The Girl in the Ice: A gripping serial killer thriller (Detective Erika Foster crime thriller novel Book 1) Read Free Page A

jeans, woollen jumper, and a purple bomber jacket. His gaze came to rest on the small suitcase on wheels at her feet. She glared back at him, and they both looked away. The wall beside her was a mess of public information posters. don’t be a victim of crime! declared one, which Erika thought was a pretty stupid thing to put up in the reception area of an outer London nick.
    A door beside the front desk buzzed and Chief Superintendent Marsh came into the reception area. His close-cropped hair had greyed in the years since Erika had last seen him, but despite his exhausted face, he was still handsome. Erika got up and shook his hand.
    ‘DCI Foster, sorry to keep you. Was your flight okay?’ he said, taking in what she was wearing.
    ‘Delayed, sir . . . Hence the civvies,’ she replied apologetically.
    ‘This bloody snow couldn’t come at a worse time,’ said Marsh, adding: ‘Desk Sergeant Woolf, this is DCI Foster; she’s joining us from Manchester. I’ll need you to assign her a car asap . . .’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Woolf.
    ‘And I’ll need a phone,’ added Erika. ‘If you could find something older, preferably with actual buttons. I hate touch screens.’
    ‘Let’s get started,’ said Marsh. He swiped his ID card and the door buzzed and clicked open.
    ‘Snotty cow,’ murmured Woolf, when the door had closed behind them.

    E rika followed Marsh down a long , low corridor. Phones rang, and uniformed officers and support staff streamed by in the opposite direction, their pasty January faces tense and urgent. A fantasy football league pinned up on the wall slid past, and seconds later, an identical pin board held rows of photos with the heading: killed in the line of duty . Erika closed her eyes, only opening them when she was confident she had passed. She nearly crashed into Marsh, who had stopped at a door marked INCIDENT ROOM. She could see through the half-open blinds of the glass partition that the room was full. Fear crawled up her throat. She was sweating under her thick jacket. Marsh grabbed the door handle.
    ‘Sir, you were going to brief me before—’ started Erika.
    ‘No time,’ he said. Before Erika had a chance to respond, he had opened the door and indicated she should go first.
    The incident room was large and open plan, and the two-dozen officers fell silent, their expectant faces bathed in the harsh strip lighting. The glass wall partitions on either side faced onto corridors, and along one side there was a bank of printers and photocopiers. Tracks had been worn into the thin carpet tiles in front of these, and between the desks to whiteboards lining the back wall. As Marsh strode to the front, Erika quickly stowed her suitcase by a photocopier which was churning out paper. She perched on a desk.
    ‘Morning everyone,’ said Marsh. ‘As we all know, twenty-three-year-old Andrea Douglas-Brown was reported missing four days ago. And what has followed has been a media shit-storm. Just after nine o’clock this morning, the body of a young girl matching Andrea’s description was found at the Horniman Museum in Forest Hill. Preliminary ID is from a phone registered to Andrea, but we still need a formal ID. We’ve got forensics on their way now, but it’s all being slowed down by the bloody snow . . .’ A phone started to ring. Marsh paused. It carried on ringing. ‘Come on people, this is an incident room. Answer the bloody phone!’
    An officer at the back snatched it up and started to speak quietly.
    ‘If the ID is correct, then we’re dealing with the murder of a young girl linked to a very powerful and influential family, so we need to stay far ahead on this one. The press, you name it. Arses are on the line.’
    The day’s newspapers lay on the desk opposite Erika. The headlines screamed out: DAUGHTER OF TOP LABOUR PEER VANISHES and ANDIE KIDNAP TERROR PLOT? The third was the most striking, with a full-page picture of Andrea under the headline: TAKEN?
    ‘This is DCI Foster.