The Yacht Party

by Perry, Tasmina

  She stopped him with a harsh laugh.

  ‘I’m not jealous of Lara Stone, Alex. A washed-up hack with an inflated sense of her own importance? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Alicia, all Lara did was catch you in your lie, you don’t need to go on the attack, she hasn’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘See?’ she said, tossing her hair back. ‘Always defending poor Lara. Poor Lara born with a silver spoon in her mouth, poor Lara with her trust fund and her pretend down-to-earth canal barge. Poor little rich girl.’

  He was about to point out that she had hardly chosen Charlie for his street cred, but he decided not to rise to the bait.

  ‘Alicia, I came here because you have been cheating on me – don’t make it about Lara.’

  ‘But it is, Alex,’ she said, with a fierce blink. ‘It has always been about her. Have you ever thought for one moment how it felt for me to see you together, to listen to your in-jokes, to see that stupid scarf she bought you or those trinkets around your flat that I know are from places you have been to with her? I feel like the other woman, not your girlfriend, Alex. I can’t get past your history with Lara and I don’t want to keep trying.’

  He’d genuinely never considered that a girlfriend might find his friendship with Lara threatening. Perhaps there was something in it, perhaps he could have been more considerate. But then his eyes strayed towards Alicia’s mezzanine bedroom, picturing her leading Charlie up there by the hand, imagining them kissing and whispering and plotting before they pressed their hard bodies against one another.

  ‘Goodbye Alicia,’ he said. And he turned and walked back down the stairs.

  Chapter 28

  Lara walked home from The Mermaid. On warm days like today, she loved weaving down through the back streets of Chelsea, gorgeous little terraces with black railings and white pillars, steps running up to their grand doorways, miniature mansions with delusions of grandeur. Usually a long stroll along these wisteria-clad lanes would clear her head and give her perspective from her immediate problems, but today, her mind was a tangled knot. Alex. The look of utter dejection on his face when she had told him about Alicia and Charlie. Lara hadn’t expected him to turn cartwheels, but neither had she thought she would see him crumble. She had completely underestimated his depth of feeling for his girlfriend: such idiocy. Only days before, Alex had been waving around an engagement ring and talking about proposing; why on earth did Lara think he would just shrug his shoulders and mutter, ‘c’est la vie’?

  But then what else could she have done? Should she have kept quiet about what she had seen? On the one hand, it was none of her business, but if Alex really was about to propose, to commit to one woman for the rest of his life, then he deserved that woman to be someone who loved him right back with all her heart.

  ‘What a mess,’ she whispered, feeling the weight of it all at once. She still hadn’t been home since arriving into Euston that morning and her bag was beginning to get heavy. She turned into a narrow walk, trying not to glance over her shoulder. Lara had done her best to shake off the paranoia she had felt in the Highlands, but she wasn’t entirely sure it was working. This part of London had always felt like home to Lara, all the hidden alleyways you couldn’t even see on Google Maps. Judge’s Walk was a particular favourite, with its shoulder-width passageway and peeling sign advertising a pub which had never existed. No one could follow you down there if they tried. But still… As she turned the corner into Cheyne Walk, a gust of wind blew a swirl of dust and grit into her eyes and Lara felt a chill, a shift in the atmosphere as she hurried across Embankment, the houseboats lined up down to her left.

  She knew something was wrong before she even stepped into the boatyard, the squeaky gate squealing. Lara ran up the jetty, seeing with a lurch that the narrowboat’s door was open, the frame splintered. She took the gangway in two strides and ducked inside.

  ‘No… no, no.’

  The boat had been trashed. Someone had torn it apart: crockery smashed, papers strewn about, cushions slashed. It was like a wrecking ball had passed through it. Lara’s hand pressed to her mouth in horror. This was her home, part of her. The place she felt safe. No, not anymore.

  Anything that had been on a surface now lay on the floor. Books, notepads, plants, cups, and worst of all, her favourite a picture of her father, the one where he was standing proudly by his boat. She bent down to pick it up and saw that the frame’s glass shattered in a fractured crescent: the same shape as a heel of a boot.

