Deep Blue Sea

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Shall we go through?’ said Sylvia, taking charge, leading them into the drawing room and calling for Mrs Bills to bring through the coffee and madeleines.

  ‘So how was it?’ prompted Diana anxiously. ‘The inquest, I mean?’

  ‘Busy,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Busy?’ She looked at her sister-in-law and wondered how she could be so cool and in control.

  ‘An awful lot of media interest, unfortunately,’ said Elizabeth, folding her arms across her body. ‘I’m going to have to get the communications team to work a little harder to contain it. It’s very . . . unhelpful.’

  Diana saw Ralph flash a look at his daughter, and Elizabeth shrugged.

  ‘Well it’s not helpful. Not good for the family, for the company. At least the police say the death is not suspicious. Which is the main thing.’

  ‘Not suspicious?’ said Diana with surprise. ‘What’s not suspicious about the death of a man who was talking about climbing Everest just a few hours before he killed himself? Don’t they think that’s worth considering?’

  ‘Diana, please, don’t do this to yourself,’ said Ralph gently. ‘I know it’s hard to understand, we’re all struggling with it, but it won’t do you any good to keep torturing yourself.’

  ‘But I can’t stop thinking about it,’ she said, sitting forward. ‘I just can’t understand it. Life was good. Julian was happy. And the business? Business is good, isn’t it?’

  She looked directly at Elizabeth, who was on the senior management team of the Denver Group.

  ‘Yes, it is. But no one knows what’s going on in someone’s head. Who can say what was upsetting Jules? There were the pregnancies, for example.’

  Diana noted how careful Elizabeth was to avoid the words ‘miscarriages’ and ‘stillbirth’. No one wanted to be reminded of more death.

  Even so, she knew her sister-in-law had a point. Two miscarriages in eighteen months had been hard enough, but then to follow that with the horror of the stillbirth . . . their shared joy of carrying Arthur to twenty-four weeks only to discover that his heart had stopped beating. Diana had been forced to give birth to him and then bury his tiny body, and it had almost destroyed her. A life snatched away before it had lived. And yet through it all, Julian had been her rock, holding her hand, smoothing her hair, telling her it would be all right. He had seemed strong, so strong. Had that all been an act? Had it hurt him as much as it had hurt her? Would she ever know?

  ‘Was there anything else?’ asked Sylvia, looking at Ralph. ‘Did the coroner say anything?’

  ‘Apparently the post-mortem examination showed no signs of a third-party involvement,’ said the old man carefully.

  ‘Third-party involvement?’

  Anxiety fluttered in Diana’s belly. The police had spent at least an hour interviewing her in Notting Hill. She thought it had been to get the fullest possible picture of the night that Julian had died, but had it actually been done with a different agenda?

  Ralph held up a steadying hand. ‘He said that further enquiries should take six to eight weeks, after which they’ll hold the full inquest. Should be around mid-July.’

  Mrs Bills came in with a tray, which she put down on the antique console table.

  ‘So what happens now?’ asked Diana, trying to calm herself.

  ‘The coroner’s office will collect information, make a date for the hearing. Some of us will have to go to court, unless the coroner thinks that’s not necessary, although I have spoken to my lawyer and it’s likely that you will have to give evidence,’ added Ralph, glancing at Diana.

  She looked away, feeling sick. The idea of it, of standing up as a witness to recount the events of that night . . . It was bad enough going over and over it in her own head, but to share it in public, to answer questions about their relationship in front of strangers?

  ‘I can’t,’ she said quietly.

  Ralph looked solemn. ‘I have to say I agree with you. I don’t know what public inquests achieve other than more heartbreak.’

  ‘The point is to get to the bottom of what’s happened,’ said Elizabeth brusquely. ‘Isn’t that more important than some bruised feelings?’

  ‘Elizabeth, please. We know what’s happened,’ snapped Ralph, his cheeks reddening slightly.

  Diana frowned. ‘You know? What do you mean?’ she asked, catching a look of complicity between father and daughter.

  ‘Julian’s depression,’ said Elizabeth flatly.

  Diana could feel the slow rise of panic. ‘Julian wasn’t depressed,’ she replied.

  Ralph met her gaze. He looked crestfallen, deflated. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t obvious at the time, but yes, Julian had depression,’ he said.

  ‘I think I know my husband.’

  Ralph looked across at Sylvia. ‘Could you give me a moment alone with your daughter? Elizabeth, you too.’

  Elizabeth looked reluctant, but finally she and Sylvia left the room. Ralph pushed himself up on his walking stick and came over to sit next to Diana.

  ‘Julian suffered from depression,’ he said softly. ‘Before you.’

  Diana didn’t know how to react. It was as if Ralph was talking about someone she didn’t know. She had always felt like an outsider in this family, and even now, even after Julian’s death, she was discovering that she had been locked out of their secrets, this bond they shared. But as she looked into the old man’s pale grey eyes – Julian’s eyes, she realised – a little cloudy from tears, she knew that there was no unkindness in his words.

