The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(10)

‘Bring it to the Visitors’ Centre, by the ambulance,’ said Erika to the officer, who hurried off. Moments later she, Moss and Peterson emerged from the hedgerows. At the bottom of a gentle snow-covered slope was the futuristic glass box of the Visitors’ Centre. A courtyard out front had been churned up by an ambulance, which was parked with its back doors open. A young man in his early twenties sat in the back under a pile of blankets. He was grey-faced and shaking. A small woman stood by the ambulance doors, watching over a member of the crime scene unit who was carefully processing the boy’s clothes, his gloved hand labelling the soiled tracksuit, jumper and trainers in their clear evidence bags. The woman had the same bushy eyebrows as the boy, but with a sharp little face.

‘I want a receipt,’ she was saying, ‘and I want it in writing what’s being taken away. Lee only got those tracksuit bottoms in November, and those trainers are new too – there’s still thirteen weeks of catalogue payments to be made on them. How long are you gonna have them for?’

‘These are all now evidence in a murder investigation,’ said Erika, as they reached the ambulance. ‘I’m DCI Foster, this is Detective Moss and Detective Peterson.’ They held out their ID and the woman peered beadily at their photos.

‘What’s your name?’ prompted Erika.

‘Grace Kinney, and my Lee’s done nothing more than turn up for work. And because he’s been forced to wait in the cold, he’ll be on the sick and they’ll stop his money!’

‘Lee, can you tell us exactly what happened?’

Lee nodded, his face pale and haunted. He told them how he’d arrived for work, then followed the sound of the phone ringing, which had led to the discovery of Andrea’s body under the ice. An officer interrupted him, appearing at the ambulance doors holding a small pink clutch bag in a clear plastic bag. Another plastic bag contained its contents: six fifty-pound notes, two compact tampons, a mascara, a lipstick and a perfume atomizer.

‘Did that belong to the dead girl?’ said Grace, peering over. The officer quickly placed it behind his back.

‘She’s seen it now,’ Erika snapped at the officer. She went on, ‘Ms Kinney. You have to understand that this is evidence in a sensitive investigation and . . .’

‘I’ll keep my mouth shut, don’t you worry,’ Grace said. ‘Although what a young girl with a designer bag and a wad of fifties was doing round here, God only knows.’

‘What do you think she was doing?’ asked Erika.

‘I’m not doing your job for you. But it don’t take Sherlock Holmes to realise she was on the game. She probably brought a punter up here and it all went wrong,’ said Grace.

‘Lee, did you recognise the dead girl?’

‘Why would my Lee recognise a prostitute?’

‘We don’t . . . we don’t think she was a prostitute.’

Grace seemed oblivious to Lee’s distress. He pulled the blanket around him and furrowed his brow, knitting his bushy eyebrows together. ‘She was beautiful,’ he said, quietly. ‘Even dead, under the ice . . . It was horrible, how she died, wasn’t it?’

Erika nodded.

‘I could see it in her face,’ said Lee. ‘Sorry, what was the question?’

‘Did you recognise her, Lee? Had you seen her around?’ repeated Erika.

‘No. I’ve never seen her before,’ he said.

‘We think she could have been out at one of the pubs on the high street when she went missing. Which pubs attract the younger crowd?’ asked Peterson.

Lee shrugged. ‘The Wetherspoon’s is busy on a weekend . . . The Pig and Whistle. That’s just up from the station.’

‘Do you go out much, Lee?’ asked Peterson. Lee shrugged. Peterson continued, ‘The Wetherspoon’s, The Pig and Whistle. Any other pubs?’

‘He steers clear of those, don’t you?’ said Grace, throwing Lee a look.

‘Yeah, yeah. I do. I mean, I steer clear,’ said Lee.

Grace went on, ‘It used to be nice round ’ere. Nothing posh, but nice. That rough old Wetherspoon’s used to be a lovely Odeon. The worst are The Glue Pot and The Stag. I tell you, if the world was flooded with piss and those two boozers were above the waterline, you wouldn’t catch me in there. And they’re swarming with bloody immigrants – no offence, love,’ she added, to Peterson. Erika noticed Moss suppress a smile.

Grace continued, still oblivious to Lee’s distress. ‘I tell you, I go out down the high street and feel like a foreigner in me own country: Polish, Romanian, Ukrainian, Russian, Indian, African . . . And Lee tells me they’re all down at the Jobcentre, hands out, taking what they can. You should raid those pubs on the high street. Loads of them work behind the bar, and nip out in their tea breaks to sign on. But no, there’s a blind eye turned to that. It’s my Lee who’s got to come out in all weather and work a forty-hour week for sixty quid’s worth of benefits. It’s disgusting.’

‘How long have you been working in the museum grounds?’ asked Erika. Lee shrugged. ‘I did four weeks before Christmas.’

‘And I suppose it’ll be Lee’s fault he can’t work, cos some stupid prostitute went and got herself . . .’

‘That’s enough,’ said Erika.