Robert Bryndza - The Girl in the Ice

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 there.

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.