‘No, sir. I don’t. But we have to ask these questions.’
‘Where is Andrea’s fiancé?’ asked Moss.
‘Giles understood that we wanted to be left as a family. I’m sure he will pay his respects when . . .’ Lady Diana’s voice trailed off, perhaps realising she now had to organise a funeral.
They watched as the family walked slowly across the snowy car park to a waiting car. As they got in, Simon Douglas-Brown stared across at Erika. His bloodshot eyes bored into hers. Then he got into the car, and it drove away into the snow.
15
Yakka Events was based in a futuristic office block on a residential street in Kensington. It rose up between rows of ordinary terraced houses, like a pretentious sculpture that had been delivered to the wrong address. Erika, Peterson and Moss had to buzz in at two separate smoked glass doors before they were allowed access to the front desk. A young receptionist sat typing at her computer, wearing earphones. She saw them, but didn’t say a word and carried on typing. Erika leaned across and removed one of her earphones.
‘I’m DCI Foster, this is Detective Moss and Detective Peterson. We’d like to talk to Giles Osborne, please.’
‘Mr Osborne is busy. One moment, I’ll just finish this and get you booked in for an appointment,’ said the receptionist, making a show of replacing the earphone.
Erika leaned over again and pulled down on the cable, yanking both of the earphones out of the girl’s ears. ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. We’d like to see Giles Osborne.’
They all showed her their police ID. The girl’s attitude remained, but she picked up the phone on her desk. ‘What’s it regarding?’
‘The death of his fiancé,’ said Erika. The girl dialled a number.
‘What did she think we were here about? A cat stuck up a fucking tree?’ murmured Peterson. Erika shot him a look.
The receptionist replaced the receiver. ‘Mr Osborne will be out in a moment. You can wait through there.’
They moved through to a chill-out area with sofas and a low wooden coffee table, where design magazines were neatly fanned out. In the corner was a small bar with a giant fridge, lit up and stocked with rows of beers, and beside that was a giant, silver espresso machine. Along the wall hung a montage of photos, taken at various Yakka Events, which mostly seemed to involve gorgeous young girls and guys handing out free champagne.
‘He’d never employ me with my fat arse,’ muttered Moss as they sat. Erika gave her a sideways glance and saw, for the first time, that Moss was grinning. Erika returned the grin.
Moments later, Giles Osborne emerged through a smoked glass door next to the bar. He was short and plump with dark greasy hair, parted to one side. His beady eyes were close set, and he had a large nose but no chin. He had poured himself into skinny jeans and wore a V-necked t-shirt far too tight for his bulging belly. A strange pair of little pointed ankle boots, which gave him a Humpty-Dumpty-ish quality, completed the outfit. Erika was surprised that this was the man Andrea had chosen to marry.
‘Hello, I’m Giles Osborne. What can I do for you?’ he said, his accent confident and plummy.
Erika introduced everyone, adding, ‘We’d firstly like to offer our condolences.’
‘Yes. Thank you. It was a great shock. Something I’m still trying to process. I don’t know if I ever will . . .’ He looked pained, but didn’t invite them further.
‘Could we go somewhere a bit more private? We’d like to ask you a few questions,’ said Erika.
‘I’ve already spoken at length, yesterday, with a DCI Sparks,’ he said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
‘Yes, and we appreciate your time, but do understand this is a murder investigation and we really need to make sure we have all the information . . . ’
Giles regarded them for a moment and then appeared to snap out of his suspicion. ‘Of course. Can we get you a drink? Cappuccino? Espresso? Macchiato?’
‘I’ll have a cappuccino,’ said Moss. Peterson nodded in agreement.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Erika.
‘Michelle, we’ll be in the conference room,’ Giles said to the receptionist on the front desk. He held the glass door open, and they passed through a communal office where six or seven young men and women were working at computers. None of them looked over twenty-five. Giles opened another glass door, which led into a conference room with a long glass table and chairs. A large plasma television on the wall was mirroring a website, which showed rows of thumbnail images. On closer inspection, Erika realised the images were of coffins. Giles hurried to a laptop on the glass table and minimised the browser, the Yakka Events logo appearing on the television instead.
‘I can’t imagine how terrible this time must be for Lord and Lady Douglas-Brown. I thought I would make some inroads into planning Andrea’s funeral,’ he explained.
‘Andrea was only formally identified an hour ago,’ said Moss.
‘Yes, but you had identified Andrea, correct?’ he replied.
‘Yes,’ said Erika.
‘One is never certain how to react to sudden bereavement. It must seem strange to you . . .’ He broke down and put a hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry. I just need a focus . . . I need to do something, and arranging events is in my blood, I suppose. I just can’t believe this has happened . . .’
Erika pulled a tissue from a box on the conference table and handed it to Giles.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking it and blowing his nose.
‘I take it your company is successful?’ said Erika, changing the subject as they took their seats at the conference table.
‘Yes, I can’t complain. There are always people who want to tell the world about their new product. Recessions come and go, but there is always a need and a want to communicate a concept, a brand, an event. I’m here to help convey that message.’
‘What message do you hope to convey when you arrange Andrea’s funeral service?’ asked Moss. Before he could answer, the receptionist came in with the coffees and set them down.
‘Thanks, Michelle, you’re an angel,’ said Giles to her back as she left. ‘Um, that’s a really good question. I want people to remember Andrea for what she was: a beautiful young girl, pure and wholesome, innocent, with her whole life ahead of her…’
Erika turned that over in her brain for a moment. She saw Moss and Peterson do the same.
‘That’s really good coffee,’ said Moss.
‘Thank you. We did the product launch. It’s all completely Fairtrade. The farmers are compensated far above the market value for what they grow; their children are given places in schools. They have access to sanitation, clean water. Full healthcare.’
‘I didn’t know I was doing so much good, just drinking a cappuccino,’ said Peterson, his voice heavy with sarcasm. Erika could tell Peterson and Moss shared her dislike for Giles Osborne. This wasn’t going to work if he knew it too.
‘We’ve come here today,’ said Erika, ‘to try and build a bit of a picture about Andrea. We believe the best way to catch whoever did this is to piece together her life, and her final movements.’
‘Sure,’ said Giles. ‘It was a shock – a terrible shock.’ His eyes began to fill with tears again, and he scrubbed at them angrily with the balled-up tissue. He sniffed a couple of times. ‘We were due to be married this summer. She was so excited. She had already started fittings for the dress. She wanted a Vera Wang, and I always gave my Andrea what she wanted . . .’
‘Didn’t her parents want to pay?’ asked Erika.
‘No. The Slovak tradition is that each family pays half . . . Are you Slovak? I think I hear an accent?’ asked Giles.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Married?’
‘No. Can I ask where you and Andrea first met?’
‘She came to work for me, last June.’