The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller

  ‘Who found her?’ asked Erika.

  ‘A group of kids who’d climbed the fence for a dare.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Your officers are with them at the community centre over the road. We’ve already taken DNA.’

  ‘Did they see anything?’ asked Erika.

  ‘No. It was dark. One of the boys tripped over her body and fell.’

  ‘He must have been terrified,’ said Moss, looking down at Ivy.

  ‘Her nose is broken. I think her cheekbone also. There are extensive ligature marks on her neck,’ said Isaac, crouching down and gently pulling down the folds of Ivy’s sweater. ‘I also think four ribs are broken; I’ll have more idea about internal damage when I conduct my autopsy. She was carrying a hundred pounds in cash. The notes were folded inside her bra.’

  ‘So we could rule this out as a random assault or robbery?’ asked Moss.

  ‘I don’t want to be drawn on that until I’ve done my autopsy. But obviously when a body is left with money, it indicates that robbery wasn’t on the assailant’s mind. Sex was, though. On a first examination, there is semen present in her vagina.’

  ‘Ivy was a well-known prostitute,’ explained Moss.

  ‘Perhaps whoever did this had lured her with the cash?’ added Peterson.

  ‘We can’t assume because of that, that the sex was consensual,’ said Isaac sternly. ‘There is extensive bruising around the pelvic area.’

  ‘Where are her arms?’ Erika asked, dreading for a moment that they’d been hacked off.

  ‘Her arms are bound behind her back,’ said Isaac. One of his assistants approached and carefully lifted Ivy from the mud; both arms had been pulled tight under her body. They were slick with mud and stones. Isaac wiped at her wrists with a gloved finger.

  ‘See? They've been bound using a plastic tie, often used in industry or product packaging.’

  ‘What about her shoes?’ asked Erika, seeing Ivy’s feet, which were mud-splattered and swollen with a map of broken veins and long dirty toenails.

  ‘We found them in the mud,’ said Isaac. ‘There are also patches of hair missing from each temple. They look to have been pulled out at the root.’

  He tilted Ivy’s head and indicated large angry pink patches dotted with dried blood. The photographer crouched in and took a photo. As the flash illuminated her skin, it appeared almost translucent, with threads of blue veins on her forehead.

  ‘Andrea’s hair was pulled out,’ said Erika, softly.

  ‘Time of death?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘Internal body temperature leads me to say she hasn’t been dead for very long, but the body has been exposed to the freezing temperatures and rain, so I’ll need to clarify this.’

  ‘We’ve got officers doing a door-to-door and searching the area,’ said Peterson.

  They watched as the photographer worked, taking pictures of Ivy from every angle. A young woman assisting Isaac gently placed plastic bags over Ivy’s hands to preserve any DNA evidence. Isaac moved to a hastily set-up bench in the corner of the tent, returning to them with a clear evidence bag.

  ‘This is what we found on her: a bunch of keys, six condoms, one hundred pounds in cash, a credit card in the name of Matthew Stephens, and a phone number on a scrap of paper.’

  ‘That’s your number,’ said Moss, shooting Erika a look.

  ‘I was talking to Ivy the other night in connection to Andrea’s murder; she had given me some information but I think she was scared. I said she could call me . . .’ Erika’s voice tailed off with the realisation that the information had died with Ivy.

  ‘Did she try to call you?’ asked Peterson.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll need to check my phone.’

  She hadn’t checked her messages since before the press conference. She excused herself and went back through the partition and to the doorway of the tent. A figure was working its way along the bank. When it came closer, Erika saw it was DCI Sparks.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Erika. ‘You’re not in the first response unit.’

  ‘I’ve been asked by Chief Superintendent Marsh to take over as Senior Investigating Officer,’ said Sparks. Despite the gravity of the situation, his glee was bubbling under the surface.

  ‘What? At eleven pm at the scene of a murder?’ asked Erika.

  ‘You should answer your phone. The Super has been trying to call you,’ said Sparks.

  ‘I haven’t finished here. I can discuss this with Marsh tomorrow,’ said Erika.

