The Girl in the Ice

6

There was a fresh onslaught of snow when they emerged from the museum, so they ditched the squad car and took the overland train to London Bridge, and then the tube over to Chiswick. The tube was cramped and hot, and they had to stand most of the journey in a tightly packed huddle, with Erika sandwiched between her new colleagues. Peterson’s lean frame was contrasted by the dumpy bulk of Moss pressed against her other side. Erika wished she could have five minutes to herself, some space and fresh air to gather her thoughts. In twenty-five years of police investigations, she’d informed what seemed like hundreds of people that they had lost loved ones, but since experiencing the other side of loss, she felt different. The pain was still so raw. And now she was going to have to tell Andrea’s parents, and watch the now-familiar grief as it consumed them.

Snow had stopped falling when they emerged from Turnham Green tube station. Chiswick High Road was polished in comparison to South London. The streets were clean, with freshly painted post boxes, and independent butchers and organic stores mingled amongst the Victorian terraced houses with their spotless sash windows. The banks and supermarkets had a zing and a gleam. Even the snow seemed whiter.

The Douglas-Browns’ house was in a large, sweeping cul-de-sac set back from the busy high street. Their super-size Georgian house had been sandblasted, the removal of years of soot and smog exposing brickwork the colour of butter. It dominated the other houses, despite being partly hidden by the tall trees growing in a small park at the centre of the cul-de-sac. Footprints tracked across the snow where a group of photographers milled about, cameras slung over their warm winter coats, steam rising from their takeaway cups of coffee. Their interest was piqued as Erika, Moss and Peterson approached the house, entering through the front gate. Camera shutters began to click, flashes bouncing off the high-gloss black paint of the Douglas-Browns’ stout front door. Erika took a deep breath and pressed the bell. An elegant chime sounded deep inside.

‘Are you police?’ shouted a voice from behind them.

‘The dead body, is it Andie?’ shouted another. Erika closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the photographers like a heavy presence behind. What bloody right did they have to call her Andie? Not even her parents called her that.

The front door opened, but only partially, and a tiny, dark-haired old lady looked up at them through a gap. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes as the camera flashes intensified.

‘Good morning, we need to speak with Simon and Diana Douglas-Brown, please,’ said Erika, and the three officers flashed their IDs. They expected the lady to usher them in, but she peered up at them from under hooded eyelids, the camera flashes reflecting in her black eyes.

‘You’re enquiring about the Lord and Lady Douglas-Brown?’

‘Yes. It’s regarding the disappearance of their daughter, Andrea,’ said Erika, quietly.

‘I’m the Douglas-Browns’ housekeeper. Please give me your identification,’ said the little woman, ‘and wait here whilst I confirm who you are.’ She collected up their IDs and closed the door. Fresh camera flashes bounced off the paintwork.

‘Can you confirm she was raped?’ shouted a voice.

‘Can you confirm it’s murder? And if so, do you believe it was politically motivated?’ shouted another.

Erika gave Moss and Peterson a sideways glance and they kept facing the door. Seconds ticked by. They could almost feel the heat of the camera flashes on their backs.

‘What does she think we’re trying to do? Sell them fucking double-glazing?’ hissed Moss, quietly.

‘Lord Douglas was involved in a hidden camera sting last year,’ said Peterson, from the corner of his mouth. ‘The News Of The World caught him on film trying to bribe a defence contractor from Tehran.’

‘The Fake Sheikh?’ murmured Erika. She was about to say more, when the door opened, a little wider this time. The camera shutters from behind intensified.

‘Yes, they all seem in order,’ said the little woman, returning their IDs and beckoning them through the gap. They followed her inside and she closed the door against the cold and photographers.

The narrow hallway opened out into a gallery, where an elegant, carpeted wooden staircase snaked up around three floors. High above was a round stained-glass skylight, which played a pattern of soft colours over the creamy walls. A glossy grandfather clock sat at the base of the stairs, its pendulum swinging silently. The housekeeper led them down a corridor, past a doorway through which they glimpsed a large steel and granite kitchen, and past an enormous gilt mirror, underneath which sat an equally impressive vase of fresh flowers. They arrived at an oak door, and were led through to a study overlooking the snow-covered back garden.

