Helen knew instantly what she was getting at. Everything was about money out here. She smiled.
‘Do you want me to have to call you as a witness? I could easily force you to give testimony.’
Deena stopped and faced her.
‘In a foreign trial?’ she said. ‘With a week to go? I don’t think so.’
Helen was surprised at the girl’s knowledge. She was a hustler, a deal-maker.
‘Well I’m sure we can come to some agreement,’ she said.
‘It depends what you’re offering me.’
‘It depends what you’re telling me,’ replied Helen.
Deena turned to look out to sea.
‘The magazine got this new commissioning editor,’ she began. ‘Joanne Green. Beautiful, ambitious, but she was an out-oftowner, had no connections at all in the city.’
She glanced at Helen.
‘Look, she got the job I wanted, but I figured she was better as a friend than an enemy, so I took her under my wing. We went to parties, and I introduced her to people. I thought that way I’d get more of my stories in the magazine. But I was wrong – at first, anyway.’
She paused.
‘Jo wasn’t a real decision-maker at the magazine; that was Elizabeth Krantz, the features editor. I’d never got on with Lizzie; I think she resented that I got invited to more parties than she did, so she took great delight in knocking back my features ideas again and again and again. Until . . .’
‘Until what?’ asked Helen.
‘Until Jo started sleeping with Spencer.’
Helen felt her eyes widen, and Deena smiled. ‘Suddenly it was easy for Jo to overrule Lizzie about editorial. Suddenly I was getting my stuff in the magazine.’
‘And this was when you pitched the idea of the Jonathon Balon story?’
Deena nodded.
‘My boyfriend at the time told me about this billionaire Brit and his property empire, which was built on his connections with London gangsters. It sounded a great story – it is a great story. So I pitched it to Jo, but she said it wasn’t international enough.’
‘Who was your boyfriend?’ asked Helen, her excitement growing. Finally Mark had hit gold, she could feel it.
‘He was from London. A photographer. He hated Balon for some reason and really wanted the story to run; some revenge deal, I guess.’
‘So how did you get around Jo?’
Deena smirked.
‘My boyfriend was moving out of his apartment in the Village. Great place, rent-controlled, and he was tight with the landlord. Jo said she’d have a word with Spencer and make the feature happen if my boyfriend made sure his apartment was turned over to her.’
Helen tried to keep her face neutral, but inside she was punching the air. This was exactly the breakthrough she had been hoping for.
‘Why didn’t you write the story?’
‘Because I didn’t know enough about Balon. My boyfriend told Jo to use one of his old friends from London, Ted Francis.’
Francis was a named co-defendant, along with the editor and Steinhoff publishing.
‘My boyfriend phoned Ted and said he had got him some work at Stateside magazine. Every serious journalist wants to get commissioned by Stateside. But the deal was that the story had to expose Balon.’
‘Your boyfriend,’ Helen said. ‘I need his name.’
Deena gave a laugh.
‘I know you do, but as I said, this has to be worth my while.’ Helen’s lips tightened. Usually she would dispense with little chancers like Deena Washington, but she knew she was running out of time.
‘What do you want, Deena?’
‘The summer rental on this place isn’t cheap,’ she said, inclining her head back towards the house.
Helen took a breath of the sharp, salty air. She knew that Deena would be sharing the cost with some of the others hanging out around the barbie.
‘Okay, what’s your split of the rent? Five thousand dollars?’
Deena shook her head.
‘Five thousand bucks for pissing off the most powerful editor in America? Come on.’
‘But you’re in TV now, Deena,’ said Helen. ‘What do you care about Spencer?’
‘Spencer has friends in high places everywhere. I’m pretty sure he can screw me over with one phone call if he chooses. No, I want the whole rental. Forty thousand bucks.’
Helen swallowed. ‘I’ll give you fifteen,’ she said.
Deena shook her head. ‘My guess is that you want to win this case a whole heap. Otherwise why else are you out here in the middle of a trial? I want the lot or you get zip.’
