Jed Garvey was a painter, so he said. Foster guessed that Picasso and Pollock needn't worry about their place in history just yet. He was beanpole skinny, over six feet in height. His face was long and cloaked in at least a week's growth of stubble. His hair looked like it had fallen out of a tree and landed on his head.
He was wearing a battered suit jacket over a V-neck jumper, faded jeans and baseball boots.
His face was gaunt, drawn from hearing of his girlfriend's death. They got him a coffee and let him stew for a few seconds.
'That is one good-looking bloke,' Heather said.
'You don't mean you think that lanky streak of piss is attractive, do you?' Foster said, appalled.
'There's something about him.'
'Yeah, a bundle in the bank courtesy of Daddy.'
'Cynical or jealous -- difficult to guess which.'
'Jealous? Of him? The Bumfluff Kid?'
'Word has it he's dated some of the most beautiful young models, actresses and society beauties in London.'
'He's welcome to them. You spend a lot of time reading those gossip columns, then?'
'Light relief,' she said. 'Funny, Dammy Perry used to mention him a lot in her diary.'
'Bet she did. That's how it works for these people, isn't it? There's probably a thousand artists out there better than him, but they aren't shagging society journalists.' Foster sighed. 'You handle this one. I'm worried there might be more severed parts by the end of the interview if I do it.'
They went back into the room. Garvey was seated, his arms wrapped around his chest, staring at the desk in front of him. Heather put the coffee down and gave him a comforting smile.
'I realize this has come as a bit of a shock,' she said.
Garvey just nodded, eyes vacant.
'We need to go through a few things. Just routine.
It will help us catch whoever did this.'
Garvey nodded once more. 'The last thing I said to her was "Fuck off",' he said, then shook his head. 'Do you know how awful that feels? To know that was the last thing you said to someone you loved?'
Heather nodded sympathetically. Foster felt an unexpected twang of sympathy. The last thing he got to say to his father was that he loved him and respected him.
'I can't imagine,' Heather said softly. 'Tell us about the last time you saw her.'
He took a deep breath. 'It was Friday lunchtime.
Dammy was in good spirits because her agent had got her a deal for a book idea she had. We went to the Electric on Portobello Road to celebrate. A few friends joined us; we ate, drank champagne, they left. Then, well you know what it's like, you've been in high spirits, you drink too much, you say the wrong thing.'
'What did you say?'
'She thought I was jealous. I've been struggling a bit lately, not showing or selling much. It was getting me down. After a few drinks I suppose I got a bit peeved that she'd got a deal for an idea she'd scribbled on the back of a fag packet, yet here was I, with a studio full of pictures that nobody wanted. I said something about good fortune smiling on her and she laid into me.'
'What did she say?'
'She called me a waster, a loser, said that I was lazy and expected the world to come to me. That's when I told her to fuck off. She got her bag, got up and walked out. Didn't say a word; didn't even look at me.'
'You didn't try to follow her?' Heather asked.
To Foster, this sounded suspiciously like criticism, but Garvey took it in his stride.
'No. We rowed a bit but always made up. She's feisty . . . was feisty. Best thing to do in those circumstances was call it a day, and apologize later.'
The fact that he would never get that chance was left hanging in the air.
'Do you know where she went afterwards?'
'I assumed she'd gone home. We'd just started living together. When I got back and she wasn't there, I just thought she was at some friend's. It had happened before. She'd put me in the cooler for a day or two.'
'Surely, on Saturday, when she hadn't come home, you got worried?'
'To be honest, I got so wasted on Friday night that Saturday just drifted by. I tried to call her a million times on her mobile, but it was off. We were supposed to be going round to her brother's on Saturday night, but she just didn't come back. I went out and got wasted again.'
'Let me get this straight,' Foster interjected. 'You have a row, she walks out and you don't see her for two days and you don't do anything other than leave a few messages on her mobile? You don't try her friends, her brother or anyone else?'
Garvey flicked his eyes from Heather to Foster.
'With respect, you didn't know Dammy; she was an independent spirit. She wouldn't have appreciated me stalking her.'
She might have done, given that she had been kidnapped and was then killed, thought Foster, but he said nothing.
'Sorry, but I need to ask you some difficult questions,'
Heather said, stepping back in, waiting for Garvey to indicate that would be OK. 'When you'd rowed before, did Dammy ever go off with someone else? I'm thinking specifically of another man.'
'Never. No way. She'd had her fair share of boyfriends but, as far as I know, she was faithful. She once told me she'd cut my balls off if she ever found out I'd cheated on her. I know where she went. She'd have gone to the Prince of Wales in Holland Park; it was her favourite pub. She knew people in there, the staff, the regulars. It was why I didn't go there; didn't fancy venturing into enemy territory during a state of conflict.' He smiled weakly, though it vanished immediately. 'Of course, now I wish I had done.'
Garvey's head bowed and his eyes looked to the floor.
And you always will, Foster thought.
He remembered the Prince of Wales on Princedale Road as an old man's local boozer, all stained carpets and garish lights; now it was stripped wood bars, Belgian beers, and candles on each table. There were few traditional pubs left in the area. Foster wondered what happened to the regulars of gentrified pubs.
Did the brewery round them up and shoot them?
Checks had been made on Dammy Perry's movements.
Garvey had been the last of her family and close friends to see her; a scan of her credit card and bank-account history showed no activity since Friday morning.
It was early evening and the pub was still full from the Sunday-lunch trade, the bright young things of Holland Park and Notting Hill taking the edge off their weekend hangovers. Heather asked to see the manager, a fat, amiable-looking Geordie. He had not been at work on Friday, but called one of his bar staff across. Karl was a wiry, dark-eyed man in his thirties with a long face that wore the leathery imprint of a life lived in front of a bar.
Foster asked if there was somewhere quiet to speak and Karl led them out to the beer garden, which was empty save for two smokers gathered under an overhead burner. The familiar scent drifted under Foster's nostrils and reminded him how much he missed the habit.
Foster asked if he knew Dammy Perry. He did.
'Was she in here on Friday afternoon?' he asked.
'She came in about three or four o'clock, I reckon.'
'On her own?'
'Don't remember anyone else with her. A couple of people she knew were here having a drink, so she sat with them. They left after about half an hour and she came out here.'
'On her own?'
'No. There was a bloke, too.'
'Where did he come from?'
'Can't remember. Think he came in for a drink after her. All I remember is coming out here to collect a few glasses and seeing him and her sat at that table.