The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(46)

Blood roared in her head and nausea and panic rose in her. She was dying. She was going to die alone. She found the button on the top of her phone and switched it on, but a spinning disc on the screen told her it was booting up. She slumped forward, face on the sofa. She was terrified; a powerful headache was forming at the back of her skull. She realised that this could be the start of a migraine, just as the room seemed to give an almighty spin and then everything went black.





29





Erika felt she was moving through darkness, fumbling towards a far-off ringing. It seemed to move closer, and then her ears popped and it was close to her head. The side of her face was pressed against something soft with a faint smell of fried food and cigarettes. Her knees were against a hard wooden floor. She sat back on her heels, and lifted her head, realising she was in her new flat. Her phone was ringing. It dark outside and the street light was shining through the bare window.

The phone glowed and vibrated on the coffee table and fell silent. Her mouth was dry, and she had a terrible headache. She pulled herself up unsteadily and went to the sink and drank a large glass of water. She put the glass down and it all came flooding back. One glimmer of hope was that her vision had returned to normal. Her phone rang again, and, thinking it was Marsh, she answered, wanting to get it over and done with.

A familiar voice said, ‘Erika? Is that you?’

She bit back tears. It was Mark’s father, Edward. She’d forgotten how much he sounded like Mark, with his warm Yorkshire accent.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said, finally.

‘I know it’s been a long time – well, I’ve phoned to say I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Why are you sorry?’

‘I said things. Things I regret.’

‘You had every right, Edward. I can’t bear to look at myself half the time . . .’ Her diaphragm lurched and she was sobbing, hiccupping, the words coming out in a jumble as she tried to tell the man who she’d loved like another father how sorry she was, that she had failed to protect his son.

‘Erika, love, it wasn’t your fault . . . I read a copy of the transcript from the hearing,’ he said.

‘How?’

‘I requested it. Freedom of Information Act . . . They hauled you across the coals.’

‘I deserved it. I should have dug deeper, could have triple-checked things . . .’ she started.

‘You can’t live your life by should and could, Erika.’

‘I will never forgive myself. If only I could go back again, if only. I would never . . .’ she said, wiping hot tears away with the heel of her hand.

‘Now, that’s enough of that, I don’t want to hear another word, or there’ll be hell to pay!’ he joked.

The joke felt forced. There was a silence.

‘How are you?’ Erika asked. Stupid question, she thought.

‘Oh. I’m keeping busy . . . I’m playing bowls now. Never thought I would but, well, you have to keep busy. I’m a mean bowler for an old duffer . . .’ He trailed off again. ‘Erika love. There’s now a gravestone. I’ve had the stone put in for Mark. It looks grand.’

‘It does?’ said Erika. She closed her eyes. She thought of Mark underground, and morbidly wanted to know what he looked like. Just bones, bones, in a nice suit.

‘And you are welcome to come and see it. You’re welcome anytime, love. When do you think you’ll be coming home?’

Home. He called it home. Erika had no clue where home was anymore.

‘I’m back at work; I’m in London,’ said Erika.

‘Oh. Right.’

‘I will come. But right now I have to work.’

‘That’s good, love. What work are you doing?’ he asked. Erika felt she couldn’t tell him she was hunting a brutal killer. She wondered if he had seen the press conference on the news.

‘I’m with the Met Police, a new team.’

‘That’s good, lass. Keep yourself busy . . . When you get some holiday, I’d love to see you.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘I go past your house a lot. There’s a young couple renting it. They seem nice, although I haven’t been and knocked on the door or nothing. Not sure how I’d explain who I was.’

‘Edward, everything is in storage. I didn’t throw anything away. We should go through the boxes. I’m sure there are things . . .’

‘Let’s take it one step at a time,’ said Edward.

‘How did you get my new number?’ asked Erika, realising she was on her new phone.

‘I phoned your sister. She said you’d been kipping on her sofa; she gave me your number. I hope that’s okay?’

‘Of course it is. Sorry. It’s just the copper in me, always wanting to work things out . . .’

‘I just want you to know, Erika, that you’re not alone. I know people weren’t kind up here, and you can’t blame most of them, but you lost him too . . .’ Edward’s voice cracked. He went on, ‘I just hate to think of you being alone. You’ve got me, love, for what it’s worth.’

‘Thank you,’ said Erika softly.

‘Well, this will be costing me a fortune, ringing up London, so I’ll be off . . . It’s good to hear your voice, Erika. Don’t be a stranger.’