‘Fine,’ said Helen, smarting. ‘My colleague will speak to you when we get back to the house.’ She always avoided getting involved with deals of this nature; it was simply good practice. Besides, Mark Carrington was an expert in diverting whatever funds were needed through a dozen accounts in as many countries so that should anyone wish to trace the cash, it would never come back to her. She turned her steely gaze on to the girl. ‘The name of your boyfriend, Deena.’
She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged.
‘Dominic Bradley,’ she said. ‘Works out of the Eleven Street Studios downtown, fashion stuff mostly, but it’s August and everyone in fashion goes on holiday, so my guess is he’ll be back in London to visit his folks.’
Helen smiled as they walked back towards the house.
‘Out of interest, why did you just tell me all that, when Spencer had told everyone to keep quiet?’ asked Helen.
‘Spencer’s a jerk, that’s why,’ said Deena with feeling. ‘He promotes yes-men and whoever will suck his cock. He pushed Lizzie out and made Jo head of features, and with Spencer to open doors for her, Jo didn’t need me any more. The moment that happened, Spencer called me into his office and said he was letting me go.’ She turned to Helen, her cheeks pink. ‘You screw that prick,’ she said. ‘He deserves a fall.’
Helen smiled and nodded. The girl clearly was an operator, but in reality she was naive. If Stateside lost the case, it would have little or no impact on Spencer Reed personally. So he’d angered Jonathon Balon, but Balon was a big fish in the small pool of London, and Spencer moved in higher circles.
‘Don’t you worry,’ she said, slipping her heels back on. ‘We’ll screw him all right.’
But first she had to find herself a photographer.
46
Anna smiled as the handsome steward handed her another glass of bubbly.
‘Thank you, Martin,’ she said, watching him sway back down the narrow gangway of the Cessna jet.
‘Oi,’ laughed Sam, watching her from his cream leather seat opposite. ‘Stop flirting with the crew.’
‘I’m not sure I’m his type,’ she whispered, as Martin flirted with another handsome male steward at the back of the cabin.
‘You could turn him, I’m sure,’ Sam teased, popping a handful of fat cashew nuts into his mouth.
Anna sat back in her seat and sipped her champagne, wondering whether to pinch herself. Dull solicitors like her just didn’t get to spend the day in a private jet with a Hollywood heart-throb like Sam Charles. But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? The way they had chatted and giggled, flirted and teased; this wasn’t a normal lawyer-client relationship, not by a long chalk, especially as no one from Donovan Pierce even knew she was missing. Helen Pierce would have a fit if she knew she was careering off to India with one of the firm’s most high-profile clients. But Anna couldn’t help it; she was having a fabulous time talking with Sam, hearing his stories of Hollywood, his early life in a working-class part of west London and his struggles to become an actor. Listening to such intimate details in such an enclosed space made her feel as if they were the only two people in the world. She’d tried to tell herself that this was just business, but it wasn’t – it couldn’t be. Not the way he was looking at her. Not the way they were getting on like they’d known each other for years. Or perhaps he was like this with everyone. Wasn�
��t that what celebrities were good at – making you feel like the most important person in the room?
‘So is this thing actually yours?’ she asked, gesturing around the jet’s luxurious cream leather interior with her glass.
‘Not really,’ he smirked. ‘I just say that to impress people like you. I share it on the NetJets owners’ programme.’
‘Only a share?’ She grinned. ‘I’ve been brought here on false pretences. What kind of pauper are you?’
‘Don’t you start.’ He smiled. ‘Jess was always trying to convince me that we needed to buy one outright.’
It was irrational, of course, but Anna was starting to really dislike Jessica Carr. Obviously Sam wasn’t going to paint her in the most flattering light, but she did sound like a greedy, self-centred ogre. Or perhaps Anna was just getting annoyed at the regularity with which Sam mentioned her name, like some recently divorced man on a date. It’s not a date, she reminded herself. But hell, it felt like one.
‘So can you fly?’
