The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller

  Sparks looked angry and haggard, his long dark hair pulled back from his face and spots of grease blooming where his hair touched his collar. ‘I’ll be talking to you one by one, and I’ll be asking tough questions. We’re going to go back to the beginning and root out exactly who failed to check the basic fucking timeline of Marco Frost’s journey from boarding the train at London Bridge to . . .’

  Sparks’s voice tailed off as he saw Erika enter with Moss.

  ‘You here to pick up your P45, Foster?’ he sneered. The rest of the officers remained stony-faced.

  ‘No, my badge, actually,’ said Erika, flashing it to Sparks. He looked confused. ‘Do you take the title SIO seriously, DCI Sparks?’

  ‘Well, seeing as only one of us has it, yes,’ he said. ‘Can I help you? I’m in the middle of a briefing here.’

  ‘SIO means Senior Investigating Officer. The “senior” part doesn’t mean you’re older then everyone and entitled to bully them when the shit hits the fan. It means you take responsibility for your fuck-ups.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Sparks, losing a little of his resolve.

  ‘That’s been the problem. I’ve been reinstated as SIO. And my first order is that you need to piss off to Marsh’s office.’

  DCI Sparks froze.

  ‘Now, DCI Sparks.’

  He stared at Erika, along with the rest of the incident room, and then he went slowly to his desk, picked up his coat and walked out. Before he was out of the door, Crane started to applaud. Other officers joined in, and Peterson put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Erika was touched, and looked down as she blushed.

  ‘All right you lot,’ she said. ‘It’s much appreciated, but there’s still a murderer out there.’ The applause died down. Erika went to the whiteboard at the front. She pinned up the picture of Andrea and George Mitchell.

  ‘This is our prime suspect, George Mitchell. Andrea Douglas-Brown’s lover, and ultimately, her killer. Also suspected in the rape and murder of Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova, Karolina Todorova and Ivy Norris.’

  The room was silent.

  ‘Until today, the focus has been on the murder of Andrea Douglas-Brown. Her face has been on the front of every newspaper, Internet browser and television screen, and has worked its way into the national conscience. Yes, she was rich and privileged. But she experienced a terrible death: alone, scared and helpless. Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova, Karolina Todorova and Ivy Norris may have been prostitutes, but I can guarantee this was not a world they entered into willingly. Given different circumstances, they could have been as lucky as Andrea in life. They, too, had a harrowing demise. I say all this because I want you to forget where these women stood in society. Don’t do what we do in this country, day in, day out, and divide them into their social classes. They are all equals, all victims, and they deserve our equal attention.’

  Erika paused. Crane had started to pin up photos of the victims.

  ‘So, this is our person of extreme interest and our main focus,’ said Erika, pointing to the photo of George Mitchell. ‘He was in a sexual relationship with Andrea, and they were photographed together four days before Andrea went missing. I also believe she met him and an unidentified blonde woman on the night she was taken. I want you all to review the full contents of Andrea Douglas-Brown’s second phone on the intranet. Please look at them with fresh eyes. There are no stupid questions. We find this man, and I believe we unlock this case.’

  The officers nodded in unison.

  Erika went on, ‘This afternoon we’re going to make a fresh public appeal for information. We’re going out with full guns, naming George Mitchell as a suspect. Hopefully it will lead to new information, or flush him out from wherever he is hiding.’

  Erika paused, checking that she had their full attention. She continued. ‘Please also focus on our other victims. The murders of Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova, and Karolina Todorova are unsolved cases which have never been linked before. I want the evidence pulled on all three murders and revisited. Look for links, any similarities; did the victims know each other? If so, how and why?’

  There was a knock at the door of the incident room, and Colleen, the police press officer, entered.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, DCI Foster; I’m expecting a conference call from Reuters at any moment. I thought you’d want to sit in on it,’ she said.

