‘Well, I never thought I’d see the day,’ he continued, jumping to his own conclusion. ‘Two of my companions meeting and falling in love, come to ask about wedding venues – here of all places!’
Rachel linked her arm under Tomek’s, but he shooed her off.
‘We’re not here about wedding venues,’ he said bluntly. ‘We’re not even together.’
‘But the…?’
‘The invitation, yes. It belongs to Angelica Whitaker.’ He showed it to Micky again, this time revealing the name.
Micky inspected it, fear creeping into the whites of his eyes. He took a small step back. ‘Who are you?’
‘We’re the police,’ Tomek said with a flash of his warrant card and a cheeky-chappie smile. ‘We wanted to ask you a few questions about—’
‘No. No police. I’ve never broken a law and I don’t plan on it. Everything’s legal, above board and consensual. I make everyone sign an NDA, so there’s no chance of this sort of thing happening.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Rachel pressed.
He couldn’t answer.
‘You don’t know why we’re here because you haven’t let us explain,’ she continued. ‘If you’d let my colleague finish, you might have understood why we’ve come.’
Micky looked up at Tomek expectantly. ‘Well?’ There was urgency in his voice now. He was keen to get this over with as quickly as possible.
‘Tell us more about the place first,’ Tomek replied.
‘Like what?’
‘Like how many rooms you’ve got. How many guests you can hold. About you. Your history.’
‘How is that relevant?’
Tomek shrugged. It wasn’t. He just wanted to make the man sweat a little longer, prolong the paranoia. After a few minutes of explaining about the Tudor features of the building, Micky had echoed everything that the receptionist had told them, almost verbatim. Then he went on to explain he’d inherited the land after his father’s death and in a bid to break free from the aristocratic mould that his parents had destined for him, he’d taken the entrepreneurial decision to open the mansion up to the public as a wedding venue and operate it as a successful and prominent business on the Essex coast.
‘Now will you tell me what this is about?’ Micky asked as soon as he’d finished.
‘It’s about Angelica Whitaker. Do you recognise that name?’
The man dropped his head a fraction. ‘Yes.’
‘How do you know her?’
At that point, a group of four wedding guests, drunker than a teen on their eighteenth birthday, entered the room and interrupted them. Micky explained that they were having a private meeting and asked the guests to find somewhere else to have their catch-up. It took a few moments for the words to register in their drink-addled minds, but when they eventually did, the guests left disgruntled, mumbling under their breath.
‘I don’t know Angelica well,’ Micky explained as he shut the door behind them. ‘I only know her name and what she does for a living.’
‘How?’
‘Because I first met her on a flight, and the name badge on her uniform gave it away.’
Tomek didn’t appreciate the sarcasm.
‘Explain how you came to give her this then.’ He waved the invitation in the air.
Micky moved to a small chair and perched himself on the edge of the seat, while Rachel and Tomek remained standing.
‘I was on a flight,’ he started. ‘France to Southend, I think it was. I was meeting one of our wine suppliers. We buy direct from the vineyards. And I just remember seeing her and thinking, that’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever met. And so I started chatting to her. She was funny, lively, energetic, the rest of it. It was towards the end of summer, so I asked her what she was doing after that, and she said she didn’t know. Said that she had some job lined up in a jeweller’s which she wasn’t too keen about. So I thought I’d invite her to one of The Nights of Eden. To be honest, she looked like she needed some excitement in her life, something to keep her going, something to remind her what it’s like to be alive.’
‘Is that what these “Nights of Eden” are then? Reminders of what it’s like to be alive?’ Tomek made no attempt to hide the cynicism in his voice.
‘I think so, yes. And so do a lot of our members.’
Tomek finally took the plunge and joined Micky on a chair next to him. It was beautifully designed, looked handmade, and was perfectly sculpted, but it was a bastard to sit on. The cushion was rock solid, and the wooden spine of the chair dug into the small of his back. What made it worse was the fact it probably cost a fortune; he couldn’t imagine spending so much on something so uncomfortable just to enhance the aesthetics of a room. He’d rather sit on the floor.
‘How do your “Nights of Eden” work?’ Tomek asked once he’d got himself as comfortable as he could. ‘What happens at these things?’
‘You know you don’t have to put them in quotation marks all the time,’ Micky snapped. ‘They’re real events that real people come along to.’
‘So, you should be able to tell us what happens at them,’ Rachel noted forcefully.
Micky shook his head profusely. ‘No. That’s strictly confidential.’
Tomek had hoped he would say that. ‘Are they still confidential when one of your attendees was found murdered the other day and your name and this place has come up in our investigations?’
The man had nothing to say to that. Just looked at them blankly.
‘Didn’t think so. So why don’t you cut the confidentiality crap and just tell us what we need to know? It would save us all a lot of time and stress. Otherwise my colleague here can arrest you on suspicion of murder and we can have this discussion down at the station? It’s no skin off our nose either way.’
Eventually, the realisation that he didn’t have a choice dawned on Micky. Before continuing, he checked the corridors again and locked one of the doors on the other side of the room to ensure they could speak without fear of being interrupted again.