‘Please wait,’ the housekeeper said, eyeing them as she backed out of the room and closed the door. Underneath a sash window was a sturdy desk of dark wood. Its leather surface was empty apart from a sleek silver laptop. A bookcase filled the wall to the left, and a large leather button-back sofa and two armchairs stood on the right. Above them was a wall covered in framed photographs of Simon Douglas-Brown, who Erika recognised from the press reports of Andrea’s disappearance. He was a short virile-looking man, with intense brown eyes.

The photos charted his achievements, beginning with a full head of hair when his technology company was listed on the London Stock Exchange in 1987, progressing, as the hair thinned out, through a series of photos with the Queen, Margaret Thatcher, John Major and then Tony Blair. Erika noted that Her Majesty was a good few inches taller than Lord Douglas-Brown. There were four photos taken with Tony Blair, showing just how involved Douglas-Brown had become in the workings of the Labour government.

Two photos, larger than the rest, had pride of place in the centre of the collage. The first was an official portrait, where Douglas-Brown stood amongst red carpet and wood panelling, wearing a cloak of ermine. A caption underneath showed it was taken on the day of his investiture, when he had been knighted, becoming Baron Simon Douglas-Brown of Hunstanton. In the second photo he struck the same pose, but this time with the addition of his wife, Diana, small and fine-boned beside him in an elegant white dress. She had long dark hair, and looked like an older, more pinched version of Andrea.

‘Where is Hunstanton?’ asked Erika.

‘Norfolk coast. It’s got a very nice Sea Life Centre,’ said Moss, leaning into the photo with a deadpan face.

‘So his wife became Lady Diana,’ said Peterson.

‘Yeah,’ said Moss. ‘And it doesn’t seem the title has brought her much luck, either!’

‘Is this just a laugh for you two?’ snapped Erika. ‘Because I don’t remember anything funny about Andrea’s body when it was pulled out of the ice.’

Moss and Peterson apologised hastily. The three of them looked at the last of the photos in an awkward silence. Lord and Lady Douglas-Brown with President Barack Obama and his wife, Michelle. The Obamas towered over the Douglas-Browns, who had pulled their faces into smiles verging on mania. No doubt, out of shot there was a long line of lords, ladies, diplomats, captains of industry and their skinny wives waiting to step into the frame for an identical picture. A meeting of mere seconds, preserved for eternity on the ego wall.

They were roused from the photo wall by a cough, and turned to see Simon and Diana Douglas-Brown in the study doorway. Erika felt immediate guilt for passing judgement, for the two people standing expectantly in front of them were nothing more than terrified parents.

‘Please, just tell us what’s going on. Is it Andrea?’ asked Diana. Erika detected an accent under Diana’s well-spoken English, one much like Erika’s own.

‘Please sit down,’ said Erika.

Diana saw their expressions, and put her hands over her face. ‘No, no, no, no, no! It’s not her. Not my baby. Please, not my baby!’

Simon put an arm around his wife.

‘I’m very sorry to inform you that your daughter’s body was found this morning in the grounds of the Horniman Museum in South London,’ said Erika.

‘And you’re sure it’s her?’ asked Simon.

‘Yes. We found Andrea’s driving licence on her – on her person, and a mobile phone registered to Andrea was at the scene,’ said Erika. ‘We’re doing everything we can to establish her cause of death, but I need to tell you that we believe it was suspicious. We believe that Andrea was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Diana pulled away and sank down into a sofa by the bookcase, her hands still over her face. Simon’s olive skin had drained of colour, giving him a green pallor. ‘Andrea, murdered?’ Diana repeated. ‘Who would murder her?’

Erika paused and then said, ‘I’m afraid we’ll need you to come and formally identify Andrea’s body.’

There was another silence. A clock chimed in the depths of the building. Diana took her hands from her face and looked up at Erika, studying her. ‘Odkial ste?’ she said.

