The Yacht Party

by Perry, Tasmina

  Her heart was beating fast now, emotion choked her throat.

  She tried to imagine Sandrine standing here just an hour earlier, tried to imagine what she was thinking.

  ‘What did you do?’ she whispered, bending to look at the waist-high wooden hand rail. Lara frowned when she saw four scrapes in the white paintwork.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She spun round. Fox was standing at the French doors, glaring at her.

  ‘Lara, get back in here,’ he said. ‘This is a bloody crime scene.’

  He glanced across at the uniformed officers, then lowered his voice. ‘I thought we had an understanding.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Did you see the scratch-marks on the balustrade?’ she said, glancing back to the terrace.

  ‘Lara, this isn’t a story,’ said Fox, his voice tight. ‘I let you in here as a favour.’

  ‘I know and I owe you, but listen. You asked me about Sandrine’s state of mind in the pub? Well she didn’t go from sociable to suicidal in a few hours. Those scratch marks suggest she was trying to scramble back onto the balcony. This wasn’t deliberate, Ian. She must have fallen.’

  Fox pressed his lips together.

  ‘Last time I looked Lara, I was the investigating officer.’

  He didn’t say it unkindly. He was too experienced to argue with a grieving friend, but he had a job to do.

  ‘I just wanted to point it out,’ said Lara, trying to hold herself together. Fox’s phone started to ring and Rob Monaghan was hovering. ‘Look,’ said the chief inspector. ‘You should go home and get some sleep. We’ll take it from here, okay?’

  ‘I want to help,’ she said, her eyes darting around the apartment, trying to take in every last detail before she was asked to leave.

  ‘I know that, Lara. But we’ve got this,’ said Fox. ‘We’ll find out what happened.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Sure Ian, thank you,’ she said. But deep down she didn’t believe him.

  Chapter 4

  Alex turned his face into the needle-point shower jets. That felt good, he thought to himself, turning his broad back to take the full blast. It reminded Alex of the time he’d been to a Turkish bath house in Istanbul, where he’d been pummelled by a 20-stone dude with a moustache, but came out feeling fantastic. This bathroom had been one of the selling points for this flat. Yes, it had been ridiculously expensive – a swanky modernist flat complex right on the Thames, it wasn’t going to be cheap – but Alex could admit he had been completely seduced by the boy-toy mod-cons, especially when they helped you feel wide awake at 6am.

  Having spent most of his twenties as a frontline foreign correspondent roughing it in roach-infested rooms in Delhi or bouncing in the back of a Jeep near Kandahar, it was a hoot to have a video intercom, motorised curtains and a kitchen like the bridge of the Enterprise from Star Trek. Alex had made an offer for the flat the same week he’d been promoted to Deputy at the Chronicle, justifying the eye-watering cost by telling himself he needed to be close to the office. The truth was, living here Alex felt like James Bond. The Roger Moore version, obviously: ludicrous perhaps, but oh, so much fun.

  He shut off the water and grabbed a towel from the rail, then pulled on his monogrammed robe, a Christmas present from his girlfriend Alicia. Alex still wasn’t sure whether she was playing along with his ironic Hugh Hefner fantasy or whether she actually saw him as the sort of man who liked his initials stamped onto his clothes.

  Surely she hadn’t missed the shelves in the open-plan living room, filled with mementoes from his time living abroad and on the edge – a chunk of wall from Berlin, a Chesapeake oyster shell from DC, the head of a spear he’d had to smuggle back from Sudan. It was still how Alex thought of himself: flak jacket and combat pants, even if his shrapnel scar was now hidden by a crisp white shirt. He missed those days, but there was only so long you could stay on the front line, especially when your dream was to edit a national newspaper. So he had come back to London, his ambition propelling him from the foreign desk to head of news and then up to Deputy. Alex smiled as saw the monogram in the mirror: his journey from the son of a newsagent to a captain of the media industry was almost complete.

