I knock on the frosted glass door where Davian’s name is engraved in silver letters. A figure walks to the door and he appears before me. His office is not a glass box like Giselle’s. I remember, he was specific about that. He didn’t want anyone to look in and see what he was doing.
There is a dreamy quality about Davian, a combination of innocence, fragility and sadness upon his face that gives him a rather moody look. And he is moody, but there is something about him that even I have to admit myself is striking. He has a lot of female admirers, open to his affections. While this would stroke any man’s ego, Davian has a frosty persona and he dismisses those female admirers as if they were rats; what might be surprising to some is that he doesn’t see himself as good looking. Which makes him rather modest.
‘Hey... I’ve heard... I’m shocked... I mean... it’s....’ he stalls, searching for the word, ‘bad.’
From all the words he could have chosen, unspeakable, unbelievable, terrible, but no, he went for bad.
‘I called you,’ I say.
‘You did? When?’ he asks.
‘Yesterday, in the afternoon.’
‘I might have been driving Melissa to the airport.’ He opens the door wider.
There are a set of beautiful pictures on the wall. Davian photographs landscapes and ordinary people, never models. He doesn’t want to be associated with any of that. On the other hand, Melissa, his girlfriend, does artwork for bands and photographs celebrities and models. There is a glass table in the middle of the room, a laptop and different models of digital cameras and photographs in black and white scattered around it.
‘How are you holding up?’ he asks.
‘Barely.’
He gestures at the chair for me to sit. ‘Who would want to murder her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The police came here asking me questions.’
‘I know, Giselle told me.’
‘They asked me all sort of baffling questions like what was my relationship with her. I didn’t have a relationship with her; we were work colleagues. I wasn’t associated with her outside this office,’ he says in a stern and annoyed tone.
‘Maybe someone talked about how you were with her,’ I point out.
He stares at me coldly, his jaw clenched. ‘How I was with her?’
‘You know...’
‘No, I don’t,’ he says.
I rub my eyes with my hands. ‘Look, Davian. I didn’t come here with any grudges or anything like that. I’m going through something that nobody can understand. To you, she might have been a silly girl with a crush who worked here, but to me, she was more than that.’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘I need answers to why her? And who killed her?’
‘That’s the police’s job, not yours.’
What disturbs me is how cool he is about the murder.
‘Why didn’t you call when you heard the news?’ I ask, trying to mask the accusation in my voice.
He ponders on this. ‘I figured you wanted your own space. I would have called you, but I wanted you to take your time. You know how I am.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m not feeling myself.’
‘Well, that’s understandable. You are going through something traumatic. I’m here for you, remember that.’
Do I really want to know how she got killed? It’s devastating enough as it is.
Lottie’s Recordings. Clip three
Today was my first day. I had mixed feelings about it. I know it’s the first day, but your instinct tells you if you are going to like working there or not. There I stood with my outfit from Primark in the room full of Gucci. The place screamed at me, ‘Get out you don’t belong here!’ I was so out of place.
A woman with red hair approached me, dressed in a beige pencil skirt, a red blouse and high heels.
She held out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Lilia. You must be Lottie.’
‘Hi.’
‘Shall we?’ she asked, gesturing at the corridor after we exchanged pleasantries.
As we walked along the corridor, Davian was in one of the offices, talking to a man. He glanced at me but didn’t smile or nod. No sign of recognition as if he didn’t see me at all. Instead he turned his attention back to the man.
‘Forget it, honey,’ Lilia said, catching me ogling.
‘What?’ I said, heat rising through my entire body and colouring my face.
‘You have to wait in line. Ask any woman in this place - if they are stuck in a boat and they had to choose between a packet of digestive biscuits, a bottle of water, or him, most of them will say him. Besides, he’s taken. Between you and me, he’s too pretty for my liking. I like my man with an edge - manly, you know.’
I didn’t know what to say. She escorted me to a room at the back where the cubicles were. There were six people: four women and two men typing on their keyboards and answering the phones. She introduced me to everyone. I didn’t remember all of their names; I’m terrible with that. Lilia showed me where things were and where the kitchen was. Afterward, she took me to the room where I’ll be working in the upcoming weeks. It was a room with four glass walls with boxes piled on top of each other. They had colour-coded Post-its and a row of cabinets at the end.
‘Now, this is the room you’ll be working in. As you can see, it’s a mess and it’s your job to make it all nice and tidy.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’
Of course they give the new girl the job nobody wants to do.
‘Enjoy,’ Lilia cooed. ‘Call me if you’ll get stuck, okay, sweetie?’
I spent the whole day filing, following the instructions on the Post-its. During my half an hour break, I sat outside the building eating a sandwich. I left at nine o’clock at night. I didn’t mind; I had no other engagements.
****
Lottie had complained to me several times about the first few weeks when she started there. I think she was lucky she got the job in the first place. It paid the bills, after all. I thought it was a bit ungrateful, to be honest.
Chapter Seven
I stand in front of the blue door, holding a bouquet of flowers. I puff nervously, building the courage to face Lottie’s mother and father. Maybe I should have given it more time. No, it is the right thing to do, coming here offering my sympathies. I ring the bell and wait. Her mother answers the door looking like she aged twenty years in these past few days.
‘Anthony, do come in,’ she says.
There is a smell of burned toast in the air.
She sniffs. ‘Mrs Gibson, I’m... I...’ I gave her the flowers. ‘For you.’
She half smiles. ‘Thank you. Would you like some tea?’
‘No thanks.’
We sit in the rustic living room; there are photos above the fireplace, most of them of Lottie. The TV is on the BBC, but on mute. On the beige velvet sofa, there is a green throw-over. Mrs Gibson removes it and places it on the arm of the chair.
‘The press are lurking about,’ she announces, sinking into the chair.
‘They are?’ I ask, unable to mask my surprise.