  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Lara propped the picture back up on the table, then went to the spare room, where the mess was even more frenzied. The photos, notes and newspaper cuttings on the wall had been torn down, the book case had been upturned, her grandfather’s collection of leather-bound books face-down, pages deliberately torn out, spines broken: what kind of burglar would do that?

  Instinctively Lara knew it was linked to her investigation into Sandrine, Meyer and Helen Groves. She had done plenty of investigations into dangerous people before: an Albanian drug gang, even an expose that had sent an East End crime lord to jail. She’d been threatened, once even physically, but never before had her work spilled over into her private life in this way.

  She pushed through into her bedroom: ransacked. The duvet was leaking fluff, her wardrobe door and drawers were open, the arms and legs of jeans and shirts strewn like broken limbs across the floor.

  Don’t just stand there, said a voice in her head. Don’t let them win.

  She pulled out her phone with trembling fingers. Her first instinct was to call Alex, but she doubted he’d take her call right now: she could hardly blame him. Instead she scrolled to Stella’s number and was greeted with a blast of noise as her assistant answered.

  ‘Boss? Is that you?’ Music and chatter and laughter in the background.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Lara, struggling to get the words out.

  ‘At The Glasshouse with Karen and Rosie. What’s up?’

  Lara closed her eyes, imagining her young assistant somewhere fun and fabulous, enjoying life with her friends. She knew that if she told her what had happened, Stella would immediately swing into action, rush over and sort everything out. But this wasn’t her fight and her assistant deserved a life away from work. At the very least after losing her job at the Chronicle, Stella could do with a good night out.

  ‘Nothing, it’s fine,’ she said quietly, sinking down onto the arm of the sofa.

  ‘Sorry, what d’you say, boss?’

  The line was breaking up. Lara raised her voice.

  ‘I said have a drink on me and I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’

  Lara hung up and looked down at her phone. If not Stella, then who? She scrolled through her numbers, considering various names and rejecting them one by one. This was what happened when your work was your life – and your two best friends were… unavailable.

  She walked back through the boat towards the kitchen, desperate for a drink. She knew she had a bottle of gin in the fridge – maybe, if they hadn’t smashed that too – although alcohol probably wasn’t the answer right now. Strong tea, then she’d call the police, even though Lara had little hope they’d do much. Burglaries in London had a tiny clean-up rate and as far as she could see, nothing had been taken.

  She could see slate grey clouds through the skylight and before she could even think ‘storm’, she felt the thrum of heavy rain against the roof and the low boom of distant thunder.

  Lara flicked on the kitchen light – on, off, on – nothing. Dammit, she thought, edging forward through the gloom, feeling her way down to the cupboard where she kept the lightbulbs. Finding the fridge, she opened the door for the light and immediately saw a dark shape on the floor.

  ‘Oh God, no.’

  Poking out from beneath a torn curtain, there was a single white paw. Dingo.

  Dingo was dead.

  His neck twisted, his body was limp, casually discarded alongside a crushed cereal box. Emotion caugh
t in her throat and tears began to fall. Sobbing now, Lara fell to her knees. ‘Dingo, no, no,’ she whispered, resting a hand on his little head. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  Desperate to get out, Lara stumbled for the door, blindly pushing out onto the deck, her shoulders and hair immediately soaked by the downpour. She bent over, gulping in air, her throat rasping, her hands gripping the rail. If she didn’t hold on, she knew she would fall down. Her world was tilting, threatening to tip her over the edge in every sense. First Misty, then her cat. You’re next. That was the message, loud and clear. You’re next.

  Lara looked down at the phone still in her hand. And she knew there was only one person left to call.

  Chapter 29

  Detective Chief Inspector Fox said he’d be there within the hour, but he was less thirty minutes. Lara met him at the gate. She wasn’t sure she had been more pleased to see someone in her life.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said formally, trying to keep her voice even. Lara was embarrassed that Fox was seeing her like this, she was usually so together, so competent, but right now her face was red and tender, her eyes barely two slits. If Fox noticed, he was good enough not to mention it.

