‘But as our housekeeper, Jasna, explained to you, I’m afraid our daughter is not here at present. And as for your … suggestion that you will go to the police, I’ve already spoken to their chief today – he’s a friend of the family – regarding the Eisenbergs’ tragic loss. So, you see, I really can’t help you.’For ‘can’t’, I read ‘won’t’. In big letters.Orlando’s family didn’t so much have a house as an estate. A sprawling place with manicured lawns and clumps of trees that were too artistically grouped to possibly be natural.The house was weathered red-brick, with gothic pointed arches, turrets, and an intricate series of what looked like blocked-up windows decorating the front facade. I dredged my distant education and recalled it was called something like ‘blind arcading’. The whole place was traditional and imposing, and must have cost more in window cleaning and gardening bills than I earned in a year.I got my first glimpse of all this from the wrought iron gateway at the end of a long drive when I arrived.
