The Girl in the Ice

And then there were the three dead girls. Out of loyalty and kinship, Erika refused to call them prostitutes. Was there a link with Andrea? With Ivy? Or were they just on the wrong street corner at the wrong time? And then there was Marco Frost, whom DCI Sparks had seized upon as their prime suspect, using tenuous, yet compelling evidence which had linked him to Andrea.

The details of the case spun and tangled in Erika’s head, like a giant cat’s cradle. Somewhere, there was a missing link. Something that could link the man who’d tried to kill Erika to all of the other deaths.

In her dream, the man visited Erika again, but as he gripped her throat she was able to reach up and pull away the balaclava covering his head.

It was a different face every time: George Mitchell, Simon Douglas-Brown, Mark, David, Giles Osborne – even Linda. In Erika’s final dream, when she pulled off the balaclava it was Andrea, just as she had appeared in death, with eyes staring, teeth bared and her long dark hair wet and full of leaves.

As the days passed, Erika heard nothing from Marsh. Moss was busy with court appearances and other cases, and was only able to snatch brief chats in the evenings. The police database had drawn a blank with George Mitchell, and a search of electoral records and financial databases also yielded nothing. There was one development: a tiny hair follicle had been recovered from Erika’s nightclothes, which could have come from her attacker – but again, it was run through the DNA database and nothing came back.

On the fourth morning, her throat was starting to heal, and she was able to speak. Erika knew she had to face up to things and go back to the flat. She thanked Celia and hugged little Jacob goodbye. He gave her a picture he’d drawn, of Erika dressed in a white boiler suit getting into a UFO to go up into space with a group of Minions.

It pretty much summed up how she felt.

It was quiet in the car as they drove back, Erika wearing a borrowed set of clothes from Celia. Moss eyed her from the driver’s seat.

‘Boss, you all right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I dunno. Wind up the police tape, and then I’m going to go and see my father-in-law.’

‘What about the case?’

‘Find George Mitchell, Moss. He’s the key.’

‘But what about you?’

‘What about me? I’m suspended. The sensible thing to do is to wait it out until the hearing, where hopefully I’ll get my badge back without losing my dignity. Well, I don’t give a shit about my dignity, but I can’t do anything without my badge.’

They’d arrived at Erika’s flat.

‘Thanks. I really appreciate everything,’ said Erika.

‘Want me to come in?’

‘No, you get to work.’

‘I won’t give up on the case, boss,’ promised Moss.

‘I know. But you’ve got a family. Do what you have to do.’

When Erika got back to the flat, it was in disarray. The surfaces were covered in the black magnetic powder used to dust for fingerprints, and crime scene tape still adorned her front door. She went to the bedroom and stared at the bed. She could see the outline of her body in the duvet, and the long legs of her assailant, the marks deeper at the knees where he’d lain on top of her. She reached over and pulled the edge of the duvet. The imprint vanished. She worked quickly, packing her suitcase. She went to the bathroom and gathered up her toiletries, noting the fingerprint power on the mirror, and the taped-over hole where the extractor fan used to be. She left the house and wheeled her suitcase round to the station. It was a cold, bright day and she stopped at the coffee shop opposite the station, thinking she’d attempt a coffee, even if it hurt.

‘Sugar, or are you sweet enough?’ grinned a handsome waiter with a pierced lip as he took her order.

‘I need sweetening up,’ said Erika.

‘That can be arranged,’ he said. She watched him as he worked and when he handed over her coffee he did so with a wink. Erika grinned back and walked over the road to the station.

‘Morning, I hope you’re not going to be smoking on my nice concourse,’ said the ticket officer, opening the ticket machine beside Erika.

‘No, I’ve given up,’ said Erika. She chose a single ticket to Manchester Piccadilly Station, and fed in her credit card.

‘Good for you, love,’ said the ticket officer, closing the machine. He grinned and walked back off to the station. Erika’s ticket shot out into the little steel drawer.

There were a smattering of people on the platform. She pulled out her phone and dialled Edward’s number. He answered after a few rings. His voice lit up when he realised who it was. Erika explained that she was coming up to see him, adding, ‘I hope it’s not too short notice?’