The Yacht Party

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘Exactly why you need to distance yourself from that whole mess – and anything like it. You don’t want to win a Pulitzer prize, Alex. You want the editor’s job. It’s not in your interests to champion contentious stories that no-one gives a shit about.’

  Alex didn’t respond, because Alicia was wrong. He did want to win a Pulitzer prize. He always had done, ever since he’d gone to see Bob Woodward give a lecture on Watergate. He smiled: he’d been with Lara and Sandrine that night and afterwards they gone to the American Bar at the Savoy and bet a round of whiskey sours that one day, one of them would win journalism’s most prestigious award. His money had always been on Sandrine.

  ‘Alex, you are the best person on that executive team by a mile,’ said Alicia, running a hand down his arm. ‘These are not easy times for the media. They need the very best people at the top, otherwise an entire industry is going to be destroyed. They need people like you.’

  Alex had to admit that there was a lot of sense in what she was saying. The entire senior Chronicle team was staffed by old-school newspaper people who were great at what they did, but they were still playing catch up with social media, a race they would never win. Alex had tried to encourage Charlie and Darius to recruit more widely – from the tech giants and the music industry – but they hadn’t listened to him, and as Deputy Editor, he only had a limited influence. Quietly, Alex had been educating himself, trying to stay ahead of the curve and his bedtime reading these days were Harvard Business School case studies, but did he have all the answers to revive the Chronicle’s fortunes? He wasn’t sure he did.

  ‘Find Nicholas and charm him, okay?’

  He gave a quiet laugh.

  ‘You’re very bossy, you know that?’

  Alicia laughed.

  ‘What do they say? A man with dreams needs a woman with vision.’

  ‘Right now I need a woman with something to eat. Shall we head up to the buffet? Apparently Olivia’s got her own pastry chef.’

  Alicia pirouetted away from him. ‘I’d love to stay and feed you macaroons, but I must go and speak to Penny Burling, she’s just back from Koh Samui. I’ll pump her for tips.’

  Tips. Recently Alicia had been slipping exotic destinations into conversation, places Alex knew he was supposed to decode as fitting places for a romantic long-haul holiday – or even possible proposal spots. Perhaps she had a point. Alex worked hard, barely left the office, lived and breathed the news. If Nicholas Avery hadn’t seen his ‘brilliance’ by now, then he was doomed anyway. Maybe stepping off the treadmill for a while would be a good idea.

  Alex was just turning back towards the terrace when he saw her: Lara always stood out in a crowd, but particularly tonight. In the sea of silk and crepe she was wearing jeans and a red t-shirt, her dark hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She looked fantastic, but Alex was even more impressed that Lara never felt the need to dress up. She walked over, smiling.

  ‘You’re looking good tonight, Mr. Ford,’ said Lara, nodding towards his classic black suit. ‘You look as if you’re about to present an Oscar.’

  ‘Not sure about that. Two people have already asked me where the cloakroom is.’

  A moment’s silence hung between them.

  ‘I popped round to the boat last night,’ he said. ‘You weren’t there.’

  Lara shrugged.

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Olivia said you were in Paris. Doing what?’

  Lara rolled her eyes.

  ‘Alex, you’re sounding like a needy boyfriend.’

  He held up his hands.

  ‘I’m just asking. I’m your friend. When you don’t reply to my calls, I get concerned.’

  ‘Scared I might do something stupid too?’

  Alex felt the challenge of her gaze and saw the pain behind it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘Look. Maybe we can do something this weekend? Every day is a weekend for me now, so you say when.’

  Alex pulled a face.

  ‘I’m in Monaco this weekend.’

  ‘Romantic mini-break?’

  ‘Work: Grand Prix weekend. Buttering up the advertisers.’

  ‘I thought that sort of thing was right up Alicia’s street. Networking is her idea of fun, isn’t it?’

  Alex knew Lara was pushing his buttons, but there was something reassuring about the banter, the way they knew each other so well. Olivia had been right, there had been a time when they had been inseparable. So why was there so much silence between them?

