LITMIR.BIZ

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an aspiring actress, privately educated, a graduate of RADA. And she had been Kerensky’s girlfriend for the last two years.

      He repeated the question. Were you in love with him?

      Amelia Hawthorne sniffled, tearfully, in the quietness. ‘I’m sorry. I am. I know. It’s just the way Nik died – I … I still … I still …’

      Larkham leaned in. ‘We understand, Amelia. It’s a total shocker. Horrible.’

      ‘But that’s exactly why we need to know,’ Ibsen repeated the point. ‘Your boyfriend cut off his own feet, and his hand. It’s an appalling suicide. So we need to know all the facts. All of them.’

      ‘Yes. Yes, I know. I get it.’ Slowly, the girl seemed to source some resolve, she sat a little taller, visibly preparing herself. ‘OK. Go on, then. Ask me.’

      ‘You say you met him two years ago?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘At a nightclub.’

      ‘Yes. Anushka’s.’

      Ibsen flicked a glance at his notes. ‘And that is …’

      ‘A club in Mayfair. It’s down near Nobu. Everyone went there … back then … I mean, you know, two years ago …’

      Ibsen had never heard of the place. He had also never heard of several other places the girl had already mentioned. In truth, he felt a little at sea in this world of beautiful young actresses and billionaire Russian playboys.

      Larkham interrupted.

      ‘It’s a nightclub just off Berkeley Square, sir. Well pricey. Two hundred quid for a bottle of bubbly.’

      ‘Really? Prefer something more upmarket myself.’

      The DS smiled; Ibsen turned to the girl. ‘So you met him at this high-class night club – and you started dating?

      She scoffed. ‘Dating?’

      ‘I mean, you started a relationship. You were stepping out?’

      ‘Please. We started fucking.’

      Ibsen leaned nearer. ‘OK, then. You began a sexual relationship.’

      ‘That first night. Yes.’ She stared at her exquisitely manicured nails. ‘Because I liked him. I liked Nik from the start, liked him a lot … Y’know, everyone said he was probably just another … Eurotrash wanker, like all the Russians, with their hookers in furs, all that awful crap. But he wasn’t.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘He was witty and smart. As well as fit.’

      ‘And extremely rich?’

      ‘Yeah, sure. He was rich. But, you know, everyone was rich.’

      She gazed at Ibsen with those slightly contemptuous blue eyes and he wished, for a second, he had worn his better suit. The one from Hugo Boss.

      ‘Why else was he different? Explain.’

      ‘He was clever and really …’ She sighed. ‘Adventurous, really interesting. Not, like, totally desiccated like some of them, all those boring Chelsea boys banging on about their stupid fucking Ferraris. He used to go places, Asia, Africa … He read books, he would read to me, talk to me … and he went to the theatre, he loved London, art, everything, but he also liked fun, partying.’

      ‘Drugs?’

      She halted.

      Ibsen pressed the point. ‘Did you do drugs?’

      No reply.

      DCI Ibsen briskly reached pulled some folders out of his briefcase and laid them on the table. The folders contained the serology and toxicology reports on Kerensky, N, white male, 27. Instinct had told him the latter report would come up trumps, but it hadn’t. The hair tests showed just a trace of cocaine usage, probably from days before the death. Serology showed a small amount of alcohol in Kerensky’s blood, but he hadn’t been blind drunk when he killed himself. How then had he summoned the courage to do his self-mutilations? How had he managed the pain? Gastric examination showed he had eaten nothing more than bar snacks that night: nuts and crisps.

      ‘We have a hair test, Miss Hawthorne. We know he used cocaine. Did you do drugs with him?’

      Total silence.

      Larkham was leaning against the window. ‘You’re not under arrest, Amelia. We’re not going to arrest you if you confess to doing a little gak? Some charlie?’

      The girl looked at her fingernails again. Then gazed up and said, ‘All right. All right, yes. He liked drugs sometimes. He liked sex too. And vodka. Taittinger. Everything. Caviar. Fucking sevruga. I told you, he was a party animal, and yet it wasn’t, like, frivolous, it wasn’t just for the sake of it …’

      ‘What—’

      ‘He knew he was going to take over his father’s business and I reckon he just wanted to get it all out of his system … see the world and do it all, do the lot, have his fun, and then he would sober up.’

      ‘Tell me more about the drugs.’

      ‘It wasn’t heavy. Really. No smack. Maybe a little toot. Before dinner. That’s all. You know? Maybe he dropped some E or mcat with his friends. But nothing heroiny, not with me. He was into new shit, new experiences, but not necessarily drugs … ’ She looked straight at Ibsen.

      He sensed the direction of her thoughts. ‘Did you know he was bisexual?’

      The actress pushed her ringlets from her eyes. ‘Yes.’

      ‘But you didn’t mind?’

      ‘He was basically, like, straight. But … but that was another of his … things. Try everything twice, that was Nik’s motto. So. Yeah. I knew. We had a few threesomes. It was funny … just fun. We are young.’

      Ibsen waited. Her frown darkened.

      ‘But then it kinda changed. Towards the end. The last few weeks. He got … out of control.’

      The moment intensified. Larkham stared at the girl. Ibsen said, ‘How?’

      ‘He wanted … things. Y’know, in bed.’

      ‘Things?’

      ‘Kinkier sex.’

      ‘In what way, precisely?’

      Her lips were trembling. ‘He wanted anal sex. He wanted it … that way … all the time. I didn’t mind for a while, though it’s not my … not my scene – but then it was bondage. Heavy stuff. Ropes. Candle wax. Jesus. Every night, night after night. And he wanted me to go with other men, groups of men, in front of him. It was too much, it got way too much. That’s why we split, just before …’

      ‘Were you doing drugs at this point? Together?’

      ‘No! That was it. There were no drugs, it was like he had changed inside … he’d met new people. It changed him. Like someone converted him. Changed him.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘But you mentioned new people. Who?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Think.’

      ‘OK. OK, there was … there was an American, maybe.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      She took a long breath. ‘It was the very last time I went to Soho House, two weeks ago, to meet Nik, talk about our … about the problems. In our relationship. But there was an American there. Older. Thirties. Maybe even forties, this really fucking eerie guy, tattoos,

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