Grace seemed oblivious to Lee’s distress. He pulled the blanket around him and furrowed his brow, knitting his bushy eyebrows together. ‘She was beautiful,’ he said, quietly. ‘Even dead, under the ice . . . It was horrible, how she died, wasn’t it?’
Erika nodded.
‘I could see it in her face,’ said Lee. ‘Sorry, what was the question?’
‘Did you recognise her, Lee? Had you seen her around?’ repeated Erika.
‘No. I’ve never seen her before,’ he said.
‘We think she could have been out at one of the pubs on the high street when she went missing. Which pubs attract the younger crowd?’ asked Peterson.
Lee shrugged. ‘The Wetherspoon’s is busy on a weekend . . . The Pig and Whistle. That’s just up from the station.’
‘Do you go out much, Lee?’ asked Peterson. Lee shrugged. Peterson continued, ‘The Wetherspoon’s, The Pig and Whistle. Any other pubs?’
‘He steers clear of those, don’t you?’ said Grace, throwing Lee a look.
‘Yeah, yeah. I do. I mean, I steer clear,’ said Lee.
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.