The Girl in the Ice (Detective Erika Foster 1)

‘Sir? Are you taking the piss?’

‘No, I’m a police officer,’ said Erika, pulling out her ID.

‘What’s a pig doing here? You told me you’d had a word . . .’

‘I did have a word, Michael. This police officer is just leaving.’

‘There’s a fucking pig ’ere!’ cried a weedy, red-haired woman who had tottered over, wearing only one pink slip-on shoe. There was a crack of glass, and then two blokes started to fight. The red-haired woman threw her pint over Erika and wiggled her fingers in a “come and get it” gesture. Erika felt herself being grabbed around the waist. At first she thought she was being attacked, but the landlord was carrying her, holding her up in the air as people swore and spat at her. Through the force of his sheer weight and height he pulled her through the throng and got her behind the bar.

‘Get the fuck out. Go through there, to the kitchens. The back door leads out to an alley behind,’ he said, putting out a hand to stop people from the crowd who were trying to squeeze through the small hatch to get behind the bar. A glass exploded above Erika’s head, shattering a vodka optic. At the far end of the bar, the woman who’d thrown the drink pulled up another hatch, and people poured behind the bar and began to rush at Erika.

‘Get out!’ said the landlord. He pushed her through a stinking pair of curtains. She stumbled down a dimly lit hallway, crashing into boxes of crisps, tripping over a crate of empty bottles. The music blared but barely drowned out the sound of the chaos and breaking glass from the bar behind. She could see that the landlord was being pushed and shoved as he tried to block the doorway. Erika found a door into a kitchen of filth and hellish grease, and at the back she pushed open a fire exit. The cold air hit her wet skin, which was already feeling sticky from the beer, and she saw she was in an alleyway.

Erika dashed back towards the road, past the steam and chaos emanating from the bar windows, and out to her car, which was thankfully still waiting on the road out front.

She got in and drove away with a squeal of rubber. She felt relieved, elated, adrenalin surging through her. And then she remembered that Ivy was still inside the pub. Ivy had seen Andrea, with the dark-haired man and the blonde-haired woman.

Had Ivy been in The Glue Pot the night Andrea vanished? Did this mean the barmaid at The Glue Pot was telling the truth?

23

Erika was called to Chief Superintendent Marsh’s office when she arrived the next morning. She carried with her a cheque for the rent and the signed contract for the flat. She was surprised, when she entered the office, to see DCI Sparks sat opposite Marsh. Sparks had a smug look on his face.

‘Sir?’

‘What the hell were you playing at, going into The Crown last night?’ demanded Marsh.

Erika looked between Sparks and Marsh. ‘I stuck to orange juice . . .’

‘This isn’t funny! You crashed the wake for Pearl Gadd, and caused no end of chaos. Do you know the Gadd family?’

‘No. Should I?’

‘They’re a bunch of low-life scum who own a massive lorry transportation network in the south of England. However, they’ve been working with us.’

‘Working with us, sir? Do you want me to allocate one of them a desk in the incident room?’

‘Don’t get smart.’

Sparks was trying not to enjoy this, watching their exchange with his chin resting on the heel of his hand. Erika noticed how he’d let the nail grow long on each index finger.

‘Sir. If you've called me in here for a bollocking, I’d rather be bollocked in private.’

‘You don’t outrank DCI Sparks, and he’s here as part of the investigation. You’re supposed to be working together. I take it your visit to The Crown was part of your enquiries?’

Erika paused, and took the seat next to Sparks.

‘Okay. If this is a meeting, fine. Tell me all about our colleagues in the South London underworld.’

Sparks removed the hand from under his chin. ‘The Gadd family has been feeding us information for the past eight months. Information that will hopefully lead to the seizure of millions of pounds’ worth of counterfeit cigarettes and alcohol.’

‘In return for what?’ asked Erika.

Marsh interrupted, ‘I don’t have to spell it out, DCI Foster. We’re stretched to the fucking limit with what we can and can’t do. Do you know what a delicate eco-system it is here in South London? In return for this information we’ve been turning a blind eye to . . . well, lock-ins and things. Then you barrel in there last night with your ID and your attitude.’