Authors: Robert Bryndza
‘Well, good luck with that, because she’s probably already packed in the back of some lorry and bound for Calais!’
‘Sir! We’ve got Andrea on CCTV. She did board a train to Forest Hill the night she vanished, and her body was found close to the high street. Christ, is it any more obvious that I could be right?’
Marsh looked exasperated. ‘Okay. Just tread easy; be subtle in your investigation. The press is watching us.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘And I want to be kept informed. Everything, you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Marsh gave her a look and she left his office.
T
he morgue seemed
to leach what little warmth Erika had left in her body as they walked down the long, fluorescent-lit corridor. They reached a metal door, where Moss buzzed through on an intercom. Forensic pathologist Isaac Strong buzzed them in.
‘Good morning,’ said Isaac softly, projecting an aura of calm and order. The white lab coat covering his tall frame was neatly pressed and spotless, a dark leather mobile phone case poking from its top pocket. He wore black skinny jeans and Crocs, and his dark hair was swept away from his high forehead. Again, Erika was drawn to his soft brown eyes below his thinly arched eyebrows. His autopsy room was a heady mix of steel and Victorian porcelain tile. Along one wall was a row of stainless steel doors, and in the centre of the room, three autopsy tables also of stainless steel, surrounded by gutters. Andrea Douglas-Brown lay under a white sheet, on the table closest to where they had entered. Andrea’s eyes were now closed. Her hair had been washed and neatly brushed back from her forehead. The bruising had darkened, but her face was still swollen. Erika had hoped, for her family’s sake, that Andrea would look as if she were sleeping, but despite the efforts to clean her up, her body still looked battered.
Isaac moved around the trolley and gently removed the sheet. In addition to the bruising and lacerations over her naked body, there was now the coarse, neat stitching from where the Y-shaped incision had been made, running from each shoulder, converging at the chest and moving down between her full breasts to the sternum.
‘There was no fluid in the lungs, so she was dead when she went into the water,’ said Isaac. ‘The ice preserved decay, but you’ll note the blanching of the skin from prolonged exposure to water. Ligature marks on the neck and a fractured collarbone indicate death by strangulation. As I hypothesised, the bruising around the neck indicates a medium-sized hand, no unusual features such as missing fingers.’
He paused.
‘Toxicology results show there was a high level of alcohol in her blood, plus a small amount of cocaine. She hadn’t eaten for several hours; her stomach was empty apart from the broken front tooth, which she probably swallowed, unintentionally, during the attack.’
He picked up a small plastic phial containing the broken tooth and held it up to the light.
‘I found a residue of an adhesive chemical, found in most brands of masking tape, on her mouth and teeth.’
‘So she was gagged?’ asked Erika.
‘It would indicate so. There was no sign that she’d been raped. It does appear, however, that she had anal sex close to the time she died, and it appears to have been consensual. Again, I swabbed the anus for semen and blood, but there was none. But there was latex residue, and small amounts of lubricant.’
‘She used a condom?’ asked Erika.
‘Whoever had anal sex with her used a condom,’ corrected Isaac.
‘But how can you be sure that the anal intercourse was consensual?’
There was an uncomfortable pause.
Isaac explained: ‘There is a marked difference between consensual penetrative sex and non-consensual. With consensual sex, the body is usually relaxed. Non-consensual sex is often coupled with extreme stress, panic and resistance, causing muscles to tense and clench, which in turn can lead to internal bruising and abrasion of the flesh. There was no damage whatsoever to the lining of her rectum. Of course, another theory is that intercourse could have occurred post-mortem.’
‘Please God, no,’ said Erika. ‘I hope not.’
‘It’s possible, yes, but I doubt it. This appears to be a crazed and frenzied attack. The killer set upon her like an animal. Her hair has been pulled out at each temple – would he have had the will and control to stop to put on a condom?’
‘Were any condoms found at the scene?’ asked Erika.
‘The area around the boathouse and boating lake was littered with condoms. We’re working on analyzing them all, but it’s taking time.’
They paused for a moment.
‘Do you think Andrea was the kind of girl who did that kind of thing, anal sex?’ asked Peterson.
‘That’s a little judgemental,’ said Isaac.
