The Yacht Party

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘Jon never talked business with me. We had supper together a couple of days before he died. He came out to Cobham for the first time in years. He said he envied my life. First time he had ever said that. Maybe it was the first time he ever thought it.’

  ‘Did he seem worried about anything?”

  ‘Jon never showed weakness. I suppose it was why he was so successful. But looking back, he didn’t seem as bullish about business as usual.’

  Lara nodded, thinking about the Post-it note she’d found at Sandrine’s flat.

  ‘Does the name Helen Michael mean anything to you?’

  Simon shook his head.

  ‘Is she a friend of Jonathon’s?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I don’t think it will be long before you do.’

  Lara was grateful for the confidence. For a moment, she felt as if she had someone on her side, even if it was a solicitor in leafy Surrey. As she rose to leave, Simon leaned forward and scribbled a number on the back of a business card.

  ‘You might want to speak to Tom Ramsay,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Tom is man who runs the Pandora.’

  ‘Jonathon’s yacht?’ she said in surprise.

  ‘You want to know about Jon’s life and are wondering where to start? That’s the place. Go and see the Pandora. Because everything starts with the yacht.’

  Chapter 11

  Lara sank back into the seat as the taxi swung along the Nice-Monaco coast road, past the blue shimmer of the Baie de Laurent to their right and the elegant houses and palm trees of Saint Antoine on the left. The sun glinted off the passing traffic – high end lime-green street machines hub-to-hub with rust-patched Citroens – and the bougainvillea shone pink against the bleached stone walls: everything was lurid like neon, even in the middle of the day.

  Lara had flown into Nice and grabbed the first cab she had seen outside the terminal. Arriving in town with nothing but an overnight bag, she felt a little of the old energy flowing back through her, even if this was an unofficial visit, given she no longer worked for the Chronicle. Maybe she should start calling herself a freelancer, she mused, as she looked out of the window. That sounded better than unemployed. Or ‘private investigator’ – even more glamorous. But she was back on the hunt and that was what Lara Stone was good at. Sandrine had been right: it was what made her feel alive, especially when she was in her favourite corner of France.

  Lara remembered her first trip to the Côte d’Azur, on a mini-break holiday with a long-gone boyfriend, Carl. All six-pack and no brains. How old had she been? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Carl had moaned; he had wanted to go to Ibiza, but Lara had loved the sights and smells of the Riviera, swinging through Juan Les Pins, blagging their way onto the terrace at Belles Rives hotel, drinking a bank-breaking martini where Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald had sat, then back to some flea-bitten pension up near the train station. Carl hadn’t seen the romance in it. In fact, he’d sulked so much, he had refused to go into the Picasso museum and when Lara had come out, she’d found Carl chatting up a couple of pretty Spanish tourists. She smiled to herself, shaking her head. Carl, Carl… he had been good-looking though.

  ‘Madame? Nous sommes ici. Le port.’

  Lara sat up as a tangle of masts appeared through the window. Yachts, crammed together in orderly lines, millions, possibly billions of Euros just bobbing gently side by side in the afternoon sun.

  This was Cap d’Ail, the smaller, slightly less glamorous cousin to Monaco’s Port Hercules, just around the headland, perhaps ten minutes by speedboat, but it still glittered with summer magic.

  She got out of the car and walked towards the port, along the boardwalk, passing the smaller sailing boats, sleek and wind-powered crafts that sacrificed living space for speed and sea-worthiness. Not cheap by any means, but they had an adventurous air about them that Lara loved; they reminded her of her father who had loved boats and the sea. Sailors with frayed shorts and bare feet moved across their narrow decks. They wore designer sunglasses, sure, but at least these guys knew a few knots.

  But as she looked further on, out to where the big yachts were moored, it was a different world entirely. Exclusive in the purest sense: only open to the very select few and excluding everyone else. What was it John Cleese put in his advert for Fawlty Towers? ‘No riff-raff’? That sign might well have been posted at the entrance to the marina.

  A noise from inside her bag made her stop. She scrabbled her phone from her bag, the ringing sounding unnaturally loud out here on the wharf. Two or three faces on the boats had turned to look at her curiously.

