Private Lives

by Tasmina Perry

  He walked over to the board and studied the photos.

  ‘Have you looked into Peter Rees since I texted you?’

  Amir nodded.

  ‘What made you sure that Rees was Amy’s Peter?’

  ‘Well he confirmed that he knew her. And he just looked guilty.’

  Amir laughed.

  ‘You of all people should know that a guilty look isn’t going to hold up as evidence in court.’

  Anna wanted to scream in frustration. All that work, all those leads she’d followed; finally she’d found Amy’s lover, the person that Amy was blackmailing, and still she could do nothing about it. And at the same time, she had alerted Peter Rees to the fact that she was on his trail, and might have put herself in danger.

  ‘I think Rees is Amy’s Peter too,’ Amir said more quietly.

  ‘Why?’ she asked excitedly.

  ‘When you texted me his name, I checked him out, although he was already on my radar anyway. All of Swann’s friends are. I found this . . .’

  He went over to the printer, pulled out a news article and stuck it on the whiteboard. Anna speed-read the item. It was headlined ‘Oil Chief Found Dead’, and detailed how Douglas Faulks, the chief executive of Pogex Oil had been discovered hanging at his Gloucestershire country home, along with the background to the story: how there had been a huge oil spill off the coast of Newfoundland six months earlier and how the executive had taken tremendous flak from the Canadian government. A series of terrible PR gaffes, where Faulks had denied responsibility, then tried to blame the rig’s management, had led to him becoming the company fall guy. Anna remembered reading about it and thinking that it seemed unfair that one man should be singled out for all these attacks. She also remembered that Peter Rees worked in oil and gas.

  ‘Did Peter know Douglas?’ she asked, piecing things together.

  Amir nodded. ‘I’ve found dozens of pictures of them together at society and trade events.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Amir. You don’t hang about, do you?’

  ‘There’s more,’ he added. ‘Pogex Oil and Dallincourt work closely together. Dallincourt basically build and repair most of Pogex’s rigs and refineries.’

  ‘Remember what Louise Allerton told me about Amy? That she’d found Peter sobbing about a friend’s death. He told her he thought it was his fault.’ Anna looked up at Amir, desperate for answers. ‘How can that be?’

  Amir shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘So what else do we know about Douglas Faulks?’

  ‘We know it was a tragic death. Lots of people in the City thought that Faulks had been set up. You know, let one man take the blame instead of the entire company.’

  ‘He should have got himself a better publicist,’ she said sombrely.

  ‘Pogex have a good PR company. Auckland PR. They are usually experts at keeping bad news out of the media, although they had a job on their hands stopping the Pogex Oil share price going into freefall. They act for Dallincourt Engineering Services as well. They are the bigger client actually, as Pogex are a relatively small oil company.’

  ‘Auckland PR?’ Anna repeated. She’d heard that name in the last few days. She took a minute to think where. ‘Auckland’s chairman. What’s he called?’ she said, remembering.

  ‘Paul Morgan.’

  ‘No, not him.’

  ‘Simon Cooper? He’s the CEO.’

  ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘Apparently he’s having an affair with our senior partner Helen Pierce.’

  Anna felt her whole body tingle as she connected all the evidence. She began to think out loud while Amir started furiously writing her thought processes down on his whiteboard.

  ‘Simon Cooper acts for Dallincourt. Peter Rees, who works for Dallincourt, thinks he is responsible for Douglas Faulks’s death. Amy Hart is blackmailing Rees, possibly about Douglas’s death. Amy is found dead but the story goes largely unnoticed because of the Sam Charles affair.’

  For a second she hardly dared think where this was all leading, but one glance at Amir told her that he had made the connection too.

  ‘I think we know who leaked your Sam Charles story,’ he said quietly.

  She closed her eyes and nodded, knowing that she had come here to solve one mystery, and had somehow solved two.