  ‘Apparently there’s a Henry Moore sculpture around here somewhere,’ said Alex after a while.

  ‘It’s over there,’ said Lara pointing. ‘Want to see?’

  It was in a hidden pocket of the garden away from the house, the chatter and laughter from the party fading as they went to find it. The bronze was a fluid contortion vaguely in the shape of a reclining woman.

  ‘That’s how I feel most days,’ said Lara.

  There was a bench opposite the sculpture and they sat side-by-side.

  ‘What were you really doing in Paris, Lar?’ asked Alex, still looking at the sculpture.

  ‘I went to Sandrine’s flat.’

  ‘What for?

  ‘Just sorting stuff.’

  Alex glanced sideways.

  ‘Just sorting stuff?’

  She didn’t look at him. He knew her well enough to detect her tells.

  ‘Do you remember Vinnie Hero?’ asked Lara.

  Alex nodded. It was a story they’d worked on just after he’d arrived at the Chronicle. Vinnie had been in a minor boy band in the noughties, who’d turned to selling tricks and blow when the spotlight waned. One dark weekend, Vinnie had been found with his wrists cut in a trashed hotel room. The world shrugged its shoulders: just another tragic case of the music biz eating its young. But by chance, Lara had met Vinnie a few weeks before his death, working in a motorcycle repair shop.

  ‘It didn’t add up with Vinnie, remember? He had a job, a flat, he’d been getting his life back together, he was settled.’

  And it had turned out that Lara’s hunch had been correct. Part of Vinnie’s turnaround had been due to a new relationship with a married politician who, in a fit of drunken self-loathing, had killed Vinnie, then staged the suicide to cover up the crime. It was the story that had really made her reputation at the Chronicle.

  ‘When I saw Sandrine on Friday night she told me she was working on a story,’ Lara continued. ‘A story about Jonathon Meyer and trafficking.’

  Alex glanced at her, his curiosity piqued. They’d run a story on Meyer’s death a few weeks before. At the time there had been plenty of speculation about his involvement with billionaire yacht parties and Russian mafia king-pins, but nothing had held up, so the story had fizzled out.

  ‘What was her angle?’

  ‘She didn’t give me any details. Apparently she was going to unveil something this week at the Le Caché conference. She was excited about the story. Perhaps a little scared too.’

  Lara turned and looked at him, her eyes shining in the low light.

  ‘Someone has been into her apartment, Alex. Searched it, taken things from it. There were no notebooks, no computers, not a trace of anything to do with any of her work.’

  ‘And who do you think searched the flat?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘It sure wasn’t Jonathon Meyer,’ said Alex.

  ‘No,’ said Lara, looking back at him. ‘Coincidence, though, isn’t it? Another violent death.’

  Alex knew what she was thinking. That there was some connection between Sandrine and Meyer. Alex had lost friends in the line of duty – a photojournalist who’d been shot in Homs, a Mexican writer named Alejandro who’d been killed by a drug cartel. He knew the dangers of their job, but still, he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘The number of journalists killed chasing a story is tiny, Lar.’

  ‘Tiny isn’t never. And we both know it happens.’

  ‘In war zone
s, the third world, not Marylebone.’

  ‘Sandrine didn’t take her own life, Alex.’

  He looked away, feeling conflicted. Lara was grieving and he knew she was looking for meaning in Sandrine’s senseless death. On the other hand, Alex had always subscribed to the maxim of ‘chase the hunch’. And now Lara had a hunch. He pulled out his phone and quickly tapped out a text. There was a pause, then Lara’s phone chirped.

  ‘What did you just send me?’

  ‘Frank Benson’s mobile, in case you don’t have it. I also sent him a text telling him you were going to be in touch.’

  ‘Frank on the Chronicle news desk?’

  Alex nodded. ‘When the Meyer story blew up, I got Frank to speak to Jonathon’s brother Simon. He’s a lawyer, somewhere out in Surrey I think. Frank will give you his contacts.’

  Lara’s face lit up. Alex knew that look – she had the scent.