  ‘Stella,’ said Lara, picking up the call.

  ‘Boss, where are you?’ asked her assistant.

  ‘Cap d’Ail, the port. I think you’d appreciate the view,’ she said, as one of the more handsome sailors smiled at her.

  ‘I’m glad you’re having a lovely time,’ said Stella, her voice tinny down the line. ‘I’m outside a greasy spoon talking to cabbies.’

  Lara had asked Stella to stay in London and try to untangle the timeline of Sandrine’s movements leading up to her death. They simply didn’t know what Sandrine had been doing, where she had been, or crucially, who she had spoken to in the days before she had gone to The Engineer to meet Lara.

  ‘I found the driver who took Sandrine home that night,’ said Stella. ‘He remembered her being… hang on.’

  Lara pictured Stella flipping open her notebook. ‘…Like one of those Victoria’s Secret models. All long hair and legs.’

  Lara gave a soft snort. ‘She’d have liked that.’

  ‘More importantly, the driver said she was in good spirits, joking with him about the French football team. Apparently she said they’re not as good-looking as they once were. She definitely didn’t sound suicidal.’

  ‘Good stuff. Any luck with the neighbours?’

  ‘Not so much, no. I spoke to everyone in the building and an old girl across the road. The tenants in the basement flat found Sandrine’s body when they were coming home from a night out. But other than that, no one saw or heard anything before the police showed up and no one had even noticed Sandrine beforehand either. No real surprise to be honest, it’s an Airbnb rental with a separate entrance on a side street.’

  Lara nodded to herself. She’d guessed as much. As Ian Fox had said, this was Central London. Not exactly an engaged community.

  ‘I did manage to speak to the couple who owned Sandrine’s flat,’ Stella continued. ‘Both lawyers, property bought as an investment. Sandrine booked it six weeks ago, but they had no dealings with her beyond a few emails. She picked the key up from a lock-box.’

  A dead end, in other words, thought Lara, mindful she couldn’t sound too disappointed to Stella. ‘This is good work,’ she said. ‘Keep on it.

  Someone will know something. They always do.’

  Lara wished she was as confident as she sounded. Right now, Lara felt as if she was flying blind. All she had was a name. Or rather two names: Jonathon Meyer and the Pandora.

  She walked along the jetty, reading the names on the hulls. Jonathon’s yacht was at the very end: of course, it was the biggest one in the harbour, a three-level vessel with twin jet-skis flanking the gang-plank, the millionaire equivalent of strapping a mountain bike to your estate car, she supposed.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, taking a tentative step onto the gently swaying walkway. ‘Anyone at home?’

  ‘I think you mean “ahoy there”.’ A tall man in his early thirties stepped out from the dark interior, smiling.

  ‘Lara?’ he asked, offering her a hand as she tottered across onto the boat. ‘I’m Tom. Tom Ramsay. When Simon said you were going to drop in, I didn’t realise he meant so soon.’

  Tom was deeply bronzed and gym-toned, emphasised by his uniform of tight white shorts and matching polo shirt with a Pandora logo on the breast: a woman with flowing hair looking down into a glowing box.

  ‘Shoes off,’ he said cheerfull
y. ‘Don’t want any slips while I’m giving you the tour.’

  Tom led her inside the boat, through a comfortable lounge and down some tightly-furled stairs, towards the living quarters and galley, telling her his own story as they went: Tom was a Dorset boy who had grown up watching the boats in Poole Harbour, starting to work on yachts straight out of school as a steward, working his way up to first officer, clocking up sea miles, gaining qualifications along the way. He was looking for a captain’s position next, once Pandora had been sold or put up for charter.

  ‘I live on a houseboat back in London and it’s nothing like this,’ smiled Lara as they passed the ‘cocktail area’ on the middle deck, complete with white leather seating and a full wet bar overlooking the compact pool.

  ‘No doubt your boat is an actual home,’ said Tom kindly. ‘These places are all about entertaining: the Pandora can accommodate 100 people for stationery parties at the harbour and Jonathon’s special guests got to travel: three, four day trips to Ibiza, St Tropez or Porto Cervo.

