The Yacht Party

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘A present? Can I open it now?’

  ‘How do you know I haven’t got you something embarrassing?’ she said in a stage whisper.

  Alex looked up. ‘Like a sex toy?’

  ‘No, like a thesaurus.’

  Alex laughed, but he knew Lara well. She used jokes to cover her nerves; perhaps the present really was something private.

  ‘Listen, I just wanted to show my face, but I have to shoot off again.’

  ‘Really? Where are you going?’

  ‘You mean what is an unemployed journalist doing at this time of night?’

  She leaned forward to kiss his cheek before he could answer.

  ‘Happy birthday, Alex. Have a great evening.’

  He watched her leave then, unable to resist, began to tear the paper, gasping when he saw what was inside. It was a scarf. But not just any scarf, it was a Shemagh, the traditional Arab head cover that doubled as a mask against sand and flies in the desert. Nothing very unusual about that, but this one was very distinctive, woven in black and white with the linked ‘GG’ of Gucci. And looking at it made Alex’s heart jump.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  He ran out of the restaurant, catching up with Lara in the car park, just as she was about to put her bike helmet on.

  ‘Where the hell did you find it?’ he said, waving the scarf.

  Lara leant back against her bike and tried to hide a smile. If he didn’t know her better he would have sworn she was blushing.

  ‘I didn’t find it,’ said Lara, her eyes twinkling. ‘I had someone make it for me. I had to rely on my memory – hope it’s alright.’

  ‘Alright? It’s amazing.’

  And it was. It was a near-perfect reproduction of a scarf Alex had bought in a market on the West Bank while on assignment years ago. The Gucci logo was something of an ironic joke. Alex wasn’t exactly a designer-label kind of guy; hadn’t been then, anyway. Still, the Shemagh had served its purpose, saving him from heatstroke and sandstorms and in Iraq and Afghanistan it’d become a lucky talisman. Then on a night out with Lara when he was stationed in Berlin, the scarf had been lost. They had retraced their steps bar-by-bar, but it had disappeared into the night.

  ‘I can’t believe you remembered,’ said Alex, examining the fabric.

  Lara gave a slow grin. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just as crappy as the original.’

  It was in stark contrast to all the carefully chosen and tasteful presents Alicia had given him that morning along with breakfast in bed. The Dunhill cufflinks, the expensive camera lens, the first edition of a Bukowski novel. Thoughtful, expensive gifts, but the Shemagh? That was something you couldn’t compete with. A breeze, soft and briny, blew in off the Thames.

  ‘I’m sorry if I upset you in Monaco,’ said Alex. ‘I really didn’t mean to.’

  Lara shrugged it off.

  ‘So what happened? Did you find anything else?’

  Lara pulled a face.

  ‘No, nothing. As you said, it’s probably a wild goose chase anyway.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t say that.’

  She looked away, down the river. Alex didn’t want to pick a fight. Not tonight.

  ‘So that guy Stefan? He’s from Le Caché, right?’ he said as casually as he could, although Alex had Googled him as soon as he’d got back to his room at the Fairmont. He was Dutch, forthright, worthy. A bit too good-looking, in Alex’s opinion. A bit smug.

  ‘Stefan? Yes, he’s the co-founder.’

  ‘I see,’ said Alex, pressing his lips together unconsciously. He’d been shocked when he’d seen them together, by the harbour laughing, not quite holding hands but their intimacy had put him on edge. Alex and Lara stood there awkwardly, both knowing they had stepped into a minefield, but neither really knowing how to back out.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you like the scarf,’ said Lara.

  ‘I love it,’ he replied, remembering that trip to Berlin, how excited he’d been when Lara had flown out to see him. He wanted to tell her, to remind her how close they had been, to talk about all the memories they’d shared, but his phone was ringing. It was almost certainly Alicia asking him where he was.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling his mobile out of his pocket to reject the call, and in his haste, something else flew out and tinkled to the floor. Lara bent down and picked it up.

  She held it between finger and thumb for a moment, before she held it out to him.

  ‘A ring,’ she said.

  He hesitated.

  ‘It was my mum’s.’

