The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘DCI Foster, keep me posted where you are. If you need backup . . .’

  Erika hung up, cutting him off.

  She spent the next three hours making her way round some of the roughest pubs she’d seen in her long career. It wasn’t the squalor, the dirt, or the drunken people that bothered her. It was the despair in people’s faces as they propped up the bar. The hopelessness as they sat slumped in a corner, or poured what little money they had into fruit machines.

  What was even more disturbing was that the pubs weren’t miles from affluent suburbs. A horrible dive called The Mermaid was next to an Indian fusion restaurant, which was advertising it had recently been awarded a Michelin Star. The bright interior, on show for everyone to see, was filled with happy, well-dressed people dining in groups. The Bird In The Hand, where Erika gave a haunted-looking young girl begging with a baby twenty pounds, was next to a posh wine bar filled with glossy women and their rich husbands.

  Was she the only one who noticed this?

  At midnight, Erika arrived at The Crown in Gant Road. It was an old-fashioned looking public house with brass lamps over a red frontage. A lock-in was underway, but Erika managed to get in, giving a lad on the door a crisp twenty-pound note.

  The inside was packed and the atmosphere rowdy. The windows were steamed up and there was a smell of beer, sweat and cheap perfume. Everyone seemed rather rough round the edges, but had made the effort and was dressed in their best. Erika was questioning exactly what the party was in aid of, when she spied who she’d been looking for.

  Ivy sat on a small bar stool at the back, next to a flashing fruit machine. Beside her sat a large young woman who had long black roots in her blonde hair and her lip pierced. Erika slowly made her way over, squeezing through groups of people who looked pretty far-gone. When she reached Ivy, she could see her pupils were dilated. Her eyes were now hideous pools of black.

  ‘What the fuck are you doin’ here?’ asked Ivy, struggling to focus.

  ‘I just wanted a word,’ shouted Erika, over the noise.

  ‘I paid for all this,’ shouted Ivy, waving a finger around. Erika noticed that there were several bags of shopping pooled around the stools.

  ‘It’s not about that,’ said Erika.

  The girl beside Ivy glowered. ‘Everything all right, Ive?’ she said, leaning in, not taking her eyes off Erika.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ivy. ‘She’s buying the next round.’

  Erika passed the girl a twenty, realising she’d parted with a lot of cash that evening. The girl heaved herself off the little stool and vanished into the crowd.

  ‘Where are the kids?’ asked Erika.

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Your grandkids?’

  ‘Upstairs. Asleep. Why, do you want to hit ’em?’

  ‘Ivy . . .’

  ‘Well you can get in the queue, love. They’ve bin fuckin’ me off today something proper.’

  ‘Ivy. I need to talk to you about The Glue Pot,’ said Erika, perching on the warm, vacated stool.

  ‘What?’ said Ivy, trying to focus.

  ‘You remember? The pub we talked about. The Glue Pot, on London Road.’

  ‘I don’t go there,’ slurred Ivy.

  ‘I know you don’t go there. Why don’t you go there?’

  ‘Cos . . .’

  ‘Please. I need more. Why not, Ivy?’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Erika held up yet another twenty. Ivy attempted to focus, and then grabbed it, tucking it under the waistband of her grotty jeans.

  ‘So, what you wanna talk about?’

  ‘The Glue Pot.’

  ‘Bad stuff there. Bad man . . . bad . . .’ said Ivy, shaking her head.

  ‘There’s a bad man?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ Ivy’s eyes were now rolling in her head and she seemed to be seeing things – things that weren’t in the bar. Her head snapped to one side.

  ‘Ivy. The bad man. What’s his name?’

  ‘He’s bad, I tell you, love . . .’

  ‘Did you hear about the girl who died, Andrea?’ Erika pulled out her phone and found the picture of Andrea. ‘This is her, Ivy. Her name was Andrea. She was beautiful, with dark hair. Do you think Andrea knew this bad man?’

  Ivy managed to focus on the phone picture for a moment. ‘Yeah, she was beautiful.’

  ‘You saw her?’

  ‘Few times.’

