‘A girls’ trip. A breather from real life. We go every year.’
‘And this year, you were joined by an extra guest, is that correct?’
‘Yes. Bianka.’
‘How would you describe your relationship with Bianka Langeland?’
‘We’re friends.’
‘Just friends?’
I shift in my seat. ‘No,’ I say.
‘Can you explain in detail what happened between you?’
‘We met in May, at a party at my house in London, to celebrate the release of my Streamstar show.’ I pause to give Fuentes a chance to express some admiration at this extraordinary achievement, but he doesn’t bat an eyelid. I ignore a stab of annoyance and continue. ‘We spent quite a lot of time together after we first met, but it escalated during our trip to Ibiza.’
‘Escalated?’
‘Yes. It turned sexual.’
‘Instigated by whom?’
‘By me. But it was very much a mutual thing. We, uh, I believed we were in love. She showered me with attention and affection. I was very taken with her; I’ve spent many years in what can only be described as a dead marriage. But since we’ve been back, things have cooled off between us. It feels as though Bianka has basically dumped me. She doesn’t contact me, or answer my calls.’ The lady with the buzz cut writes something down in her notebook. I look Fuentes in the eyes and try to make myself look harmless and a bit confused. So far, I’ve carefully stuck to the narrative agreed with Bianka. I almost have to chuckle at the thought that she bought it, that right now, she believes that I’m dutifully running through the motions, with the aim of riding off into the sunset with Bianka. But that was never my plan. And now it’s time to take this to the next level. ‘And the other thing is, I’ve discovered that she lies.’
At this, Fuentes raises an eyebrow. ‘What does she lie about?’
‘Lots of different things. It’s hard to put a finger to one specific thing, but it’s constant little inconsistencies, embellishments, and half-truths. She told me that she lost her mother in childhood. Then, later, she casually mentioned to Anette that her mother lives in Fort Lauderdale with her husband. Just one example, but it’s exhausting to be around. I feel sorry for her, really.’
‘I see. Back to your trip. What did you do? Where did you go? Did you attend any parties?’
I list the restaurants we ate at, places this guy has probably never even heard of, that cater to women like me and my friends, who bring foreign money and a host of eating disorders disguised as ‘dietary requirements’ to Ibiza.
‘We mostly relaxed at my property,’ I continue. ‘That’s what we come here for, year after year. To do yoga and swim in the sea. To really connect with the island. We’re not really big party girls.’
‘So, no parties?’
I hesitate here, and I can tell that both inspectors notice. The room feels claustrophobic and too hot and I have to fight the urge to bolt from the room. But there is nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and we all know it. All I can do is hope that Bianka has been fully honest with me about exactly what she’s said. The story is we met, we went to Ibiza, we had a fling, we partied a little too hard and ended up in bed with a man who I had no idea was Maxime Dubois-Joseph, an episode I didn’t even recall the next day, and we haven’t seen him since. We returned home and saw each other occasionally, though not much.
‘Actually, Bianka Langeland and I ended up at a party at the neighbours’ after the noise was disturbing us at Can Xara. We went over there to see if they could keep the noise down, it was already very late. And we got carried away. It was a nice atmosphere, lots of young people having a good time, and I suppose I felt a little ridiculous coming over to complain. I had a couple of drinks, some tequila, I believe, and I don’t remember much after that.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Vinge. Can I respectfully remind you that everything that is said here today is recorded and used as part of an ongoing police investigation into a missing persons case? It is of utmost importance that you tell us everything and anything that could be of relevance to the investigation. And believe me, it doesn’t look great to be caught in lies. Or embellishments. Or half-truths. Does this picture help jog your memory?’ From a folder on the table, Fuentes extracts a photograph and slides it across to me. For actual fuck’s sake. I swallow hard; my throat is so dry I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. The photograph is of Bianka and me on the dance floor by the vast infinity pool, kissing, my mouth curling upwards in a smile beneath Bianka’s lips, watched on by Maxime Dubois-Joseph and the gangster twins, who are seated on a daybed by the side of the pool.
‘Do you know who the men in the picture are?’
‘No. Well, not their names. Except for Dubois-Joseph.’ I focus on looking innocent and helpful and point to Maxime. ‘And the two others were brothers, I believe. Italians.’
‘I need to ask why, in our original conversation, you said you didn’t recall having met Dubois-Joseph, when you clearly had, or attending this party before now.’
I try to make myself cry again but it doesn’t work, and Fuentes watches me with a mix of fascination and surprise as I contort my face and make some gargled, throaty sobs, rubbing hard at my eyes in an attempt to produce tears. In the end I think of my mother’s face, lighting up at the sight of me, the way it did absolutely every time she saw me, and this does the trick – tears begin to stream down my face.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m very sorry. I wasn’t aware at the time that the man we spoke to was the son of the Dubois-Josephs. We’ve had an ongoing dispute with them for several years, it’s been pretty inflammatory, and I didn’t want my husband, who has paid so much money in legal fees, to find out we’d been to their party. He’d be furious. As you can see from the picture, things got carried away, though, like I said, I can’t remember this… this unsavoury display with Mrs Langeland. I was inebriated.’
‘How inebriated?’
‘Very, clearly.’
‘What can you recall after this picture was taken?’
‘Not much. But I do remember the next morning. I woke up with this man and Bianka. I believe she had sex with him while I was passed out.’
‘Do you think it’s possible that you engaged in sexual activity with them?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘If you don’t remember, how can you be sure?’
‘You asked if I think it’s possible. I don’t, but naturally I can’t be totally sure as I had passed out.’
‘How did you get home?’
‘I – I don’t remember.’
‘Nothing?’
