased, boss?’ asked Moss.

  ‘I am, this means . . .’

  ‘I wanted to give you the heads up, because I think Marsh is going to call you.’

  The train doors were about to close, when a man in a leather jacket came thundering down the stairs from the footbridge. He reached the platform and dived onto the train just as the doors closed on him. With a beeping sound, the doors opened again to free him.

  There was a ping on Erika’s phone. She saw that she had Marsh on her call waiting.

  ‘He’s calling me now.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get off the line,’ said Moss. ‘Let me know what’s happening.’

  The doors were now closing. This was her last chance to get on the train and go up north. The doors closed. Erika answered her phone.

  ‘DCI Foster. How are you?’ asked Marsh, sounding insincere and panicky.

  ‘I now know how a chicken feels seconds before death,’ she quipped.

  The train clicked and whirred and pulled away from the platform.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t get in contact, it’s been—’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard you had to release Marco Frost.’

  ‘Would you be willing to come into the station? We need to talk,’ he said.

  Erika paused and watched the train move into the distance, vanishing round a bend. ‘I can be there in fifteen minutes, sir,’ she said. She picked up her case, looked at the real world, which she had briefly felt she might join, and then hurried towards the station exit.

  52

  There 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’l
l 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.’

  53

  Erika 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.