The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(73)

‘We’ll be downstairs waiting; we’ll need to get that arm sewn up,’ said the female paramedic, who had applied a pressure bandage to the cut. Erika nodded as they clipped up their first aid box and left. The old lady came back in with a small glass of water. Erika took it gratefully, and gingerly sipped. She coughed and choked and the old lady rushed forward with a tissue.

‘Try again dear, take very tiny sips,’ she said, holding the tissue under Erika’s chin. Erika managed a tiny sip, but it burned.

The woman went on, ‘This area. When I first moved here in 1957 we all knew each other. You could leave your door open; we had a real community. But these days . . . Not a week goes by without you hearing there’s been a robbery or a break-in . . . You’ll see I’ve got bars on all my windows, and I have a personal response alarm.’

She tapped a small red button round her neck. There was a knock on the front door. The woman got up, and came back a few moments later.

‘There’s a tall black feller who says he’s a police officer,’ said the woman, cautiously coming into the room with Peterson.

‘Jeez, boss,’ he said.

Erika smiled weakly.

‘You’re his boss?’ asked the woman. Erika shrugged, and then nodded.

‘You’re a policewoman?’

‘She’s a Detective Chief Inspector,’ said Peterson. ‘We’ve got a ton of officers doing a house-to-house but, nothing . . . Whoever it was, scrammed.’

‘My God. And to think this happened to a Detective Chief Inspector! What about the rest of us? Whoever did it must have no fear. What are you?’ asked the old lady, of Peterson.

‘I’m a policeman.’

‘Yes, dear; what rank are you?’

‘Detective Inspector,’ said Peterson.

‘You know who you remind me of?’ said the woman. ‘What’s that programme about the black policeman?’

‘Luther,’ said Peterson, trying not to look annoyed.

‘Ooh yes, Luther. He’s very good. Has anyone ever told you, you look a bit like him?’

Despite everything that had happened, Erika smiled.

‘People like you normally do,’ said Peterson.

‘Oh, thank you,’ said the old lady, not getting what he meant. ‘I do try to watch quality drama on television; none of those reality shows as they call them. What rank is Luther?’

‘A think he’s a DCI. Look . . .’

‘Well, if he can do it, so can you,’ said the old lady, patting him on the arm.

‘Would you please excuse us for a minute, madam?’ asked Peterson. The woman nodded and left. He rolled his eyes. Erika tried to grin, but it hurt.

‘Jeez, boss, I’m so sorry.’ Peterson pulled out his notebook and thumbed through to a clean page. ‘Was anything taken?’

Erika shook her head and then shrugged. She could only nod or shake her head and Peterson asked all the standard questions, but beyond the figure being tall and strong, she couldn’t give any information.

‘It’s pathetic,’ swallowed Erika painfully. ‘I should have . . .’ She mimed pulling off a balaclava.

‘Boss. It’s okay. It always seems simple in hindsight,’ said Peterson. Moss came back in, carrying the housing of the extractor fan.

‘He got in using the ventilation pipe,’ she said.

‘It was – I don’t know, I think it was a him,’ croaked Erika.

‘Boss, they’re going to be working through the night with forensics. Do you have anywhere you can stay?’ asked Peterson.

‘Hotel,’ croaked Erika.

‘No, boss, you’re staying with me,’ said Moss. ‘I’ve got a spare room. I’ve also got something you can borrow to wear . . . You look like you’re about to go out clubbing in the late 1990s.’

Erika tried to laugh again, but it was painful. In a weird, warped way she felt pleased. He’d come for her. She was on to him.





49





The figure sped down Camberwell High Street, screaming and raging inside the car, not caring about the speed.

I was so fucking close! SO CLOSE!

The figure’s nostrils flared, eyes streaming with tears. The tears were of rage and pain. The exit from DCI Foster’s flat had been terrifying, slithering down the back wall of the building, barely managing to hold on, and then crashing down onto the brick wall before crumpling onto the pavement. The figure hadn’t worried about the pain, but kept running through the darkness, out into the street lights. Not caring who saw, just running, drenched in sweat. The fear and pain joining together for a final burst of mad energy.

DCI Foster had been so close. The light in her eyes had just been starting to dim, and then . . .

A set of red traffic lights was hurtling towards the windscreen. As the figure slammed on the brakes, the car screamed to a halt, just overshooting a crossroads with a pub on the corner. A group of students stepped off the pavement and surged around the car, laughing and pointing.

Shit, I’m still wearing the balaclava.

Some students hammered on the back of the car as they passed. A group of girls peered through the windscreen as they walked in front of the car.

Calm down, pull it off, act like them – a stupid student.