  ‘You saw this girl, a few times, in The Glue Pot?’ said Erika, holding the phone up to Ivy.

  ‘I was beautiful once . . .’ Ivy’s eyes rolled in her head and she started to slide off the barstool.

  ‘Come on, Ivy. Stay with me,’ said Erika, grabbing her and righting her on the stool. ‘Please look at this picture once more.’

  Ivy stared at it. ‘The bad ones are always the worst, but the best, too. You let them do anything to you, even if it hurts, even if you don’t want to . . .’

  Erika looked over at the bar and could see that the large girl with the pierced lip wasn’t buying any drinks. She was talking to a group of men, and they kept looking at Erika and Ivy.

  ‘Ivy, this is important. Are you talking about Andrea? Did she meet with this bad man at The Glue Pot? He had dark hair. Please. I need anything, a name . . .’

  Ivy drooled, and blew out a bubble of saliva, which popped. She rolled her tongue over her chin and Erika caught sight of her rotten teeth.

  ‘I saw her, with him and some blonde bitch. Stupid girls, they both got in too deep with him.’ said Ivy.

  ‘What? Ivy? A dark man and a blonde woman?’

  ‘Is this an official visit?’ asked a voice. Erika looked up to see a large bear of a man with wispy strawberry-blond hair.

  ‘I didn’t invite her,’ said Ivy, adding, ‘she’s a fucking pig.’

  ‘No, it’s not an official visit,’ said Erika.

  ‘Then I’d like you to go,’ the man said, his voice menacingly calm and quiet.

  ‘Ivy, if you think of anything, see anything, here’s my number.’ Erika pulled out a pen and scrap of paper from her leather jacket, scribbled down her mobile number, and tucked the scrap of paper into the pocket of Ivy’s jeans. The man hooked his hand under Erika’s arm. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘what do you think you’re doing? Who do you think you are?’

  ‘The landlord. Everyone here is invited, and I’m giving away complimentary drinks. You are not invited, and therefore I have to tell you to leave or I’m breaking the law.’

  ‘I said I wasn’t here on an official visit, but my visit could become official at any moment,’ said Erika.

  ‘This is a wake,’ said the man, matter-of-factly. ‘And we have a no-pigs door policy.’

  ‘What did you just call me?’ asked Erika, trying to remain calm. A short guy with strange gnomic features joined them.

  ‘Did you know my muvver?’ he asked accusingly.

  ‘Your mother?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said. My muvver, Pearl.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Don’t fucking ask me who I am at my own fucking muvver’s wake! Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘So this is your mother Pearl’s wake, is it?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Yeah, and what you gonna fucking do about it?’

  Erika looked around the room; people were starting to take notice.

  ‘Cool it, Michael,’ said the landlord.

  ‘I don’t like her attitude, stuck up lanky bitch,’ said Michael, looking her up and down.

  ‘You need to calm down, sir,’ said Erika.

  ‘Sir? Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No, I’m a police officer,’ said Erika, pulling out her ID.

  ‘What’s a pig doing here? You told me you’d had a word . . .’

  ‘I did have a word, Michael. This police officer is just leaving.’

  ‘There’s a fucking pig ’ere!’ cried a weedy, red-haired woman who had tottered over, wearing only one pink slip-on shoe. There was a cr
ack of glass, and then two blokes started to fight. The red-haired woman threw her pint over Erika and wiggled her fingers in a “come and get it” gesture. Erika felt herself being grabbed around the waist. At first she thought she was being attacked, but the landlord was carrying her, holding her up in the air as people swore and spat at her. Through the force of his sheer weight and height he pulled her through the throng and got her behind the bar.

  ‘Get the fuck out. Go through there, to the kitchens. The back door leads out to an alley behind,’ he said, putting out a hand to stop people from the crowd who were trying to squeeze through the small hatch to get behind the bar. A glass exploded above Erika’s head, shattering a vodka optic. At the far end of the bar, the woman who’d thrown the drink pulled up another hatch, and people poured behind the bar and began to rush at Erika.

