I shake my head. ‘No, she had no enemies.’
‘And her relationship with her colleagues was good?’
‘Yes...’
I glanced at them, those two detectives sitting on my sofa. DC Taylor scribbling in his notebook, DC Gallagher analysing me, maybe to see if I had a motive to kill her. In the kitchen cupboard is Lottie’s laptop; I’m sure they are wondering if she owned one. I don’t think they’ve established that yet, but they will. They need to go through her social media, her emails and documents, anything that can help with the investigation. I’m safe. Nobody knows she lent me her laptop except her, and Lottie isn’t going to talk. Perhaps they will suspect that the killer took it. I want to ask how did she die? If she suffered? Was her death slow or quick?
‘Can I get a glass of water?’ I ask.
‘Please do,’ DC Taylor says.
I rise and go into the kitchen, wash a dirty glass from the sink and put it under the tap. Do they think I have something to do with her death? They can check; I was in the exhibition that Giselle had set up. There are security footage and hundreds of guests to confirm it. My alibi is solid. She is dead. Gone. I take a deep breath, refill the glass and take it with me to the sitting room.
‘Where were you the night she was killed?’ DC Taylor asks.
I sit down. ‘I was at an exhibition Giselle had organised. My work was displayed in there.’
DC Taylor nods and scribbles in his notebook.
DC Gallagher rubs her hands together as if she’s cold. ‘How did you and Lottie meet?’
‘I met Lottie at a party. A friend of a friend introduced us. She was quite distant, really sad. She had just broken up with a boyfriend she had been dating on and off.’
‘And who was this ex-boyfriend’ DC Taylor asked.
‘Jackie... I can’t remember his surname... um... Robinson, yes, that’s it, Jackie Robinson. We talked about the mishap with her ex. She seemed all over the place. I met her about two months later. A friend of hers hosted another party at her house. I was invited, she was there. We met up a few times after that with other friends then we decided to meet alone as we had a lot in common.’
The memories haunt me. We used to go to the park, sit on a bench and talk as life went by around us.
I lower my head.
‘Are you all right?’ DC Gallagher asks gently.
‘She was rather naive about certain things,’ I said, my voice cracking. ‘She would rush into things and believed in love. She wanted to be loved and she was loved.’
Only she didn’t know it, I would never get the chance to tell her how I truly felt about her and now it’s too late.
Chapter Three
‘Thank you for your time,’ DC Gallagher says.
She takes out a card from her jacket pocket and hands it to me. ‘If you think of something, anything at all, please, do not hesitate to call.’
I take her card. It’s plain white with her name, surname, and her number in bold. Under her details, 24/7 is written neatly with a blue softball pen. If it were a different place, on a different day, I would have laughed, but this isn’t the time or place, and if it were any other day, I would never have crossed paths with this detective.
From the kitchen window, I watch them get in the car but they don’t drive off right away. I think they’re discussing what I told them. Planning who they should talk to next. A few minutes later, the black sedan drives away. I kneel down on the floor and open the cupboard. I take out the laptop from the garbage bag. Such a dangerous possession to own. I can go to prison for this. The police didn’t say how Lottie died. I will find out one way or another, and I will not rest until I do.
I take out a piece of paper and pen and I write down the names of the people I have to talk to. People who knew Lottie. Her parents, Ella and Abdel. There are her work colleagues Lilia, Giselle and Davian. I need to do this without attracting too much attention to myself. I also need to track the locations she had been in the last few days of her life. I open drawers and cupboards, searching for a map with no luck. I pack the laptop in my backpack along with the list of names.
The cold bites me as I step out and I button up my jacket. A motorcycle rumbles in my ears. A man in a brown coat flies past me, nearly hitting me with his briefcase. I stop at the ATM and withdraw some cash to buy a map from the gift shop. I could use the map on my phone, but I need to mark the locations. London howls and screams around me. The crowds of people talking on their phones; nobody gives a damn about one other. All they care about is to get on with their day. I descend the stairs to the tube, and a girl behind me is talking to her friend about a man she met. They laugh as they scuttle past me to the newsagent.
Some cases hardly make headlines, but this one does. There is a picture of Lottie. She’s smiling prettily at the camera. The press must have taken it from her Facebook. They sure work fast.
A young woman found dead in her apartment.
Lottie Gibson, 25, was found dead by her landlord after tenants complained about loud music coming from her apartment at midnight last night. There were no signs of a break-in or a struggle.
The last time the victim was seen alive was on Saturday evening, leaving a restaurant with a friend. Lottie worked as an assistant in an art company called Visage owned by Giselle Pearson. No statements have been released yet.
Lottie was having dinner with Ella before she got killed. Ella was the last person who saw her alive. She would be able to provide information about Lottie in the final hours of her life. For the police, this would be one of those cases that would be solved in a matter of days unless it gets more complicated. If Lottie was found dead in her apartment, then she must have let the killer in. It had to be someone she knew. Who? The killer must have put the music on to muffle the screams.
In the tube, I find an empty seat and I unfold the map. I inspect the locations. The sushi restaurant called Ikedia is in Mayfair, the last place Lottie had been. I draw a circle in Sutton where Lottie’s apartment was. I mark another circle in Richmond, her parents’ house. Along with Promise Hill, Ella’s place, Leadenhall Street where the offices and the art gallery are. Greenwich where Abdel lives, and Camden, my place.
I send Ella a text asking her if she’s at work. A reply comes right away with a no and how about I come over for a cup of tea?
Ella is a fresh-faced girl. I can describe her as the girl next door when it comes to looks. There is something classic about her. Maybe it is the oval face or the high cheekbones, or perhaps her almond-shaped, deep-set blue eyes. Her hair is blonde, cut in a bob which has a hint of waves.
‘I just can’t...’ Ella trails off.
She takes out a tissue from her jeans pocket and blows her nose. I wipe my tears away with my thumb and forefinger and we walk inside the house. The scent of vanilla hits my nostrils. I notice the candle has burned to the bottom. There are several photographs on the maple table by the white leather sofa. Ella is an assistant in fashion shows; it’s quite a glamorous job, or at least, I think it is. There are photographs on the wall from fashion shows. The one that stands out is with Belle. Belle is the ex-girlfriend of Abdel; he’s a photographer and she’s a popular model. She appeared in a string of well-known magazines such as Elle, Vanity Fair and Vogue.