‘Narodila som sa v Nitre,’ replied Erika.

‘No Slovak, not now. Let’s speak English,’ said Simon.

‘What’s a woman from Nitra doing telling me that my daughter is dead?’ said Diana, fixing Erika with a stare. It was challenging.

‘Like you, I’ve lived in England for longer than I lived in Slovakia,’ explained Erika.

‘You’re nothing like me! Where’s the other officer, the one who was here before . . . Sparks? I don’t want the fate of our daughter resting on the skills of some Slovakian.’

‘Mrs Douglas -Brown,’ said Erika, feeling anger rise in her.

‘It’s Lady Douglas-Brown.’

Erika snapped. ‘I’ve been a police officer for twenty-five years. A Detective Chief Inspector for—’

‘I can assure you, we’re doing everything we can to find the person who did this,’ said Peterson, stepping in and shooting Erika a look.

Erika composed herself and pulled out her notebook, flicking through to a blank page. ‘If I may, Lady Diana, I would like to ask you a few questions?’

‘No. No, you may not,’ said Simon, his dark eyes hardening. ‘Can’t you see my wife is . . . we’re . . . I need to make some phone calls. Where did you say you were from?’

‘Nitra is in western Slovakia, but as I said, I’ve been in England for over twenty years.’

‘I’m not asking for your bloody life story. I’m asking whether you are Metropolitan police?’

‘Yes, we’re from Lewisham Row Station,’ said Erika.

‘Right. Well, I want to make some calls. Find out the lay of the land. I’ve been dealing directly with Assistant Commissioner Oakley—’

‘Sir. I’m leading the investigation—’

‘And I’ve worked with Commander Clive Robinson on several police steering committees and—’

‘And whilst I respect that, you have to understand that I am now leading this investigation and I need to ask you both some questions!’ Too late, Erika realised her voice had risen to a shout. There was a silence.

‘Boss. Can I have a word?’ asked Peterson. He glanced at Moss and she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Erika felt her face flush.

‘Boss, a word. Now,’ said Peterson. Erika rose and followed him out into the corridor. He closed the door. She leant against the wall and tried to slow her breathing.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Look, I’m not getting up in your face, boss. You’ve come in to a shit storm and I accept that, but you can’t get aggressive with the victim’s parents. Because right now, that’s all they are. Parents. Let him posture, but we know how it’s going to work from here on.’

‘I know. Shit,’ said Erika. ‘Oh, shit . . .’

‘Why did the mother want to know where you were from in Slovenia?’

‘Slovakia,’ corrected Erika. ‘It’s a well-known Slovak attitude. The people who come from Bratislava think they’re better than everyone else . . . I presume that’s where she’s from.’

‘And she thinks that makes her better than you,’ finished Peterson. Erika breathed in and nodded, trying to calm her anger.

Two men in overalls were approaching from the other end of the corridor, pulling a huge Christmas tree. Erika and Peterson parted to let them through. The tree had dried out and was brown in places, and as its branches brushed the walls, pine needles shed and sprayed across the thick blue and green carpet.

Peterson looked as if he was going to say more, then thought better of it, and took a different tack. ‘It’s way past lunchtime. You look like you could use a sugar rush,’ he said, studying Erika’s white face. ‘I know you’re the boss, boss, but how about you go off, and meet us round the corner at a pub or a caff?’

‘I’ll go in and apologise.’

‘Boss. Let the dust settle, yeah? We’ll get as much info as we can, and come and find you.’

‘Yeah. Okay. But if you can . . .’

‘I’ll arrange for them to do the ID. Yes.’

‘And we’ll need Andrea’s laptop . . . and . . . Well. Just get as much as you can for now.’

Peterson nodded and went back inside the study. Erika paused for a moment. She’d totally blown it, and was coming away with nothing.

She was about to have a look round the house when the housekeeper with the hooded eyes reappeared.

‘I’ll show you out, shall I?’ she insisted.

They followed the trail of dead pine needles to the front door. When Erika was deposited outside on the step, in front of the flashing cameras, she had to bite down hard on her bottom lip to keep herself from crying.