  He gestured towards the modernist art on the walls.

  ‘This is how serious money impresses serious money.’

  Lara could see the logic. You could step into an office building in London or New York and barely notice your surroundings, but here? You couldn’t help being bowled over by the sheer wealth being dangled before your eyes.

  ‘Of course the Pandora is on the subtle side of things. Our neighbours in Port Hercules were much more flamboyant, shall we say?’

  Lara laughed.

  ‘So it used to be moored in Monte Carlo?’

  ‘Until last week.’

  ‘Why did you move?’

  ‘Executors’ orders,’ said Tom, with a shrug that told Lara he wasn’t happy with the relocation.

  ‘Simon is looking after Jonathon’s estate. He thought it was a waste using the berths in Port Hercules especially during Grand Prix week when the rental price goes through the roof. So we’ve sub-let our spot and moved here. At least the beer is cheaper,’ he grinned, nodding towards a harbourside bar.

  ‘So Jonathon did his entertaining on the yacht?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Jonathon had an apartment in Fontvieille, but he practically lived on the Pandora. He used the top stateroom as his office and when he wasn’t working, there was a rolling guest list that came for lunch, cocktails, dinner.’

  ‘Can I see?’ Lara said it casually, but it was the one part of the yacht she most wanted to look at. Where Meyer actually lived, his inner sanctum.

  ‘Sure,’ said Tom, but Lara saw his smile dim slightly.

  The master cabin occupied the entire top deck, beginning with another open-air lounge area. The sky above was an intense blue and Lara felt the sun beating down on her shoulders. She tried to imagine Jonathon Meyer up here, hands on hips, head-to-toe in designer clothes, Swiss watch on his wrist, watching as his superyacht slid into yet another exclusive port.

  The bi-fold doors leading to the suite itself were slightly ajar and Lara craned her neck to peer inside. A huge desk and the biggest bed she had ever seen was at the far end of the room: a place for work and play. Lara felt a prickle of excitement, a feeling that answers were finally drifting within reach. Then Tom walked over and gently closed the doors, moving in front of her to block her view.

  ‘Why are you here, Lara?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve come because Simon Meyer asked me to come.’

  It wasn’t strictly true, but Tom didn’t need to know that.

  ‘Are you police?’

  ‘No. I’m a journalist.’

  He gestured towards the stairs.

  ‘I think it’s time for you to leave.’

  Lara stood her ground.

  ‘Simon wanted me to come because he thinks Jonathon might have been murdered.’

  That got his attention.

  ‘Murdered?’ Despite the tan, Tom had visibly paled.

  ‘Please Tom, Just let me into his office. Answer a few questions.’

  Tom gave a firm shake of the head.

  ‘I was recruited through a company that has a reputation for absolutely discretion and loyalty. Just because Jonathon’s dead doesn’t mean I can betray that confidence.’

  She knew he was thinking about his own position. His next first officer’s job or captaincy. She didn’t blame him but she knew she had to push back. There was more at stake here than Tom’s career.

  ‘Are you saying there are things that happened on Pandora that would require you to be discreet and loyal?’

  ‘I’m saying that rich, powerful people pay a premium for their privacy. I’m their employee. I have to honour that.’

  ‘What happens on the yacht, stays on the yacht, right? Even if it’s illegal?’

  He flashed a look of anger.

  ‘Illegal? No. These were networking parties. Rich men drinking champagne and doing deals. That’s all.’

  Lara hadn’t expected Tom to give her chapter and verse – he had far too much to lose and very little to gain – but she still needed to find a way through his armour.

  ‘But if these yacht parties were just like a golf club social, why they were so popular?’

  ‘They were the best,’ said Tom matter-of-factly. ‘That’s why people came. There are bigger yachts in this part of the world, but the Pandora had the best of everything. The best wine, the best food, he’d get DJs in from Ibiza and girls from central casting. Jonathon knew what made people tick – put a smile on their faces and then they’d do the deal. Which is what this is all about in the end.’

  ‘What about drugs?’