He took a sip of his vodka tonic. ‘Not really. Jess got us hisand-hers lessons. She heard that Angelina had her pilot’s licence and she wasn’t going to be beaten. She wanted it to be one of those things we did together.’
‘And did you?’
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘It just made a nice soundbite for a magazine.’
They laughed.
‘What about you?’
Anna shrugged. ‘I can’t fly and I haven’t got a jet. Not even a tiny share in one.’
‘So what do you like doing? Other than work.’
‘Nothing as interesting as the things you get up to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a movie star and I’m a solicitor from Richmond.’
He looked at her, a playful smile on his lips.
‘Come on, tell me something interesting about yourself. At least something I don’t know. A boyfriend?’
‘No,’ she said, a touch too quickly. Why was he asking her that? Was he really interested in her private life?
‘What happened to that journalist bloke? The one you didn’t want to talk to?’
Anna gave a loud cough.
‘The less said about him the better, I think.’
‘Well what about since then?’
Anna pulled a face. ‘Not much, I’m afraid. I really don’t have the time.’
‘Well I have to say that’s a real shame,’ said Sam, fixing her with his blue eyes.
Anna felt her mouth go dry. What was he saying?
‘A shame?’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘I was thinking of setting you up with Martin.’ He grinned.
She threw a cushion at him.
‘Right, that’s it, I’m going to sleep,’ she said, reaching for her sleep mask. ‘Wake me up when we’re in Paradise.’
Kerala wasn’t quite Paradise, but it wasn’t far off. The landscape was lush and tropical, dense jungle pressing in on every side as their air-conditioned taxi drove along the snaking roads from Cochin airport towards the resort town of Alappuzha. Refreshed from her nap in the jet, Anna peered out of the car window, fascinated by the countryside. She had expected the dusty, impoverished India she’d read about, but Kerala was as vibrant as the vegetation. The lime green of crops as they passed a tea plantation, the bright canary yellow of a sari or the posies of scarlet blossom. The villages they passed through were small but well kept, the houses neat and painted white, children in pressed school uniforms waving as they passed. It felt like the Garden of Eden, only with added Coca-Cola signs.
Finally they arrived at Alappuzha, a busy tourist town on the south-east coast criss-crossed by miles of backwaters, all leading down to a long strip of yellow beach and a rickety pier that jutted out into the shimmering Arabian Sea.
‘Wow, look at the lighthouse,’ said Anna, pointing to the red and white striped tower on the headland. ‘This place is lovely.’
‘Remember why we’re here, Judith Chalmers,’ said Sam as they paused at a crossing, watching the backpackers in shorts and flip-flops strolling up the main drag. ‘Louise Allerton could be any of these. It’s a long way to come to look for someone then get distracted by the scenery.’
Anna nodded. ‘Sea View Hotel it is, then. Pronto.’
The Sea View Hotel was salmon pink, with crumbling balustrades and flaking paint. It didn’t have a sea view, or indeed a view of anything except the back of a warehouse selling agricultural supplies.
‘You’d better stay here,’ she said, getting out of the cab. After the cool of the taxi, it was an almost physical shock, and she could feel herself beginning to perspire on the spot.
‘Why?’ said Sam, frowning. ‘I want to play detective.’
‘Because it’s a hotel full of backpackers who will almost certainly recognise you. The last thing we want is a tip-off to the Sun that you’re in Kerala.’
‘So? I could be here for a spa holiday.’
‘Not in this part of town,’ she said, glancing around. ‘And by the looks of it, this is the sort of place that rents beds by the hour.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But if I hear any shooting, I’m not waiting for the cops.’
‘My hero,’ she laughed.
The guest house had probably seen better days, or perhaps it had always been dirty and cramped, with the faint smell of patchouli permeating the air. There were a few young Europeans lounging around the lobby drinking tea from little glasses, their rucksacks by their feet, but apart from that, the Sea View was quiet. Anna walked up to the reception, where a wizened Indian man in a faded smiley-face T-shirt was sitting. He gazed at her without interest, until she produced a thousand-rupee note and placed it on the desk.