  Still towelling his dark hair, Alex crossed to his desk, strategically placed against the tall windows to take full advantage of the view from the eighth floor. He’d been here well over a year now and that picture never got old. The apartment building hugged the river on the south side of Chelsea Bridge and at this time of the morning London was grey-blue and beautiful, the lights still twinkling on the water.

  If he was totally honest, it wasn’t just the gadgets and the parquet floors that had attracted him to this building, it was the view of the river. He’d spent countless evenings on Lara’s houseboat and it had always been a sure-fire way to decompress after a hard day at the paper. His job was full-on, but a cold beer and the sight of the Thames from the deck of Misty? Nothing like it.

  Snapping into work mode, Alex opened his laptop and began his morning routine, scanning through the news feeds. Alicia was always pushing to stay over at the flat more often, but on work days he liked to wake up alone. Alex had his morning routine down pat, catching up on any stories which had broken overnight, sifting through the speculation and PR spin, looking for anything they could use. Today there was mudslide in Argentina, a violent protest in Chicago and some B-list movie star in trouble over an outburst on social media: nothing out of the ordinary. Alex glanced at the time and scowled. He needed to get moving; he’d spent too long in the shower.

  Alex was half out of his seat when he switched to the domestic news wires, just in case there had been a flood or crash: hard news could be a morbid business – people complained about the news cycle but no one wanted to read fluffy stories about rescued kittens, not really. He was just about to close the laptop when he saw it.

  London, 4:30AM, French journalist falls to her death: W1. Met Police report.

  It was the occupation of the victim that caught his eye. The media industry was a small world, and Alex knew most of the senior players. Clicking on the title, he sat back down, running a hand through his still damp hair.

  ‘Oh no.’

  Woman identified as Sandrine Legard, writer for Parisian newspaper Le Figaro. Neighbours alerted the emergency services, but Ms. Legard was declared dead at the scene.

  He stared at the words, black on a white background, the cursor mindlessly blinking on, his heart thumping in time. And then he thought of Lara.

  Alex winced at the ‘bip-bip’ as he locked the car. The road off the Embankment was residential and it was still early enough to wake… to wake the dead, his mind added. Alex took a deep breath, then walked briskly towards the wharf. He was dreading it, but he knew a friend should break the news about Sandrine’s death to Lara and he needed to get to her before she checked the wires too. Alex had called a contact in the Met on the way over to check that the news agency hadn’t got the name mixed up, but there was no doubt about it: the couple from the basement flat in Sandrine’s block had found her and there had already been a positive ID.

  Alex knew the code to get into the marina and as he walked along the pier he tried to think of the right way to break it: ‘Sorry, there’s some bad news,’ ‘I think you’d better sit down…’ There was no easy way to do it. In his days abroad, dredging human interest from the rubble of war zones, Alex had done plenty of doorstepping, informing parents that their beloved son or daughter had been blown in half. But this was different. Sandrine was his friend too.

  He had met the beautiful Parisian within the first couple of weeks of starting at City University, where he and Lara had places on the prestigious newspaper journalism MA course. Sandrine was Lara’s housemate, her best friend from her undergraduate time at LSE, and somehow, after a big night out, they had all ended up at Lara and Sandrine’s Fleet Street flat ‘for cocktails’, which had pretty much amounted to adding ice to vodka. Alex could rem
ember that first night clearly, Sandrine seeming so sophisticated and worldly and so grown-up, already working as a stringer for Le Figaro at twenty-one. Such a damn waste.

  Shaking his head, Alex walked up the gangplank onto the narrowboat, bending to knock on the door.

  ‘Up front.’

  Alex straightened and followed the sound of the voice. Lara was sitting on the deck at the front of the barge, watching the sun rise over the city. She had on a thick fisherman’s jumper, her chin tucked into the funnel neck, knees drawn up to her chest. There was a glass of wine next to her, but it didn’t look touched. It seemed very early for a drink, although Alex could hardly blame her: Lara had not only lost the libel case that week, but her investigations department and her job too. And now this.

  ‘Hey,’ said Lara softly, barely glancing up from the river. ‘Making house calls now?’