  ‘I was on my way home,’ he said, as Lara nodded with gratitude.

  ‘Shall we take a look?’ he asked, pointing towards the boat with his chin. Lara led him to the gangplank, but let him go ahead. Fox stopped to briefly examine the splintered door, then stepped inside. Lara waited on the dock. She didn’t want to watch him poking around in her things, it already felt tainted enough inside there. Fox was a senior detective and he was here to help, but even so, this wasn’t a social call. When she thought she’d given him long enough to see the damage, she followed him back down the steps.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, looking around, then rubbing his chin.

  Lara nodded dumbly.

  ‘They killed my cat, Ian.’

  It sounded faintly ridiculous as she said it out loud. As if it was a punchline in some absurd comedy.

  Fox looked at her, then gave a sad nod.

  ‘Where is he?’

  She motioned towards the kitchen.

  ‘He’s still in there. I was going to move him, but thought I should wait until you came.’ The tears started to fall again. ‘Sorry, I’m not usually like this, I couldn’t…’

  Ian Fox put an awkward arm around her and they stood like that for a minute or two. Lara supposed this was all part of the job for Fox, plus he was a decent man.

  ‘Do you have a box? A blanket would be good too.’

  She nodded and went down to the bedroom, coming back with an old wicker basket and a fleece throw.

  ‘You stay here. I can deal with this,’ said Fox disappearing into the kitchen.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see him crouch down over Dingo’s body. She couldn’t bear to think about what he was doing so she crossed over to the window, letting her gaze settled across the dark waters of the Thames.

  Lara pressed her thumb and forefinger into her eyes. She had to stop crying. She already looked a sight.

  After a few minutes Fox came back into the room.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s not a standard break-in,’ he said, still looking around. ‘Burglars are in and out. They grab high-value items and are gone, but you have a nice TV on the wall there and they didn’t touch it.’

  It was the answer she had expected, but it wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. Lara had harboured a slim hope that Fox would say ‘Oh, it’s just some kids messing about. We’ve had a spate of these over the past few weeks.’ But Lara had known in her heart it wasn’t kids or opportunistic thieves. Which meant it was something much more dangerous.

  ‘Have you pissed anyone off?’

  ‘All the time,’ she said, with a snotty smile.

  Fox took a tissue out of her pocket and handed it to her.

  Fox pulled a face.

  ‘Feels personal, doesn’t it,’ she said, nodding towards the slashed cushions.

  ‘They were either looking for something or they’re being vindictive, deliberately destructive. Possibly both.’

  He paused. ‘What stories on you working on the moment?’

  ‘I think you know the answer to that one.’

  ‘Your friend. Sandrine?’

  Fox inhaled sharply.

  ‘Could this be connected?’

  ‘You’re the detective, Ian. Dead girl, dead cat, trashed boat. Are you seriously wondering if it’s not?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Lara knew it was time to stop tip-toeing around the edges of their conversation.

  ‘This isn’t a break-in,’ she said, hearing the desperation in her voice. ‘It was a warning to stop working on my story. Killing Dingo, they were telling me what they could do to me.’

  God, it was true, wasn’t it? The air on the houseboat felt thick and stale. She was suddenly aware that there was water beneath her home and she could almost feel the river moving under the soles of her feet. She put her hand out to stop herself from falling but Fox caught her.

  ‘I think you’d better sit down,’ he said.

  Lara sat on the edge of the sofa, perching on the arm like a nervous swimmer at the side of a pool. She wanted to tell Fox everything, her belief that Michael Sachs had ordered the killings of Sandrine, Helen Groves, perhaps even Jonathon Meyer, but in this state he wouldn’t believe a word she said. Fox looked across at her.

  ‘Look, I’m back in work on Monday. Why don’t we arrange an appointment and you can tell me what you know, what you think has happened here.’

  ‘Thanks Ian,’ she said, although Monday seemed a very long way off. ‘What else are you going to do Police-wise?’