  Lara raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Tonight’s the night, then?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The proposal, you idiot,’ she said, with a hint of amusement in her voice.

  ‘No, my Dad gave it to me just now. You know, for when I’m ready.’

  He took the ring and put it back in his pocket.

  ‘And are you ready?’

  He looked away from her. ‘I don’t know Lar, are you ever ready for something like that?’

  Lara just snorted and threw a leg over her bike.

  ‘What, don’t you think I should?’ asked Alex.

  Lara met his gaze.

  ‘When have you ever listened to anything I say, Alex Ford?’

  ‘You didn’t answer the question.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. They’d only met a handful of times, but Alex suspected that Lara and Alicia weren’t overly fond of each other. Too different. Lara looked as though she was about to say something, but his phone began to ring again.

  ‘She’ll be wondering where you are,’ said Lara, pulling on her helmet, then firing up her engine with a roar.

  ‘I’m not proposing to her,’ he said, raising his voice. He didn’t know why it was so important to tell her, but it was. Her face was covered and Alex couldn’t tell if Lara had even heard him.

  She turned the bike back towards the road and, wiggling her fingers in an ironic goodbye, tore off, leaving a trail of rubber behind her.

  Chapter 19

  Lara was in a foul mood. Stella could sense it even from a distance. As she walked up Brick Lane, it was like her boss had a pitch-black cloud over her head. Lightning and everything.

  Stella was glad she had brought gifts: strong tea and bacon sandwiches. That would cheer anyone up first thing in the morning.

  ‘Do you know how hard it is to find a proper caff around here?’ said Stella, filling in the silence as they met at the corner of Bethnal Green Road. ‘This is supposed to be the East End, fergawd’s sake.’

  ‘Hipsters don’t do grease,’ said Lara, taking the bag and peeking inside. She grimaced. ‘Too early for me. Maybe Eduardo will want one.’

  They crossed the road, heading into the arty enclave of Shoreditch.

  ‘You alright boss?’ said Stella, trying to lift Lara’s mood. ‘Teeny bit hungover?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Lara could do froideur when she wanted to and she was giving off icy vibes right now.

  ‘Wasn’t it Alex’s birthday party last night?’

  Lara glanced at her as if she was surprised she had remembered.

  ‘I only popped in,’ she said in a way that suggested the subject was closed. Perhaps they’d had a ding-dong – shame. Alex Ford was the best-looking bloke at the Chronicle and the deputy editor to boot, something of a catch by anyone’s standards. Certainly, everyone in the office fancied him, even the married ones. Gayle in Features had been in dedicated pursuit of Alex for at least a year, even joining his gym, although Stella wasn’t sure Alex was even aware of Gayle’s feelings. There were rumours of a girlfriend – Alice, Alicia? – but no one had ever seen her. Besides, it was so obvious that he liked Lara, although Stella wasn’t sure it was mutual. After all, if it was, wouldn’t something have happened by now? Stella had always been curious to know but now was not the time to start digging. Lara was all business this morning, updating Stella on the events in Monte Carlo, particularly the ‘Inner Circle’ names Jago Bain had given t
hem. She clearly wasn’t in the mood to speculate on Alex’s romantic status.

  Instead Stella updated Lara on her family drama. Her mother had gone ‘batshit’ when she had heard that Stella had ‘left poor Glenda in the lurch’ by walking out of Jimmy’s café. She’d ranted about gift horses and Jimmy’s golden heart until Stella had finally snapped and told her how much salary Lara was paying her.

  ‘You said I was giving you how much? Does she think I’m a billionaire?’

  ‘Yeah, she does,’ said Stella apologetically. ‘Sorry boss, it was the only way I could shut her up.’

  They stopped outside a tall, narrow building with ancient brickwork. It had once been some sort of mill or workshop as there was a pulley system and access doors on the second floor. It had, however, all been sandblasted and repointed, with only a little of the grittiness deliberately retained.

  ‘Looks like your friend Eduardo’s come down in the world,’ said Stella, grinning at the thought of a regal Spaniard in a hipster flat.

  ‘Eduardo doesn’t actually live here,’ said Lara. ‘I think he’s got a place in Kensington. This is just the collective’s new office.