  ‘Right, thank you everyone. We need to get ahead on this. Put Marco Frost to the back of your minds. Tune out the press; drop your pre-conceived ideas. Concentrate on what is in front of us here and now. We get ahead of the news cycle and we’ll start to win this.’

  Erika rose and left the incident room as it began to buzz with activity.

  54

  The press appeal was in stark contrast to the previous press conference in Marble Arch. Erika had insisted it was held on the steps of Lewisham Row Station, and that it should be more genuine and urgent than the polished nature of the previous press conference, with its video screens and elegant conference room.

  In addition, Erika had insisted that Marsh not be present, which hadn’t gone down well. The light was fading by the time that Erika, Moss and Peterson gathered on the steps of Lewisham Row in front of the assorted television and print journalists. A harsh light was trained on them, which bounced off the chipped wood of the station’s main entrance behind.

  ‘Thank you for attending today,’ Erika began, raising her voice above the crowd. She was faced with scores of lenses. The televisions cameras trained their lenses on the stairs, and cameras fired off flashes. Moss and Peterson stared straight ahead.

  Erika continued, ‘I guess that many of you here today might already have written this story, and made up your minds about what I’m going to say. But before you drift off and metaphorically file your copy in your head, writing luridly about police incompetence, or before you decide that Andrea’s death is more newsworthy than that of someone who wasn’t born into a life of privilege, think back to why we are all here today. Our job is to catch the bad guys; your job is to report on that in a fair and just manner. Yes, we do use each other. The police use the press to further our cause, and to spread a message. You sell column inches. So, ladies and gentlemen of the press, I ask that we work together today. Let me give you a new story to run with.’

  Erika paused. ‘Marco Frost was today released from custody due to insufficient evidence. He was able to supply us with an alibi and we had no choice but to release him. He’s an innocent man. But that is not your story. Your story is that the killer of Andrea is still out there, at large in society. After reviewing the evidence and refocusing the investigation, we have strong reason to believe that the death of Andrea wasn’t an isolated crime. The man we are looking for has killed previously. We believe he is responsible for the death of three young Eastern European women: Tatiana Ivanova, Mirka Bratova and Karolina Todorova. They all came to London in the belief that there would be a good job here for them. What happened, however, is that they were trafficked as prostitutes and forced to work to pay off a debt. We also believe that the same individual is responsible for the death of forty-seven-year-old Ivy Norris. Now, please, you will see a photo of our prime suspect in this case. His name is George Mitchell . . .’

  Back in the incident room, Chief Superintendent Marsh was watching the press conference with Colleen as it went out live on the BBC News channel.

  ‘It looks amateurish, and she’s coming across a bit schoolmarmish,’ he said, as the picture cut away from Erika, Moss and Peterson in the glare of the cameras to a photo of George Mitchell.

  ‘Of course, a woman is confident of her opinion and she’s schoolmarmish,’ said Colleen.

  A number and email address flashed along the bottom of the screen. After a few moments, the screen cut back to Erika.

  ‘Please if you have any information about this man, contact us using the details on your screens. Your call will be dealt with in confidence. We also advise anyone who sees this man not to approach h
im. I thank the members of the press for your time and for your help with this matter.’

  There was a pause on screen, and then journalists began to shout out questions.

  ‘Will Marco Frost be entitled to compensation?’ shouted one voice.

  ‘Marco Frost’s case will be treated in the same way as all others. The Crown Prosecution Service will be looking into it as a matter of urgency,’ said Erika.

  The journalists started to bombard Erika with more questions.

  ‘Are these murders linked to the business activities of Sir Simon Douglas-Brown?’

  ‘I think what we need to remember that Sir Simon is a father whose daughter died in a horrific manner. Just like the other girls – they also have family who feel their loss every day. This investigation has already been hampered by the perceived manner in which we should do things. What we realise now is that Andrea’s secrets are the very thing that will lead us to the killer. Please don’t judge her, or her family.’

