‘Sandrine did not travel that year,’ said Jean, shaking his head. ‘She had – comment se dit? – a breakdown? She stayed in Corsica with us that year, healed herself the best she could. We wanted her to stay in Corsica to study but she was adamant she wanted to go to London.’
Lara felt as if the floor had fallen away beneath her. It was as if everything she had ever known about her best friend had been a lie. Jean seemed to see it and squeezed Lara’s hand. She felt the callouses on his fingertips, rough, like bark. Sandrine’s parents were both retired teachers, but Jean had always maintained that he’d have preferred to have been a carpenter. When Lara had gone to stay at their family home during university breaks, Jean was always in his lean-to workshop at the side of their farmhouse, turning wooden bowls and chair legs on his lathe. It was the sort of recollection you would end with ‘happy days’ – but they truly were. What Lara wouldn’t give to somehow beam them all back there now in a time machine.
‘But it did her good to go to London, especially when she found you, Lara,’ said Marion. ‘Remember when you came to visit us in the summer? We could see Sandrine was back to her old self, like a bright flame. But no one could be with her all the time. I think the sadness was always there in the shadows.’
Marion’s voice caught and Jean put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Lara blinked at them. It was as if they were describing a stranger. If anything, Sandrine had been the one to pull Lara out of a funk about career or relationships, not the other way around. She remembered Sandrine in Paris, holding dinner parties in her little apartment, surrounded by smoke and candles and a rag-tag assortment of artists and writers and aristocrats; she had glowed. How could she have never seen this? Why hadn’t Sandrine ever told her? Lara was torn between disbelief and pain – what kind of friend was she to have missed it? What sort of friendship did they have that Sandrine couldn’t confide in her?
It’s not about you, Lara, she reminded herself. This is about Sandrine – and about Jean and Marion. Whatever Lara’s pain was, it was multiplied a dozen times in her parents.
‘Did the police say if there was a note? An explanation?’
Lara had been down to the station earlier in the day. It was a question she’d asked Ian Fox but he’d been evasive.
Marion shook her head.
‘The inspector said it is often the way. Not everyone leaves a note or their reasons why.’
They sat in silence for a while, listening to a distant siren. Lara felt as if she were intruding on the Legards’ grief, but still wanted to do something to help.
‘Would you like me to go to Paris?’ she asked. Lara was a doer and she knew right now she had to do something, not just for Jean and Marion Legard, but for her own sanity. ‘The apartment, I have a key. I could…’ she shook her head. What could she do? Collect the mail? Water the plants? Sandrine was gone. Her old life was a shell, just ashes ready to blow away on the wind.
‘That would be kind of you, Lara,’ said Jean simply.
The room’s phone rang, sudden and shrill, shattering the quiet intensity of the room. Lara quickly picked it up.
‘Ms. Legard? This is Felicity in reception. I have a Mr. Eduardo Ortega in the lobby?’
Lara recognised the name immediately: Eduardo from Le Caché.
‘Eduardo Ortega?’ she said to Jean, covering the receiver.
Jean nodded. ‘Yes, send him up.’
Lara relayed the message and put down the phone.
‘Sandrine’s…friend?’ said Lara. She wasn’t sure if her parents knew but Marion nodded.
‘Have you met him?’ asked Lara.
‘In Paris,’ said Jean. ‘He’s very impressive.’
‘That’s what Sandrine told me.’
There was a knock at the door and Jean answered it. A tall, fortyish man embraced him, then crossed to take both of Marion’s hands in a gesture that spoke of respect and familiarity. Eduardo Ortega was even more handsome that the profile picture she had seen on the Le Caché website. His pale blue shirt, expensive Italian shoes and swept-back dark hair gave him the look of European royalty – someone more at home in the lobby of the Paris Ritz than reporting from the field in Somalia or the Yemen.
He introduced himself, extended his condolences and some pleasantries. She’d met plenty of his type before, wealthy Europeans, who’d had their accents rubbed away in British boarding schools and Ivy League colleges. He gently took Lara to one side and lowered his voice.
