Grace went on, ‘It used to be nice round ’ere. Nothing posh, but nice. That rough old Wetherspoon’s used to be a lovely Odeon. The worst are The Glue Pot and The Stag. I tell you, if the world was flooded with piss and those two boozers were above the waterline, you wouldn’t catch me in there. And they’re swarming with bloody immigrants – no offence, love,’ she added, to Peterson. Erika noticed Moss suppress a smile.
Grace continued, still oblivious to Lee’s distress. ‘I tell you, I go out down the high street and feel like a foreigner in me own country: Polish, Romanian, Ukrainian, Russian, Indian, African . . . And Lee tells me they’re all down at the Jobcentre, hands out, taking what they can. You should raid those pubs on the high street. Loads of them work behind the bar, and nip out in their tea breaks to sign on. But no, there’s a blind eye turned to that. It’s my Lee who’s got to come out in all weather and work a forty-hour week for sixty quid’s worth of benefits. It’s disgusting.’
‘How long have you been working in the museum grounds?’ asked Erika. Lee shrugged. ‘I did four weeks before Christmas.’
‘And I suppose it’ll be Lee’s fault he can’t work, cos some stupid prostitute went and got herself . . .’
‘That’s enough,’ said Erika.
Grace seemed chastised. ‘I suppose she’s still someone’s daughter. Do you know who she is?’
‘We can’t say at this stage.’
This aroused Grace’s interest. ‘It wasn’t that girl, the posh one who’s gone missing? What was her name, Lee – Angela? Did she look like that girl in the paper?’
Lee was now staring blankly ahead, seemingly reliving the moment he’d come face-to-face with Andrea through a sheet of ice.
‘As I said, we still need to identify the body,’ said Erika. ‘We’ll contact the Jobcentre for you, Lee, and let them know what’s going on. Do stay in the local area. We might have to talk to you again.’
‘You think he’s going to leave the country, do you?’ snapped Grace. ‘Chance would be a fine thing – although, round here we’d probably be the only ones leaving!’
Erika, Moss and Peterson left as the paramedics began to ready the ambulance for leaving.
‘She was a bit of a handful,’ said Moss.
‘But she gave us more information than Lee,’ said Erika. ‘Let’s check out those pubs. The Glue Pot, The Stag. Could Andrea have been in one of those the night she went missing?’
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.