  ‘I have clear instructions. I’ve been made SIO and I would like you to leave the scene.’

  ‘You’d like me to leave?’

  ‘No. I’m ordering you to leave.’

  ‘DCI Sparks. I have just been to the crime scene and there are things . . .’ started Erika.

  ‘I said, I’m now in control of this crime scene and I’m ordering you to step aside!’ shouted Sparks, losing it.

  ‘I think you’ll find, if you have any knowledge of crime scene procedure, that the Forensic Pathologist has ultimate control over the crime scene, and therefore gives the orders,’ said Isaac, appearing behind Erika with Moss and Peterson. ‘DCI Foster entered the crime scene as SIO and I will finish my briefing and examination of the crime scene with her present as SIO. Now, DCI Sparks, you are in danger of contaminating the crime scene. If you wish to continue to observe, I’ll ask that you follow proper procedure, suit up and shut up.’

  DCI Sparks opened his mouth to say something, but Isaac looked down at him and raised an impeccably shaped eyebrow, daring him to contradict.

  ‘Eight am tomorrow, there will be a briefing at Lewisham Row where we’ll be re-focusing this investigation. Be sure you attend promptly,’ said Sparks to Moss and Peterson. They nodded. Sparks gave Erika a long, hard look and then stomped away, accompanied by one of the uniformed officers.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Erika to Isaac.

  ‘I didn’t do it to be thanked. I’m not interested in police politics. All I’m interested in is preserving a scene so you can do your job and find who did this,’ said Isaac.

  Erika removed her crime scene overalls, which were bagged up to go to the lab. She found shelter from the pouring rain under the peeling facade of the pavilion, lit a cigarette, and listened to her voicemails. There were four from Marsh, all growing increasingly angry. Simon and Diana Douglas-Brown had apparently been “horrified” when Erika had “hijacked the press appeal for her own agenda”, and Marsh was in agreement. He was ordering her to report to him immediately in the morning. The message finished with him saying, ‘Ignoring my calls will be seen as a further act of insubordination and a direct challenge to my authority.’

  When she reached the final message in her mailbox, it began with lots of distortion; she heard a voice swearing and then the sound of coins dropping into a pay phone.

  ‘Yeah, it’s Ivy . . . Ivy Norris. If you can give me some money, I’ll tell you what you need to know. I need a hundred quid . . .’ There were three fast pips, more swearing and then the line went dead. Erika listened to the message again. It was timed seven hours ago. Erika put in a call to Sergeant Crane, who answered wearily.

  ‘Hi Crane, it’s DCI Foster, are you still at the nick?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ he said wearily.

  ‘What was the response like to the appeal?’

  ‘We’ve had twenty-five calls, boss. They’ve died off over the last few hours. We’re just waiting to see if they run the number again on the evening news.’

  ‘Tell me we’ve got something useful?’ asked Erika hopefully.

  ‘Fourteen of them are known nutters and time-wasters; they tend to admit to every television crime appeal. One of these guys still maintains that he killed Princess Diana. We still have to go through and eliminate them all, which is taking time. Another ten calls have been from journalists, fishing, basically.’

  ‘I make that twenty-four.’

  ‘The last one was from Ivy Norris
. She called a couple of hours after the appeal went out. We’ve traced the call to a payphone at The Crown public house. She was fairly incoherent, but left her name, and said she wanted to talk to you personally. Did you check your messages? I tried to call you, but there was no answer?’

  ‘Yes, and she tried to call me too. We’ve just discovered her body.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Crane.

  ‘Yes. Shit indeed. Look, I’ll be in first thing tomorrow, let me know if you get anything more.’

  ‘Um, boss . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been told to give all new info to DCI Sparks.’

  ‘Okay, but the Ivy thing, it’s kind of personal too.’

  ‘Course, boss.’

  Erika came off the phone as Moss and Peterson approached. She told them about the message from Ivy.

  ‘She’s cried wolf so many times before,’ said Moss. ‘And it was only a matter of time before she turned up dead.’

