‘What was the argument about?’
‘I don’t know. But apparently Bain didn’t go quietly.
It was a big loss of face for him. You know that phrase “if looks could kill?” Willem said that was how Jago Bain was looking at Jon as the security guys led him away.’
She paused. ‘And that’s all I can tell you.’
She shrugged as if it was nothing, but Lara had a feeling that it was important. Very important indeed.
Chapter 14
‘What the hell is Lara doing in Monaco anyway?’ said Charlie irritably. He had a cigarette clamped between his teeth as he used both hands to adjust his tie. Hermes, thought Alex. And a Tom Ford suit – that was definite, as Charlie had repeatedly mentioned that the designer had ‘insisted’ on sending it over during London Fashion Week.
‘I know she’s got that wretched bike. But I’d never thought the Grand Prix was her thing.’
They were standing on the promenade between the road and the Port Hercules marina, a discreet distance from the yacht Goliath, venue for the most prestigious party of the weekend in honour of designer Christian LeFey. Charlie was keen to get onboard and ‘get stuck into the fizz’ and was annoyed that Lara was keeping them waiting.
‘My guess is that she needed to get out of London,’ said Alex, not wanting to mention Lara’s investigation into Sandrine’s death. ‘Do you blame her after the week she’s had?’
Charlie shrugged, clearly unmoved. ‘I suppose. But I hope she realises there’s a dress code. Did you see how she turned up at the anniversary party last week? Mother was not pleased.’
Alex tried to bite his tongue. For all his posh-boy posturing, most of the time Charlie was fun company, but occasionally he was just a dick.
Alex looked down as his phone beeped.
Running late. Go in. I’ll busk it. Lx
‘You’re in luck,’ said Alex. ‘Lara says she’ll see us in there.’
Charlie rolled his eyes, ‘Wonderful, she’s given us permission,’ he said, flicking his cigarette into the water and heading for the yacht.
As they walked up the gangway, it was obvious that the Goliath lived up to its name.
‘It’s bloody huge,’ muttered Charlie admiringly. The superyacht was also surprisingly chic, with smooth art deco lines in cream and walnut and gold. The floors looked like real marble: they probably were. The wealth in Monaco was staggering – and was supposed to be. These yachts were shining castles on mountain tops, blaring declarations of power and imperviousness, a carving over the gate that read ‘only the truly privileged may enter here’. The 10,000 euro-a-day moorings functioned as an exclusive club and a shop window that implied further riches for those who could get onboard.
Alex could see why Christian LeFey, the Parisian priest of high fashion, had chosen the Goliath as the venue for his show-stopper party. In a harbour packed with gigantic yachts, the Goliath was the biggest, and in Monaco, where restraint was seen as weakness, that made Christian’s party the most important. Fashion was a conjuring trick and this party was the equivalent of a Las Vegas magician firing rockets into the sky.
‘Is that thingy, the actress?’ whispered Alex, as they walked up a softly lit staircase onto the main deck, which seemed to have been designed as a high-class recreation of the Cotton Club, all crisp white tablecloths and over-sized Lalique sculptures.
‘Yes, it’s Julianne George. Calm down, it’s like you’ve never seen a celebrity before.’
They both took a glass of champagne, fittingly served in vintage amber-coloured coupes. Alex had been to a lot of parties since he’d risen to the executive team, but this was on another level. Yes, Charlie was connected, but it was still testament to his world-class hustling skills that he had secured invitations to this most glittering bash.
‘This suits you,’ said Charlie, lifting his glass to Alex in salute.
‘Between you and me, it’s a blessing in disguise that Darius had to go to brown-nose the PM. Although one shivers to think of what Darius is saying to the poor man. Hopefully none of that stuff he was spouting about muzzling the press after the Tait trial.’
Alex glanced at Charlie.
‘What do you think about that by the way?
He hadn’t really had chance to discuss it with him.
‘About the trial?’ sniffed Charlie. ‘It was a clusterfuck.’
