The whole horrible incident had actually been on the regional news. Reggie was something of a celebrity in the area, and naturally the story had been pounced on and sensationalised by the local newspapers. Her lovely, smiling face, captured in an informal photograph taken by Maryam, had made the front page of one. It was surreal.

Someone in a neighbouring apartment had regularly heard shouting and things being thrown, but nothing had ever been reported to the police. Their rows had been frequent and violent. Reggie had told Luc the week before she died that she intended to leave Akhmad for good, to start afresh and move in with Maryam. Clearly, the news had not been well received.

I was relieved that Akhmad was in police custody, since I knew Luc would have killed him in a heartbeat. I, too, would have been happy to see the man dead, quite frankly, but I didn’t want Luc to lose his freedom. Reggie had been so pleased that he seemed to have turned his back on a life of criminality. I really hoped he would pursue his dream of becoming a chef, and had told him so.

The wake, paid for by Reggie’s model agency, was held in a smart, modern hotel in the city centre, all marble floors and glittering chandeliers. Jack clasped my hand reassuringly as we went through the imposing double doors into the function room, and I was so grateful for his presence. It was a vast space, but the mourners filled it easily. We showed our faces for an hour, but I felt like a fish out of water. Champagne flowed, and waiting staff proffered trays of exotic-looking canapés. Of course, I couldn’t drink, and really had no appetite, either. The atmosphere was understandably sombre and the conversation stilted. There must have been over two hundred people present, and I didn’t know anyone, apart from Luc. I suddenly realised how compartmentalised Reggie’s life had been.

Poor Maryam had had to fly off for a photoshoot in Spain. I thought how terrible it must have been for her, having to pose and pout when all she must have wanted to do was curl up in a corner and cry. I went into the toilets and found a small group of models cutting lines of cocaine by the sink. It seemed so inappropriate and disrespectful. I just wanted to get away from there. We made our excuses and left.

The misery in the air that day was tangible. The brutal actions of one man had affected the lives of so many people. I prayed that my friend would get the justice she deserved and hoped that Akhmad was finding incarceration sheer torture. I thought about the man’s wife, and wondered if she might actually be glad to see the back of him. Monsters like that rarely reserve their brutality for only one woman.

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