The Girl in the Ice (Detective Erika Foster 1)

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.