‘No probs,’ said Moss, amiably. ‘This isn’t a formal interview; we merely want information to help catch Andrea’s killer.’
‘I can give you the list of clubs where Andrea had memberships. I’ll talk to my secretary, get her to email them over,’ said Simon.
‘Linda, you work at a florists, yes?’ asked Peterson.
Linda looked him up and down approvingly, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Yes. It’s my mother’s business. I’m assistant manager. Have you got a girlfriend?’
‘Um, no,’ said Peterson.
‘Pity,’ said Linda, unconvincingly. ‘We’ve got some lovely stuff coming in for Valentine’s Day.’
‘What about you, David?’ asked Peterson.
David had sunk down into the sofa, and he stared ahead vacantly with the neck of his jumper pulled up over his bottom lip. ‘I’m doing my MA,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Here in London, at UCL,’
‘And what are you studying?’
‘Architectural History.’
‘He’s always wanted to be an architect,’ said his mother proudly, putting her hand on his arm. He pulled it out from under her touch. For a moment, Diana looked like she might break down again.
‘When did you last see Andrea?’ asked Erika.
‘The afternoon before we were due to go out,’ said David.
‘Did you go out with Andrea much in London?’
‘No. She was more Kardashian bling. I’m more into Shoreditch, y’know?’
‘You mean the bars and clubs in Shoreditch?’ asked Peterson. David nodded. Peterson added, ‘I live in Shoreditch. I got a mortgage just before the property prices went mad.’
Linda regarded Peterson, as if he were a cream cake waiting to be devoured.
David went on, ‘Yeah. When I finally get access to my trust fund, I’m buying my own place in Shoreditch.’
‘David,’ warned his father.
‘Well, I am. He asked me a question and I answered.’
There was an almost imperceptible shift in the room. A look passed between Simon and Diana, and then there was silence.
‘So, Linda, you are a florist, and David is studying. What did Andrea do?’ asked Moss.
‘Andrea was engaged to be married,’ said Linda, her voice heavy with irony.
‘Enough!’ roared Simon. ‘I will not have you two talking like this, filling the room with this horrible atmosphere. Andrea is dead. Brutally murdered! And here you are taking pot shots at her!’
‘It wasn’t me, it was Linda,’ said David.
‘Oh yes, it’s always me. Always Linda . . .’
Their father ignored them. ‘Andrea was a beautiful girl. But not only that, she lit up a room when she walked in. She was beautiful, and vulnerable and . . . and . . . a light has gone out in our lives.’
The atmosphere in the room changed. The family seemed to shift on their chairs to move into each other and become a unit.
‘What can you tell us about Andrea’s friend, Barbora Kardosova?’ asked Erika.
‘I think she was the closest Andrea ever had to a best friend,’ said Diana. ‘She even came on holiday with us. They were so close for a time, and then she just vanished. Andrea said Barbora just moved away.’
‘Do you know where she went?’
‘No. She didn’t leave a forwarding address; didn’t answer any of Andrea’s emails,’ said Diana.
‘Do you think that’s odd?’
‘Of course it was odd. I think she came from a broken home, though. Her mother was unwell. Then of course, people inevitably have a habit of letting you down . . .’
‘Did they have a falling out?’
‘It’s possible, but Andrea was – well, she wouldn’t lie about things like that. She’d have told us. Andrea thinks – thought – that Barbora had become jealous of her.’
‘Andrea’s phone records only go back to June 2014,’ said Erika.
‘Yes, she lost her other phone. She’d had it since she was thirteen or fourteen,’ said Simon.
‘And you replaced it for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got the number for the old phone?’
‘Why would you need that?’
‘It’s just routine.’
‘Is it? I would have thought having eight months of phone records would suffice . . .’ They could see that Simon was starting to grow uncomfortable.
‘Did Andrea have a second phone?’
‘No.’
‘Could she have had a second phone and you were unaware?’
‘Well, no. The family manages her trust fund. She mainly used credit cards. We would have known if she’d bought a phone, but why would she?’
‘It would be very helpful if we could have her old phone number.’
Simon looked at Erika. ‘Yes, okay, I’ll speak to my secretary. She can pull the details.’
Erika went to ask another question, but Diana began to speak.
‘I don’t know why Andrea would go all the way over across the river! And then she’s taken by someone and killed. My baby . . . My baby. She’s dead!’ Diana became hysterical, gulping and retching. Simon and David began to comfort her, but Linda did another nervous flick of her fringe and picked at a piece of lint on her cat jumper.
‘Officers, please, that’s enough questions,’ said Simon.
Erika found it hard to hide her exasperation. ‘Would it be possible to look at Andrea’s bedroom?’
‘What? Now? Your people have already been and had a look.’
‘Please. It would help us,’ said Erika.
‘I can take them, Daddy,’ said Linda. ‘Come with me, officers.’
They followed Linda out, past Diana, who was still hysterical. David gave Linda a nod and a weak smile and then turned back to comfort his mother. On the way out of the door, they passed the piano littered with family photographs of the Douglas-Browns and their three children – all smiling, all happy.
17
Andrea’s bedroom was large and, like the rest of the house, beautifully furnished. Three sash windows along one wall looked out over the green where the press were milling about. Linda marched in ahead of them and moved close to the blinds. The photographers below leapt into action, clicking away. Linda yanked the blinds down with a clatter.
‘Those beasts. We can’t do anything. We’re trapped in here. David’s been moaning that he can’t even have a cigarette on the terrace. Daddy says it would look bad.’
The blinds were thick and cast the bedroom in gloom. Linda flicked on the light. The middle window was the largest. Underneath, there was a huge desk of polished wood. The desk was neatly organised with an astonishing amount of make-up: a big pot of brushes and eyeliner, nail polish lined up in many colours, powder compacts stacked, boxes of lipstick standing to attention in rows. Over the corner of the mirror hung scores of lanyards and tickets from concerts: Madonna, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Rihanna, Robbie Williams.
A wardrobe lined the length of the wall on the right. Erika slid the mirrored door across, and the scent of Chanel Chance perfume floated out. Inside was an expensive wardrobe of designer clothes, mostly short skirts and dresses. The bottom was covered in shoeboxes.
‘So Andrea got an allowance?’ asked Erika, thumbing her way through the clothes.
‘When she turned twenty-one she gained access to her trust fund, like I did. Although David still has to wait, which has caused . . . issues,’ said Linda.
‘What do you mean, issues?’
‘Males born into the family have to wait until their twenty-fifth birthday.’
‘Why is that?’
‘David is like any twenty-one year old boy. He wants to spend his money on girls and cars and booze. Although, he’s much more considerate than Andrea, even though he has less money. He still gets me nicer birthday presents.’ Linda flicked her fringe again, crossing her arms over her large be-kittened bosom.
‘What do you spend your money on?’ asked Moss.
‘That is a rude question that I don’t have to answer,’ said Linda, tartly.
To one side of the wardrobe was a neatly made four-poster bed with a blue and white blanket, and some soft toys lined up on the pillow. Above the bed was a poster of One Direction.
‘She didn’t really like them anymore,’ said Linda, following their gaze. ‘She said they were just boys and she liked men.’
‘She was engaged, though?’ prompted Erika. Linda gave a bitter laugh. ‘What’s so funny, Linda?’