The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(100)

‘Why did he have to spend thousands, Linda? Who did he give the thousands to?’ asked Peterson.

‘To Igor, Andrea’s fucking fuck buddy! For the girls.’

‘And your father paid him off?’ asked Peterson.

‘He gave Giles the money to pay him off! And he’s given David money to leave the country. ALL THAT MONEY AND HE WOULDN’T BUY ME A LITTLE KITTEN!’

Linda tilted her head back and brought it crashing down on the tabletop. She lifted it and brought it crashing down again.

‘Stop! Stop!’ cried Peterson. The solicitor had now retreated to the corner of the room. Peterson went to the wall and triggered the panic alarm. It blared out around the station. He turned and looked up at the camera. ‘I need help in here, NOW!’



‘Where’s DCI Foster?’ asked Marsh, back in the observation suite.

Moss paused, the colour draining from her face. ‘Jesus. She’s gone to the Douglas-Brown house.’





78





Erika spun round and found herself face-to-face with David, who was standing across from her in his bedroom. He was dressed in a green sweater, a dark body warmer, and jeans. He pulled the SIM card from her phone and broke it in two with a small snap. He dropped the handset, and there was a cracking, splintering sound as he ground it into the carpet with the heel of his boot.

Erika regarded David’s face. It was as if his mask of youth and attractive confidence had fallen away. His nostrils flared; his eyes blazed. He looked evil. She could see it all so clearly now. She had been so stupid.

‘I thought you were away, David?’ said Erika.

‘I will be away. On a stag weekend . . .’

Erika looked down at the book. It lay on the carpet, its pages open to the map of London.

‘It’s not marked in the book, but you killed Andrea, too, didn’t you?’ said Erika, evenly.

‘Yes. I did. Pity really; she was much more fun than Linda,’ said David. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. Why Andrea and not Linda?’

‘Is that what you’re thinking, David?’

‘No. Linda has proved to be an asset. She’ll take the rap for Andrea’s murder. Igor Kucerov will go down for the whores – they were his whores after all. And Ivy Norris – well, that piece of trash belonged in the ground.’

‘Can you hear yourself?’

‘Yes, I can,’ sneered David.

‘Why did you do it?’

David shrugged.

‘You can just shrug it off? That I don’t believe,’ said Erika.

‘Believe it,’ he hissed. ‘You think you can analyse me. Rationalise what I did, why I killed? I did it because I CAN.’

‘But you can’t, David. You won’t get away with it. There will be consequences.’

‘You wouldn’t know what it’s like to grow up privileged and powerful. It’s intoxicating. Watching how people defer to you, and to your parents. Power reeks from your pores, and it infects people around you. Power corrupts, envelops, entices . . . The more powerful my father becomes, the more he fears losing it.’

‘So he knew you killed Mirka, Tatiana, Karolina?’

‘Of course . . . Not that he was thrilled, but they were Eastern European girls; they all think they can suck and fuck their way to greatness.’

‘What about Andrea? She was your sister! Your father’s favourite!’

‘She was threatening to tell Mother; she said she was going to go to the fucking press! Stupid girl. First lesson of life in the establishment: keep your mouth shut. Or someone will shut it for you, permanently.’

‘I can’t believe your father was willing to cover even that up; to let it go that you killed his beloved daughter.’

‘Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. He fears a fall from grace more than anything else. He fears that the other wolves will descend and tear him apart . . . Fear is more powerful than love. He found himself with the choice to save Linda or me. Linda’s halfway to being off her fucking rocker anyway, and she hated Andrea so much, she probably would have done it herself.’

‘Linda wouldn’t have killed Andrea,’ said Erika.

‘You’re sticking up for her now? Jesus. Well, I suppose most people feel pity for her when they’ve paid a visit to her bedroom . . . You know, when my friends used to come for sleepovers we’d find her little cat and lock it in one of the huge petty cash tins from my fathers’ office . . . We’d make her do all sorts to get the key back.’

Erika forced herself to keep eye contact with David. ‘Boots. That was her cat.’

‘Yes, dear old Boots . . . Linda used to go into terrible rages when she didn’t get her way. I used one of these to dispose of Boots . . . Strangulation, in case you were curious. Have you ever tried to strangle a cat?’

‘No.’

‘Kill a rabbit? You Slovaks like a bit of bunny, don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘It’s the claws with cats. They go ballistic. They put up an admirable fight for survival.’

‘Your parents are intelligent people. They must have known it was you who killed the cat?’ said Erika.

‘That’s the problem when you delegate your child’s upbringing. Hiring nannies, you just play a walk-on role. You see the children before bath time, an hour here and there. Don’t come too close, darling; I’m dressed up for the evening out . . . You child becomes a bunch of statistics: he got an A in Maths, he can play Für Elise on the piano . . . Let’s get him a polo pony so we can mix with the polo set . . .’