‘I hate to ask, but would you mind giving us a few minutes? I want to say a few words to Sandrine’s parents, but I would appreciate speaking to you too, Lara. Could you wait?’
Eduardo delivered the request as if Lara were doing him a favour, a trick many successful people managed to pull off. She would have said yes in any case – she was keen to talk to him too.
‘There’s a bar next to the lobby,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait for you there.’
Giving Jean and Marion a final embrace, Lara left them talking quietly in French and took the lift down to the ground floor. The bar was more glamorous than the slightly faded hotel had suggested. Dark panelling with tall mirrors and a zinc-topped bar, it aped the Parisian haunts of the 1920s frequented by Toulouse Lautrec, almost getting there. Lara ordered coffee for both of them and was just sitting in a discreet corner when Eduardo arrived, already apologising.
Lara watched him as he took off his jacket and put it over the back of the chair. She knew that they were united in grief, that there should be a bond of solidarity between them. But still, it was hard not to view him with suspicion – to view everything with suspicion. The suicide, the hint about Jonathon Meyer, her new alliance with Le Caché, Eduardo’s appearance on the scene. None of it seemed coincidental.
‘So you’re here for the conference,’ she said, sipping her coffee.
‘That’s right.’
‘I was going to come. Sandrine invited me along.’
‘I know. I asked her to.’
Lara hid her surprise, filing that detail away for a later date.
‘Are you still going ahead with it?’
‘Yes. Sandrine, more than anyone, would want it to happen.’
Lara agreed with him on that.
‘How did you know Jean and Marion were here?’ asked Lara as casually as she could. Eduardo shrugged, as if it were obvious. ‘When they heard the news, they called me.’
Lara waited for more explanation, but none was forthcoming.
‘So how long were you together?’ she asked after a moment.
He looked down into his coffee before glancing back at Lara. ‘Nine months. Not long enough,’ he said looking away. ‘We were supposed to see other tomorrow. A walk in Regent’s Park, lunch at some place along the canal. I told her there was so much to prepare for the conference. She told me that life was for living, not just working.’
He gave a soft, sad snort. His eyes were glittering now. Eduardo was either genuinely upset or a great actor. Both were possible; the truth was she knew nothing about this man or his relationship with Sandrine.
‘The apartment in Marylebone,’ said Lara. ‘You weren’t staying there.’
Eduardo shook his head.
‘No. I’m in Kensington. When Sandrine was working, she preferred her own space. Besides, given my position at Le Caché, I wasn’t sure how professional it would look to arrive together.’
Lara nodded. At least that made sense.
‘So when did you see her last? How did she seem?’
‘Two weeks ago. I came to Paris. She was fine. More than fine. She was sparkling.’
Lara had always said Sandrine had an indefinable stardust, she could light up a room just by walking into it. Eduardo looked into the distance.
‘I guess we don’t always know people, Lara. Even the people we love.’
‘Did you know Sandrine was depressed?’
‘No. But which woman would reveal such a thing so early in a relationship?’
She wasn’t sure nine m
onths was that early.
‘Have you spoken to the police yet?’
‘They called me this afternoon. I’m going down to the station after I have finished here.’
‘Did they say why they wanted to speak to you?’
At her own interview, Ian Fox had asked about Sandrine’s private life and she had told him about Eduardo and Le Caché. She had no idea if that was why the police wanted to talk to Eduardo now. Perhaps they knew something she didn’t.
Lara did not consider herself a catastrophist, someone whose mind always went to the worst possible outcome, but as an investigative reporter, she was in the habit of considering every possibility of what could have happened.
And what she could imagine was a drunk and happy Sandrine inviting her handsome millionaire boyfriend round to her Marylebone flat after a night on the town. She could imagine her opening the French doors to let in the balmy summer night air. She could imagine an argument breaking out for any one of the thousand reasons couples quarrelled; a flash of anger, a hard push and that was all it could take for a tragedy. Was that scenario more likely that Sandrine taking her own life? Lara thought it was.
