The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(24)

‘I’m looking for the murderer, sir.’

‘Don’t be flippant.’

‘Well you were just there, in the incident room. This witness, Kristina, saw Andrea in The Glue Pot on the night she went missing. She says Andrea was with a blonde-haired woman and a dark-haired man. I’m looking for those people.’

‘And where is she now. This Kristina?’

‘Well, she ran away, and I didn’t get the chance to pursue any more information.’

‘Was she aware you were a police officer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think she could have felt it was in her best interest to give you a positive ID of Andrea?’

‘Sir?’

‘Look, Erika. She is more than likely an illegal immigrant, terrified of being deported. She probably would have told you she saw Elvis at the juke box if she thought it might save her arse.’

‘Sir, no, I think I have a lead here. And another woman, a local, Ivy Norris. Her reaction to The Glue Pot was . . .’

‘I read last night’s duty log, Erika. It says you hit Ivy Norris’s grandson and then she pulled a knife on you.’

‘Yes, the boy bit me, and I reacted badly. But that’s not relevant. Sir, Ivy Norris knows this area, and something about that pub scares her.’

‘Did you know that last month four people were beheaded at the Rambler’s Rest in Sydenham? She’s probably not keen on going there for a drink either.’

‘Sir!’

Marsh went on, ‘I’ve had the Assistant Commissioner up my arse; I have to report to someone at the bloody cabinet office with updates on this investigation. They want assurances that unsavoury or unsubstantiated details of the Douglas-Brown family won’t be dredged up and played throughout the media.’

‘I don’t control the media. Nor do I leak details of investigations. You know that, sir.’

‘Yes but I need you to—’

‘Sir, I need to do my job. Be straight with me. Are you telling me there are things I can’t investigate?’

Marsh screwed up his face. ‘No!’

‘Then what are you telling me?’

‘I’m telling you to stick to the facts. We’ve long suspected The Glue Pot is involved in placing illegal immigrants in work, and it’s a regular hang-out for prostitutes. You need concrete facts before you start saying Andrea Douglas-Brown was in there on the night she vanished.’

‘What if I find that barmaid and get her on record with a photofit ID?’

‘Well, good luck with that, because she’s probably already packed in the back of some lorry and bound for Calais!’

‘Sir! We’ve got Andrea on CCTV. She did board a train to Forest Hill the night she vanished, and her body was found close to the high street. Christ, is it any more obvious that I could be right?’

Marsh looked exasperated. ‘Okay. Just tread easy; be subtle in your investigation. The press is watching us.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘And I want to be kept informed. Everything, you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Marsh gave her a look and she left his office.





14





The morgue seemed to leach what little warmth Erika had left in her body as they walked down the long, fluorescent-lit corridor. They reached a metal door, where Moss buzzed through on an intercom. Forensic pathologist Isaac Strong buzzed them in.

‘Good morning,’ said Isaac softly, projecting an aura of calm and order. The white lab coat covering his tall frame was neatly pressed and spotless, a dark leather mobile phone case poking from its top pocket. He wore black skinny jeans and Crocs, and his dark hair was swept away from his high forehead. Again, Erika was drawn to his soft brown eyes below his thinly arched eyebrows. His autopsy room was a heady mix of steel and Victorian porcelain tile. Along one wall was a row of stainless steel doors, and in the centre of the room, three autopsy tables also of stainless steel, surrounded by gutters. Andrea Douglas-Brown lay under a white sheet, on the table closest to where they had entered. Andrea’s eyes were now closed. Her hair had been washed and neatly brushed back from her forehead. The bruising had darkened, but her face was still swollen. Erika had hoped, for her family’s sake, that Andrea would look as if she were sleeping, but despite the efforts to clean her up, her body still looked battered.

Isaac moved around the trolley and gently removed the sheet. In addition to the bruising and lacerations over her naked body, there was now the coarse, neat stitching from where the Y-shaped incision had been made, running from each shoulder, converging at the chest and moving down between her full breasts to the sternum.

‘There was no fluid in the lungs, so she was dead when she went into the water,’ said Isaac. ‘The ice preserved decay, but you’ll note the blanching of the skin from prolonged exposure to water. Ligature marks on the neck and a fractured collarbone indicate death by strangulation. As I hypothesised, the bruising around the neck indicates a medium-sized hand, no unusual features such as missing fingers.’

He paused.

‘Toxicology results show there was a high level of alcohol in her blood, plus a small amount of cocaine. She hadn’t eaten for several hours; her stomach was empty apart from the broken front tooth, which she probably swallowed, unintentionally, during the attack.’