The Girl in the Ice

On the way back to DCI Foster’s flat, a couple of commuters walked past, deep in conversation, oblivious. Once outside Erika’s flat, the figure climbed up onto the surrounding wall, having thought carefully about how to get up to the top floor.

Inch along the wall to the back of the building, step onto the windowsill, grab the downpipe, hook one leg up to a higher windowsill and climb up, using the pipe.

The windowsills were smooth stone and the figure, breathless from the exertion, stopped for a moment. It had worked so far . . .

Use the lighting rod, a thick gutter pipe for leverage and then there are three more windows, staggered in a line. Tic, tac, toe . . .

The figure reached Erika’s bathroom windowsill, drenched in sweat from the exertion. The window was closed, and this was expected. However, there was a small extractor fan beside the window. It was conveniently cheap and had been poorly fitted. Covering the square plastic grille vent with a gloved palm, the figure gripped the edges and pulled. There was a crack and it came away, exposing a silver-lined ventilation pipe. The figure pushed an arm inside, feeling leather-clad knuckles come into contact with the back of the ventilator’s plastic housing on the inside wall. A swift punch and it was knocked out. It rattled and scraped against the bathroom wall as it swung loose from its wire.

The figure pulled a length of coat hanger wire from a side pocket of the backpack and inserted it through the ventilation pipe. It took a few fumbling attempts, but the wire finally hooked over the handle of the window inside and it popped open with a click. The figure moved quickly, crawling through headfirst, hands out, and connecting with the toilet seat.

I’m in.

It was exhilarating after so long watching DCI Foster from afar. The bathroom was small and functional. Opening the bathroom cabinet, the figure saw it was filled with a box of tampons, thrush cream, and a dusty packet of waxing strips. The expiry date had passed.

How heartbreaking. She carries a packet of old waxing strips with her.

The Figure gathered up the contents of the bathroom cabinet and moved through to the sparse bedroom. It smelt neutral. The smell of women could sometimes be interesting and exotic. The smell of others could repel . . .

All I get is stale cigarettes . . . fried food. A hint of cheap perfume.

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.