  ‘Don’t get too excited, Sherlock,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Simon didn’t have much to say, that’s why we didn’t run the interview.’

  ‘But it’s a start.’

  Alex put his hand on hers.

  ‘48 hours, Lar,’ he said seriously. ‘That’s what I’d give you as an editor. Find the story or let it go.’

  Lara turned and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, then jumped up and strode off down the garden. Alex just sat there, watching her go, two fingers touching the place her lips had just been.

  Chapter 10

  Lara zoomed down the A3 out of London, the long undulating stretch of road disappearing underneath her front wheel. Lara enjoyed having such a powerful bike, but sometimes the Triumph seemed hellbent on killing her, especially on a day like today when the roads were slick with a summer shower, the sunshine making the tarmac shimmer like a jeweller’s window. Still, it was good to get out into the light, especially after the morning’s gloom. It hadn’t been necessary for anyone to attend Sandrine’s pre-inquest review, but when Jean and Marion had said they were going to go before their return to Corsica, Lara had felt duty-bound to join them. The hearing had been short and formal, the room claustrophobic and dry, but it had been worth going along to catch up on Marion’s arrangements for the funeral, scheduled to take place in three weeks’ time once Sandrine’s body had been flown back to France. There was a family plot at the local church in their village and the wake was to be held at Sandrine’s favourite restaurant, a place by the beach where a teenage Sandrine had waitressed barefoot in the summer. It seemed fitting; an untamed spirit being remembered and celebrated in the place she had felt most carefree.

  Lara downshifted and eased off the throttle as she saw the sign announcing her arrival in Cobham, the well-heeled Surrey village just beyond the outer limits of London. To her left, willows dipped their long fingers into the river Mole, a scene straight from Constable’s sketchbook, but on the right was a new-build gated estate and a car showroom specialising in high-sheen Range Rovers. Cobham was wealthy, but it wasn’t Monte Carlo. Neither was Simon Meyer his brother.

  Whilst Jonathon held parties on his giant yacht in the Med, Simon Meyer was a solicitor working from an office on Cobham’s high street, doing the humdrum work of a local lawyer, writing wills and handling the conveyancing for house sales. According to Stella’s research, his most racy client was a supplier of school uniforms. It was hard to imagine someone more distant from the life of Ferraris and penthouses of Jonathon Meyer, and Lara wondered how two boys with the same start in life could end up so far apart. For a moment she thought of her cousin Charlie. He was a year younger than her and they’d been brought up like siblings after she had been sent to live with Nicholas and Olivia after the death of her parents. Like the Meyer boys, you’d think they’d landed at different ends of the scale. Charlie worked in the Avery publishing business but had a reputation as a spoilt playboy living on the family dollar, while Lara was driven and committed to her work. The swot and the waster – it fit the cliché, but Lara knew Charlie’s image was just that, an affectation. He wore flash suits and favoured fine wine, but it was a way to disarm and ingratiate himself with potential advertisers and brand partners. Charlie hid his light under a bushel. She wondered how different the Meyer brothers really were.

  Lara pulled into a parking space next to the Cobham branch of Waitrose and headed towards the office of Meyer and Birch on the high street. She pushed through the glass door and was rewarded by the tinkling of a bell. The office had that air of dustiness and age that was both rare and reassuring. Lots of dark wood furniture, a worn green carpet, framed certificates on the walls: in an age when high street banks had been updated with cartoon characters and bright plastic mouldings, there was something solid and decent about Simon Meyer’s workplace.

  ‘Miss Stone?’ said a tall man in a shirt and sober tie, walking out from a back office. Simon Meyer looked like a slightly faded actor playing the role rather than the real thing. Lara could see the resemblance to the pictures she had seen of Jonathon, but it was more his bearing that made him stand out. He looked as solid as the office.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ said Lara, shaking his hand.

  ‘You’ve saved me from filing some Land Registry charges,’ he smiled as he led her back to his private office and closed the door. Simon was friendly and polite, chatting as he sat down behind his wooden desk. Lara felt herself being assessed, which was fine, she was used to it. Everyone was suspicious of journalists, it came with the territory.