‘Yeah, well you know, we can be politically correct here, or we can say it like it is. Doesn’t just a certain type of girl go in for anal sex?’ asked Peterson.
‘I don’t like that train of thought,’ said Erika.
‘But we have to think like this,’ said Peterson.
‘You’re saying, only slutty girls love it up the arse. Ones who put themselves in dangerous situations?’ asked Moss.
‘Do you think this was al fresco sex gone wrong?’ Erika asked Isaac.
‘As I say, it’s not my job to hypothesise who a person was. When they come to me, I have to make my conclusions as to how they died. You can see here that her hands were tied with a cable tie. It cut into the skin quite deep. Also her legs were tied, and the ankle of the left leg has a small hairline fracture.’
‘This wasn’t naughty outdoor sex that went too far. This was an abduction,’ said Erika. ‘She could have had sex earlier in the day with the fiancé, and then . . . Jeez. We’re going to have to ask the fiancé. Is there any other DNA evidence at all?’
‘If there was, it was most likely destroyed by the water, when she was under the ice,’ said Isaac.
W
hen they had finished
, there were a few minutes of down time before the Douglas-Browns were due to arrive and identify Andrea’s body. Moss and Peterson took the opportunity to have a cigarette, and Erika found herself accepting an offer to join them, even though she had given up years ago. They stood in the doorway of a fire exit, looking out over the back at an auto-repair shop. They could see inside the long row of garages where the cars were jacked up, men working in glowing pits underneath.
Erika had dealt with more cases of rape and murder than she could remember. As they smoked in silence, she regarded the young men working opposite. They were young and strong. How close did the average man come in his life to raping women, killing them? How many held back? How many got away with it?
‘The key is Andrea. Was it someone she knew?’ asked Erika, exhaling cigarette smoke into the cold air, the long-forgotten rush of nicotine roaring through her blood.
‘Do you think she was lured into the museum grounds, or did she go of her own free will?’ asked Peterson.
‘There’s so little evidence to go on. No DNA. The CCTV cameras were down.’
‘Could that have been arranged?’ asked Moss. ‘The CCTV. Could it have been someone on the inside? Someone who’d a grudge against Sir Simon or the family?’
‘That’s government cutbacks, the crappy CCTV. And if it were a professional kidnapping and execution, would they really leave her phone and her ID at the scene? That seems messy,’ said Peterson.
‘They could have wanted her to be identified fast. Sending a message,’ said Moss.
‘She got plenty of male attention. What about a scorned lover?’ asked Erika.
‘It’s possible. But who? She was engaged. She seemed to have turned into a nun since she met this Giles Osborne. We need to talk to him,’ said Moss.
Isaac appeared at the doorway.
‘The Douglas-Brown family have just pulled into the car park,’ he said.
‘I hate this part of the job,’ said Moss, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette on the bottom of her shoe, and replacing it in the packet.
S
imon and Diana Douglas
-Brown arrived with their daughter, Linda, and son, David. It seemed strange to Erika that she was seeing Andrea’s brother and sister for the first time. She felt she knew so much about them from Andrea’s Facebook profile.
Diana and Simon were immaculately dressed in black, and Diana looked as if she had to be held up by Simon and David. David was very tall and thin and wore a fashionably tight black suit and glasses. Linda was next to her father, and appeared very matronly in a black A-line skirt and a thick winter coat. They all had red eyes from crying.
‘Good morning. We’re ready for you through here,’ said Erika, taking them to the door of the identification room.
Simon put a hand over his wife’s. ‘You stay here, David, and Linda, you too. I’ll do this.’
‘Dad, we’re here. Together,’ said David. His voice had a rich forceful command, like his father’s, which contrasted with his geeky appearance. Linda chewed her lip for a moment and then nodded in agreement. Erika showed them through. The identification room was small and institutional, with two chairs and a wooden table decorated with a hopelessly cheery bunch of plastic daffodils.
‘Please take your time,’ said Erika, leading them to a large glass window. On the other side of the glass, a curtain was closed. Erika noticed that the curtain had been hung the wrong way round, with the yellowing lining on show, some of the stitching coming away at the top. It was ironic that the dead were the ones who were shown the good side, whilst relatives and friends waited on the other, as if they were back stage.
