Robert Bryndza - The Girl in the Ice

Andrea was pictured at several parties: there were many selfies, pictures of Andrea topless in her bathroom mirror, cupping a breast seductively, tilting her head back. Then a series of photos that had been taken on a night out at a bar. It looked to be at the same bar as in the picture with Linda.

‘Stop, go back!’ said Erika.

‘I can’t stop, we have to let them load,’ said Moss.

‘Come on,’ said Erika, impatiently, as the laptop paused on a blurred photo of blackness, obviously taken in error – then the photos began to load again and finished. Erika began to flick through.

‘Yes. Here we go, these are the most recent ones, from the bar,’ said Erika.

‘Who’s that, do you think?’ asked Moss as they peered at the screen. A tall and broad man in his early thirties was pictured with Andrea. He was very dark with large brown eyes, and he had close-cropped stubble on his handsome, chiselled face.

The first few photos were taken by Andrea holding out the camera. In all of them, she was leaning into the man’s chest. He was incredibly handsome.

‘Dark-haired man,’ said Erika, in a soft, excited voice.

‘Let’s just steady on,’ said Moss, who also sounded excited. Erika clicked forward through the photos. They were all taken at what looked like the same party: people filled the background, sitting at tables or dancing. Andrea had gone mad taking pictures of herself with the man, and he’d happily let her. The poses began with them side-by-side, Andrea staring up at him with the love-light in her eyes. The pictures progressed to him kissing Andrea, their mouths locked with a glimpse of tongue, her red fingernails grazing his chiselled stubbly jaw.

‘These were all taken on the 23rd December last year,’ said Moss, noting the date stamp of the pictures.

‘That picture of Linda with Andrea. It was taken the same night. That’s the same party . . .’

The picture from which the National Criminal Database had recognised Linda’s face popped up again.

‘It’s towards the end of the evening by the look of it; they look a bit worse for wear,’ said Erika.

‘So Linda was there at the same time as that guy. He could have taken this photo,’ said Moss.

They pressed on through the photos. The date stamp showed a gap of a few days, and then they came across photos taken on a bed with pale sheets. Andrea lay with the dark-haired man, again holding out the camera to take the shots. His chest was powerful and covered in a smattering of dark hair. Andrea had her arm hooked under her naked breasts. The photos progressed to become more explicit: a close-up of the man with Andrea’s nipple drawn up between his white teeth, a full frontal picture of Andrea laying back on the bed, smiling. And then Andrea’s face filled the screen. Her lips were locked around the base of the man’s penis. He looked to be cupping her chin. One of his large thumbs rested on her cheekbone.

The next photo was abruptly less X-rated. Andrea and the man were pictured on the 30th December, hand-in-hand on the street. They were both dressed for winter. A familiar clock tower was in the background

‘Shit. That’s the Horniman Museum,’ said Moss.

‘And that’s four days before she went missing,’ said Erika.

‘Do you think this is the guy she was seen talking to in the pub?’ asked Moss.

‘This could be the guy who killed her,’ said Erika.

‘But he’s got no record that we know of; the National Criminal Database software didn’t flag him . . .’

‘He looks Russian, or – I don’t know – Romanian? Serbian? He could have a record overseas.’

‘But we don’t have a name, and that could take time,’ said Moss.

‘But we do know someone who could have his name. Linda Douglas-Brown,’ said Erika. ‘She’s pictured the same night. In the same bar as him.’

‘Should we bring her in?’ asked Moss.

‘Now, hang on,’ said Erika.

‘What do you mean, hang on? She’s obviously withholding information, boss.’

‘But we need to be very careful before we bring her in. The Douglas-Browns will lawyer up the second we do anything. It seems they have spent a fair bit of cash keeping Linda on the straight and narrow.’

Moss paused. ‘You know what your flat could do with, boss?’

‘What?’

‘Some nice fresh flowers.’

‘Yes. We should pay a visit to a florist,’ said Erika.

42

Jocasta Floristry was tucked between an elegant jeweller’s and a polished granite office block on Kensington High Street. The window was optimistically decorated for early spring. There was a carpet of real grass, and daffodils, tulips and crocuses pushed up in reds, pinks, blues and yellows. Several china Easter bunnies sat on the grass, or peered out from behind toadstools and giant speckled eggs. At the front, up close to the glass, a small picture of Andrea, smiling into the camera, sat on a red velvet cushion..

Moss went to open the glass entrance, but saw next to it a small white bell and a neatly printed sign with the words: RING FOR SERVICE

Erika pressed the button. Moments later, a small elderly woman with severely scraped-back hair peered up at them from under hooded eyelids. It was the same lady who had answered the door at the Douglas-Browns’ house. She waved them away dismissively. Erika held down the bell again. They realised how thick the glass was when she pulled open the door and the sound of the bell amplified.

‘What’s this about?’ she snapped. ‘We’ve spoken to the police, you have a man in custody. We’re preparing for a funeral!’ She went to slam the door, but Moss grabbed it.

‘We’d like to speak to Linda, please, if she’s here?’

‘You’ve got someone in custody, haven’t you? What more do you need from the family?’ the woman repeated.

‘We’re still building our case, Madam. We believe Linda will be able to help us to confirm a few details which could lead to a swift conviction,’ said Moss.

The old woman regarded them, eyes darting from side to side under the hooded lids, the skin crinkling and twitching, reminding Erika of a chameleon. She opened the door, and stood to one side to let them in,

‘And wipe your feet,’ she said, eyeing the wet pavement outside.

They followed her through to an open-plan seating area decorated in white. Along the back wall, an enormous clear-glass conference table glowed and changed colour. Adorning the walls were photos of the previous work Jocasta Floristry had undertaken: society weddings, product launches. The old lady vanished through a door at the back, and a moment later Linda emerged, carrying armfuls of yellow daffodils. She wore a long black A-line skirt, and another cat jumper poked out from behind a white apron. This time it was a giant tabby cat with languid eyes.

‘My mother isn’t here. She’s taken to her bed,’ she said. Her tone of voice seemed to suggest that her mother was slacking off. She crossed to the large table, laid the daffodils on the glass and began to sort them into bunches. Erika and Moss joined her at the table. ‘What are you doing here, DCI Foster? I thought you’d been taken off the case…’

‘Surely you of all people should know not to believe everything you read in the press,’ said Erika.

‘Yes. Journalists. They’re all beasts. One of the tabloids described me as a “moon-faced spinster”’.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Linda.’

‘Are you?’ snapped Linda fixing them with a stare. Erika took a deep breath.

‘When we spoke to you before, we asked if you had any information that could help us with our enquiries. You failed to mention to us that Andrea had a second phone,’ said Erika.

Linda went back to bunching daffodils.