‘No, I mean the way it all played out. I was there from the start. We had photos and documents, sworn statements, expert witnesses. And it all fell apart.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Tait’s a bastard, no question, but he’s smart. And you have to say his barrister was good.’
‘I think we should appeal.’ Alex knew Charlie would be against it, but he had to try.
‘Pointless,’ said Charlie, draining his glass and accepting a refill from a waiter. ‘We went through this with the Jimmy Redfern case, remember? You need to present additional evidence or arguments to trigger an appeal.’ He looked at Alex meaningfully. ‘And I imagine if we’d had those, we’d have used them at the time.’
Alex bristled. He knew there was an implied criticism there, but he needed to keep Charlie onside.
‘I’ll find it. More evidence, better arguments.’
What Alex had hated about the trial was how everyone had known Felix Tait was guilty, yet seemed happy to let him off on the basis of a blatant lie. But more than that, Alex had hated to see what the trial had done to Lara. She had put a brave face on it, but he could see, day by day, how it had rattled her, frustrated her and, in the end, undermined her faith in not just the law, but in the importance of journalism too. Perhaps an appeal might restore some of that faith; because if Lara Stone couldn’t believe in the righteousness of the press, there was no hope for any of them.
‘Listen Alex, sit tight,’ said Charlie distractedly. ‘Don’t go poking the hornet’s nest.’
‘What hornet’s nest?’
‘Don’t be naïve. The Avery Media Group owns the Chronicle, but the Group is publicly owned. My father might be the controlling shareholder, but there are other investors, big City investors, who don’t want any drama. So smile, nod your head. Wait and see.’
‘Wait and see? What does that mean?’
Charlie turned to face him. ‘Look, if it was up to me you would already be in that editor’s chair. You’re good at all this.’ He waved his glass to indicate the yacht.
‘But?’
Charlie opened his hands and made a hopeless gesture.
‘Pops was best pals with Dickie Allen at school.’
Alex swallowed, a growing feeling of dread in his stomach.
‘Who’s Dickie Allen?’
‘Darius’s father. Richard.
‘You didn’t know?’
Alex was plugged into the media grapevine, but was hopeless when it came to the who’s who of society. Alicia was always berating him for it.
‘I suppose they keep it quiet,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s bad enough Lara was a department head, family connections and all that. They don’t want to hear the editor is a family friend as well.’
‘So you’re saying Nicholas will never fire Darius?’
‘The time will come. One day. In the meantime, why rock the boat?’
Charlie disappeared to talk to Christian LeFey, a big bear of a man in a white suit. Alex stayed where he was. He felt as though he’d been hit by a falling rock. He’d been working his backside off, every hour, never taking a holiday – and there had never been a chance of promotion. Never. Alex drew in a ragged breath, trying to slow his pounding heart.
He wasn’t even angry at Nicholas; he was angry at himself for not seeing it. And to think, he’d felt guilty talking to Dominic about the possibility of joining his start-up.
Alex looked for a quiet spot on the aft, his eyes scanning the crowds for Lara.
‘Looking for me?’
Alex turned; Lara was standing there in a drop-dead gorgeous off-the-shoulder emerald coloured dress. Her dark hair w
as piled up on her head, and there was a diamond-drop pendant around her neck Career was forgotten for a moment, he was just glad to see her.
‘What?’ she said defensively.
‘You scrub up well.’
She hit him on the shoulder.
‘Okay, ouch. You look fantastic. Like a glamorous mermaid.’
It was true; he could barely remember seeing Lara in anything but jeans. He was shocked and a little unsettled.
‘Comes at a price. I could tell you, but it’d be too upsetting. Monte Carlo is not big on affordable evening wear.’
‘Whatever it costs, it’s worth it.’
Lara rewarded him with a smile and joined Alex at the rail. She clicked her glass against his and they stood in silence watching the rich and influential moving below them. He wanted to tell Lara about Charlie’s revelation that his career had stalled and about Dominic’s offer too. He certainly wanted to hear her take on it all, he trusted her opinion more than anyone else’s. But Lara had enough of her own work problems to worry about without adding Alex’s precarious career situation to. Keep it light, he thought.
‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with C.’
‘Conspicuous consumption,’ she said, giving him a sideways smile. Alex shook his head.
‘That’s two ‘C’s.’
‘Okay… Cartier?’
‘One point to Mademoiselle Stone. I would have also accepted Chihuahua or crocodile Birkin.’
They both laughed. It was fun sharing all this with someone on his wavelength, someone who could appreciate the absurdity. Unlike Alicia, who Alex knew would be enjoying the party for entirely different reasons. In fact, she would probably already have cornered the president of Bolivia by now.
‘So let me play another guessing game,’ said Alex. ‘Why has Lara Stone come to Monte Carlo?’
‘Do you want to guess or do you want me to lie?’
‘Or you could just tell me.’
Lara blew her cheeks out.
‘I’ve been on Jonathon Meyer’s yacht,’ she said.
‘It’s here? In the harbour?’ said Alex, looking out into the darkness.
‘In Cap D’Ail down the coast. I spoke to the first officer.’
Alex was already getting a bad feeling about this.
‘And what did he tell you?’
‘Not much, but he put me in touch with a woman called Melissa who supplied girls to Meyer’s parties.’
‘Girls? Like prostitutes?’
‘She says not. Seems like a grey area. But she did say there’s a guy named Jago Bain who was thrown off Meyer’s yacht and might have an axe to grind. I called Eduardo from Le Caché earlier and it turns out he knows him. He’s going to set up a meeting.’
There was another long pause.
‘What?’ said Lara, her eyes challenging.
‘Look, I’m not judging, but it doesn’t sound like you know much more than when I spoke to you at Nicholas’s party.’
Alex saw her face darken. He had been trying to help, trying to gently point out that Lara was chasing a ghost. He’d seen it happen to friends on the paper or in the police again and again. Eaten up by frustration and disappointment when they couldn’t solve a case or a story. Alex wanted to stop her pain, but clearly Lara didn’t see it that way.
‘Sandrine was my best friend, Alex. I won’t stop until I find out what happened to her.’
‘She was my friend too, and…well, I think we know what happened to her.’
He paused a moment, wondering if he should just keep quiet. But he couldn’t. Lara deserved to hear the truth.
‘Lara, I spoke to Superintendent Wilson at Charing Cross two days ago. There were no fingerprints of anyone else at the Wallace Square apartment. They’ve spoken to neighbours, but no-one heard or saw anything unusual and the police found alcohol and anti-depressants in Sandrine’s blood stream.’
‘I know all this,’ said Lara, her lips tight.
‘Okay, but I also spoke to a detective in Bishopsgate – the place where Jonathon Meyer was killed? It was the third mugging in that area in six weeks. Meyer’s watch and wallet were stolen, the wallet was found ditched a few streets away with the money and credit cards removed. A classic opportunistic snatch according to the copper. He reckoned the muggers were just waiting for some rich guy to come out of the bar alone. He was just unlucky that he smashed his head when he went down.’
‘Simon Meyer thinks it’s suspicious too.’
Lara’s face was pale. Alex waited, unsure whether to proceed.
‘You encouraged me to look into it, remember?’ said Lara, tension evident in her voice.
‘Yes, I said give it 48 hours and if you haven’t found anything by then, give it up.’
Lara stared out to sea, refusing to meet Alex’s eye.
‘You want to know what I think?’ he said as gently as he could. ‘I think Meyer was killed by a random mugger and I think Sandrine was a brilliant, complex person who was struggling with depression. Are there loose ends and inconsistencies? Yes, of course. But were they both murdered over some trafficking story we have zero evidence about? I don’t think so.’
‘That’s what you think, is it?’ she said, a look of contempt in her eyes.
‘Simon Meyer is grieving. You are grieving. You’ve both lost someone you love and we all need to make sense of that. But I care about you too Lara, and I think you need to step back from this. You need to let her go.’
Alex felt a stinging slap on his cheek. He jerked back, one hand cradling his smarting face.