‘I’d better be going’ said Eduardo, glancing at his watch. ‘Hopefully the police will not ask me quite as many questions as you.’
He said it as a quip but Lara found herself bristling.
‘I’m sorry, Eduardo, but I hadn’t even heard of you until a few hours before Sandrine’s death. And my best friend just died, so forgive me if I have a lot of questions.’
‘That may be so,’ said Eduardo crisply. ‘But please try not to make them sound like accusations. You know, I cared for her too.’
‘Did you?’
‘What are you implying exactly?’
‘Were you faithful?’
‘Faithful? Yes, I was. How can you even ask me that?’
‘Because she’s dead, Eduardo!’ said Lara, raising her voice. ‘My best friend is dead and I want to know why. Is that so hard to understand?’
‘I know you’re upset,’ he said sitting forward. ‘But this isn’t the time or place for this.’
‘Isn’t it? Because I thought we were both in the business of getting to the truth. Why be afraid of that?’
‘I am not afraid of the truth, Lara,’ said Eduardo, putting down his cup. ‘But I’m aware that there are other people in this hotel who may not wish to listen to this.’
Lara looked up. He may have had a point; it seemed everyone else had stopped what they were doing and were looking over at Lara and Eduardo.
‘Perhaps we could discuss this at a later date?’ he said, standing. ‘Right now I need to speak to the police. Perhaps they will have some insights into what happened and then you will know where to direct your anger.’
He tapped a finger on the table. ‘But I assure you, Lara, it is not towards me.’
Chapter 6
L’Etranger Club was not what Lara had been expecting. Standing on the corner of a long terrace of whitewashed townhouses, the building was elegant, but there was an air of neglect that was entirely out of step with the club’s reputation. L’Etranger had been one of the hang-outs in Sixties London, the place Don McCullin and Francoise Demulder would carouse before grabbing their Pentaxes and heading off to the war zones. Back in the glory days of the inkies, L’Etranger had crackled with energy and intrigue, the famous ‘long bar’ attracting diplomats, attaches and thinly-disguised cold-war spies.
Right now, however, Lara thought it looked like a run-down residential hotel or a minor embassy. Marooned on a quiet side street off a major Paddington artery, the club had a polished brass plaque next to the front door, but it didn’t exactly stand out from its neighbours. But then perhaps that was point: as the venue for the collective’s annual conference, it was exclusive, but unobtrusive, anonymous without being actually underground. By reputation, Le Caché flew under the radar: they weren’t going to hold a party at Hakkasan and invite the paparazzi.
Lara walked slowly across the road. She knew she had to be here for Sandrine’s sake, but she wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, not after her fractious exchange with Eduardo at the hotel. Lara felt embarrassed by her outburst, but she still didn’t trust him. So why come? Because she was intrigued. For someone who had grown up inside the media establishment, Le Caché was radical and exciting.
A blond man in a jacket with too many pockets was standing by the door, head bowed over his phone. He looked up as Lara approached.
‘You’re here for Le Caché?’ he asked. She nodded and he pointed her to a desk where a woman handed Lara a lanyard. Clearly Eduardo hadn’t blacklisted her. Not yet, anyway.
‘First session is on the first floor,’ said the woman, directing her up the stairs and into a tall open room rumbling with excited conversation, sixty or seventy people standing around drinking coffee and nibbling pastries, an air of anticipation even this early in the morning. Lara felt the energy too, but she also felt intimidated by some of the lined, sunburned faces: she saw Orla McGuinness, the celebrated Irish writer whose ‘Tel Aviv Telegram’ had influenced a generation of travellers, Avril Katz, the Canadian badass who’d gone undercover as a volunteer on the US campaign trail and learned first-hand just how cut-throat American politics could be. In the far corner, Lara recognised Francis Barbier, the legendary scribe who had walked through police lines in Berlin to get an interview with terrorist leader Karl Haas minutes before he blew himself to bits. Barbier was white-haired and craggy, but it was reassuring to see someone of his vintage there among the younger go-getters. Lara took a deep breath and sidled over.
