The Girl in the Ice (Detective Erika Foster 1)

‘This is day one, sir. And as I said, there’s a positive ID on the victim; I’ve kept it out of the press. I think there’s one or two pubs where Andrea might possibly be placed the night she vanished.’

‘Might possibly be placed; what does that mean?’

‘It means we’re hampered by a CCTV black spot all up the London Road and around the train station. We need time and resources to keep on at people, asking questions. Everyone has worked bloody hard, especially when the weather has slowed proceedings . . .’

‘And what the hell did you think you were doing, getting into a row with the Douglas-Browns?’

Erika took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘I admit, sir, that I should have handled the victim’s parents better.’

‘Too bloody right you should have. I thought Lady Diana would have found some common ground, with you being Slovak?’

‘Yes, well, that was the problem. She thought I was common. Not good enough to be leading the murder investigation.’

‘Yeah, well, you didn’t choose to be a police officer so people could be nice to you, DCI Foster. There is a course I can send you on – dealing with the public.’

‘That’s the problem. We’re not treating them as members of the public. In fact, is Sir Simon leading the investigation? He seems to think he’s in charge . . . Anyway who told you about what happened? He called you, did he? Knows your direct line number?’

‘You’re on thin ice, DCI Foster,’ said Marsh. ‘He called DCI Sparks, actually, who relayed the message to me.’

‘How good of him.’

Marsh shot her a look. ‘I’ve stuck my neck out on this, to get you on this case—’

‘I don’t want your pity, sir!’

‘—and if you’re not careful, you’ll be gone before you’ve even started. You need to learn how to keep your mouth shut. I got you on this case because you’re a bloody good copper. One of the best I know. Although, right now, I’m questioning my judgement.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just been a long day – tough conditions, and no sleep. But you know me, I don’t make excuses and I will find who did this.’

‘Okay,’ said Marsh, calming down. ‘But you need to apologise sincerely to the Douglas-Browns.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And get a decent night’s sleep. You look like shit.’

‘Thanks, sir.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘A hotel.’

‘Good. Now bugger off, and come to work tomorrow with your head screwed on,’ said Marsh, waving her away.

Erika was furious when she left Marsh’s office; furious that she’d been given a dressing-down, and furious with herself that she’d messed up. She went back down to the incident room and grabbed her coat. Andrea’s picture stared boldly back at her from the centre of the whiteboard. The handwritten notes on the case blurred in the bright lights, and Erika rubbed her tired eyes. It felt like she was looking at everything through murky glass. She couldn’t get a handle on the details. Tiredness and anger washed over her again. She pulled on her coat and left, flicking off the light. When she came out of the incident room she met Desk Sergeant Woolf in the corridor.

‘I was just coming to tell you. We’ve sorted you a car. It’s a blue Ford Mondeo,’ he said, holding out a key fob, his jowly face more sullen that it had been that morning.

‘Thanks,’ said Erika, taking the key. They made for the main entrance, Woolf struggling a little to match her stride.

‘I didn’t put your suitcase in though; I did my back in a few years ago. Had to have a disc removed. It’s behind my desk . . .’

They emerged into the reception area, where a thin, bedraggled woman was leaning over Woolf’s desk, using his phone. She wore filthy ripped jeans, and an old parka jacket that was stained and covered in cigarette burns. Her long grey hair was tied back with an elastic band, and underneath her eyes were deep dark circles. Two unkempt little girls beside her were shrieking encouragement at a little boy with a buzz cut who sat on Erika’s suitcase. He wore a pair of stained white tracksuit bottoms and was gyrating his hips with one hand on the suitcase handle and the other in the air, like he was riding a bucking bronco. Woolf hurried behind his desk and put his finger on the phone, cutting off the call.

‘I was fuckin’ talking!’ snarled the woman indignantly, displaying a mouth of crooked brown teeth.

‘Ivy. This is a police phone,’ said Woolf.