‘I help you?’ he said, not taking his eyes off the money.
‘I’m looking for a white English girl, name of Louise Allerton. She stayed here six months ago.’
The man reached towards the money, but Anna pulled it back an inch. Finally he looked up at her.
‘Lots of English come here. I don’t remember names.’
‘Don’t you have a hotel register?’
The man gave a ghost of a smile.
‘This is not the London Ritz, lady.’
Anna picked up the note and folded it in two.
‘Pity.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said the manager. ‘Go speak to Amber in the apartment at the back. She been here long time. Maybe she know her. Not in right now. Works at ice-cream parlour by the sea.’
‘Thanks,’ said Anna, handing him the note and walking back to the taxi.
‘Louise? Of course I remember her,’ said Amber, a boho-looking brunette, clearing up the empty bottles of Mongoose from the tables. She wiped her brow with the back of her wrist, making her rack of bangles jangle. ‘We got to Kerala the same week and shared a room for about a fortnight. She moved on. I stayed at the Sea View in the flat they rent in the garden.’
‘Do you know where she moved on to?’
Amber wrinkled her nose.
‘She in trouble or something?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Just a feeling.’ She smiled knowingly and slung her cleaning cloth over her shoulder. ‘So what do you want her for?’
‘We’re worried about her.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Friends, family,’ said Anna vaguely. ‘She left her job out of the blue.’
Amber laughed. ‘And that’s strange? I hear it two, maybe three times a day out here. Kerala’s full of people who’ve skipped the rat race. Doesn’t mean to say you have to be worried about them.’
‘Even so, how can I contact her?’ pressed Anna.
Amber sighed, her shoulders wilting as if they were weary from the heat.
‘Apparently Lou was a beauty writer back home. She was into spa therapies, things like that. So last time I heard, she was about to do an Ayurvedic beauty course. Said she’d come back and give me a massage once she’d finished. I’m still waiting.’
‘Can you remember where?’
‘Green something study centre. Can’t remember its exact name.’
Anna was already on her iPhone, locating all the Ayurvedic training centres in a fifty-mile radius.
‘Don’t forget to tell her I still want my massage,’ shouted Amber, as she watched Anna run off towards the waiting taxi.
Raj, their driver, knew the village where the Green Leaves Ayurvedic training school was located, and told them it was better to go there by ferry than by road. He dropped them off at the dock, a worn patchwork of bleached boards crowded with about fifty people all trying to squeeze down the gangplank on to a strange flat boat, shouting to be heard over its chugging engine. The ferry was like an iron shoebox with an engine house stuck at one end and a rusted chimney bellowing oily smoke.
Anna looked out at the wide brown expanse of water between them and the other side.
‘You think this thing’s really going to make it across?’ she said dubiously.
‘Come on, where’s your spirit of adventure?’ laughed Sam, grabbing her hand to help her on board.
Once they had cast off, the teeth-rattling clank of the engine gave way to a rhythmic thrum, and they sat at the side of the boat, feet dangling over the edge, watching the town disappear and give way to jungle and mangrove. Anna was expecting to see crocodiles sunning themselves, but had to make do with a single water buffalo drinking at the water’s edge before they came to Kumolrula, a small village on the far banks of the Vembanad lake.
It wasn’t hard to find Green Leaves, as apart from a scattering of huts and houses, it was the only building you could see from the jetty: a flat, rather unremarkable construction with a dark blue awning over the entrance.
‘Can I help you?’ asked an Indian woman the moment they stepped inside, grateful for the air-conditioning. ‘Massage or treatment?’
She was about forty, with short red hair and a black linen shirt.
‘We’re looking for Louise,’ said Sam, giving her his best Hollywood smile. ‘Is she around?’
The woman shook her head.
‘It’s only a half-day class today. She’ll be back home, or I think she works in a guest house along the lake as well.’
‘Could you tell me where she lives?’
Private Lives Page 36