Lara walked down the boat’s little gangway, down to the end of the dock. This is why I live here, she thought. The lights of Albert Bridge shimmered in the darkness, their reflection in the water like ribbons of gold. Sure, she could be in one of those fancy houses off the King’s Road, but she wouldn’t have a view, a feeling like this. The oil-black water rippling like muscle beneath skin, the constant movement, the sense of being in the embrace of a living thing.
She closed her eyes and drew a sharp breath in through her nose. Her parents had barely been 40 when they had died in a yachting accident off the Croatian coast. Eleven year-old Lara had been sent off to boarding school before she’d had chance to process it, but in the months that had followed, she had decided one thing; she was determined to stay close to the water. She learned to row and sail and swam freestyle for the county team; far from being a distressing reminder, water made her feel closer to her parents – or to the little of them she could remember. So when five years ago, the money left in trust had finally been released to her, Lara had snapped up Misty, this wide-beam narrow boat, a remodelled veteran of the Staffordshire canal, and called it home.
Unlocking the little fold-back door, Lara stepped inside, to be met by a happy ‘Mewl’.
‘Hey Dingo,’ she said, reaching out to stroke her cat’s white fur. Dingo arched his back and purred, following along behind as Lara walked into the living space.
‘Have you missed me?’
Dingo answered by jumping onto the sofa.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ she smiled, hanging her jacket on the back of a chair. Another thing that surprised people: Misty was lovely inside. A cool contemporary interior, all white clapboard, with a spacious lounge area at the front, two bedrooms and a full bathroom with clawfoot bath. There were bigger houseboats moored along the Thames but then she’d only gather more crap. As it was, Lara furnished it only with pieces that she loved. Framed original cinema posters for Dr. No, To Catch A Thief and Vertigo, reclaimed furniture and one-off design pieces – the desk that had come from a villa in Tuscany, a light-pendant that had once hung in a New York speakeasy, maps and books, things that reminded her where your imagination and a plane ticket could take you.
Lara went into the kitchen and clanked about in the cupboards to find Dingo’s cat food, mulling over Sandrine’s suggestion about joining Le Caché as she did so.
‘Here Dings,’ she said, putting down the plastic bowl. ‘I’ll leave this out for you.’
She leant back on the counter and pulled out her phone, flipping to Le Caché’s home page, which trumpeted their latest scoop – exposing the connection between a Mexican drug cartel and one of the country’s top political donors. It was fine reporting, but it was hard not to hear Uncle Nicholas’s words: who would read this over an item about Meghan Markle or Kylie Jenner? People came to newspapers for entertainment and for an affirmation of their own beliefs. They came to comment below the line, to offload their own frustrations or add to the conversation – because Look at me! My opinions matter and everyone wants to hear them. In 18 months’ time, Lara wasn’t even sure there would be an investigations team at any of the papers. It all made joining Le Caché seem a pointless exercise, a desperate swim against the tide. Still, if Sandrine was convinced, Lara wanted to know why.
She clicked on the ‘About Us’ section.
‘Ah, that’ll be why,’ she smiled, as she saw Eduardo Ortega’s black and white portrait. Sandrine hadn’t been joking when she said Le Caché’s founder and editor-in-chief was impressive. Handsome, connected and accomplished, Eduardo was only around forty and yet the Harvard and Georgetown graduate had worked for El Pais, The Washington Post, CNN and had found time to write half a dozen books on a range of subjects from the history of Myanmar to the civil war in Sri Lanka. He had founded Le Caché two years previously and while their main office was in Madrid, they had a long list of collaborators who worked for some of the biggest media players around the globe. Not really Sandrine’s type though. She usually went for pretty boys with a dangerous streak, like Patric. Everyone grows up though, don’t they?
Lara made a coffee and went back to the sofa. Opening her laptop, she went straight onto the main news websites. Lara’s heart sank.
Newspaper Loses Libel Case
Felix Tait says court result ‘a vindication’.
