‘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.’
‘As what?’
‘One of our sampling girls, although I don’t think she really knew the meaning of the word “work”. I’d known Lady Diana for a few years. We often partner with her floristry business for our events. She said she had a daughter who was looking for a job; then she showed me her picture and that was it.’
‘How do you mean, “that was it”?’ asked Peterson.
‘Well, she was beautiful. The kind of girl we love to employ – and of course, very soon I was in love, ha.’
‘And did she work for you for long, before a relationship developed?’ asked Peterson.
‘No – well, the love took a bit longer than her period of employment. She only did one shift, giving out samples of Mo?t. She was terrible: she behaved like she was at the party, not working – and she got so drunk! So that didn’t work out, but, er, we did . . .’ Giles trailed off. ‘Look, is any of this relevant? I would have thought you’d want to be out looking for the killer.’
‘So it was quite a rapid courtship. You only met eight months ago, last June?’ said Erika.
‘Yes.’
‘And you proposed very quickly into the relationship.’
‘As I said. It was love at first sight.’
‘And you think it was love at first sight for Andrea too?’ asked Moss.
‘Look, am I under suspicion?’ asked Giles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Why would you think you were under suspicion? We said we were asking questions,’ said Erika.
‘But I’ve answered all this before. If you want to cut to the chase, I am able to demonstrate where I was the night that Andrea disappeared. From three pm on Thursday, January eighth, until three am the morning of the ninth, I was running a product launch at Raw Spice in Soho, 106 Beak Street. I then came back here to the office with my team; we had some drinks to wind down. I have all this on CCTV. We then went out for breakfast at six am – the McDonald’s on Kensington High Street. I have more than a dozen staff that can verify this, and no doubt there is CCTV footage of most of the places. The doorman on my building saw me arrive home at seven am, and I didn’t leave again until midday.’
‘What is Raw Spice?’ asked Peterson.
‘It’s a sushi fusion experience.’
‘Sushi fusion?’
‘I really don’t expect someone like you to know what that is,’ said Giles, impatiently.
‘Someone like me?’ asked Peterson, reaching up to twist one of his short dreadlocks.
‘No, no, no; what I meant was, someone who . . . who might not move in central London society . . .’
Erika then stepped in. ‘Yes, that’s all fine. Look, Mr Osborne—’
‘Please call me Giles. This is a first-name office.’
‘Giles. Are you on Facebook?’
‘Of course I’m on Facebook,’ he bristled. ‘I run an events company. We’re very active on all social media.’
‘And Andrea?’
‘No, she was one of the few people I’ve ever met who didn’t have a Facebook profile. I’ve tried . . . I tried to get her on Instagram a couple of times, but she’s . . . she was clueless with technology.’
Erika stood and pulled out a couple of screenshots from Andrea’s Facebook profile. She laid them out on the glass table in front of him.
‘Andrea did have a Facebook profile. She deactivated it in June 2014. I’m guessing this was around the time you two met?’
Giles pulled the paper towards him. ‘Maybe she wanted to have a fresh start?’ he said, confused, clearly trying not to react to a picture of Andrea draped over a handsome young man, his hand cupping one of her breasts through her white halter-neck top.
‘So she lied to you about not having a Facebook profile.’
‘Well, lie is a strong word, is it not?’
‘But why keep this from you?’
‘I – I don’t know.’
‘Giles. Do you know of The Glue Pot, in Forest Hill?’ asked Peterson.
‘No, I don’t think I do. What is it?’
‘It’s a pub.’
‘Then I definitely don’t. I don’t stray south of the river, in fact, ever.’
‘Andrea was last seen at this pub on the night she disappeared. She was in the company of a girl with short blonde hair, then later a dark-haired man. Do you have any idea who they could have been? Did she have any friends in South London, around Forest Hill?’
‘No. Well, none that I knew of.’