The Girl in the Ice (Detective Erika Foster 1)

‘I know. And that’s fine.’

Moss dropped Erika home and despite all that had happened, all the revelations, Erika felt no closer to the truth, and very far away from being reinstated and getting her badge back. When she came into her living room she switched on the light, seeing herself and the image of the room reflected back in the window. She went to the light and turned it off. She peered out of the window and down into the deserted street, but everything was still. Quiet.

44

Over the next two days, Moss and Peterson had to appear in court and give evidence in the case involving an armed gunman at the supermarket in Sydenham. Much of the original investigative team into Andrea’s death had been reassigned, now that Marco Frost had been charged with her murder. Erika was stuck in limbo, awaiting her misconduct hearing. She’d had a call from Marsh that morning.

‘Did you and Moss visit Linda Douglas-Brown and Giles Osborne?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ve had complaints from them both, and Sir Simon is threatening to make a formal complaint.’

So you answer their calls, but not mine? Erika wanted to say. She bit her lip. ‘Sir. I was there as an advisor to Moss; in both instances I wasn’t asked to produce identification.’

‘Leave it out, Erika.’

‘Sir, you are aware we recovered Andrea’s second mobile phone?’

‘Yes, I’m aware. Moss filed her report.’

‘And?’

‘And, you withheld evidence. The note you received.’

‘But the note, sir . . .’

‘The note could have come from several places. Think back to your colleagues in Manchester. There’s still a great deal of anger towards you . . .’ Marsh tailed off. ‘I’m sorry. That was unfair . . . I think, Erika, that you need to let this go.’

‘What? Sir, have you seen the pictures?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen the pictures, and I’ve read Moss’s report very carefully. Although I can hear your voice when I read it. It still proves nothing, you have no grounds whatsoever to prove that this . . . person, whoever he is, was involved in the deaths of Andrea or Ivy.’

‘Or Tatiana, or Karolina, or Mirka?’

‘What you have succeeded in doing is pissing off a lot of people and metaphorically pissing on the memory of Andrea Douglas-Brown.’

‘But sir, I didn’t take those pictures she . . .’

‘She had a secret phone for God’s sake! Everyone has secrets.’

‘I take it this conversation is off the record?’

‘Yes, it is, Erika. And I must remind you that you are off the record. You are suspended. Now, be sensible. Enjoy the full pay. I have it on good authority that if you lay low and keep your mouth shut, you’ll be reinstated next month.’

‘Lay low, until what? Marco Frost goes down for something he didn’t do?’

‘Your orders—’

‘Come from who?’ she said, cutting him off. ‘Do they come from you, or Assistant Commissioner Oakley, or Sir Simon Douglas-Brown?’

Marsh was silent for a moment.

‘It’s Andrea Douglas -Brown’s funeral tomorrow. I don’t want to see you there. And I don’t want to hear you’ve been poking your nose in anywhere else. And when this is over, and if you are reinstated, I’m going to make sure you’re transferred to nick a long, long way away. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Marsh hung up. Erika sat back on the sofa. Fuming. She cursed Marsh, and then herself. Had she lost the plot? Were her instincts off on this one?

No. They weren’t.

She had a cigarette and then went to pick out something suitable for a funeral.

45

Erika woke before it was light, and sat smoking and drinking coffee by the front window. The day stretched ahead in front of her, full of obstacles, and she had to navigate it as smoothly as possible. She took a shower, and when she emerged just after nine, the sky still had a grey-blue tinge. Erika felt it wasn’t right to be going to the funeral of someone so young. Perhaps the day was protesting, refusing to begin.

She’d searched through her suitcase for something suitable to wear to Andrea’s funeral, only to realise that most of her wardrobe was suitable for a funeral. At the bottom, she found the elegant black dress she’d worn over a year ago to a Christmas party organised by the Manchester Met Police. She remembered that night so clearly; the lazy afternoon beforehand when she and Mark had made love, and then he’d run her a bath, pouring her favourite sandalwood oil into the steaming water. He’d sat on the side of the bath and they’d chatted and drunk wine as she’d wallowed in the water. When it came to put on the dress, it had felt snug, and she’d protested she was fat. Mark had slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her into him, telling her she was perfect. She’d gone to the party, proud to be on his arm, the warm feeling of being loved, of having someone special.