‘How dare you tell me how to feel?’ she yelled. Her eyes were wild and Alex took a step away, fearing another slap. ‘You really believe Sandrine killed herself? Bullshit, Alex! Bullshit!’
Alex wanted to respond, but he could see Lara was out of control. Alex had spent hours at her side during the Felix Tait trial when she had been under intense pressure. Through all the lies, frustrations and a vicious cross-examination by Tait’s barrister, Lara had stayed calm, composed – totally in control. But this had sent her over the edge.
‘When did you become one of them, Alex?’ she hissed, jabbing a finger down towards the lower deck. ‘You used to be so strong, so bloody committed. When you were stationed in Beirut and Aleppo, you would go anywhere – across minefields, under wire – anywhere to get to the truth, to tell the stories those bastards down there didn’t want told.’
Alex glanced across at the partygoers staring at them.
‘Lara, stop,’ he said.
‘No Alex, I will not stop. This was our friend. Our friend. I will not stop until I find out exactly who hurt her. Then I will hang them out to dry. What are you going to do, Alex? Are you going to do anything, or are you just going to forget all about her?’
He patted the air in a calming motion.
‘Just listen to me,’ he said. ‘People can spend a lifetime searching for answers to a tragedy and they never find them. It never brings a person back. All that happens is that they get more hurt. I don’t want that to happen to you.’
Lara’s eyes narrowed.
‘Do you ever stop and look at what’s happened to you, Alex? Who you’ve become? There was a time when you’d never give up on a story. Now you and Darius spike more stories than you print. Why? Because they involve a friend or an advertiser.’
‘Lara, that’s not true.’
‘Isn’t it? And now you want me to stop chasing this story down. Because it’s hard. Because you’re not getting enough answers fast enough. Because you just don’t care enough.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ snapped Alex, finally losing his temper.
‘Then don’t,’ she said, turning away. ‘Because I’m sick of trying to persuade you to be on my side.’
‘I AM on your bloody side!’ he shouted.
Lara strode back across the deck and, knowing he’d gone too far, he ran to catch up with her.
‘Lar, stay,’ he said, catching hold of her arm, but she je
rked away from him.
‘Lara, please!’
Alex ran after her, only to see her jump into a taxi. Her punched her number into his phone. It rang and rang but she didn’t pick up. Exhausted, he turned back towards the boat, desperate for a drink. To his dismay, Charlie was standing at the foot of the gangway smoking a cigarette. Alex had the uncomfortable feeling that he – and the rest of the party – had heard every word of their exchange.
‘Lovers’ tiff?’ smiled Charlie, grinding his butt out before he sauntered back onto the yacht.
Chapter 15
As her eyes fluttered open, Lara had to immediately squeeze them shut again. Despite the half-slanted shutters, the room in her Roquebrune pension was far too bright. She pressed a hand against her forehead but that only made her feel worse. Reaching for her phone to check the time, she knocked something to the floorboards with a clatter. Damn. One of the miniatures. I’m too old for this, she thought, peeling her eyes open again. Hangovers used to be a breeze, but lately it had become an ordeal of nausea and recrimination. ‘Never again,’ she whispered. The whole mini-bar, she thought, shuddering at the cost. Brandy, vodka, even those weird crispy nut things: the bright orange dye was still coating her tongue.
The previous evening, the hotel mini-bar had seemed like the answer to her problems. The trial, Nicholas dropping the axe, Sandrine’s death – each event had stripped layer after layer from her usually tough hide and now she just felt raw. Her argument with Alex had been the last straw, the exhaustion of the week feeding into her frustration.
Limping to the bathroom, she ran a cold flannel over her face, filled a tooth-glass with water and returned to perch on the edge of the bed.
‘Four o’clock?’ she muttered, her mind clearing enough to register what she had just seen on her phone screen. Had she really slept for eighteen hours straight?
Her phone delivered another blow of disappointment. No messages from Alex. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but still, it made her feel even worse.
She lay back on the white sheets, staring up at the ceiling. She shouldn’t have hit him, but she had meant every word she’d said on the Goliath.
The Yacht Party Page 11