The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(17)

‘Who do you think you fuckin’ are?’ growled Ivy, lunging across at her.

Erika tried to dodge out of the way, but found herself with her back flat against the wall. Woolf caught Ivy just in time, as a long blade glinted inches from Erika’s face.

‘Ivy, now come on, just cool it . . .’ started Woolf, restraining her under the armpits, but still struggling to hold her back.

‘Don’t you tell me to cool it, you fat ugly cunt!’ said Ivy, dangerously. ‘You touch my kids and I’ll cut your face, no problem, you bitch. I’ve got nothin’ to lose.’

Erika tired to control her breathing as she saw the flick-knife inch closer to her face.

‘Let go of the knife. Let go,’ said Woolf, finally gaining a grip on Ivy’s wrist, and twisting the flick-knife out of her hand. It clattered to the floor and he put his foot over it.

‘You didn’t ’ave to be so rough, Droopy,’ said Ivy, rubbing her wrist. Woolf kept his eye on her as he leant down and retrieved the knife from the floor. He found the small release button and the blade vanished back into its handle. The little boy and two girls had ceased to be threatening and rowdy. They were just kids, and they seemed more afraid of what Ivy was going to do next. Erika couldn’t imagine the life they must lead. She looked at the little boy, who was holding the back of his head.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . . What’s your name?’

He shrank back from her. What could she say to him? That she’d had a bad day? Erika took in their filthy clothes, their malnourished bodies . . .

‘I want to make a complaint,’ said Ivy with relish.

‘Oh, do you?’ said Woolf, moving Ivy towards the main door.

‘Yeah, police brutality – get yer hands off me – police brutality towards a minor.’

‘You’ll need to fill in a form,’ said Woolf. ‘Before you spend a night in the cells for pulling a knife on a police officer.’

Ivy narrowed her eyes. ‘No, I haven’t got fuckin’ time . . . Come on, kids. NOW!’ She gave Erika a last look, and they followed after her through the main door. There was a flash of coats as they passed the window.

‘Shit,’ said Erika, slumping against the main desk and rubbing at the back of her hand. ‘I shouldn’t have hit that kid.’

There was a white and purple ridge of teeth marks deep in her skin, and a blur of blood mingling with the little boy’s saliva. Woolf went to a box marked knife amnesty where he deposited Ivy’s flick-knife. He then moved back round the desk and pulled down a first-aid kit. He placed it on the table beside Erika and opened the lid.

‘You know her?’ asked Erika.

‘Oh, yes. Ivy Norris, or Jean McArdle, Beth Crosby – sometimes she goes by Paulette O’Brien. Bit of a local celebrity.’ He poured some alcohol solution on a sterile dressing and pressed it against the back of Erika’s hand, over the bite marks. The nasty stinging sensation was contrasted by a comforting smell of mint. Woolf went on, ‘She’s a long-term drug addict, prostitute, got a record as long as the Great Wall of China. She used to do a mother-and-daughter speciality, if you know what I mean, until the daughter died of a drug overdose.’

‘And the kids’ fathers?’

‘They’re actually her grandkids, and who knows? Stick your finger in the phone book.’

Woolf removed the dressing and started to clean the bloody bite mark with a fresh one.

‘Are they homeless?’

Woolf nodded.

‘Could we get them into emergency social services, bed and breakfast?’ asked Erika. She could still see Ivy, standing in the car park smoking under the harsh lights and mouthing off to no one in particular. The kids were huddled around her, flinching as she gestured with her arms.

Woolf laughed darkly. ‘She’s banned from most of the B&Bs and hostels for soliciting.’

He lifted off the bandage and applied a large square plaster to the back of Erika’s hand.

‘Thanks,’ said Erika, flexing her fingers.

Woolf started to pack up the first aid kit. ‘Now you know what I’m going to tell you. You need to see a doctor about the bite. Get a tetanus jab, and you know . . . Street kids, not healthy.’

‘Yeah,’ said Erika.

‘And I have to log this down. Everything what happened. She pulled a knife on you. He bit you . . .’

‘Yes, and I hit him. I hit a bloody kid . . . It’s fine. Do your job, and thank you.’

He nodded, took his seat again and pulled out some paperwork. Erika turned back to look outside, but Ivy and the kids were gone.





10





It was bitingly cold outside. The main entrance of Lewisham Row Police Station was lit up, but the car park was a pool of darkness. Long rows of cars twinkled with frost under the street lamps, and beyond, the traffic crawled steadily by. Erika’s hand was still throbbing. She pointed the key fob to her left and clicked, then did the same to her right. A car down the far end of the car park gave two pulses of orange light. She cursed and set off, dragging her case through the deep snow.

She stowed the case in the boot and got inside. The car was freezing, but smelt new. She turned on the engine and activated the central locking. When the heaters had warmed the inside up a little, she pulled out of the parking space and drove slowly towards the exit.