  ‘So you’re from the Chronicle?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She didn’t think it was the time or the place to describe her employment instability.

  ‘I was surprised when Frank Benson called. I read the piece about Jonathon in the paper and saw my interview had been cut. I apologise if I wasn’t particularly interesting. When someone calls the day you find out your brother has died, I’m sure you’d forgive me for not being articulate.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your loss,’ said Lara. She’d had so many people say those words to her over the past few days, it was almost a relief to say them to someone else. ‘It must have been a shock.’

  ‘I don’t know about a shock,’ said Simon.

  He pushed his chair away from his desk and loosened his tie.

  ‘Did I expect to get a call saying my brother had been killed in a violent mugging? No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But did I dread the day when I’d hear that something awful had happened to him? To that I’d have to say yes.’

  He looked at her evenly. ‘Why are you here, Miss Stone?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I lost someone too, last week. My best friend. The police think it was suicide. But I’m not so sure.’

  She watched his face, trying to gauge Simon’s mood. She saw sympathy, but no reaction. As a solicitor, Simon was presumably used to listening without judgement as people arranged a divorce or wrote loved ones out of their will.

  ‘I think my brother’s death was suspicious too,’ said Simon simply. ‘Jon died from hitting his head against the pavement. Pushed over in a violent mugging, they say. The police put out an appeal for witnesses, but nobody came forward. My suspicion is they never will.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’m a high street lawyer, Lara. I deal with wills, probate and suburban house sales. I’m not a detective but I’m old enough, experienced enough in the ways of the world, to know when something feels off.’

  He pushed up his shirt sleeves and leaned forward. ‘Jon’s attack happened in a dark street in the City on a Sunday night and despite there being 600,000 CCTV cameras in London, Jonathon had the misfortune to be mugged in one of the blind spots. Perhaps he was unlucky. Or perhaps it’s not a coincidence.’

  Lara didn’t comment. She knew that Alex would have some pithy aphorism for this: coincidence is not conspiracy, or something equally trite.

  ‘What was your brother doing in the City?’

  ‘Jon lived in Monaco most of the time,
but he was often in London on business. He was staying at a hotel in Mayfair. He liked that part of town. He told me once that he never went to the City unless he could help it. So to answer your question, I’ve no idea what he was doing there, especially late at night.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that it wasn’t a random attack?’

  Simon shook his head, his expression sad.

  ‘I don’t know what happened to Jon, but I know that he had a lot of friends – and a lot of enemies. And they were definitely the sort of people who had the connections and cash to get rid of him if they wanted to.’

  Lara nodded. She’d researched the Pandora’s yacht parties and Jonathon Meyer’s fund, but she had hit a brick wall. The people with that level of wealth actually employed PRs and lawyers to keep them out of the public eye, but you could easily speculate that these investments involved huge profits – and huge losses.

  ‘Was Jonathon a risk-taker?’

  Simon Meyer smiled.

  ‘Always. Jon lived on the edge. Bet big, win big,’ he said with a nostalgic smile, as if he was repeating back something his brother had once said. ‘Jon was younger than me by a year. Always getting into trouble, always trying to pull off some scam or other. I’d fight his corner, try to ensure he didn’t bite off more than he could chew. But he always did.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Jon was quite brilliant in lots of ways. He had a huge brain, but he was left-field, had a unique way of looking at things. He found the conventional tedious, school work was boring. People called Jonathon a financial genius but I’m convinced he was an actual genius. It’s hard to contain people like that. It made him as rebellious as he was smart. You know he got into Cambridge to do maths, but left after a year? Too easy he said, but then he got a foothold in banking and that’s when he really started to fly.’

  Simon sighed. ‘Possibly too high. He was Icarus. He flew too close to the sun.’

  ‘You mention enemies? Have you any idea who they might be?’

  Now she looked more closely, Lara could see Simon looked tired; the lines on his face were deep.