  Alex sat down on the wooden chair next to her and for a moment he was reminded of happier times – summer BBQs, the midnight gin sessions, fishing for trout from the deck and reeling in old boots instead. Right now, they all felt so far way.

  ‘I needed to see you.’

  She glanced down at her phone, glowing on the arm of the chair.

  ‘6:30? I’m honoured.’

  There was an edge to Lara’s voice, none of her usual warmth. Alex swallowed: cut to the chase.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you something. I spotted something on the news wires when I got up, it’s…’

  ‘Sandrine,’ said Lara.

  Alex blinked.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘We went out together last night. The police called me first, my number was in her phone – last number she called. I went down to Marylebone and ID’d the body.’

  He should have guessed – the positive ID would need to be someone who knew Sandrine well.

  ‘I asked her to stay here, you know,’ said Lara, looking back at him. Her complexion looked washed-out, her green eyes were lifeless and dull. Lara was always a magnetic presence, the brightest star in the sky, but today, she looked barely there, like a ghost.

  ‘She said she wanted to stay nearer to Paddington, but I should have insisted. If I had insisted she would still be alive.’

  He heard her voice catch as she spoke.

  ‘Lara, none of this was your fault,’ said Alex gently. ‘If Sandrine had made up her mind she wanted to hurt herself, she would have done it wherever she was.’

  ‘Hurt herself?’ repeated Lara, turning to face him, those eyes suddenly fierce. ‘You think she did this deliberately too?’

  He saw her searching his face, desperate to hear a firm denial, but his police contact had told him that alcohol and anti-depressants had been found at the scene.

  ‘We’ll have to wait for the inquest to know for sure,’ said Alex. ‘And even then it will probably be an open verdict.’

  ‘Verdict?’ snapped Lara. ‘This isn’t another case, Alex. This is Sandrine and I know she wouldn’t do a thing like that.’

  Alex had worked long enough in news rooms to know that you never did truly know people or what they were thinking. He had interviewed the parents of terrorists and high school shooters, mothers and fathers who had zero idea their child had warped ideologies, until it was too late.

  ‘She was fine last night Alex, happy, talking about the future. I saw scratch marks on the balcony too. Maybe she was trying to scramble back.’

  Alex knew that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Suicidal jumpers often had a change of heart at the final moment. But he really didn’t think now was the time to bring it up.

  ‘You went out on the balcony?’

  She nodded. ‘Ian Fox was at the scene. He let me into the apartment.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  It was an instinctive question, but Alex immediately knew he’d over-stepped the mark. Lara turned on him, but Alex held up a hand.

  ‘I’ve already told the news team not to run it, but you know I won’t be able to do anything once Darius gets into the office – and we can’t control the other papers.’

  They both fell silent, just the gentle lap of river water against the hull of the boat filling the gap between them.

  ‘I haven’t offered you a coffee,’ she said, suddenly standing up.

  He grabbed her hand and stopped her.

  ‘Stop, just come here,’ he said, rising up out of his chair.

  Face to face, he pulled Lara into a hug, resting his chin on the top of her head. Alex couldn’t ever remember Lara crying, but he could feel her body against his chest, tight like a drum, as if she was holding it all back. They stood there for a long moment, the river moving beneath them.

  ‘You know two days ago, I thought my world was going to end,’ said Lara. ‘Felix bloody Tait, some stupid argument about nothing.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered, holding her. ‘It’ll be okay.’ He knew the futility of the words, but what else was there to say?

  Over the years they had been through so much together. Good times and bad. On their crazy nights out in their twenties they had laughed so much their bellies hurt. And the worst times too: when his mother had got sick and Alex had been stationed abroad, she had collected him from Heathrow, driven him home to Cumbria, saying all the right things on the longest journey of his life. Finally Lara pulled away.

  ‘You know we had the talk about this at work?’ said Lara, pulling away, wiping her moist eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. ‘Appropriate contact between colleagues?’