  61

  Despite the bucolic surroundings of his country estate, Sam Charles was feeling thoroughly miserable. He walked down from the house, kicking listlessly at stones on the winding path through the gardens. It was a perfect summer’s day, with a cloudless pebble-blue sky and the smell of cut grass coming from the striped lawns. The gardener had also made a fine job of tidying up the flower beds, and in the soft sunshine, the bright sunflowers and nodding delphiniums looked like a display from the Chelsea Flower Show. Yet Sam couldn’t find pleasure in any of it; he was determined to wallow in self-pity, however cheerful the world looked. The source of his dark mood – as ever, he thought bitterly – was women. Specifically, one woman: Anna Kennedy. He had assumed that a down-to-earth lawyer might be easier to work out than his previous actress girlfriends. But clearly not. She was neurotic, paranoid and completely baffling. As least you knew where you stood with actresses like Jessica; you just needed to shower them with constant attention, gifts and compliments and agree with everything they said. But Anna was at the opposite end of the spectrum: fiercely independent and apparently impervious to flattery and Sam’s not inconsiderable charm.

  I mean, what right-minded woman wouldn’t want to come and spend the weekend at a luxurious Wiltshire manor with me? thought Sam, pulling the head off a flower as he walked past. After all, he’d thought his fledgling romance with Anna was going so well. He’d certainly been pulling the stops out – calling when he said he would, inviting her to Provence after she had won that libel trial. So when he’d asked her to come to Wiltshire for the weekend after their trip to Mougins, he had assumed that she would jump at the chance of spending the bank holiday in his bed. Instead she had made some vague excuses about having to work.

  Of course, Sam did suspect she was still miffed from their argument in the restaurant – and yes, perhaps his suggestion that the only reason he had helped her with the Amy Hart case was because he fancied her hadn’t helped much – but he knew the real reason she’d turned him down was to attend James Swann’s party.

  A cabbage white butterfly flitted across the path and Sam threw the flower head at it. Amy bloody Hart. He just couldn’t understand why Anna cared so much about some dead party girl. No, correction: he couldn’t understand why she cared more about Amy Hart than about him.

  He walked over to the grass tennis court, hidden in the shade of a large spreading copper beech. Setting up the ball machine, he took a spot on the opposite baseline and practised his forehand, slamming each ball angrily yet accurately across court. Then, feeling a little better, he sat down on a wooden bench, wiping his face with a cold towel he pulled from the little ice box next to his seat.

  Why am I even bothering with a woman at this point in my life? he thought, leaning his head back to look up through the branches and leaves of the tree. Yes, Anna Kennedy was a great girl, smart, very sexy, but she was definitely too uptight for him. And yet . . . and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about how lovely she’d looked in that blue dress in Provence. How great she smelled, how enthusiastic she was when he’d told her about his script ideas. He’d never met a woman who was so supportive on the one hand, but so single-minded about what she wanted to do. Sam just couldn’t work her out one bit, and that possibly added to her appeal.

  Sighing, he reached back into the little fridge and cracked open a bottle of cold lemonade. Just then, his mobile phone began vibrating in his pocket. Tutting, he pulled it out.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hey, Mr Sunshine, how’s things in England?’

  Sam recognised Jim Parker’s voice immediately and softened his tone.

  ‘Sorry, Jim,’ he said, taking a long drink. ‘Just a bit distracted. B
een concentrating on the script since I’ve been back here.’

  ‘Is that why I haven’t been able to get hold of you since last Friday?’

  ‘Yeah, you know how it is when you’re in the zone,’ he lied.

  ‘And would that zone happen to include the South of France, too?’

  Sam swallowed.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sam, I read the British papers. You were spotted at Moulin de Mougins on Saturday looking very friendly with a pretty brunette. If you were trying to stay off the radar, it didn’t work.’

  Sam swore under his breath. He hadn’t intentionally taken Anna to such a famous restaurant; he’d just wanted to treat her, make her feel special. But now it was out, he knew he’d made a big mistake. To the gossip mags, it would look as though he was sneaking around, trying to keep his new relationship a secret – and that would only make them more interested. And just when he wasn’t sure what he’d got himself into.

