The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(59)

‘What is this? Tom?’ asked Marcie.

‘Marcie, go back inside. NOW.’

Marcie took one more look at the pictures and went back into the front room. There was a moment of loud laugher and then it was snuffed out as she shut the door again.

‘How dare you, Erika!’

‘No, sir, how dare we. This isn’t about me. Yes, I’m out of order to show up on your doorstep; it’s bang out of line. But I can live with being a cunt. What I can’t live with is what happened to these girls. Can you really sleep tonight not knowing we tried? Think back to when we first joined the force. We had no power. You can make this decision now, sir. You. Fuck it, you can bill me for the search team, fire me at the tribunal, I honestly don’t care right now – but look at these, take a look!’ Erika held up the photos again.

‘That’s enough!’ shouted Marsh. He slammed the front door and Erika heard the locks shoot home.

‘Well, at least I tried,’ she said to the photos. She closed the file, placed it gently back in her bag and walked back onto the street.





38





The figure had materialised in the alleyway opposite Erika’s flat when darkness fell, just before DI Moss had come out of the front door and driven away in her car.

What was the fat little lezzer doing there? This is a new development.

Watching DCI Foster’s movements had become almost addictive. Coupled with the torrential rain, it had been easy to follow her with a hood up, head down and three different waterproof jackets in a backpack.

The secret of blending in, is don’t try to. Everyone is so fucking self-obsessed.

The figure’s eyes were drawn upwards to Erika, who was staring out of the window, smoking.

What is she thinking? What was that other cop, Moss, doing there? DCI Foster is supposed to be off the case . . .

Abruptly, Erika got up and closed the blinds. Moments later, she came out of her front door. She was carrying her bag and headed towards the station. The figure retreated and sprinted back down the alleyway to a car, and then drove out onto the main road, trying to keep slow, be normal, blend in.

Erika was just turning into Brockley Station when the figure turned the car in to the station approach. Another car started to pull out of a space in front, and the figure used the opportunity to stop, watching Erika as she passed over the footbridge to the opposite platform. The driver in front finished pulling away from the space, and waved a hand in thanks. The figure grinned and waved in return, then sped back down Erika’s road, past her dark flat, and parked a few streets away.



When the car engine fell silent, the figure took a moment to visualise the back of DCI Foster’s building. A high wall curled round the back of the property with an alleyway running along one side. When it had been converted from a big house into flats, the back had been left a mess of old and new windows, downpipes, and guttering.

The figure climbed out of the car and took a backpack from the boot.

I wasn’t going to do this now, but it seems things have accelerated. Watching from outside is no longer giving me enough . . .

On the way back to DCI Foster’s flat, a couple of commuters walked past, deep in conversation, oblivious. Once outside Erika’s flat, the figure climbed up onto the surrounding wall, having thought carefully about how to get up to the top floor.

Inch along the wall to the back of the building, step onto the windowsill, grab the downpipe, hook one leg up to a higher windowsill and climb up, using the pipe.

The windowsills were smooth stone and the figure, breathless from the exertion, stopped for a moment. It had worked so far . . .

Use the lighting rod, a thick gutter pipe for leverage and then there are three more windows, staggered in a line. Tic, tac, toe . . .

The figure reached Erika’s bathroom windowsill, drenched in sweat from the exertion. The window was closed, and this was expected. However, there was a small extractor fan beside the window. It was conveniently cheap and had been poorly fitted. Covering the square plastic grille vent with a gloved palm, the figure gripped the edges and pulled. There was a crack and it came away, exposing a silver-lined ventilation pipe. The figure pushed an arm inside, feeling leather-clad knuckles come into contact with the back of the ventilator’s plastic housing on the inside wall. A swift punch and it was knocked out. It rattled and scraped against the bathroom wall as it swung loose from its wire.

The figure pulled a length of coat hanger wire from a side pocket of the backpack and inserted it through the ventilation pipe. It took a few fumbling attempts, but the wire finally hooked over the handle of the window inside and it popped open with a click. The figure moved quickly, crawling through headfirst, hands out, and connecting with the toilet seat.

I’m in.

It was exhilarating after so long watching DCI Foster from afar. The bathroom was small and functional. Opening the bathroom cabinet, the figure saw it was filled with a box of tampons, thrush cream, and a dusty packet of waxing strips. The expiry date had passed.

How heartbreaking. She carries a packet of old waxing strips with her.

The Figure gathered up the contents of the bathroom cabinet and moved through to the sparse bedroom. It smelt neutral. The smell of women could sometimes be interesting and exotic. The smell of others could repel . . .

All I get is stale cigarettes . . . fried food. A hint of cheap perfume.