  ‘They’re about to move the body. The team needs to close down the site for forensics as fast as they can; they’re going to have to work fast in this rain,’ said Peterson. ‘I take it we report to DCI Sparks?’

  ‘Yes, it seems so,’ said Erika. There was a moment of silence; Peterson and Moss seemed disappointed.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you both soon, then,’ said Erika.

  When she got back to her car she sat inside in the darkness, the rain pummelling on the roof. Moss and Peterson drove past, illuminating the inside of her car before plunging her back into darkness. The death of Ivy felt nasty. She pulled her hand out of her coat and flicked on the light above the mirror. The teeth marks were now fading, the scabs healing fast. What had Ivy been doing? Was she lured out to the Brockwell Lido? Did she go willingly? And what would happen to her grandchildren now she was gone?

  Erika started her car and pulled out into the rain.

  31

  The figure leant forward, yanking off the thick balaclava, and threw up violently. The vomit hit the inky water with a nasty, high-pitched splatter, even louder than the rain, which was falling onto the surface of the pond in torrents. It was normal to purge after a kill. The figure then collapsed onto the wet earth, enjoying the sensation of the rain.

  It had been easy, tracking down Ivy Norris. At her age she was a creature of habit, and had been lurking under a street light at the bottom of Catford High Street. She’d looked more disgusting than usual, with what smelt like dried vomit on the furry hood of her coat, and blood crusting around her nostrils.

  ‘My name’s Paulette, you want oral or full sex?’ Ivy had said, her eyes lighting up when the expensive car had pulled up beside her. She only saw the figure properly when she climbed into the passenger side, and the central locking was activated.

  ‘Hello, Ivy . . . I’m looking for something from you,’ the figure had said in a smooth voice.

  Ivy had started to plead and panic, apologising, saying it wouldn’t happen again, the words tumbling out, spittle flying onto the dashboard of the expensive car. ‘I’m tellin’ you, I had to speak to that copper. She threatened me. She threatened to take me kids away . . . All she knows is that Andrea girl was with a bloke with dark hair and a girl with blonde hair . . . And I ain’t gonna say no more!’

  The figure had then held out a gloved hand, offering Ivy two fifty-pound notes.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Ivy had asked, uncertainly.

  I don’t know if she was just so beaten down by life, or if she thought there was a chance I would let her go afterwards, but she took the money.

  Ivy hadn’t questioned the remoteness of the location, and when they had got there, she had allowed her hands to be tied behind her back. She hadn’t even suggested a safe word.

  ‘Just not me face,’ she’d said. ‘I know I’m not much to look at, but it makes life easier if it’s not me face . . .’

  It was then that I snapped, and punched her in the face. She didn’t look surprised, just disappointed. When I did it again, harder, she looked consigned to her fate. Another disappointment to add to her collection. I ripped handfuls of her hair out . . . Broke her nose . . . She only looked surprised when my hands had been on her throat for longer than a minute. It was then that she realised she was going to die.

  Far away, across the grass of Peckham Rye Common, a police car streaked past, sirens blazing out. The figure lay deep in the undergrowth next to a pond, enjoying the sensation of being cleansed by the rain.

  My car is a few blocks away, but I can’t go back for it yet.

  Not yet.

  When it gets light.

  When I’m clean.

  32

  Erika didn’t sleep for a long time. She lay awake, listening to the rain pounding relentlessly against the window. She couldn’t get the image of Ivy out of her mind. Of her blank eyes wide with horror, as if still seeing her killer’s face. Erika wondered what that face looked like. Was it old or young? Dark or fair? Was the killer physically threatening, or an everyman who just blended in?

  She didn’t remember drifting off to sleep. She opened her eyes and the light was filtering softly through the curtains in her bedroom. The day had dawned and for the first time since she could remember, it had been a dreamless sleep. She pulled the curtain to one side and saw it had stopped raining but the sky was a pale grey. It was light. She leaned over to the bedside table and picked up her phone to see the time. It was on its charger, but dead.