  ‘So who is she, Sam?’ said Jim.

  ‘Anna Kennedy.’

  ‘The lawyer?’ gasped his agent. ‘The one who dropped you in this shit? What, was it a thank-you for fucking up the injunction? Or just for fucking up your life?’

  ‘Jim, you know it wasn’t like that, and besides . . .’ he hesitated, ‘I like her.’

  Jim didn’t say anything for a moment.

  ‘And have you heard about Jess?’ he asked finally.

  Sam frowned.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Jessica’s been in a car accident, Sam. That’s why I’ve been calling you.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’ His heart seemed to skip a beat. ‘When was this? How is she? Was it bad?’

  ‘Last week, and she’s okay, but that’s only because someone up there is watching over her. Some crackhead ploughed into her in a stolen car; she could have been crippled.’

  ‘Jesus,’ whispered Sam, feeling a flood of guilt. What if she had been badly hurt, or even killed? And this was last week? Why hadn’t he heard about it? He’d been trying so hard to refocus, he hadn’t bothered taking anyone’s calls – except Anna’s.

  ‘Where is she now? Hospital?’

  ‘Back home. Barbara’s looking after her.’

  ‘I should call her,’ he panicked. ‘I mean, if you think she’ll even take my call?’

  ‘Buddy, it’s always worth a shot.’

  He called her the second he got off the phone with Jim. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say, but he felt he needed to speak to her. After all, they’d been engaged a long time; you couldn’t just turn those feelings off like a tap. Or a faucet, perhaps.

  ‘Hello?’

  Sam’s heart sank. Jessica’s mother.

  ‘Hey, Barbara, it’s Sam,’ he said as brightly as he could. ‘Do you think I could speak to Jess?’

  There was a cold silence for a moment.

  ‘I really don’t think she wants to speak . . .’ said Barbara, then the line became muffled. In the background, Sam could just make out the exchange: ‘Lemme speak to him.’ ‘No, you’re not up to it, he’s only gonna upset you.’ ‘Gimme the goddamn phone.’

  There was some bumping and hissing, then Jessica came on the line.

  ‘Sam? Is that you?’ Her voice sounded shaky and weak. Sam felt dreadful.

  ‘Yeah, it’s me. Listen, Jess, I just heard about the accident; how are you?’

  ‘I’m okay, I guess,’ she said slowly. ‘As well as can be expected, anyway.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘I was just driving back from the studio when some guy comes out of nowhere and crash! He slammed into me, flipped the car in the air a couple of times; I almost got hit by a truck coming the other way.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘Yeah, the fire department had to cut me out of the wreckage. My legs were almost crushed, can you imagine that? There was gasoline everywhere. One spark and I could have . . .’ She trailed off with a sob.

  Sam felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t help feeling this was all his fault. He and Jessica might not have been right for each other, but ever since his one-night stand with Katie, things seemed to have gone wrong for both of them.

  ‘Oh honey, I’m so sorry.’

  Jessica made some snuffling noises, like she was wiping her nose.

  ‘That’s sweet, Sam,’ she said. ‘It means a lot.’

  ‘But you’re okay? Physically, I mean?’

  ‘Sam, they’re saying I might need surgery,’ said Jessica, her voice cracking again.

  ‘On your legs?’

  ‘Maybe some work around my eyes. Jim’s put me in touch with his guy out here.’

  ‘I should fly out . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m fine. I’m up and about now, and you have your own life to be getting on with.’

  Sam stopped. Had she heard about the picture of him and Anna in Mougins?

  ‘Are you sure? Because I can easily grab the jet.’

  She paused.

  ‘What for, Sam?’ she said sadly. ‘But honestly, I’m okay. And thanks for calling. I do appreciate it.’

  She hung up, and Sam sat there looking at his phone for a long minute. Then he stood up and walked over to the far side of the tennis court, using the scoop to pick up the fluffy yellow balls and drop them into the basket.