Diana visibly tensed as a mortuary assistant drew the curtain back, revealing Andrea, who lay under a sheet, shrouded in white. A soft yellow light played over the wood panelling of the viewing room. Erika had never lost the feeling that viewing a body was almost abstract; theatrical. Some relatives remained impassive, others cried uncontrollably. One man, she remembered, had pounded on the glass so hard that it had cracked.
‘Yes. It’s her, that’s Andrea,’ said Diana. She gulped and her eyes watered. She pressed a neat square of white handkerchief to her beautifully made-up face. Linda didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, eyes wide with a morbid curiosity. David stared grimly, fighting back tears.
It was Simon who lost control and, with a wail, broke down. David went to embrace his father, but he shook the boy off violently. It was only then that David cried too, leaning over, sobs heaving out of him.
‘Let me give you some privacy. Take as long as you need,’ said Erika. Diana nodded as she retreated.
Five minutes passed, and the family finally emerged with bloodshot eyes. Erika was waiting in the corridor with Moss and Peterson.
‘Thank you for doing that,’ said Erika, softly. ‘Would it be possible for us to talk to all of you, later this afternoon?’
‘What do you want to talk to us about?’ asked Simon. His bloodshot eyes were now cautious and embarrassed.
‘We’d like to find out some more about Andrea. So we can discover if she knew the killer.’
‘Why would she have known the killer? You think someone like Andrea would mix with killers?’ said Simon.
‘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.
T
hey 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.
Y
akka 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.’
‘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 Moët. 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.’
‘Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her? Did she owe somebody money?’
‘No! No; between Sir Simon and myself, Andrea never wanted for anything. The night she vanished, she told me she was going to the cinema with Linda and David. I was encouraging her to spend more time with her brother and sister; they’re not close as siblings.’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh, you know – rich families. The parents delegate the childcare to nannies and teachers. There is always competition for affection amongst siblings . . . Well, David and Andrea seemed to get much more attention than Linda. I was lucky. I’m an only child.’
The Humpty-Dumpty image came back to Erika again. Giles, small and podgy, sitting alone on a wall, his legs not quite reaching the ground.
‘Did you ever meet a girl called Barbora Kardosova? She was a friend of Andrea’s.’ Erika slid a picture of Barbora across the table.
Giles leaned in to examine the picture. ‘No. Although Andrea did mention Barbora. It seemed she dropped Andrea as a friend, most cruelly. It happened a little while before I met her.’
‘How well did you know Andrea’s friends?’
‘She didn’t have many female friends. She’d try and get close to other girls and they became jealous of her. She’s – she was – so beautiful.’
‘Did you and Andrea have an active sex life?’ asked Peterson.
‘What? Yes. We’d just got engaged . . .’
‘Did you have sexual intercourse with Andrea the day she went missing?’
‘What has this got to do with—?’ Giles started.
‘Please can you answer the question,’ said Erika.
‘Um, I think we might have, in the afternoon? Look, I don’t know what this has got to do with her going missing. Asking me about our sex life! It’s none of your bloody business!’ Giles was now red in the face.
‘Did you partake in anal as well as vaginal sex?’ asked Peterson.
Giles stood up so quickly that his coffee spilled over and his chair fell back. ‘That’s it! Get out now! Do you hear me? This is an informal chat, yes? I don’t have to talk to you. It’s voluntary.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Erika. ‘But would you please answer the question? Andrea suffered a prolonged and brutal attack before her death. We are asking these questions for a reason.’
‘What? If we had – if we took part in an unnatural act? No. NO! I wouldn’t marry a girl who . . .’ Giles tugged at the neck of his t-shirt, unable to voice the words. ‘I’m sorry, but I need you to leave. If you want to ask me any more questions I want a lawyer present. This is most distressing and unsavoury.’
The spilt coffee had reached the edge of the glass table. There was a spattering sound as it began to drip over onto the carpet.
‘Was she raped? Was she hurt badly?’ he asked, quietly now, dissolving into tears. He leaned against the table and sobbed into the sleeve of his T-shirt.