The Girl in the Ice (Detective Erika Foster 1)

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.’