Justice done or a disaster for free speech?
Deborah Simmons reports.
But as she skimmed the text, Lara was surprised to feel herself detached from the whole story. She was, after all, not part of it anymore and in truth, had felt that way for a while.
The Felix Tait thing had been a blow, but in reality, Lara had been growing increasingly frustrated at work for more than a year. Her promotion to Investigations Editor had, in theory, been a promotion, but had really been a backwards step, taking her away from the things she loved best – researching and writing. Darius Allen was an idiot, over-promoted and unbelievably pompous. Alex was Lara’s friend, but as deputy editor, he still had to toe the line. The more senior you were in the management structure, the more office politics were involved and she knew Alex had to pick his battles. This one – folding the investigations team – had been unwinnable and she didn’t hold that against him. No one was going to back a research team that had just lost the paper a million pounds, especially when the stories that got the most clicks were about reality TV stars.
Lara closed her computer and sat back, idly stroking Dingo who had come to join her on the sofa. As she yawned and stretched, her eyes turned towards the coffee table where a photo of her father was in a frame on a pile of books. It was her favourite photo of her dad; standing next to his boat looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Lara thought of her dad all the time, but it was hard not to think of him this week in particular; it had been David Avery who had given Lara her love for the news and the desire to fight for the truth.
She remembered going into his study at their farmhouse on the family estate, a crackling fire of Scotch pine, always a source of calm wisdom, whatever her problem.
‘What would you do, Dad?’ she asked, looking at the photo.
He certainly wouldn’t have rolled over and let his brother close investigations, that was for sure. David Avery was a scrapper, never afraid to get down in the dirt trading blows – he was old-school that way. Her father had worked during the swansong of Fleet Street when the Chronicle still had their offices within a stone’s throw of St Bride’s Church and newspapermen kept whisky in their bottom drawers. She wondered what he would have made of the modern media where a story could be broken by someone with a tweet and flash around the world before any of the official news channels had a chance to even comment. Lara didn’t know for sure, but she guessed David Avery would have embraced it, taken it on board and used it to his advantage.
A buzzing sensation on her hip woke her up. It was a few moments before she realised she had fallen asleep on the sofa and that her mobile phone was ringing.
She blinked hard, pulled the phone out of her pocket and sat up, swinging her legs to the floor. She looked at the time; 2.30am. Phone calls in the middle of the night were rarely good news, even if it was the paper calling her in to work on a major breaking news story.
‘Hello?’ she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
‘Lara Stone?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Who is this?’
‘Detective Sergeant Rob Monaghan. Met.’
The police. That set Lara even more on edge.
Lara rubbed a hand over her face to focus.
‘How can I help you, Sergeant?’
‘Do you know a Sandrine Legard, Ms. Stone?’
Now she was wide awake.
‘Ms. Stone?’
‘Yes, Sandrine’s a friend,’ said Lara, the air in the houseboat suddenly stale and overly warm.
‘May I ask when you last saw her?’ asked the policeman.
‘I saw her tonight. What… what’s this about, Sergeant
?’ she said, a sense of dread swelling. ‘Is Sandrine okay?’
But she knew the answer even before the words were out and when the policeman paused before answering, it was all the confirmation she needed.
‘A body has been found outside a building in Marylebone,’ he said. Lara’s heart was thudding now.
‘A body? Where exactly? Are you telling me it’s Sandrine?’
Her words poured out, not giving the policeman time to answer.
Panic filled her chest. ‘Sergeant. Tell me, what’s going on? Is Sandrine… dead?’
‘Are you her next of kin?’
‘I’m her best friend.’
Another pause.
‘We’re trying to trace Ms. Legard’s next of kin,’ said Monaghan.
Lara tried to swallow, decoding his words in her head. So they’d identified her, now they needed an official confirmation.
‘We retrieved your number from Ms. Legard’s mobile phone. Your number was the last she called.’