‘Amazing place,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of off the beaten track though.’
‘That’s because of history. Back in the 1960s, the West London Air Terminal was just around the corner.’
‘The West what?’
Francis laughed.
‘Hard to believe now, but when Heathrow was built, air travel was so expensive, they assumed passengers would arrive with their chauffeur. So when ordinary people started flying in the 60s, there was no train or tube to the airport, so they’d check you in here, then bus everyone out to the runway.’
‘So where is it?’ said Lara, looking around as if she might see a baggage carousel.
‘It’s a supermarket now. But that’s why the club was here: so people popping off to Aden or Saigon could leave it to the last minute.’
‘Last minute – no change there then,’ smiled Lara.
She could actually feel the history Francis had described, not just in the framed black and white photographs of unnamed conflicts on the walls or the famous oak bar at the far end of the room, but in the intent, that urge to get out there and find the news by seeing it happen, being first in, first out. She had spent the past few days feeling disappointed and angry with the world of journalism and yet, at L’Etranger, it was hard not to be swept back into the excitement and possibility of it all.
The good-looking blonde man from the street walked over to shake hands with Barbier, then turned to smile at Lara.
‘You found us then,’ he said, extending his hand towards Lara.
‘I’m Stefan.’
He was around her age, with sharp blue eyes and dark blonde hair that looked as if it hadn’t been brushed that morning. At first glance, he reminded her of Alex, the height and athletic physique, the careless stubble. But these days Alex looked ready for the boardroom while Stefan looked as though he had come straight from the Foreign Correspondents club in Phnom Penh.
‘Lara Stone. Eduardo invited me.’
Stefan gave a nod. ‘He told me; you’re Sandrine’s friend aren’t you? I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Sandrine Legard?’ said Barbier, perking up. ‘That was tragic. She was so talented.’
Lara smiled. She knew that Sandrine would have been thrilled to get such a glowing assessment from someone she so respected. Stefan put a hand on Barbier’s shoulder.
‘It’s about to start. You shou
ld probably grab a seat.’
He glanced over at Lara.
‘We’ll talk later?’
Up at the front, Stefan banged a coffee mug on the bar to get everyone’s attention and a large flatscreen came to life showing images from warzones, rioting, the G20, the front steps of the White House and Number Ten, all illuminated by flashbulbs. Then the pictures became more specific. The cities were less obvious: Copenhagen, Geneva, the locations office buildings or expensive private residences. Lara recognised some of the faces too, but not all of them. Bankers, Russian politicians. These were the stories Le Caché had worked on, not all of them familiar to Lara, but that made sense: even the most explosive exposé about government corruption in, say, Austria, would barely make the world news section of the Chronicle – but that didn’t mean it wasn’t vital to bring them to light. No story too small, no lie too big.
The images faded and Eduardo stepped up onto a low stage. A ripple of light applause ran around the room and he graciously nodded. Lara had to hand it to Sandrine: she had landed the most impressive man in a room full of pretty impressive individuals.
‘Thank you for the welcome,’ he said. ‘But I’m here to welcome all of you: this conference is of course about all of us. The world press calls us a collective and that, at least, they get right.’
As a hum of amusement fluttered around the room, Lara could immediately see how good he was at this; how he instantly had the audience in the palm of his hand, how he could keep them quiet and captivated. The previous evening, Lara had done a deeper dive into the life of Eduardo Ortega and it was no wonder he was this slick and confident. Eduardo had family money and deep pockets. The grandson of Vincent Ortega, the Spanish industrialist worth over a billion euros, Eduardo hadn’t followed his father and cousins into the family business. His French mother was a documentary film-maker and he seemed to have inherited her crusading zeal rather than the capitalistic instincts of the other Ortega family members. But he clearly had some of the same drive: Lara might question Le Caché’s methods, but there was no denying it was ‘getting shit done’, as Alex always put it.
The Yacht Party Page 5