The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(60)

The figure pulled back the bedcovers, neatly laid out the contents of the bathroom cabinet on the mattress, and replaced the covers, before moving through to the living room. It was dark, save for the orange glow of a street light. Strewn on the coffee table, amongst dirty cups and an ashtray were copies of police files.

The figure lifted one with a gloved hand, rage surging. There were pictures of Mirka Bravtova. Mirka Bratova alive, and then dead and decayed in the water.

DCI Foster knew. She’d connected the dots, and the fat little lezzer bitch was helping her!

There was a noise on the landing, a creaking of stairs, and the figure crept to the front door and peered through the spy hole.

An old woman with white hair reached the landing. She came close to the front door, her face bulging obscenely in the peep hole. She listened for a moment, then turned and went to her front door.

The figure felt a sudden need to get out of there, to go away, to plan.

DCI Foster has forced my hand.

I’m going to have to kill her.





39





When Erika returned home to the flat, she took a long, hot shower and wrapped herself in a towel. She came through to the bedroom and sat on the bed, running through the evening’s events in her head. They didn’t play back much better than when they had happened the first time round.

She went to plug in her phone, and then stopped. She pulled back the duvet cover. Underneath, the contents of her bathroom cabinet had been laid out on the mattress.

She stood quickly and went to the bedroom window. It was closed, and there was a sheer drop down to the alley below. She moved to the front room and flicked on the light. The room was as she’d left it. Blinds closed. Files and coffee cups littering the table. She passed the front door. There was no letterbox. Had she locked the door? Of course she had, she thought. She went back into the bathroom and opened the cabinet above the sink. It was empty.

The window had been closed when she’d taken her shower, and she hadn’t opened it. No, she thought; she was just tired and forgetful. She must have taken the things out of the cabinet herself. She noticed how steamed up the bathroom was and pulled the cord on the tiny extractor fan. She pulled it again. Nothing happened.

‘Shit,’ she said, wiping the condensation off the mirror with the back of her hand. Why did Marsh have to be her landlord too? The last thing she wanted to do was contact him. She flicked off the light, went back to the bedroom and took the things out of her bed, feeling uneasy. Had she taken them from the bathroom cabinet? And then there was the note she’d received.

But how had someone got in? They would have needed a key.



The next morning, Erika tidied the flat and was contemplating calling in to the station that she may have had a possible intruder – possible being a very accurate word – when she heard the post land on the mat downstairs. After sorting through the bills for her neighbours and leaving them on the table by the door, she found a letter addressed to her. Her first piece of mail in her new flat. It was a request from the Met Police that she attend a psychiatric evaluation in seven days’ time.

‘I’m not crazy, am I?’ said Erika to herself, only half joking. When she came back up to the flat, her phone rang.

‘Erika, it’s Marsh. You’ve got six hours with a team from Thames Water. If you don’t find the phone, then that’s it. You understand?’

Hope rose in Erika chest. ‘Yes. Thank you, sir.’

‘There’s virtually no chance it’s down there. Have you seen the rain we’ve been having?’

Erika looked out as the rain hammered against the window.

‘I know sir, but I’ll take those odds; I’ve solved cases on less.’

‘But you won’t be solving this. You’re suspended. Remember? And you’ll pass any evidence over to DCI Sparks. Immediately.’

‘Yes, sir’ said Erika.

‘Moss will be in touch with the rest of the details.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘And if you ever pull a stunt like that again, showing up on my doorstep and waving sick crime scene photos in my wife’s face . . . You won’t just be suspended. Your career will be over.’

‘It won’t happen again, sir,’ said Erika. There was a click and Marsh hung up. Erika smiled. ‘Behind every powerful man is a woman who knows how to push his buttons. Good on you, Marcie.’



Erika walked over to meet Moss and Peterson. The manhole accessing the storm drain was beside the graveyard at Honor Oak Park Church, only a couple of miles from Erika’s flat. The church was a few hundred yards past the train station, perched on a hill. The rain had stopped, and there was a slight break in the clouds when Erika met Moss by a large van bearing the Thames Water logo. Peterson had a tray of takeaway coffees and was handing them out to a group of guys wearing overalls.

‘This is Mike. His team will be coordinating the search,’ said Moss, introducing them.

‘I’m Erika Foster,’ she said, leaning over to shake hands. The guys didn’t mess about. They gulped down their coffee and within minutes they were levering up the giant manhole cover and rolling it to one side with a clink.

‘Good to see you, boss,’ said Peterson, handing her a coffee with a grin.

Mike took them into the tiny van. It was equipped with a bank of monitors, a small shower, and radio comms for all the men going down into the drain. On one of the monitors, a satellite weather map continually refreshed, showing streaks and bulges of charcoal grey across a map of Greater London.