  ‘Christ, I knew this was a bad idea,’ said Marsh.

  ‘No. This is good. She’s really connecting with people. This press conference is much more real and genuine than before,’ said Colleen. Marsh gave her a sideways glance, but she was glued to the screen.

  The press conference then cut away to a wide shot as Erika, Moss, and Peterson made their way up the steps and back into the station. The television cut back to the BBC News studio, where the news anchor asked the reporter at the scene for his comments.

  ‘This is a bold move by the police, who after several weeks still have very little in the way of evidence. With a suspect at large, time is running out.’

  ‘What does he mean, running out?’ scoffed Marsh.

  On the screen, the reporter carried on, ‘Sir Simon Douglas-Brown has been faced with a fresh round of newspaper revelations over his links to Saudi Arabian arms deals. An extramarital affair has also been hinted at.’

  The camera then cut back to the news anchor,

  ‘This press conference was a marked departure in the police investigation. Whereas in previous weeks the Met seemed to be dancing to the tune of the Douglas-Brown family, are they are now putting forward a credible line of enquiry, based upon evidence which the family would perhaps rather be kept out of the media?’

  The camera cut back to the reporter outside Lewisham Row. ‘I think yes. I believe this press conference may have hurt the relationship between the establishment and the police force, but it may well give the police more credibility and autonomy, which will, I’m sure, help to gain back the support of the public.’

  ‘There, you see; that’s the angle we’re looking for. I’ll make some calls and get the tape of these comments circulated,’ said Colleen.

  Marsh felt a prickle of sweat forming on his brow and he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw it was Simon Douglas-Brown.

  55

  The past few days had passed in a haze of frustration. To have come so close, and then to have to pull back, had left the figure raging inside. Not only had DCI Foster survived, she’d come back from it stronger.

  She’s been put back on the fucking case!

  After witnessing the appeal from Lewisham Row, where DCI Foster had publicly linked the murders, the figure was torn. There was an instinct to flee far away, to start again, but there was also an itch which needed to be scratched. The link had been made, but the police had nothing. The figure was sure of this.

  So, at six pm, the figure drove up to Paddington Train Station, where the cabs dropped off and picked up passengers, and where the girls hung around . . .

  The girl looked confused when the figure pulled up in the car. She was standing a little way down the end of a dirty slip road which was used by cabs to turn around, or by people on the lookout for a good time.

  ‘I can give you a good time,’ she said, automatically. She was a thin girl with a strong Eastern European accent. She shivered in tight leggings, a spaghetti strap top and a large, ratty, fake fur coat. She had pale pointed features and shoulder length, poker-straight hair. Her eyes were surrounded by glittery eye shadow and she was chewing gum. She leaned back against the skip, waiting for a response.

  ‘I’m looking for a good time . . . Something a bit different, a bit rarer.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, you know, when stuff is rare, it costs more.’

  ‘I know your boss,’ said the figure.

  She scoffed at him. ‘Yeah, they all say that . . . If you’re looking for a discount, you can fuck off,’ she said, going to turn away.

  The figure leaned forward and told her a name. She stopped and came back to the window, dropping all pretence of being alluring. Her eyes were frightened. Fear surrounded by glitter.

  ‘Did he send you?’ she asked, looking around at the cars roaring past.

  ‘No. But he knows I put a lot of business his way . . . So he’ll expect me to get what I want.’

  The girl narrowed her eyes. Her instincts were good. This might be harder than expected.

  ‘So, you come here and drop the name of my boss. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I like outdoor scenes,’ said the figure.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And I like it when the girl plays scared . . .’

  ‘You mean you want a rape fantasy?’ said the girl bluntly, rolling her eyes. She looked around and pulled down her top, showing her small pert breasts. ‘That will cost more.’

  ‘I can afford it,’ said the figure.

  She pulled her top up. ‘Yeah? Show me.’