The last she called, Lara’s inner voice parroted. The last she ever called.
‘Ms. Stone? Can you tell us who is Sandrine’s next of kin?’
‘Her parents live in Corsica,’ stuttered Lara. ‘She works for Le Figaro, a newspaper. In Paris.’
‘I wonder if you’d mind coming down to…’
Lara was already reaching for her bag.
‘What’s the address? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
Hyde Park Corner was empty as she gunned the bike’s engine, bending low over the tank and leaning into the bend, roaring up onto Park Lane, the darkness of the trees to her left, blurred lights to her right. Lara remembered meeting Sandrine for tea at The Dorchester when they had been students, giggling and a little squiffy, discussing running out on the bill they could ill-afford. Could she really be dead? Not Sandrine. Lara couldn’t make the idea compute. ’Drine was so full of life, so – vital. It had to be a mistake. Had to.
She dodged around Marble Arch, overtaking a lone cab as she powered into Edgware Road, before crossing into the maze of Marylebone. Lara was a skilled and experienced motorcyclist; it was how she had got around London for years, but it was hard to concentrate and keep full control of the bike when her head was sweating beneath her helmet and her palms felt clammy in her leather gloves.
Sandrine had said very little about where she was staying during her trip to London. Her friend was never particularly loyal to one place, staying in whichever hotel Le Figaro’s travel agent had sorted out for her. When she came to London for pleasure rather than work, she often stayed with Lara on the houseboat, but Sandrine had turned her offer down this time, saying she wanted to be close to Paddington for the conference she was attending. Why? thought Lara, torturing herself as she twisted the throttle.
As Lara turned into Wallace Square, she could tell where Sandrine had been staying from the police van and an ambulance parked directly outside, their lights spinning blue and red in competition with each other, as a handful of rubberneckers were held back by fluttering tape and a bored-looking uniformed copper.
Lara kicked her bike onto its stand and ran across, pulling off her helmet as she announced herself to the young policeman. He frowned, then turned to shout for someone inside the building. ‘Sarge?’ he called without moving. ‘Someone here for you.’
A tall man in a navy raincoat emerged, pulling off blue latex gloves as he approached her.
‘Detective Sergeant Monaghan? I’m Lara Stone, we spoke on the phone?’ She fumbled for her driving licence and held it up, her hand still trembling. Monaghan tilted his head to read the card, then met Lara’s gaze.
‘You’re a journalist.’
She was about to look at her ID again – her occupation wasn’t on it last time she looked – before the penny dropped.
‘You Googled me,’ she said. Of course he had. He was a detective investigating a suspicious death.
A death. Lara tried to swallow, but found she couldn’t.
‘What happened?’ she said quietly.
The detective caught the waver in her voice and his expression changed. ‘A body was found behind the building. We believe she fell from the top floor balcony.’
‘Is she alive?’
Monaghan shook his head.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can I see her?’
Monaghan looked at her for a long moment, then gave a curt nod.
‘This way,’ he said.
Sandrine’s apartment was at the end of a long row of tall stuccoed terraced houses that faced the square. Lara followed Monaghan around the back of the building to an alleyway that had been taped off. The sky was beginning to lighten, but still it was dark, eerie in the narrow throughfare, thrown into sharp shadow by a white light where two paramedics were lifting something onto a stretcher. Someone. Lara’s legs felt like dead weights as she followed the policeman and Monaghan noticed her hesitation.
‘Are you okay to do this?’
Lara nodded, although she wasn’t sure at all. She had been around bodies before – it was part of the job – but this was different. Very different. Taking a shallow breath, Lara approached the stretcher. She was still praying it was an error, some bizarre coincidence, mistaken identity.
Monaghan muttered something to the paramedic and he unzipped the body bag. There was no mistaking Sandrine’s serene face, even in the low light. Her eyes were closed as if she had just fallen asleep on Lara’s couch, and around her slim neck Lara could see her tiny gold bird necklace still glinting.