  ‘There was a period during his time at Oxford when Julian found it difficult to cope,’ said Ralph. ‘Our doctor put him on antidepressants – only for a short time, but it alerted us to the fact that he was prone to dark spells.’

  ‘But if he was struggling, I would have noticed,’ said Diana. ‘I mean, he hasn’t been like that since he’s been with me.’

  ‘That’s true,’ nodded Ralph. ‘I’m no expert on psychiatric illnesses, but I believe the weakness was there.’

  It was unbelievable. She could see why the family would keep quiet about Julian’s so-called ‘weakness’, but why hadn’t Julian himself told her?

  Ralph seemed to read her thoughts. ‘No one knew about it except Julian, myself, my wife and the family doctor. Even Elizabeth and Adam were left short on the details. We never wanted it to come out because we always knew he would be CEO one day and we didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. You know how jumpy shareholders can be.’

  ‘But I just don’t believe he was depressed,’ said Diana, feeling utterly bewildered.

  ‘Please, Diana,’ said Ralph, touching her hand. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what? Question my husband’s mental state? Why shouldn’t I? Because you’re telling the truth, or because you don’t want any more publicity?’

  She saw his face harden.

  ‘It is the truth. But you’re right, we certainly don’t want this all played out in public. Both for the business and for the sake of Julian’s memory.’

  Diana wanted to object, but she held her tongue. Perhaps Ralph was right after all. Dead was dead. Nothing anyone could do or say would bring Julian back to life. And no, she didn’t want his name dragged through the mud. The rational side of her, her head, was telling her all that, but her heart was saying something else, that something was wrong, that even if he had been depressed, Julian would never have left her and Charlie. Not without saying something, giving her a sign. Something, anything. Her heart just wasn’t satisfied.

  ‘I don’t want this inquest any more than you do. But I want to know why he did what he did, and I’ll do anything to find that out.’

  ‘Sometimes things happen that we just can’t make any sense out of,’ Ralph replied quietly.

  ‘I have to know,’ she whispered.

  Ralph
looked at her for a long moment. ‘Don’t be afraid to admit you need someone,’ he said finally. ‘Someone who can help.’

  Diana gave a sad laugh. ‘I don’t think you can get around grief. You can only go through it.’

  ‘But there are people to help you do that. Professionals.’

  She had the sense that she was being led down a path she didn’t want to follow.

  ‘I just want to take one day at a time.’

  Ralph nodded in comprehension. ‘Elizabeth is sorting out the funeral,’ he said, his voice taking on a more officious note.

  ‘Is Adam back from New York?’

  ‘He flew back last night. He’ll be helping Elizabeth.’

  Diana felt a moment’s conflict. She knew the Denver family were taking over, and yet deep down she wanted them to.

  ‘The coffee will be getting cold,’ Ralph said finally, calling Sylvia and Elizabeth back into the room.

  4

  During her days as a student and as a journalist, Rachel had been an enthusiastic drinker. Not an alcoholic. Who considered themselves one of those unless you had made the first steps towards AA? No, she just thought of herself as someone who loved everything about alcohol. The taste of it. The sensation of fiery liquid sliding down her throat, the giddy promise of how it would make her feel. Besides, in her profession, a bottle of wine after work went with the job. You had to drink to be one of the gang, plus it was exciting hanging out at celeb events, glugging the free vino and catching all the gossip – and working with a hangover was perversely just part of the fun.

  She had also found alcohol an escape from the various low points of the past fifteen years. The death of her father, her estrangement from her sister, toxic relationships with both boyfriends and colleagues. But when she had become embroiled in the phone-hacking scandal, she knew that either her drinking would escalate to help her cope with the fear of imprisonment, or she would have to stop it in its tracks in a bid to get some part of her life back under control. She had become sober in two weeks through willpower alone, and in the three years since, she hadn’t let a drop of alcohol pass her lips.

  But tonight, at her apartment on a quiet drag in Sairee village, Rachel didn’t care about getting her life under control. Tonight she had bought a six-pack of beer from the minimart across the road and was already halfway through the third bottle. Tonight she wanted to feel carefree, merry, drunk, and to forget her problems for just a couple of hours.

  Although she had lived here for almost three years, her apartment still had the look and feel of a holiday flat. It was small, cheap, with whitewashed walls unadorned with pictures or photographs, a small sofa, a stack of books in the corner and a double bed in an alcove behind a mosquito net. Rent was low in this part of the world and she could have afforded a bigger, more luxurious place, but sometimes, in her darker moments, she wondered if she had chosen to stay here as a sort of penance for what she had done in the past.

  There was a table by the window where her laptop was glowing like a big, unblinking blue eye. It had been Rachel’s day off, but earlier that afternoon she had made the fatal mistake of doing an internet search on her brother-in-law. Typing in ‘Julian Denver death’ had brought up thousands of news stories, each one seeming to salivate over every salacious detail. It shouldn’t have been a surprise; after all, the story had that potent mix of celebrity and suffering that the modern press seemed to thrive on. Not that there was much to read.