  ‘Get out!’ said the landlord. He pushed her through a stinking pair of curtains. She stumbled down a dimly lit hallway, crashing into boxes of crisps, tripping over a crate of empty bottles. The music blared but barely drowned out the sound of the chaos and breaking glass from the bar behind. She could see that the landlord was being pushed and shoved as he tried to block the doorway. Erika found a door into a kitchen of filth and hellish grease, and at the back she pushed open a fire exit. The cold air hit her wet skin, which was already feeling sticky from the beer, and she saw she was in an alleyway.

  Erika dashed back towards the road, past the steam and chaos emanating from the bar windows, and out to her car, which was thankfully still waiting on the road out front.

  She got in and drove away with a squeal of rubber. She felt relieved, elated, adrenalin surging through her. And then she remembered that Ivy was still inside the pub. Ivy had seen Andrea, with the dark-haired man and the blonde-haired woman.

  Had Ivy been in The Glue Pot the night Andrea vanished? Did this mean the barmaid at The Glue Pot was telling the truth?

  23

  Erika was called to Chief Superintendent Marsh’s office when she arrived the next morning. She carried with her a cheque for the rent and the signed contract for the flat. She was surprised, when she entered the office, to see DCI Sparks sat opposite Marsh. Sparks had a smug look on his face.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What the hell were you playing at, going into The Crown last night?’ demanded Marsh.

  Erika looked between Sparks and Marsh. ‘I stuck to orange juice . . .’

  ‘This isn’t funny! You crashed the wake for Pearl Gadd, and caused no end of chaos. Do you know the Gadd family?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘They’re a bunch of low-life scum who own a massive lorry transportation network in the south of England. However, they’ve been working with us.’

  ‘Working with us, sir? Do you want me to allocate one of them a desk in the incident room?’

  ‘Don’t get smart.’

  Sparks was trying not to enjoy this, watching their exchange with his chin resting on the heel of his hand. Erika noticed how he’d let the nail grow long on each index finger.

  ‘Sir. If you've called me in here for a bollocking, I’d rather be bollocked in private.’

  ‘You don’t outrank DCI Sparks, and he’s here as part of the investigation. You’re supposed to be working together. I take it your visit to The Crown was part of your enquiries?’

  Erika paused, and took the seat next to Sparks.

  ‘Okay. If this is a meeting, fine. Tell me all about our colleagues in the South London underworld.’

  Sparks removed the hand from under his chin. ‘The Gadd family has been feeding us information for the past eight months. Information that will hopefully lead to the seizure of millions of pounds’ worth of counterfeit cigarettes and alcohol.’

  ‘In return for what?’ asked Erika.

  Marsh interrupted, ‘I don’t have to spell it out, DCI Foster. We’re stretched to the fucking limit with what we can and can’t do. Do you know what a delicate eco-system it is here in South London? In return for this information we’ve been turning a blind eye to . . . well, lock-ins and things. Then you barrel in there last night with your ID and your attitude.’

  ‘They said it was a wake, sir.’

  ‘It was a fucking wake!’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry. It seems you do things a little bit differently here than when we were in Manchester.’

  ‘We don’t do things differently,’ said Sparks, with an annoying calm. ‘Although we do thoroughly check our intelligence before we move in.’

  ‘What did you just say?’ said Erika.

  ‘I’m talking about last night.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘That’s enough!’ shouted Marsh, slamming his fist on the table.

  Erika swallowed down her anger, and her hatred for Sparks. ‘Sir. My visit to The Crown had a purpose. It helped me secure new information about Andrea’s killer.’

  Marsh sat down. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I now have a second witness who saw Andrea on the night she died in The Glue Pot, talking to a tall dark man and a blonde woman. This new witness went so far as to hint that Andrea could have been in a relationship with the man.’

  ‘Who is this new witness?’

  ‘Ivy Norris.’

  Sparks rolled his eyes and looked at Marsh, ‘Do me a favour – Ivy Norris? Also goes by the names Jean McArdle, Beth Crosby, Paulette O’Brien?’

  ‘Sir, she—’

  ‘She’s a known time-waster,’ said Marsh.

