Robert Bryndza - The Girl in the Ice

On the fifth morning, Erika arrived at the newsagent opposite Brockley station to buy the day’s papers, when she saw the front page headline of the Daily Mail : TOP COP SUSPENDED FROM ANDREA CASE.

It detailed how, after a series of high-profile mistakes and blunders running the Andrea Douglas-Brown murder enquiry, DCI Erika Foster has been suspended from duty pending a full enquiry. It stated that Foster had been accused of erratic behaviour, of leaking information to the press relating to the case, and of misplacing confidential information regarding police informants, which “most probably” resulted in the death of Ivy Norris.

There was a photo taken of Erika through the passenger window of a car. Her eyes were wide and mouth gurning as she reached out for the dashboard. Under the photo the caption read: BLUNDERING COP ERIKA FOSTER . The photo had been taken by the press outside the Horniman Museum crime scene, when Moss’s car had slipped on the ice.

Erika threw the newspaper down and left without buying anything.

When she got back home, she made a strong coffee and switched on the television. The BBC News channel counted down to the hourly headlines, and then Andrea Douglas-Brown’s face appeared on the screen with the announcement that the police had arrested a man called Marco Frost in connection with her murder.

The report flicked back to the newsreader. ‘Twenty-eight-year-old Marco Frost was originally eliminated from police enquiries, but was subsequently found to have lied about being abroad when Andrea Douglas-Brown was murdered.’

The footage then showed Marco, a handsome, dark-haired young man, emerging handcuffed from the entrance to a block of flats. He had his head down and was led away by two uniformed officers to a police car. They held the back of his head as he was loaded in, and then the car sped away.

The camera cut to Simon Douglas-Brown and Giles Osborne, standing with Marsh outside the revolving Scotland Yard sign.

‘This morning, police raided the home of Marco Frost and discovered material of a disturbing nature related to the victim. It is believed the suspect had developed an unhealthy obsession with Andrea Douglas-Brown in the months leading up to her abduction and murder,’ said Marsh.

Simon then stood forward, his face pained, his hands twitching at his suit jacket pockets. ‘I would like to thank the Metropolitan Police for their diligence and continued efforts in what has been a problematic investigation. I would like to say that I have full confidence in the new investigative team and I thank them for their continued efforts in tracking down Andrea’s killer. We will, of course, continue to work closely with the police. Thank you.’

The report flicked back to the newsreader and moved on to another story. Erika grabbed the new prepaid phone she’d bought the previous day and called Lewisham Row. Woolf answered.

‘It’s Foster, can you put me through to Sergeant Crane?’

‘Boss, I’m not supposed to . . .’

‘Please. It’s important.’

There was a beep and then Crane answered.

‘Surely there isn’t enough on this Marco Frost to make an arrest?’ said Erika, getting straight to the point.

‘Give me your number and I’ll call you back,’ said Crane. He hung up and ten minutes went by. Erika was just thinking he had given her the brush-off when her phone rang.

‘Sorry, boss, I need to be quick cos I’m on my mobile freezing my tits off in the car park. Marco Frost lied about being in Italy. We only found out after trawling through hours of CCTV from London Bridge station on the night Andrea vanished. He boarded a train on the Forest Hill line twenty minutes after Andrea. Course, there’s no CCTV evidence to put him at the scene, but he’s damned himself by lying about his whereabouts and getting his aunt and uncle to give him a false alibi.’

‘It could have been an unlucky coincidence,’ said Erika.

‘His girlfriend, who lives out in Kent, has given him another alibi, but now he’s lied we have a motive. We’re holding him for the next three days.’

‘What about the murder of Ivy Norris?’

‘It’s been taken over by Vice,’ said Crane. ‘Look, boss. It’s not looking good for your theory.’

‘Oh, theory now, is it?’ said Erika. Crane did not respond. Erika could hear the cars whooshing past the station car park.

‘Are you okay, boss?’

‘I’m fine. And please spread the word on that. I’m sure everyone has seen the papers.’

‘I didn’t know about your other half. Sorry.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Anything I can do?’

‘You can keep me in the loop. Even if it does mean freezing your tits off in the car park.’

Crane laughed. ‘I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can, boss, okay?’

‘Thanks, Crane,’ said Erika. As she hung up, she reached for her coat. It was time to pay Isaac Strong a visit.

34

It was early evening, and Isaac Strong was in his office adjacent to the morgue. Shirley Bassey’s Performance album was playing, and he was preparing to write his report on the Ivy Norris autopsy. He relished this calm time. His favourite music, the lights low in his office. It was in stark contrast to the violence of slicing open a body, weighing its organs, analysing the contents of bowel and stomach, swabbing and scraping for DNA evidence, and piecing together the acts of violence inflicted on the corpse to form a narrative – the story of its demise.

A cup of peppermint tea steamed lightly by his computer monitor, the delicate leaf of mint still twirling in the freshly poured cup. There was a faint beeping sound, and a window popped up on his computer screen. It was a blue-grey CCTV image of DCI Erika Foster standing in the hallway outside the lab. She looked up at the camera. His hand hesitated, and then he buzzed her in.

‘Is this an official visit?’ asked Isaac when he met her at the door of the lab.

‘No,’ she said, hitching her bag up her shoulder. She wore jeans and a jumper. Her tired face was free of make-up. She looked around at all the freshly scrubbed steel.

‘Officially, you have no authority to be here. You’ve been removed from the case.’

‘Yep. No ID, no car. I’m just Jo Public.’

Isaac paused, regarding her for a moment. ‘How about a cup of tea then?’ he said.

He took her through to his office. The Girl From Tiger Bay was playing softly, and Erika chose a comfy armchair next to his desk. Isaac went to a kettle on a table in one corner. His neat office was crammed with bookshelves. An iPod glowed in a Bose sound system. The shelf next to the sound system differed from the others, which were filled with medical reference books. This shelf contained fiction – mainly crime thrillers.

‘Surely you don’t read police procedurals in your spare time?’ asked Erika.

Isaac turned from switching on the kettle and laughed wryly. ‘No. They’re complimentary copies, sent from the publisher. I was an advisor on a couple of the DCI Bartholomew books . . . How does peppermint tea grab you? I’m afraid I try to avoid caffeine.’

‘Sounds good. I should have avoided caffeine today – she says, four coffees later.’

There was a small tree of mint by a tiny high window. Isaac twisted the pot round and selected a couple of leaves.

‘My ex-partner is Stephen Linley, author of the DCI Bartholomew books,’ he said.

‘Oh.’

‘Oh, I’m gay, or oh, how odd to be with someone who writes crime thrillers?’

‘Oh, to neither.’

Isaac dropped the leaf into the cup and waited for the kettle to boil.

‘Actually, that is a bit odd, that you dated someone who writes crime thrillers,’ said Erika.