The Girl in the Ice (Detective Erika Foster 1)

‘Well, it ain’t rung for the past ten minutes. Think yerself lucky the criminals are having a rest!’

‘Who do you want to call? I can do it for you,’ said Woolf.

‘I know how to use a fuckin’ phone!’

‘Who is this woman?’ asked Erika.

Ivy held the receiver away from Woolf and gave Erika the once over, saying, ‘Me and Droopy go way back, don’t we Droopy? I call ‘im Droopy. Ugly fuckin’ bastard, ain’t he?’

‘You. Get off my suitcase,’ said Erika to the boy, who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. He ignored her and carried on whooping and riding the suitcase. Woolf grappled with Ivy for the receiver, and finally managed to prise it from her grip.

‘I should be allowed to use this bloody phone. It’s only a local call and besides, I pay your wages!’

‘How do you pay my wages?’ asked Woolf.

‘I’ve got money. I pay my taxes, and that’s what pays your wages!’

Erika went to lift the little boy off her suitcase, but he leaned over and sank his teeth into the back of her hand. The intensity of the pain surprised her.

‘Let go, now,’ said Erika, trying to keep calm. He looked up at her with a nasty grin, and bit down even harder. Intense pain shot through her hand and she snapped, slapping him hard across the face. He screamed, releasing Erika’s hand, and fell off the suitcase, hitting the ground with a thud.

‘Who do you think you fuckin’ are?’ growled Ivy, lunging across at her.

Erika tried to dodge out of the way, but found herself with her back flat against the wall. Woolf caught Ivy just in time, as a long blade glinted inches from Erika’s face.

‘Ivy, now come on, just cool it . . .’ started Woolf, restraining her under the armpits, but still struggling to hold her back.

‘Don’t you tell me to cool it, you fat ugly cunt!’ said Ivy, dangerously. ‘You touch my kids and I’ll cut your face, no problem, you bitch. I’ve got nothin’ to lose.’

Erika tired to control her breathing as she saw the flick-knife inch closer to her face.

‘Let go of the knife. Let go,’ said Woolf, finally gaining a grip on Ivy’s wrist, and twisting the flick-knife out of her hand. It clattered to the floor and he put his foot over it.

‘You didn’t ’ave to be so rough, Droopy,’ said Ivy, rubbing her wrist. Woolf kept his eye on her as he leant down and retrieved the knife from the floor. He found the small release button and the blade vanished back into its handle. The little boy and two girls had ceased to be threatening and rowdy. They were just kids, and they seemed more afraid of what Ivy was going to do next. Erika couldn’t imagine the life they must lead. She looked at the little boy, who was holding the back of his head.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . . What’s your name?’

He shrank back from her. What could she say to him? That she’d had a bad day? Erika took in their filthy clothes, their malnourished bodies . . .

‘I want to make a complaint,’ said Ivy with relish.

‘Oh, do you?’ said Woolf, moving Ivy towards the main door.

‘Yeah, police brutality – get yer hands off me – police brutality towards a minor.’

‘You’ll need to fill in a form,’ said Woolf. ‘Before you spend a night in the cells for pulling a knife on a police officer.’

Ivy narrowed her eyes. ‘No, I haven’t got fuckin’ time . . . Come on, kids. NOW!’ She gave Erika a last look, and they followed after her through the main door. There was a flash of coats as they passed the window.

‘Shit,’ said Erika, slumping against the main desk and rubbing at the back of her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have hit that kid.’

There was a white and purple ridge of teeth marks deep in her skin, and a blur of blood mingling with the little boy’s saliva. Woolf went to a box marked knife amnesty where he deposited Ivy’s flick-knife. He then moved back round the desk and pulled down a first-aid kit. He placed it on the table beside Erika and opened the lid.

‘You know her?’ asked Erika.

‘Oh, yes. Ivy Norris, or Jean McArdle, Beth Crosby – sometimes she goes by Paulette O’Brien. Bit of a local celebrity.’ He poured some alcohol solution on a sterile dressing and pressed it against the back of Erika’s hand, over the bite marks. The nasty stinging sensation was contrasted by a comforting smell of mint. Woolf went on, ‘She’s a long-term drug addict, prostitute, got a record as long as the Great Wall of China. She used to do a mother-and-daughter speciality, if you know what I mean, until the daughter died of a drug overdose.’