Robert Bryndza: The Girl in the Ice

The police helicopter reached the edge of the quarry as, far below, they saw David’s car roll over the edge and hit the water. Moss and Peterson were in the helicopter with a police pilot. They had an open radio link to the incident room in Lewisham Row, and backup vehicles and an ambulance were on their way.

‘Suspect is running,’ said Moss, training the gyroscopic camera fixed to the bottom of the helicopter, beaming the images back to the incident room. ‘Put police on alert. Suspect is running from the scene, north, towards Ebbsfleet Station.’

‘Shit, what if she’s in that car? How far are the backup vehicles?’ asked Peterson.

‘Backup vehicles are four or five minutes away,’ said Marsh, over the radio.

‘DCI Foster must be in that car. Land, land, land!’ yelled Moss into the radio. The helicopter descended fast. The white chalk of the quarry came rushing up towards them, and the helicopter had barely set down before Moss and Peterson jumped out, ducking under the spinning blades, holding their hands up against the flying dust. The seconds were racing past, and below, bubbles were flooding up to the surface and rippling out into a large circle in the water.

‘You are authorised to shoot, but we want him brought in alive,’ they heard Marsh say on the radio.

Peterson made for an access slope at the side of quarry, running flat out to reach it. Moss followed, shouting into her radio.

‘We believe there is an officer in the car which went over the side and into the water. I repeat, an officer is trapped in the car underwater.’

‘Three minutes away,’ came a voice.

‘Shit, we haven’t got three minutes!’ cried Moss.

The helicopter hovered above, flew over the lip of the quarry and sank down until it was just above the spreading bubbles on the surface. Peterson was now at the water’s edge, and without hesitation, ripped off his jacket and gun and waded into the water, swimming out, arms arcing from side to side. He reached the spot where the car had submerged, and dived under.

‘Can you report? Suspect is on the run, do we have backup at Ebbsfleet Station? I repeat, do we have backup? If he gets on the fucking train . . .’ came Marsh’s voice, over the radio.

‘Backup on its way, and the station is being shut down,’ answered a voice.

‘Moss, report. Our visual shows Peterson is in the water.’

‘Yes, sir, DI Peterson is under the water. I repeat, DI Peterson is under the water,’ said Moss, into her radio. She was now standing at the water’s edge.

‘Jesus!’ said Marsh.

There was radio silence as the helicopter roared and hovered, pressing an oval shape into the water. Seconds ticked by.

‘Come on, please, come on!’ said Moss. She was about to wade in after Peterson, when he broke the surface, holding Erika’s limp body.

The quarry above was suddenly filled with the screaming sirens of an ambulance, fire engine, and police support cars. Above the water, a safety line came down from the helicopter, and Peterson managed to hook it over both himself and Erika. He gave the thumbs up and they were lifted out of the water, their feet skimming above as they were half-carried, half-dragged over towards Moss at the edge.

‘DCI looks badly injured, and she appears unconscious,’ said Moss into her radio. ‘There’s an access road to the left side where you’ve come in, we’re down by the water. I repeat, DCI Foster looks unresponsive!’ cried Moss.

Peterson and Erika reached the edge of the water, and the helicopter set them down. Four paramedics raced down the slope to the water’s edge. They unhooked Erika from the safety line and gently laid her on the ground.

Peterson was drenched and shivering, and a foil blanket was quickly put over him. The paramedics started to work on Erika. There were a tense few moments, and then Erika gasped, coughing up water.

‘It’s okay, on your side,’ said the paramedic, tipping her into the recovery position. She coughed, and more water shot out of her mouth. She gasped, pulling clean, cold air into her lungs.

‘DCI Foster is out of the water and she’s alive,’ said Moss. ‘Thank fuck, she’s alive.’

83

There was a soft hissing sound and a rhythmic beep as Erika’s vision slowly swam into focus. She was in a hospital room, beside a window. The blinds were closed and a soft night light filled the room. In the corner of her vision was another bed. The bedcovers moved up, and then down, matching the hissing sound that she had heard. She rolled her tongue around her dry mouth, and realised that the patient in the bed next to her was on a ventilator.

Blue blankets were pulled up around her, and great swathes of her body felt completely numb: her legs, one arm, the left side of her face. She felt no pain, just an uneasy feeling that pain was close by. Right now, she was floating above the pain, but it would come soon and then she would have to deal with it. For now she could float above it, observing; numb body, numb emotions.

She closed her eyes and drifted off.

When she woke again it was dark, and Marsh was sitting beside her bed. He wore a smart shirt and his leather jacket. The pain was starting to encroach: her face, her legs, her arm. She also felt closer to her emotions, to the fear. The memories. That she thought she was going to die. The burning in her lungs when she hadn’t been able to hold her breath any more, and she’d pulled in water . . . The dead girl in the back of the car with her, and then the girl’s blurred face when the car had submerged, her dark hair spreading out in a halo around her head.

‘You’re going to be okay,’ said Marsh, reaching over and gently taking Erika’s right hand. She noticed her left was bandaged, and that she could only hear on one side – the opposite side to where Marsh was sitting.

‘You’ve had an operation. You’ve got a pin in one of your legs, and a fractured cheek . . .’ Marsh tailed off. He was clutching a bunch of grapes on his lap. It was almost comical. ‘You’ll make a full recovery . . . I’ve put a card on your bedside table. Everyone at the station has signed it . . . You did well, Erika. I’m proud of you.’

Erika tried to say something. On her third attempt, she managed it: ‘David?’

‘They arrested him at Ebbsfleet. He’s in custody, along with his father, Giles Osborne and Igor Kucerov. Isaac went back through the forensic evidence and has found a match to some small hair fibres found on Mirka Bratova, the second victim. They match David’s DNA. And we have Linda’s testimony, and forensics are all over the car. They pulled it out of the quarry with – with the girl inside . . .’

Marsh smiled awkwardly. He reached out and took Erika’s hand. ‘Anyway, there’s plenty of time to tell you everything. What I really wanted to say is that I’m here if you need anything. And I’m here as a friend . . . Marcie sends her love, and she went out and got you some toiletries. I’ve put them in your locker.’

Erika tried to smile, but the pain was becoming sharp and angry. A nurse came in and checked Erika’s chart. She went to the drip and pressed a button.

‘Peterson . . . I want to thank Peterson,’ said Erika.

There was a beep, and Erika felt a coldness trickle through her hand. Marsh and the hospital room blurred to a pain-free whiteness.

Epilogue

Erika breathed deeply, feeling the clean air fill her lungs. Next to her, on the wooden bench, Edward did the same. It was a comfortable silence, as they stared out at the moors, which spread away in greens and browns. Clouds hung heavy in the distance, twirling into a knot of blue-black, which was heading their way.

‘There’s a storm brewing,’ said Edward.