The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(26)

Diana and Simon were immaculately dressed in black, and Diana looked as if she had to be held up by Simon and David. David was very tall and thin and wore a fashionably tight black suit and glasses. Linda was next to her father, and appeared very matronly in a black A-line skirt and a thick winter coat. They all had red eyes from crying.

‘Good morning. We’re ready for you through here,’ said Erika, taking them to the door of the identification room.

Simon put a hand over his wife’s. ‘You stay here, David, and Linda, you too. I’ll do this.’

‘Dad, we’re here. Together,’ said David. His voice had a rich forceful command, like his father’s, which contrasted with his geeky appearance. Linda chewed her lip for a moment and then nodded in agreement. Erika showed them through. The identification room was small and institutional, with two chairs and a wooden table decorated with a hopelessly cheery bunch of plastic daffodils.

‘Please take your time,’ said Erika, leading them to a large glass window. On the other side of the glass, a curtain was closed. Erika noticed that the curtain had been hung the wrong way round, with the yellowing lining on show, some of the stitching coming away at the top. It was ironic that the dead were the ones who were shown the good side, whilst relatives and friends waited on the other, as if they were back stage.

Diana visibly tensed as a mortuary assistant drew the curtain back, revealing Andrea, who lay under a sheet, shrouded in white. A soft yellow light played over the wood panelling of the viewing room. Erika had never lost the feeling that viewing a body was almost abstract; theatrical. Some relatives remained impassive, others cried uncontrollably. One man, she remembered, had pounded on the glass so hard that it had cracked.

‘Yes. It’s her, that’s Andrea,’ said Diana. She gulped and her eyes watered. She pressed a neat square of white handkerchief to her beautifully made-up face. Linda didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, eyes wide with a morbid curiosity. David stared grimly, fighting back tears.

It was Simon who lost control and, with a wail, broke down. David went to embrace his father, but he shook the boy off violently. It was only then that David cried too, leaning over, sobs heaving out of him.

‘Let me give you some privacy. Take as long as you need,’ said Erika. Diana nodded as she retreated.

Five minutes passed, and the family finally emerged with bloodshot eyes. Erika was waiting in the corridor with Moss and Peterson.

‘Thank you for doing that,’ said Erika, softly. ‘Would it be possible for us to talk to all of you, later this afternoon?’

‘What do you want to talk to us about?’ asked Simon. His bloodshot eyes were now cautious and embarrassed.

‘We’d like to find out some more about Andrea. So we can discover if she knew the killer.’

‘Why would she have known the killer? You think someone like Andrea would mix with killers?’ said Simon.

‘No, sir. I don’t. But we have to ask these questions.’

‘Where is Andrea’s fiancé?’ asked Moss.

‘Giles understood that we wanted to be left as a family. I’m sure he will pay his respects when . . .’ Lady Diana’s voice trailed off, perhaps realising she now had to organise a funeral.



They watched as the family walked slowly across the snowy car park to a waiting car. As they got in, Simon Douglas-Brown stared across at Erika. His bloodshot eyes bored into hers. Then he got into the car, and it drove away into the snow.





15





Yakka Events was based in a futuristic office block on a residential street in Kensington. It rose up between rows of ordinary terraced houses, like a pretentious sculpture that had been delivered to the wrong address. Erika, Peterson and Moss had to buzz in at two separate smoked glass doors before they were allowed access to the front desk. A young receptionist sat typing at her computer, wearing earphones. She saw them, but didn’t say a word and carried on typing. Erika leaned across and removed one of her earphones.

‘I’m DCI Foster, this is Detective Moss and Detective Peterson. We’d like to talk to Giles Osborne, please.’

‘Mr Osborne is busy. One moment, I’ll just finish this and get you booked in for an appointment,’ said the receptionist, making a show of replacing the earphone.

Erika leaned over again and pulled down on the cable, yanking both of the earphones out of the girl’s ears. ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. We’d like to see Giles Osborne.’

They all showed her their police ID. The girl’s attitude remained, but she picked up the phone on her desk. ‘What’s it regarding?’

‘The death of his fiancé,’ said Erika. The girl dialled a number.

‘What did she think we were here about? A cat stuck up a fucking tree?’ murmured Peterson. Erika shot him a look.

The receptionist replaced the receiver. ‘Mr Osborne will be out in a moment. You can wait through there.’

They moved through to a chill-out area with sofas and a low wooden coffee table, where design magazines were neatly fanned out. In the corner was a small bar with a giant fridge, lit up and stocked with rows of beers, and beside that was a giant, silver espresso machine. Along the wall hung a montage of photos, taken at various Yakka Events, which mostly seemed to involve gorgeous young girls and guys handing out free champagne.