  ‘I think even HR might allow this one,’ he said, trying for a smile.

  Alex wanted to stand there forever and pretend it wasn’t happening, but he knew things needed to be done.

  ‘Have you spoken to her parents yet?’ he said.

  Lara sighed.

  ‘For the past hour I’ve just been running over and over in my head what I can say to them. But I just couldn’t find the words. Not like me, huh?’

  It truly wasn’t. Lara was the smartest, bravest, most capable person he knew, she never hesitated. That’s why it was so painful to see her this way, lost at sea.

  ‘Let me sort out the arrangements,’ said Alex.

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘No, let me. I met them at her flat in Montmartre that time we were all in Paris – they’ll remember me. I’ll get them here if they need to come.’

  Lara shoulders shrugged, a gesture of resignation.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She gave a small nod and turned away, looking back across the river. The sky was lighter now, with dusky apricot clouds blooming behind the distant high-rise blocks, far too cheery for the mood.

  ‘You should go,’ said Lara. ‘You’ll miss the morning conference. One of us has already been fired this week, we don’t want to make it two.’

  His eyes met hers.

  ‘You know I’m always here for you, don’t you?’

  She nodded, then glanced away. Alex could hardly blame her for doubting him. There had been a time when Alex and Lara had been inseparable; best friends, if nothing else. But over the past eighteen months, since Alicia had arrived on the scene, they had hardly seen one another outside of a work setting. It was only now that Alex realised just how much he had missed her.

  ‘Go on, go,’ said Lara. ‘Or I’ll get Dingo to chase you off.’

  He leaned forward and pressed his cheek against hers. Alex opened his mouth, but knew there was nothing more to say. He turned and walked back down the gangplank, wishing… what? That he could stay with her, protect her, hold her together as she fell apart? But somehow he knew Lara was made of tougher stuff. Somehow he knew Lara Stone would get through this.

  He unlocked the car and slid his phone into the slot on the dash, speed-dialling his PA.

  ‘Celine? It’s Alex. I need to get two people from Corsica.’

  A pause. ‘Yes. Today. Whatever it takes. This is a priority.’

  He hung up and turned into traffic.

  Chap
ter 5

  Sandrine’s father stood upright and dignified, his silhouette stark against the hotel window. Jean Legard and Sandrine’s mother Marion had flown in from Ajaccio to Heathrow via a connecting flight in Paris, several hours after Alex’s assistant had begun making the arrangements. Woken by a call from the police, telling him about their daughter’s death, then mere hours later, standing here in this stuffy hotel room, Jean had every right to look exhausted, but Lara thought there was something more in his expression. He was broken, even though he was trying to put on a brave face.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jean,’ said Lara. ‘I was with Sandrine last night. I just can’t explain what happened.’

  Jean gave a short shake of his head.

  ‘Sandrine has suffered from depression for many years, Lara,’ said Jean, his French accent strong. ‘She was just very good at hiding it.’

  Lara gaped at him. What he was saying just didn’t make sense. She’d known Sandrine for almost twenty years and she had always brimmed with vibrancy and optimism.

  ‘But she was fine,’ said Lara, looking across to Marion. ‘How could she…’

  Marion walked over and put a hand on Lara’s arm, a mother still, doing her best to comfort her. Lara had spent enough time visiting Sandrine in Corsica in Uni holidays to consider Jean and Marion family and this was hurting her more than she could have anticipated. Seeing them so crumpled, yet holding themselves together – for her – was heartbreaking.

  ‘Sometimes it came on very suddenly,’ said Marion, her eyes damp. ‘One moment Sandrine was fine, the next it was as if she was under a black cloud. She’d go to bed, sometimes for a week, sometimes longer.’

  Lara looked back and forth between them.

  ‘But depression? I…’

  ‘C’est vrai,’ said Jean quietly. ‘It was why she had her gap year between high school and university.’

  Lara frowned in bemusement.

  ‘Her gap year? She went travelling,’ she replied, remembering her friend’s tales of Italian boys and sangria on the beach.