‘So how long were you together?’ she asked after a moment.
He looked down into his coffee before glancing back at Lara. ‘Nine months. Not long enough,’ he said looking away. ‘We were supposed to see other tomorrow. A walk in Regent’s Park, lunch at some place along the canal. I told her there was so much to prepare for the conference. She told me that life was for living, not just working.’
He gave a soft, sad snort. His eyes were glittering now. Eduardo was either genuinely upset or a great actor. Both were possible; the truth was she knew nothing about this man or his relationship with Sandrine.
‘The apartment in Marylebone,’ said Lara. ‘You weren’t staying there.’
Eduardo shook his head.
‘No. I’m in Kensington. When Sandrine was working, she preferred her own space. Besides, given my position at Le Caché, I wasn’t sure how professional it would look to arrive together.’
Lara nodded. At least that made sense.
‘So when did you see her last? How did she seem?’
‘Two weeks ago. I came to Paris. She was fine. More than fine. She was sparkling.’
Lara had always said Sandrine had an indefinable stardust, she could light up a room just by walking into it. Eduardo looked into the distance.
‘I guess we don’t always know people, Lara. Even the people we love.’
‘Did you know Sandrine was depressed?’
‘No. But which woman would reveal such a thing so early in a relationship?’
She wasn’t sure nine m
onths was that early.
‘Have you spoken to the police yet?’
‘They called me this afternoon. I’m going down to the station after I have finished here.’
‘Did they say why they wanted to speak to you?’
At her own interview, Ian Fox had asked about Sandrine’s private life and she had told him about Eduardo and Le Caché. She had no idea if that was why the police wanted to talk to Eduardo now. Perhaps they knew something she didn’t.
Lara did not consider herself a catastrophist, someone whose mind always went to the worst possible outcome, but as an investigative reporter, she was in the habit of considering every possibility of what could have happened.
And what she could imagine was a drunk and happy Sandrine inviting her handsome millionaire boyfriend round to her Marylebone flat after a night on the town. She could imagine her opening the French doors to let in the balmy summer night air. She could imagine an argument breaking out for any one of the thousand reasons couples quarrelled; a flash of anger, a hard push and that was all it could take for a tragedy. Was that scenario more likely that Sandrine taking her own life? Lara thought it was.
‘I’d better be going’ said Eduardo, glancing at his watch. ‘Hopefully the police will not ask me quite as many questions as you.’
He said it as a quip but Lara found herself bristling.
‘I’m sorry, Eduardo, but I hadn’t even heard of you until a few hours before Sandrine’s death. And my best friend just died, so forgive me if I have a lot of questions.’
‘That may be so,’ said Eduardo crisply. ‘But please try not to make them sound like accusations. You know, I cared for her too.’
‘Did you?’
‘What are you implying exactly?’
‘Were you faithful?’
‘Faithful? Yes, I was. How can you even ask me that?’
‘Because she’s dead, Eduardo!’ said Lara, raising her voice. ‘My best friend is dead and I want to know why. Is that so hard to understand?’