  ‘But sir, I got the feeling she was scared when I pressed her about this man. It was genuine fear. I also believe, especially now we’ve found the phone packaging under Andrea’s bed, that Andrea had a second mobile phone, a phone she didn’t tell anyone about. I think she had friends that she didn’t want her fiancé, Giles Osborne, to know about . . .’

  ‘The records from Andrea’s old phone, the one she lost last year, came in last night,’ said Sparks.

  ‘No, I think Andrea had another phone. One she was still using. She bought a top-up voucher four months ago, we found it under her bed with the box,’ explained Erika.

  ‘It means nothing. It could’ve been for a friend,’ said Sparks. ‘Anyway, back to the records for the old phone that actually exist. I took the opportunity to go through them last night, and some interesting information has come to light.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Erika.

  ‘Several names come up in her call log, which I’ve cross-checked with Andrea’s Facebook messenger account. One of them is a bloke called Marco Frost . . . Ring any bells?’

  Marsh looked at Erika.

  ‘Yes. He’s a barista who Andrea was, I dunno, dating a while back. An Italian guy, works at a coffee place in Soho?’

  Sparks nodded and went on, ‘He made hundreds of calls to Andrea’s old phone. The calls were over a period of ten months, between May 2013 and March 2014.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told that the phone records had come through?’ demanded Erika.

  ‘It was late last night. I thought you might have wanted to get your beauty sleep,’ said Sparks.

  ‘Sparks, get on with it,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Okay. So I went back through the interview I did with the Douglas-Browns, when Andrea had first gone missing. And they mentioned this Marco Frost. Andrea did date him briefly for a month at the beginning of 2013. Then she ditched him, and the phone calls started. He turned up at the house several times. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sir Simon actually had a police officer visit Marco Frost and speak to him about his unhealthy interest in Andrea.’

  ‘Why wasn’t this mentioned to me before?’ asked Erika.

  ‘My notes were available in the file.’

  ‘I never got them.’

  ‘Well, they were available.’

  ‘All right, all right, all right. Let’s act like adults,’ said Marsh, impatiently. ‘Go on, DCI Sparks.’

  ‘Okay. So I went back to Andrea’s new phone, where, as we know, there’s not much t
o go on. She checked her emails on that phone too, and there was a load of e-invites to parties and events—’

  ‘Yes, the team has been through them, there are hundreds. She had memberships with lots of private clubs,’ said Erika.

  Sparks continued, ‘There was an e-invite for an event at the Rivoli Ballroom on Thursday 8th January, the night she vanished. It was a fancy burlesque show organised by one of the clubs where she was a member.’

  ‘Yes, and on that same night Andrea had invites to several other parties in London. As I say, she was on loads of mailing lists . . . And she had already arranged to meet her brother and sister at the cinema.’

  ‘But the whole family have said she was a flake; she changed her mind with the wind. It wouldn’t be out of character for her to just decide to do something else,’ said Sparks.

  Erika reluctantly had to agree with this.

  Sparks went on, ‘The Rivoli Ballroom is actually bang opposite Crofton Park train station, which on the map looks fairly close to Forest Hill station – to be precise, it’s just under two miles away. To get to Forest Hill or Crofton Park you need to take a train from London Bridge, but the two train stations are on completely different lines. What if Andrea got on the wrong train? She rarely used public transport. That could be why she was all dolled-up in Forest Hill.’

  There was a silence from Erika and Marsh.

  ‘And I saved the best bit until last,’ said Sparks. ‘Last night, I got onto the organiser of this burlesque party at the Rivoli Ballroom, and he sent me though their mailing list. Marco Frost was also on that list and was sent the same e-invitation. This gives us an opportunity…’

  There was a silence. Erika could see Marsh rolling it over in his brain.

  ‘This is very promising,’ he said, getting up and starting to pace. ‘My next question is, where is this Marco Frost?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been up all night putting this together,’ said Sparks.

  ‘Look, Sparks, we’ve had our differences, and I’d like nothing more than this to be a strong lead. But it’s hardly a motive. How many people were on that mailing list of invites?’ said Erika.