  Jess had sounded so small and fragile on the phone. There had been times early on in their romance when she had been like that, when she’d shown him her softer, more vulnerable side. He did love her back then. And there had been other good times, both of them on their way up, both in it together. Sam realised that he missed those days badly.

  ‘But you can’t go back, can you?’ he said aloud, bending to pick up his racquet and the first ball from the top of the basket. He threw the ball into the air, swishing the racquet around in a perfect serve, watching the ball slam into the netting on the other side of the court. ‘No, you can’t.’

  62

  ‘Balls.’

  Matt put his coffee cup down on his desk and picked up his diary, remembering that there was a list of posh recommended restaurants at the front. He was due to meet up with Carla on Wednesday night and he still hadn’t booked anywhere.

  He looked at his watch: 10 p.m. Most of them would be closing soon; why had he left it so late? It was exactly the sort of thing she used to bollock him for when they were married. Matt could never understand why she got so worked up about it. As far as he was concerned, the perfect date was a long walk by the river, followed by drinks in some cosy old-fashioned boozer, then falling laughing into bed. Dates were about the conversation and the person you were with, weren’t they? Not the poached quails’ eggs you had for your starter or the bottle of wine you drank with your meal. But Carla didn’t think like that; never had. For her, a date was something expensive and showy, being seen at the right restaurant, at the right table, something she could boast to her friends about the next day.

  Had she boasted about their night of passion? he wondered. He doubted it somehow. More likely she had woken up cringing at the thought of what had happened that evening he’d been over to babysit. Yes, the sex had been incredible: passionate, sensual, spontaneous, all the things, he had to admit, their lovemaking had ceased to be long before their divorce. But did that mean that the fire of their relationship had been rekindled? He honestly didn’t know. Maybe the answer would present itself at their dinner.

  He picked up the phone and tried the numbers in his diary, the swankiest first. He’d known it was a long shot, and he wasn’t at all surprised when one by one, they snootily told him they were booked up for weeks if not months in advance.

  Tutting, he put down the phone and took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘Cold,’ he muttered. Maybe it was time to go home. The Donovan Pierce offices were in darkness except for the sharp spotlight of his desk lamp and the blue-grey glow of his computer screen. For the first time ever, he was t
he last one in the office. Shame no one’s around to see it, he grinned.

  Work had started to roll in for Matt since word had got around the wealthier pockets of London that he was handling the Rob Beaumont–Kim Collier divorce; just this week he had been instructed by a merchant banker and the wife of an England rugby star.

  It can wait until tomorrow, he decided, shutting his case file with a thud. He stood up, stretching. He’d been working with the office door closed and just his desk lamp on, which made the room so cosy, he felt as if he could curl up on the sofa and fall asleep.

  As he entered the corridor, he noticed the glow coming from beneath Helen’s door – a light he was sure had not been on half an hour earlier when he had gone to make his coffee. For one gleeful moment he imagined the look of surprise on Helen’s face as she saw him leaving the office last, a responsible and diligent partner who was bringing in prestigious clients and fees.

  But if it was Helen, she was being awfully quiet: usually she would be on the phone to the States or barking orders into her mobile or dictaphone. The thought occurred to him that it could be an intruder. He gripped the handle, tensing himself, then whipped the door open.

  ‘Jesus, Matt,’ gasped Anna, holding a hand to her chest. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Oh God, sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you were an intruder.’

  Now that he thought about it, she did look like an intruder, standing behind Helen’s desk, bent over her computer keyboard. Although it was dark, Matt was certain her face had that guilty blush that suggested she was doing something she shouldn’t.

  ‘What are you doing here, Anna?’ he asked, glancing around the room.

  ‘Helen asked me to check something out for one of her cases,’ she said, looking vulnerable and unsure. It was a side of Anna Kennedy he had never seen before, and that made him deeply suspicious. He hadn’t had any personal brushes with corporate espionage, but he knew it existed in every major business around the globe. Just because he liked the girl didn’t mean she should be allowed to cause trouble for Donovan Pierce.