  ‘I can sort out your door. We have a guy who can come out and secure it…’

  She waited for him to say something else, panic swelling in her belly.

  ‘My door? That’s it?’ she said, hearing the hysteria in her voice.

  ‘I’ll send over a couple of lads on their way over to see if there’s any CCTV footage, make some local inquiries.’

  It didn’t feel like much.

  ‘There’s got to be something else you can do.’

  She was grateful that he had come but it all felt thin.

  ‘Lara, what do you expect?’ he said, exasperated. ‘There’s been a break-in. But no one has threatened you, nothing has apparently been stolen.’

  Her hand clenched into a fist. ‘Fox, there are two dead bodies. Three if you add Dingo – which I do. You’d better hope there aren’t any more on your conscience.’

  He paused.

  ‘Do you have anywhere you can stay?’

  Lara had a cottage on the Avery estate in Oxfordshire, but with Friday night traffic it could take two hours to get there.

  ‘Do you know The Pengelly?’ he asked. ‘That hotel off Sloane Square, where all the celebrities stay?’

  Lara nodded.

  ‘The stars don’t just go there for the pillow menu, they go because it’s safe. A mate of mine runs security there, it’s a tight ship, a vetted staff, that’s why the big stars love it. I can give him a ring, get you a rate?’

  Fox knew her background, that she was a member of the Avery family, but Lara appreciated him not assuming that she could throw money at the problem.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. Lara left Fox on the dock speaking on his phone, arranging for the security service. She hadn’t liked telling him off – he was off-duty and yet he had come straight over and at the very least, he had taken her seriously. But she could see there was going to be no heavy police involvement here, no men in white suits dusting for fingerprints. She knew how overstretched the force was, how busy they would be on a hot, busy Friday night. Why would they prioritise her over a stabbing, domestic violence or a drunken assault?

  She went up to the top deck of Misty, and looked at her phone. She debated whether to call Alex again, but she took a deep breath and rang Stefan.


  The ring tone told her he was still overseas, and her heart sank in disappointment.

  ‘Stefan, it’s Lara.’

  It suddenly seemed reckless to have called him.

  ‘Lara, hi!’ She heard genuine pleasure behind the words as well as the sounds of busy city life, behind him, traffic, voices in a language she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Amsterdam. I’m just heading out for dinner with some of the Telegraaf team. I have to remind them that I’m still alive. Lara, is something wrong?’

  ‘My place got broken into.’

  ‘Oh God. Are you okay? Did they take anything?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Just a bit shaken up, I guess.’

  Lara wasn’t sure why she was telling him all this. Stefan was in Amsterdam, there was nothing he could do to help, but it was just good to hear the concern in his voice, to hear that someone cared.

  ‘I won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon but if you need to stay at my place, my neighbour has a spare key…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lara said, with a half-smile. The offer was enough, the feeling that if everything fell apart she had somewhere else to go. She lifted her head just a little. ‘I’ll check into a hotel and sort it out tomorrow.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  It was a good question. What was she going to do?

  ‘I’m going to clear up the boat, I’m going to throw out everything that’s broken. And then I’m going to find who did this.’

  Lara curled her fingers around the phone, squeezing hard. Even if it hadn’t been before, it was personal now.

  ‘I’m going to stop them, Stefan. And I’m going to make them pay.’

  Chapter 30

  Lara hadn’t been on a date for a long, long time. In different circumstances, she might have felt the usual fizz of anticipation, the rush of excitement when you were about to meet a new lover. But tonight, as much as she wanted to see Stefan, Lara was not in the mood to go out. Fox had been right that she’d feel safe at The Pengelly: perhaps a little too safe. The lifts were operated by residents-only key cards, there were spy-cam intercoms on every hotel suite door and the Head of Security – Fox’s friend Mills – had called within ten minutes of Lara’s arrival to check everything was to her satisfaction. Mills even gave her his personal mobile number and assured her his team were on call 24/7. It was like having your own bodyguard, although Lara assumed it only applied inside the hotel. Perhaps she was about to find out.