Barbara went to investigate the photographs. She saw that the same man and woman were common to them all. He was short, wiry, and angelic in appearance, with a wispy corona of hair round his head, which added to his celestial aura. His companion was taller than he, blonde and as thin as a walking eating disorder. She was beautiful in the fashion of a catwalk model: vacant-looking and all cheekbones and lips. The photographs themselves were vintage Hello!, featuring their subjects with an assortment of well-turned-out nobs, políticos, and celebrities. A former prime minister stood among them, and Barbara had no trouble identifying opera singers, film stars, and a well-known U.S. senator.
A door opened and closed somewhere in the corridor. The floor boards creaked as someone walked along the Persian carpet towards Reception. With a click of heels against a bare section of wood, a woman came into the room to greet them. No more than a glance told Barbara that one of the two photographed subjects had herself come to see why the rozzers were calling.
She was Tricia Reeve, the woman said, assistant director of MKR Financial Management. How might she be of help to them?
Barbara introduced herself. Nkata did the same. They asked the woman if they could have a few minutes of her time.
“Of course,” Tricia Reeve replied politely, but Barbara couldn't help noticing that the assistant director of MKR Financial Management didn't exactly embrace the words Scotland Yard CID with the devotion of a member of the faithful. Instead, her glance moved like nervous quicksilver, sliding between the two detectives as if she wasn't certain how to behave. Her wide eyes looked black, but a lengthier look at them revealed that her pupils were so enlarged that they covered all but a thin edge of iris. The effect was disconcerting, but it was also revealing. Drugs, Barbara realised. Tsk, tsk, tsk. No wonder she was jumpy, with the cops on her doorstep.
Tricia Reeve took a moment to inspect her watch. Gold-banded this was, and coruscating expensively in the light. She said, “I was just about to leave, so I hope this won't take long. I've got to attend a tea at the Dorchester. It's a charity do, and as I'm a member of the committee …. I hope you understand. Is there a problem?”
Murder certainly was a problem, Barbara thought. She let Nkata do the honours. For her part, she watched for reactions.
There were none other than perplexity. Tricia Reeve observed Nkata as if she hadn't heard him correctly. After a moment, she said, “Nicola Maiden? Murdered?” and then she added most strangely, “Are you certain?”
“We've had a positive ID from the girl's parents.”
“I meant are you certain she was murdered?”
“We don't think she bashed in her own skull, if that's what you're asking,” Barbara said.
That got a reaction, limited though it was. One of Tricia Reeve's manicured hands reached for the top button of her suit's jacket. It was pin-striped, with a pencil-width skirt that showed several miles of leg.
“Look,” Barbara said. “The College of Law told us that she came to work for you last autumn on a part-time basis that turned to full-time in May. We take it she'd gone on leave for the summer. Is that right?”
Tricia glanced towards a closed door behind the reception desk. “You'll need to speak to Martin.” She went to the door, knocked once, entered, and shut it behind her without another word.
Barbara looked at Nkata. “I'm panting for your analysis, son.”
“She's pilled-up like a pharmacist's cupboard” was his succinct reply.
“She's flying, all right. What d'you reckon it is?”
He flipped his hand. “It's keeping her sweet, whatever she's on.”
It was nearly five minutes before Tricia reappeared. During this time, the phones continued to ring, the calls continued to be routed, and the low murmur of voices came from behind the heavy closed door. When it opened at last, a man stood before them. It was Angel Hair from the photographs, decked out in a well-tailored charcoal suit and waistcoat with the heavy gold chain of a pocket watch slung across his middle. He introduced himself as Martin Reeve. He was Tricia's husband, he told them, managing director of MKR.
He invited Barbara and Nkata into his office. His wife was on her way out to tea, he explained. Would the police be needing her? Because as head of fund raising for Children in Need, she had an obligation to her committee to be present at their Autumn Harvest Tea at the Dorchester. It began the season, and had Tricia not been the chairman—“Sorry, darling, chairperson—” of the event, her presence wouldn't be so crucial. As it was, she happened to have the guest list in the boot of her car. And without that list, the seating assignments for the tea couldn't be made. Reeve hoped the police would understand …. He flashed a mouth of perfect teeth in their direction: Straight, white, and capped, they were a testimony to one man's triumph over the vicissitudes of dental genetics.
“Absolutely,” Barbara agreed. “We can't have Sharon Whosis sitting next to the Countess of Crumpets. As long as Mrs. Reeve is available later should we need to talk to her …”