The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(81)

‘Norfolk,’ said Erika.

‘Norfolk? What the hell is she doing in Norfolk?’ asked Moss.

Erika’s mobile phone rang. She saw it was Edward. ‘Sorry, I just have to take this. Can you work out a route, and we’ll decide how to proceed when I come back,’ she said, and left the incident room.

The corridor outside was quiet and she answered her phone.

‘So lass, I take it you’re not coming?’ said Edward. Erika saw that it was five past five.

‘I’m so sorry . . . You’re not still waiting there? On the platform?’

‘No, lass. I saw you on the telly this afternoon, and I thought, unless you can fly, you wouldn’t be here at five o’clock.’

Erika thought back. The morning seemed like a million years ago.

‘You did well for that press conference, love,’ said Edward. ‘You made me care about that girl, Andrea. She hasn’t been getting very nice things said about her in the papers, has she?’

‘Thank you. It all happened at once. I was called in this morning, I was about to get on the train to you and . . .’

‘And it all got away from you, eh?’

‘Yes,’ said Erika, softly.

‘Listen love. You do what you have to do. I’ll be here for you.’

Moss appeared at the door, signaling that she wanted to speak.

‘Sorry. I have to go. Can I phone you back later?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes, love. Take care of yourself, won’t you? You catch that bloke, lock him up and throw away the key.’

‘I will,’ said Erika. There was a click, and Edward hung up. ‘I will. I promise I will,’ she repeated.

Taking a deep breath, she went back into the incident room, wondering exactly when she’d be able to honour her promise.





57





Erika, Moss and Peterson set off early from London the next day to meet Barbora Kardosova. They had tried a search on her several times, but it had brought up a blank. Her National Insurance, passport and bank account numbers had ceased activity more than a year previously. Her mother had died two years previously, and she had no other living relatives.

Just as the sun broke through the clouds, they plunged into the gloom of the Blackwall Tunnel. When they emerged a few moments later, the sun had vanished again behind a bank of steel-coloured clouds.

‘Now we’ve crossed the river, we’re looking for the A12, boss,’ said Moss. Peterson sat in the back, engrossed in his phone. They’d stopped for petrol just before Greenwich, and Moss had indulged her sweet tooth with packets of red liquorice bootlaces.

The built-up sprawl of London soon gave way to the A12 dual carriageway which was neglected and crumbling in places, and they noticed how flat the landscape was. Brown fields with bare trees whizzed past, and towards Ipswich they turned off the dual carriageway and slowed as they hit a single-lane road.

‘It’s quite eerie, isn’t it? This straight road through nothing,’ remarked Peterson, speaking for the first time in a hundred miles. The road carved its way through a vast expanse of flat fields, and the wind roared across the bare soil, buffeting the car. The road rose up a little, and they crossed a metal bridge over a canal of choppy water. Dead grey reeds lined the straight waterway all the way to the horizon. Erika wondered if the water reached the edge and poured away into nothingness.

‘It’s an old Roman road, the A12,’ said Moss, stuffing another red bootlace into her mouth and chewing.

‘They burnt hundreds of witches in Suffolk and Norfolk,’ added Peterson, as they passed a deserted windmill in a field next to the water.

‘I’ll take high prices, door-to-door traffic, smog, and a crowded Nando’s over this any day,’ said Moss, shivering and turning up the car heater. ‘How far?’

‘There’s about six miles to go,’ said Peterson, consulting his iPhone.

The trees thickened and the landscape changed to woodland. The car sped along under a canopy of bare trees, and Erika slowed as she spied a lay-by with a picnic area, which was no more than a scrub of soil and a picnic bench. A wooden sign had the number 14 painted on it.

‘What did she say, picnic area 17?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes, boss,’ said Peterson, tapping on his phone. They carried on a little more as the wood seemed to get denser. The road wove to the left and right, past picnic area 15. They took a sharp bend, and a picnic bench with the number 16 slid past. The picnic area was overgrown. The bench was rotten and had collapsed.

‘Advise on your status,’ said Detective Crane’s voice, bursting through with static on the police radio mounted on the dashboard.

‘We’ll be approaching within the next few minutes, skip,’ said Moss.

‘Okay, keep an open line of communication. That’s what the Super asked for,’ said Crane.



Chief Superintendent Marsh had been against sending three of his officers off to Norfolk on what he thought was a wild goose chase.

‘Boss, Barbora Kardosova was one of Andrea’s closest friends, and she says she knows George Mitchell,’ Erika had pointed out, when she was sitting in his office.

‘Why hasn’t she come forward before? Andrea has been in the newspapers for weeks. And why don’t we get the local plod to take a statement? You’ll be gone for a whole day. You’ve just launched a major appeal in London,’ said Marsh.