The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(63)

‘Officers spoke to her on all three occasions,’ said Moss, reading.

‘Yes, so no arrest. Giles Osborne’s first complaint was in July 2014, concerning abusive emails he received from Linda; in one she threatened to kill his cat first, and then him. The second complaint was a month later. His flat was broken into and his cat was poisoned. Linda’s fingerprints were found in the property, but her lawyer successfully claimed that her fingerprints would be in there because she had recently been a guest at the dinner party he threw to celebrate his engagement to Andrea.

‘Linda was also caught on CCTV in the next street to Giles Osborne’s flat within minutes of the break-in. She then capitulated and stated that she went into the house after the break-in to try and save the cat, who seemed in distress when she looked through the window.’

‘Sounds like she’s got a damn good lawyer,’ said Moss.

‘Perhaps, but there wasn’t enough proof to substantiate this either way. The third complaint was October last year when Linda caused eight thousand pounds’ worth of damage to Giles’s office. She threw a brick through one of the large glass window panels. Here, they even caught her on CCTV.’

The picture was over-exposed and black and white, but a bulky figure could be seen in a long overcoat, a baseball cap pulled down over her face. The coat had opened when the figure pulled back to throw the brick, and a jumper could be seen underneath, bearing an illustration of dancing poodles.

Moss was carrying her laptop in a bag. She pulled it out and switched it on. ‘Let’s work through the photos from Andrea’s phone,’ she said, fitting a USB key into the drive, which contained the contents of Andrea’s phone. They waited while the laptop whirred and hummed and booted up. The tiny little light on the USB key began to flicker, and then a scattergun of photos began to skim by on the screen.

Andrea was pictured at several parties: there were many selfies, pictures of Andrea topless in her bathroom mirror, cupping a breast seductively, tilting her head back. Then a series of photos that had been taken on a night out at a bar. It looked to be at the same bar as in the picture with Linda.

‘Stop, go back!’ said Erika.

‘I can’t stop, we have to let them load,’ said Moss.

‘Come on,’ said Erika, impatiently, as the laptop paused on a blurred photo of blackness, obviously taken in error – then the photos began to load again and finished. Erika began to flick through.

‘Yes. Here we go, these are the most recent ones, from the bar,’ said Erika.

‘Who’s that, do you think?’ asked Moss as they peered at the screen. A tall and broad man in his early thirties was pictured with Andrea. He was very dark with large brown eyes, and he had close-cropped stubble on his handsome, chiselled face.

The first few photos were taken by Andrea holding out the camera. In all of them, she was leaning into the man’s chest. He was incredibly handsome.

‘Dark-haired man,’ said Erika, in a soft, excited voice.

‘Let’s just steady on,’ said Moss, who also sounded excited. Erika clicked forward through the photos. They were all taken at what looked like the same party: people filled the background, sitting at tables or dancing. Andrea had gone mad taking pictures of herself with the man, and he’d happily let her. The poses began with them side-by-side, Andrea staring up at him with the love-light in her eyes. The pictures progressed to him kissing Andrea, their mouths locked with a glimpse of tongue, her red fingernails grazing his chiselled stubbly jaw.

‘These were all taken on the 23rd December last year,’ said Moss, noting the date stamp of the pictures.

‘That picture of Linda with Andrea. It was taken the same night. That’s the same party . . .’

The picture from which the National Criminal Database had recognised Linda’s face popped up again.

‘It’s towards the end of the evening by the look of it; they look a bit worse for wear,’ said Erika.

‘So Linda was there at the same time as that guy. He could have taken this photo,’ said Moss.

They pressed on through the photos. The date stamp showed a gap of a few days, and then they came across photos taken on a bed with pale sheets. Andrea lay with the dark-haired man, again holding out the camera to take the shots. His chest was powerful and covered in a smattering of dark hair. Andrea had her arm hooked under her naked breasts. The photos progressed to become more explicit: a close-up of the man with Andrea’s nipple drawn up between his white teeth, a full frontal picture of Andrea laying back on the bed, smiling. And then Andrea’s face filled the screen. Her lips were locked around the base of the man’s penis. He looked to be cupping her chin. One of his large thumbs rested on her cheekbone.

The next photo was abruptly less X-rated. Andrea and the man were pictured on the 30th December, hand-in-hand on the street. They were both dressed for winter. A familiar clock tower was in the background

‘Shit. That’s the Horniman Museum,’ said Moss.

‘And that’s four days before she went missing,’ said Erika.

‘Do you think this is the guy she was seen talking to in the pub?’ asked Moss.

‘This could be the guy who killed her,’ said Erika.

‘But he’s got no record that we know of; the National Criminal Database software didn’t flag him . . .’

‘He looks Russian, or – I don’t know – Romanian? Serbian? He could have a record overseas.’