  The door buzzed and they stepped inside. The building’s interior had also been stripped and buffed, with exposed brickwork and iron joists painted tasteful shades of green and grey. Even the entrance door was slick, a single sheet of glass with ‘Le Caché’ artfully etched down the side. It all said, ‘We’re edgy, but we’re serious,’ which Stella supposed was the whole idea. Whatever, it was cool. And… OMG.

  Stella’s heart did a little jump as she caught sight of the Le Caché guys.

  When Stella first came down to London, she had a romantic idea – that all journalists would look like Robert Redford in All The Presidents Men, or at the very least, like Johnny Depp in Fear and Loathing. They did not. Journalists were generally pudgy, pasty and losing their hair; they didn’t even dress well, seeming to favour the colour beige. Stella had once even seen someone wear a cardigan.

  But Stefan and Eduardo were exactly as she had imagined writers to be. Eduardo was tall, dark and had hair like a Spanish prince – in fact, wasn’t he actually a Spanish prince? Whatever – he was hot, even if he looked like the sort of man who owned a suede brush. And Stefan had those continental cheekbones and Euro-chic thing going on.

  Stefan introduced himself to Stella, then his eyes flicked across to Lara’s and she mouthed ‘hi’, accompanied by a bashful smile. Stella caught the blush on Lara’s cheeks.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Stefan, leading them into a high open-plan space lit by long windows. ‘Sorry about the chaos. We only got the furniture yesterday.’

  It was unruly, certainly, with boxes stacked here and there, some of them open and half-unpacked, but there was a sense of purpose here.

  ‘I’ve brought breakfast,’ said Stella, holding up the tray.

  ‘So kind of you,’ said Eduardo, graciously taking the offerings through to a little bar area to one side of the room. There was already a huge silver coffee machine sitting on the counter, but Eduardo still fussed around putting the sandwiches on plates, flattering Stella for her thoughtfulness. Briefly she entertained the idea of her and Eduardo, even picturing asking him back to her house-share with T-shirts on the floor and damp on the walls. Could happen. Unlikely, yes. But never say never.

  ‘So shall we discuss the Inner Circle?’ said Eduardo, leading them all over to the brand new designer sofas which were soft and white and still with a showroom smell. To Stella, there was something miraculous about a new sofa. Growing up in a rented house where the sofa had been used by the six previous tenants did that to you.

  Eduardo had propped up a series of whiteboards on easels, each with a name written at the top.

  ‘Richard Stewart (US/Miami)’, ‘Donald Van Leder (S. Africa)’, ‘Bernard Gander (London), ‘Philippe Marsaud (Geneva), ‘Eugene Dre (Caymans)’

  They had neat notes beneath each name with print-outs attached to the boards with little magnets.

  ‘This is Le Caché in action,’ he said, with a hint of pride. ‘We have members and contacts in each of these guys’ home territories, so we have been able connect them all together. Stella was impressed. In less than 48 hours they had names, places and connections. The collective was like Interpol for investigative journalism.

  ‘So where does the trafficking come in?’ she asked.

  Eduardo gave her a nod, which Stella took as a good sign. It was better than a laugh, anyway.

  ‘When you say trafficking, people think of drugs or the sex trade. But human trafficking is merely getting an illicit workforce and exploiting them, which is what is happening here, setting children to work in the cobalt mine. Modern slavery by any other name.’

  Stella thought about her own childhood in the schemes: there’d been violence, deprivation, it’d been a place where school dinners had been the only meal many kids would get all day. It had been tough, sure, but nobody had to dig with their bare hands. There had been a chance.

  Next Lara recounted her conversation with Josie Bourne. Stella felt a flush of pride as she watched her speak: Lara was assured, concise, impressive. Since the Chronicle had dispensed with her services, Stella had seriously begun to question her career choices. Her friend Minnie was making five figures a month on Instagram, while Stella had to go to the corner shop to pre-pay her electric. But this reminded her of why she was here, why she had come down to London: she had come to learn. And who better to learn from than Lara Stone?

  ‘Do you know who this Mike is?’ asked Eduardo, when Lara had finished.