‘Yes,’ was all she could manage to say. ‘That’s Sandrine. Sandrine Legard.’
Lara’s hand covered her mouth to stifle a sob, the tears beginning to flow. Rob Monaghan touched her shoulder, then gently led her back towards the street.
‘It’s fine,’ said Monaghan. ‘Take your time.’
There was a flash to their left and they both turned. A paparazzi was taking pictures from the other side of the tape. Lara knew how it worked. A lone wolf trawling the streets intercepting police calls and chatter, and within the hour the pictures would be offered to all the news outlets.
‘Get away from her,’ shouted Lara. ‘Leave her alone!’
The photographer didn’t flinch, his shutter still whirring, and all of Lara’s grief boiled up into a white-hot rage. She lunged at the man, hands like claws.
‘Woah, steady there.’
She felt a firm hand of restraint on her arm and Lara turned.
‘Fox…’ said Lara, some of her anger draining away. Ian Fox was a chief inspector at Charing Cross police station. Ten years ago, when Lara had worked the news desk at the Chronicle, Fox had been one of the media-friendly officers in her phonebook, not exactly a friend but someone who knew how it worked. Journalists got tip-offs from the cops and that information was a two-way street if something came up in a reporter’s investigation. Word on the street was that Fox had dated a journalist for a while, so he was generally sympathetic to the job.
Seeing Fox’s familiar face gave her some comfort.
‘Come on,’ he said, leading her away from the police line. ‘Assaulting a photographer isn’t going to solve anything.’ He looked up as the snapper disappeared into the dark. ‘Much as I’d like to see it.’
Lara nodded wearily. ‘She was my friend, Ian.’
‘I know. Monaghan filled me in as soon as I arrived.’
They stood in the blue glow of the police van. Either Lara was dizzy or the lights were still whirling.
‘Listen, I’m going to have to ask you some questions. Is that okay?’
‘I’m not sure what I can tell you,’ said Lara, staring at the ground.
‘You saw Sandrine earlier tonight. How did she seem?’
Lara expected him to get out his notebook, but he didn’t. She was grateful for that at least.
‘She was on good form,’ sighed Lara. ‘We went to a pub in Chelsea, The Engineer, had a fun night. We left at about 10:30 and I got a cab back to my house on Cad
ogan Pier. Sandrine said she was going back to… well, here. The next thing I know, I get a call from your detective.’
Fox nodded, absorbing the information.
‘Was Sandrine drinking at the pub?’
‘Not much. We each had a couple of glasses of wine.’
‘How was her mood?’
‘Mood?’
It was starting to dawn on her what the police thought had happened.
‘You think her fall was deliberate?’ she said.
‘We don’t know yet, Lara.’
She was about to reply when the paramedics pushed the stretcher past her. Lara had to look away; it was too painful. Just a few hours earlier they had been at The Engineer talking about the future.
‘Can I go up there? To the apartment?’
Lara knew it was a big ask, even with her history with Fox.
‘Please Ian. I just need to see.’
She watched as the policeman weighed up his options.
‘Just so we’re clear, no photos and no quotes.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Lara gratefully. Following Fox, she walked inside the block and up five flights of stairs. The apartment occupied the eaves of the building, the door was open and they walked inside.
The flat was small. Just a bathroom, bedroom and an open-plan living space where two officers were bagging up various items they had found. The red jacket Sandrine had worn the night before was draped over the dining chair, her brown suede ankle boots were on the rug, one tipped on its side. She’d commented on how cool they were, asked Sandrine where she’d got them from. Lara squeezed her eyes shut. Focus, she told herself angrily. Be professional. See what you can see. Fox stopped to talk to one of the uniforms and Lara slid away, turning towards the French doors. They were open, letting a cool breeze into the room. Without glancing back, Lara stepped out onto the narrow terrace, where there was a rust-pocked bistro chair in one corner, a pot plant in the other.
The Yacht Party Page 3