  She cursed, moving through to the living room where she saw the digital clock on the oven was dark. She opened the tiny cupboard housing the electricity box, yanked out Marcie’s blotchy painting and flicked the mains switch on and off, but nothing. Peering out of the front bay window at the empty street below, she had no clue what the time was. She opened her front door, crossed the landing to the door opposite and knocked. A few seconds later she heard a key turning, bolts shooting back and the rattle of a chain. The door opened a few inches and a small elderly lady with a meringue of white hair peered through the gap.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Erika. ‘Could you tell me what the time is?’

  ‘Who are you? Why do you want to know the time?’ the lady asked suspiciously.

  ‘I’m your new neighbour. I think we’ve had a power cut, and my only clock is on my phone, which is also dead.’

  The old lady pulled back the thin sleeve of her cardigan and peered at a tiny gold watch biting into the flesh of her wrist. ‘It’s ten and twenty past,’ she said.

  ‘Ten twenty in the morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Erika in horror.

  ‘Yes dear, I’m the one with the watch. My electricity seems to be working,’ she said, flicking her hall light on and off. ‘I think you need to feed your meter, dear. The tenants before you got very behind on their bills. The police even came in at one point – I don’t know why the police were wasting their time chasing up unpaid bills. Although your landlord is apparently quite a high-up policeman, so I’d be careful . . .’

  Erika arrived breathlessly at Lewisham Row Station at quarter to eleven. Woolf was on the front desk. He crossed round to her side.

  ‘DCI Foster, I’ve been asked to take you in to see Chief Superintendent Marsh; it’s urgent.’

  ‘I know where it is,’ snapped Erika. She went through to Marsh’s office and knocked. Marsh opened the door.

  ‘Come in and sit down,’ he said coldly. Assistant Commissioner Oakley sat in Marsh’s chair. Marsh had been relegated to a chair beside his own desk. His office had been hastily tidied. The corner of a Christmas card poked out from one of the cupboard doors.

  ‘Good morning, DCI Foster. Please have a seat,’ said Oakley, in calm, clipped tones. He was immaculately dressed: his uniform crisp, his grey hair neatly parted, not a hair out of place. His skin was tanned and shiny. He was like a sleek fox. Not in any way sexual, but cunning and immaculately groomed. Erika remembered she’d read that if foxes are fed on the finest food
they have the glossiest coats. Erika sat and noticed that Marsh was pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

  ‘Please can we see your mobile telephone?’ said Oakley.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are the last person to have received a phone call from the murder victim Ivy Norris. The voicemail and your phone is now evidence in the investigation.’ His tone was final; no questions were to be asked. Erika took out the phone and handed it to Marsh.

  ‘It’s not switching on,’ said Marsh, turning the phone over and pressing the power button.

  ‘The battery’s dead,’ said Erika.

  ‘This is your designated phone, for work purposes, and it’s dead?’ asked Oakley.

  ‘I can explain . . .’

  ‘Please read out the serial number,’ said Oakley, ignoring Erika. Marsh worked quickly, pulling the back off the phone and reading the number out as Oakley wrote it down.

  ‘It’s possible to access my voicemail independently, without needing the handset,’ said Erika, as Marsh placed her phone into a fresh plastic evidence bag, and sealed it up.

  Oakley ignored her and opened a file. ‘DCI Foster, do you know why you are here?’

  ‘I think so, sir. I’m not sure why you are though?’

  ‘Three days ago, an official report was filed by Desk Sergeant Woolf. It details an incident between yourself and Ivy Norris’s seven-year-old grandson, Matthew Paulson. Ivy Norris, whose body was discovered last night.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, sir. I was one of the first responders at the scene,’ said Erika.

  ‘It says in Woolf’s report that during the incident in the reception area of this station you physically struck the boy on the back of his head. What do you have to say about that?’ The Assistant Commissioner looked up at her from the file.

  ‘Is it also mentioned in the report that at the time, the boy had latched onto my hand with his teeth?’ said Erika.

  ‘What were you doing in such close proximity to the child?’