The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(71)
‘You’ve got a nerve to sit there sobbing yer crocodile tears when you as good as killed Ivy, you bitch!’
She stalked away, leaving the ratty blonde to stare at Erika’s shock.
‘Yeah. And we don’t know anything,’ she said, eyeing the photo before moving off after her large companion. Erika fumbled in her bag for a tissue and wiped her face.
When she came back, she saw Woolf had gone, but the landlord was waiting for her.
‘Your mate got a call and had to go,’ he said. ‘You fancy a drink?’
‘You really want me back in your pub after last time?’
‘Oh, I dunno. I seem to be drawn to difficult blondes.’ He grinned and shrugged. ‘Come on, you owe me. I got you out of a sticky spot.’
‘As tempting as being picked up at a wake is . . . sorry, I’ve got to head off.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘Is that who you’re after? George Mitchell?’
Erika stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’
‘That picture,’ he said. ‘What’s George been up to now?’
‘You know this man?’
He laughed. ‘I know of him. I wouldn’t count him as a friend, though.’
Erika held the photo up. ‘This man is called George Mitchell?’
‘Yes. And now you’re worrying me. He’s not someone you want to fuck around with. This isn’t going to come back on me, is it?’
‘No. Do you know where he lives?’
‘No, and that’s all I’m gonna say. I don’t know anything else. I never spoke to you, okay? I’m serious, okay?’
‘Yes. Okay,’ said Erika. All talk of a drink had vanished and she watched him walk out of the crematorium, get in his car and drive away. Erika turned to look back at the low building with its immaculately manicured grounds. A stream of black smoke trailed from a long tall chimney.
‘Go on, Ivy. Now you are free to fly,’ said Erika, excitedly. ‘I think I’ve just found the bastard who did this to you.’
47
It was shortly after ten pm, and Erika had left several messages for Moss, Peterson, Crane and even Woolf. No one had been available when she’d called Lewisham Row, and she’d left messages on their mobile phones.
She had no clue if they were working still, but guessed that unlike her, they all had social lives outside work. When she’d come back from the funeral, she’d headed for the coffee shop and searched for George Mitchell online. Nothing had come back on the George Mitchell she was interested in finding.
She went to the fridge to pour herself another glass of wine, but saw the bottle was empty. She suddenly felt tired; she needed sleep.
Erika switched off the light, went to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. When she climbed out of the shower the combination of the cold air and whirling steam irritated her. She missed the luxurious bathroom of her house, which was now rented out, and she also missed the house in general. Her furniture, her old bed, the garden. She tried the extractor fan once more, and then rubbed at the mirror, wiping away the condensation. She decided if she didn’t hear from someone by morning, she would pay a visit to Lewisham Row Station.
As she climbed into bed, she tried Peterson again and then Moss. She left messages for both of them, repeating that she knew the name of the man in the photo. Then, feeling frustrated and pissed off, Erika switched off the light.
Shortly before midnight, Erika was sleeping softly. Commuters from the last train had walked past the flat, and the road outside settled into silence. A soft glow from the street lights bled through the living room, falling on the back wall of the bathroom. Erika rolled over in her sleep, shifting her head on the pillow. She didn’t hear the sound of the ventilator fan in the bathroom as it popped out of the wall and swung from side to side with a scrape.
Erika woke suddenly from a dreamless sleep. It was dark and her bedside clock glowed red, showing 00:13. She shifted her pillow and had turned over to go back to sleep, when she heard a very faint creak. She held her breath. The creak came again. A few seconds passed and then she heard a rustling of paper in the living room. Then she heard a drawer being opened, very quietly. Her eyes darted around the bedroom for a weapon; something to defend herself with.
There was nothing. Then she spied the bedside lamp. It was made of metal, and heavy, like a small candlestick. Very slowly and quietly, without taking her eye off the door, she leant down beside the bed and eased out the plug. Holding her breath, she wound the cable round the base of the lamp, and heard a faint creak outside her bedroom door.
Bracing the lamp in her hand, she eased herself off the bed. She heard a creak further down the hall, moving away from the door. She stopped and listened. Silence. Erika moved lightly to where her phone was charging on the floor by the wall, and switched it on, wishing she’d had a landline put in. She heard another creak. This time it was coming from outside the bathroom. Part of her just wanted whoever it was to realise that there was nothing worth taking, and then leave. As Erika crept towards the door, taking care to lay her bare feet down evenly and softy on the wooden floor, her phone blared out its start-up tone. It rang through the silence.
Shit, what a fucking idiot mistake. Her heart started to race. There was silence, and then the sound of footsteps walking towards the bedroom. It was now a heavy footfall, confident, no creeping about and scared to be heard.