  The figure pulled out a wallet and opened it, pushing it under her nose. The money was in a crisp block, glinting under the street lights.

  ‘Fifteen hundred. And we have a safe word,’ she said, pulling a mobile phone from her leggings. The figure put a hand out and covered the phone.

  ‘No, no, no, no. I want this as real as possible. Within the realms of fantasy. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.’

  ‘I have to call.’

  ‘An extra five hundred. The boss doesn’t have to know.’

  ‘No way. He finds out, and I don’t get to have a safe word.’

  ‘Okay. All above board. Two grand. And the safe word is Erika.’

  ‘Erika?’

  ‘Yes. Erika.’

  The girl looked around and chewed on her lip. ‘Okay,’ she said. She pulled open the door and got into the car. The figure drove off, activating the central locking, telling her this, too, was part of the game.

  56

  The incident room was rather quiet after the press conference. Officers milled around as the occasional phone rang. An air of expectation needed to be quenched. The few calls that did come through were from the usual time-wasters.

  ‘Jesus. You’d think that someone would come forward with information,’ said Erika, looking at her watch. ‘I can’t bear this; I’m nipping out for a cigarette.’

  She had just reached the steps of the police station when Detective Crane appeared behind her.

  ‘Boss, you’ll want to take this,’ he said.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Erika.

  ‘We’ve got a young girl on the line who says she’s Barbora Kardosova, Andrea’s long lost best friend,’ said Crane.

  Erika hurried back with him to the incident room and took the call.

  ‘Is this the police officer who was on the television this afternoon?’ asked a young female voice with an Eastern European accent.

  ‘Yes. This Detective Chief Inspector Erika Foster. Do you have information about George Mitchell?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. There was a pause. ‘But I can’t talk on the phone.’

  ‘I can assure you that anything you say here will be treated confidentially,’ said Erika. She looked down, and saw it was a withheld number. Erika looked over at Crane, who nodded to show he was already working on a trace.

  ‘I’m sorry, I won’t talk on the phone,’ the girl said, her voice shaking.

  ‘Okay, that’s okay. Can I
meet you?’ asked Erika. ‘It can be anywhere you like.’

  Peterson was hastily scribbling on his notepad. He held up a sign, which read: GET HER TO COME IN TO STATION?

  ‘Are you in London? Would you like to come to the station here at Lewisham Row?’

  ‘No . . . No, no . . .’ The girl’s voice was now panicky. There was a pause. Erika looked up at Crane, who mouthed that it was a pay-as-you-go phone.

  ‘Hello, Barbora, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not saying any more over the phone. I need to talk to tell you things. I can meet you tomorrow at eleven am. Here’s the address . . .’

  Erika scribbled it down hastily and went to ask more, but the line was dead.

  ‘It was a pay-as-you-go, boss; no joy,’ said Crane.

  ‘She sounded really rattled,’ said Erika, replacing the phone.

  ‘Where does she want to meet?’ asked Peterson. Erika tapped the address into her computer. A picture on Google Maps popped up on screen. It was a vast expanse of green.

  ‘Norfolk,’ said Erika.

  ‘Norfolk? What the hell is she doing in Norfolk?’ asked Moss.

  Erika’s mobile phone rang. She saw it was Edward. ‘Sorry, I just have to take this. Can you work out a route, and we’ll decide how to proceed when I come back,’ she said, and left the incident room.

  The corridor outside was quiet and she answered her phone.

  ‘So lass, I take it you’re not coming?’ said Edward. Erika saw that it was five past five.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . . You’re not still waiting there? On the platform?’

  ‘No, lass. I saw you on the telly this afternoon, and I thought, unless you can fly, you wouldn’t be here at five o’clock.’

  Erika thought back. The morning seemed like a million years ago.

  ‘You did well for that press conference, love,’ said Edward. ‘You made me care about that girl, Andrea. She hasn’t been getting very nice things said about her in the papers, has she?’