  Lara shook her head.

  ‘No, but look at this.’

  Lara reached into her bag and pulled out the post-it note that they had found in Sandrine’s apartment.

  Helen

  Michael

  Jonathon

  ‘At first I read it as ‘Helen Michael’ – one name – but we couldn’t find anyone by that name linking to Jonathon Meyer. Now I think these are three separate names.’

  ‘“Get rid of her” – that’s what this guy said?’ said Eduardo. ‘And this Josie thought meant “kill her”?’

  ‘Josie wasn’t sure,’ admitted Lara. ‘This was at a party, the music was loud…’

  ‘So it could have been anything,’ said Eduardo.

  Eduardo had a bluntness Stella had seen in many newsroom editors and execs. From the outside it seemed rude, but there was a method in it too: each detail had to be examined from every angle or ‘tested to destruction’ as Alex used to put it. However, Stella could smell something more here: the first whiff of a power struggle.

  ‘Are there any Mikes or Michaels in the inner circle?’ said Stella, doing her best to support Lara’s thesis.

  ‘Not that we know of,’ said Eduardo, shaking his head decisively.

  ‘And I think the Kanjomo mine is the strongest lead we have. It’s an actual link from Meyer to trafficking and that’s what Sandrine said the story was about.’

  Stella saw Lara’s eyes narrow, but even she had to agree that Eduardo had a point. Stella spoke up again.

  ‘If Sandrine had the story of trafficking in the Kanjomo mine, I see how that might put her in danger, but why kill Meyer? He co-owned the mine – and he threw Jago off the boat because he wouldn’t help with it.’

  Eduardo let out a frustrated sigh.

  ‘One, we don’t know for sure that Jonathon Meyer had invested in the mine and two, we don’t know for sure that he was murdered.’

  ‘We don’t know anything for sure, Eduardo,’ said Lara, her own frustration plain. ‘That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do anything.’

  Eduardo looked at her.

  ‘We’re not doing nothing, Lara,’ he said. ‘There’s a flight to Kinshasa via Brussels leaving this afternoon and I’m booked onto it.’

  ‘You’re going to the Congo?’ said Lara in surprise.

  Eduardo nodded. ‘A Le Caché member based in Nairobi is flying out to meet me. H
e’s a photojournalist. We need photographic evidence of what is going on at the mine.’

  Stella looked at Lara. If she had been in a bad mood this morning, this definitely wasn’t going to help; Eduardo seemed to be sidelining Lara’s efforts.

  ‘And I’m going to Geneva,’ said Stefan with a hint of apology. ‘We have a contact there who knows Philippe Marsaud.’

  Lara looked at them both, then nodded to herself.

  ‘Well, it looks like you’ve both got it all in hand,’ she said, picking up her bag. The tension was so high, Stella could almost hear a hum.

  Eduardo took a step towards Lara. ‘Are you…?’ he began but Lara silenced him with a shake of her head.

  ‘I don’t care who does what or who goes where,’ she said, ‘so long as we find out what’s going on. We should all remember that this is about Sandrine, not about anyone else.’

  She looked at Eduardo, then down at her watch.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. I have lunch with Simon Meyer. Let’s see if he knows anything for sure.’ She looked at Eduardo as she said it, emphasising the last two words, then walked out.

  Chapter 20

  Lara walked quickly, turning corners left and right. Where the hell is it? She had parked her bike on a side street off Brick Lane and for the life of her, Lara couldn’t remember which one. They all looked the same; narrow stone terraces with the same white-slab doorsteps and cast iron drainpipes. She stopped on a corner and took a deep breath, trying to calm her whirring mind. Eduardo had wound her up with his superior attitude, but actually, Lara had meant what she said. If Eduardo’s thread had a better chance of getting to the bottom of Sandrine’s death, then she was happy for him to go ahead. Even so, she still believed Meyer’s yacht was the key to it all – and she was determined to prove it.

  She turned as she heard urgent footsteps behind her.

  ‘Stefan? What’s up?’

  ‘You walk fast,’ he gasped, out of breath. ‘I didn’t think you were going to leave so soon.’

  Lara shrugged.