  Sandrine had connected Meyer with trafficking. Her friend hadn’t been specific about what sort of trafficking but Lara knew what went on in this part of the world. How boats took illegal cargo from the North African and Turkish coastline – drugs that had travelled through the Asian and African trafficking routes to Mediterranean ports for onwards smuggling into Europe. Meyer’s parties must have cost him a fortune; perhaps he had worked out a way to pay for them.

  ‘Drugs?’ Tom shook his head with irritation. ‘I never saw them and I had no part in providing them, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘You didn’t see anything?’

  He snorted, his face stony.

  ‘I’m paid to not see things.’

  Lara could see that Tom wasn’t going to give her anything else. She had let Sandrine down.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help,’ said Tom more gently. ‘But you must understand my position. I said the same thing to the other woman.’

  ‘Which other woman?’

  ‘French. Dark hair. Attractive.’

  Lara snatched her phone from her bag and scrolled to a selfie that she and Sandrine had taken of themselves at The Engineer.

  ‘She came here? Before Jonathon died.’

  ‘Yes. When we were still moored in Port Hercules. I refused to let her on the boat, but she accosted Mr Meyer on his way out.’

  ‘What did they talk about?’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask her.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Lara quietly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Tom, looking shocked. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lara held up the photo again.

  ‘Tom, this was my best friend Sandrine. Her death was as strange and random as Jonathon’s. If you know anything, please tell me.’

  Tom looked out to sea.

  ‘Look, maybe you should speak to Melissa Gelman. She arranged Mr Meyer’s party guests: the girls anyway. She might have seen something, heard something. Melissa always has her ear to the ground. It’s Grand Prix weekend so she’ll be busy, but you can try her.’

  He took a pen out of his pocket and scribbled her number on the back of his business card.

  ‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said stepping forward and kissing him on the cheek.

  ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he said.

  ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I really do.’

  Chapter 12

 
; Schmoozing the advertisers, that’s what he was supposed to be doing. Alex looked around the Fairmont Hotel’s rooftop pool, packed with people in designer sunglasses and unbuttoned Armani shirts, lanyards and laminates catching the afternoon sun, over-loud music clanging like a fire drill. How anyone was supposed to sweet-talk anyone out here, Alex couldn’t imagine. It was hard enough to get the bar-staff to hear your order. Still, a free weekend at the Monaco Grand Prix was a free weekend. The sun was out and, for a while at least, Alex didn’t have to worry about tomorrow’s front page.

  He watched Charlie Avery weave his way through the crowd, somehow looking fresh and tanned. Charlie found this stuff effortless; something to do with being the boss’s son, perhaps. Charlie was born to do it. But then so was I, thought Alex with an ironic smile. Alex’s father had been a newsagent and Alex had learned about the news sitting on the bales in the back room, reading headlines about the ‘Missile Crisis’ and ‘Stripping Vicar’, his eyes wide.

  ‘Alex, come and meet Anton Cuovo,’ said Charlie, gripping him on the shoulder and steering him towards a roped-off seating area.

  ‘Anton’s the VP for Volcan rum. We could do with getting them onboard, so be nice.’

  ‘Aren’t I always?’ said Alex, taking a glass of champagne.

  As deputy editor, it wasn’t usually his job to come to corporate events like this. It was Darius who was parachuted in to drink the free cocktails, press the flesh and build relationships with advertisers. But today the editor had been called to Chequers to interview the PM, a last-minute date-shuffle, meaning Alex had to do his bidding in Monaco instead.

  Anton was wearing a bright red Ferrari cap and was leaning over the balcony when Charlie introduced them.

  ‘So this is where the race takes place on Sunday?’ shouted Anton, above the music.

  ‘All through these streets,’ said Charlie, waving a vague hand around the principality. ‘We’re going to be right on top of the action!’

  The Fairmont wasn’t the most beautiful hotel in Monaco – a modernist structure that reminded Alex of an airport terminal – but it was one of the in-demand places to stay during the Grand Prix for the simple reason that it had the best view, right on a hairpin bend. It was costing the Chronicle a fortune but Charlie had insisted it was money well spent.