first place. Such an unknown was lucky to be part of the shows at all.
‘However, the response is just phenomenal,’ said Brix. ‘Every UK glossy magazine editor is coming. All of the key fashion writers, plus the usual celebrities that turn up to these things. I take it Serena is coming?’
Venetia nodded.
‘The Times want to run an interview with you, the Saturday Telegraph magazine want to do Diego: that’s if we can get him photographed this week.’
‘I’ll give him a ring now,’ said Venetia, picking up her mobile.
Leila Barnes, Venetia’s assistant, walked onto the terrace with a rather unsettled look on her face. ‘Venetia, can I talk to you one second?’ she asked. Venetia immediately picked up on the anxiety in her voice and excused herself from Brix, moving through the French doors that led back into the building.
‘The police are here to see you.’
Venetia’s first thought was for her Range Rover, which she had parked on a meter outside the shop. Surely that hadn’t expired yet? She walked into her office where two police officers – one male, one female – were sitting down, looking very uncomfortable, on the upright leather chairs.
‘Mrs von Bismarck?’ asked the female officer as she stood up.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Venetia as calmly as she could. ‘Please, sit down. Now what can I do for you?’
The policewoman was around thirty, with an intelligent face and pale brown hair tidied neatly behind her head. She introduced herself as Sergeant Gillian Finch, cleared her throat, and waited as Venetia sat down behind her desk.
‘I’m afraid it’s bad news,’ she said softly, cutting straight to the chase. ‘It seems there has been an accident – a fire at Diego de Bono’s apartment in North London.’
Venetia felt her blood run cold. ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ she barked, the words almost jumping out of her throat. ‘I mean, when was this? Where is he? What’s happened?’
The two officers looked at each other briefly before Sergeant Finch continued. ‘I’m afraid Mr de Bono was killed in the fire …’ She paused hesitantly as the shock registered on Venetia’s face, her hand flying to her mouth.
‘But that’s not exactly why we’re here, Mrs von Bismarck.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she replied, her voice quavering with anxiety.
‘We have reason to believe that your husband was also in the house at the time of the fire.’
Finch stopped, allowing the full gravity of the situation to sink in. ‘We have found a body we believe to be that of your husband, and we would like you to come with us to identify the body.’
She was hysterical now. ‘Jonathon is dead? That’s what you’re telling me? At Diego’s house?’ said Venetia, her fingers clutching at her breast. ‘It’s ridiculous. My husband hardly knows Diego. What would he be doing at his flat? What makes you say such things?’
‘The body is partially burned,’ said the other policeman, not meeting her gaze, ‘but there was identification in the clothing. Credit cards, and so on. They all have your husband’s name on them.’
‘No, it’s not right, it can’t be.’ She started to shake her head slowly.
‘I think you had better come with us, madam,’ said Sergeant Finch. ‘So we can get this cleared up as soon as possible. I think it’s best if we drive you,’ she added kindly, putting a hand on Venetia’s shaking shoulder.
Venetia waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Yes, yes, um, I’ll come, yes, I just need to … I need to tell my colleague.’
She took slow deliberate steps towards the terrace, her head down, pressing her fingertips against her temples.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Brix, standing up immediately. Venetia took a deep breath, trying to think rationally. She put one hand on the black tablecloth, trying to steady herself as she looked up at Brix, her face pale.
‘There’s been a fire,’ she stuttered, her eyes dazed. ‘Diego has been killed.’
She could see Brix’s mouth open in horror, like a movie in slow motion.
‘Jesus, oh my God, oh my God,’ said Brix after a few moments.
‘And maybe Jonathon too,’ said Venetia, her voice a cracked whisper. ‘They say Jonathon was in his flat too.’ She looked up at Brix, trying to make sense of it all. ‘But I don’t see how that can be … They hardly know each other …’
As she looked up at Brix, she saw a flicker of something dart across her face. Knowledge … embarrassment? Brix would not meet Venetia’s gaze. Despite her shock, she did not miss it.
‘Brix, what is it?’
Brix sat back down and stared intently at her tea cup, dipping a silver spoon into the liquid and watching it go round and round in spirals.
‘Brix, tell me! You know something, I can see it!’ said Venetia, her voice stern.
‘No, I don’t know …’ said Brix quietly.
‘Tell me! Is it about Diego and Jonathon?’
Brix looked up, her eyes meeting Venetia’s. ‘Jonathon and Diego did know each other. They were … friends. I’ve seen them around town together over the summer.’
Brix had paused slightly on the word ‘together’ and Venetia hadn’t missed it. An ugly thought rolled to the front of her mind that she tried to bat away. Together? Did she mean together?
She knew in her heart that Jonathan had had affairs in the time that she had known him. Mysterious receipts for florists and hotels, female callers putting down the phone as soon as she answered, the rumours he’d been seen at one of those high-class sex parties where the rich and decadent explored the darker side of desire. But she had become an expert at ignoring anything in Jonathon’s life that she did not see with her own eyes. She knew that Brix knew more, but at that moment she didn’t want to know.
‘I’m going with the police,’ she said softly.
Brix nodded. ‘Do you want me to do anything? Do you want me to come with you?’
Venetia shook her head and turned to follow Sergeant Finch. Her Range Rover was outside, but she could not drive, her hands shaking like a blender on low speed. She sat in the back seat of the police car – isolated, vulnerable, looking straight ahead, seeing nothing. On autopilot, she punched Camilla’s number into her mobile phone and waited for it to ring. Cool, calm Camilla. She needed her.
‘Hello, Camilla Balcon.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Venetia? Are you OK?’
‘Not really, I … I …’ The voice down the line was soft and cracked. ‘Listen, Camilla, where are you?’
‘Working