  . . . Witnesses say that the 41-year-old CEO of the Denver Group was in good spirits on the night of his death . . . rumours of depression . . . family request privacy at this time . . . funeral will attract celebrities and statesmen . . .

  Underneath all the speculation about the circumstances, there was little in the way of facts, but those facts that there were had been enough to make Rachel reach for the beer. The preliminary inquest had already been and gone, and the funeral was being held today.

  Glancing at her watch – and taking into account the time difference between Thailand and London – she reckoned that it must be happening about now.

  She slumped back on the sofa and took another swig of beer. Why hadn’t she listened to Liam? Why hadn’t she gone? Even if she had just been able to watch the burial from a distance, pay her respects, make her apologies . . .

  She hadn’t even spoken to Diana. At least a dozen times she had picked up the phone to call her sister, but each time something had made her put it back in the cradle. Cowardice, probably. Instead, she had written a letter; she had been a journalist after all, a writer, a woman of words. Surely she could express her feelings of guilt, regret and sympathy much better on the page? Yet that single side of A5 had taken two hours to write – something of a record for someone who could bash out a front-page splash in less than twenty minutes. And she knew that, given the efficiency of the Thai post and Royal Mail, it was almost certain that Diana still wouldn’t have received it. So her sister would have buried her husband without knowing how sad and sorry Rachel was, and how desperate to make it up to her.

  ‘She’s going to think I’m a heartless bitch,’ she muttered as her mobile started to ring.

  It was Liam, and she knew immediately why he was calling.

  ‘Hey, it’s me. Are you on your way?’

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered, grabbing her purse and sprinting for the door. ‘Yeah, I’m almost there,’ she lied.

  ‘Rachel, you’ve already missed the first interview.’

  ‘Sorry, something came up. Hold the fort for me, be there in two ticks.’

  She ran out of her first-floor apartment, down the stairs and on to the street. She glanced at her moped: too risky. Besides, the bar was only five minutes away from her flat, three if she really legged it.

  Bloody Liam, she thought, as her flip-flops slapped against the cracked concrete of the path. Why did he have to arrange the interviews for today?

  Of course he had arranged them because Rachel had asked him to, because she wanted to expand the business, take on more staff.

  She could feel the beer swirling around her stomach like washing-machine water as she ran the last hundred metres, dodging the holes in the road and the open drains, the stray dogs and the tourists ambling through the warren of alleyways.

  Please God, don’t let me puke on the new instructor, she thought as she finally reached the bar and tried to catch her breath. At least Liam had chosen the venue well. Harry’s Bar was away from the main drag, sandwiched between a laundry and an internet café, discreet, hidden, with just a small blue neon sign and a Tiger Beer advertisement to announce itself. It was unlikely anyone would spot them there; wouldn’t do for the competition to know that they were planning to step up their business. She spotted Liam at a far table, laughing with a blonde. Not just blonde. Attractive and blonde, with a pink-cheeked, girl-next-door beauty that put Rachel immediately on edge.

  Liam spotted her and waved her over.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said as she took a seat next to him.

  ‘No problem,’ said Liam, a little tight-lipped. ‘This is Sheryl.’

  Rachel stretched across the table and shook her hand.

  ‘We haven’t met, have we?’ she asked.

  Sheryl smiled. Perfect teeth. Rachel suddenly needed another drink and signalled to Jin, the waitress, for a beer. She didn’t look at Liam, knowing that he’d disapprove.

  ‘No, I’ve only been in Ko Tao two weeks,’ replied Sheryl. That would explain why she and Rachel hadn’t bumped into each other before on this small, intimate island.

  ‘Where were you previously?’

  ‘Port Douglas, I’ve got three years’ experience at one of the top diving schools on the reef. I got my master instructor certificate last year,’ she added in her lilting Australian accent.

  Rachel was impressed but didn’t want to show it.
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  ‘So what were you doing before you got into diving?’

  ‘I worked in marketing.’

  Rachel nodded in recognition. When she had first arrived in Thailand, she had thought she would be an oddity out here. After all, she was thirty, making her at least ten years older than the gap-year students who came for the full-moon parties. But she had been surprised to find the place full of people like her: girls who had swapped BlackBerrys for backpacks and were trying to find another way to live.

  ‘So how many dives have you logged?’ she asked, not waiting for Liam to chip in. This was what she was good at. Interviewing people. Asking questions. Finding the cracks . . .

  ‘Well over a thousand. I’ve been diving since I was ten.’

  ‘What about night-diving?’

  The Australian nodded. ‘It’s all in my CV: wrecks, inland waters, even did a few cenotes out in Mexico last year.’

  The waitress arrived with a beer and Rachel put the bottle to her lips. ‘So how would you deal with a particularly difficult customer? I mean, say you’re already out at sea and he starts kicking off?’

  ‘I’d be polite, I guess,’ said Sheryl. ‘But if he started to be dangerous, I have a brown belt in aikido, so I guess I’d be able to handle it.’

  Rachel turned to her colleague. ‘What did you put on the advert, Liam? “Wanted: Wonder Woman”?’ Her smile couldn’t disguise the tartness in her comment.

  They chatted for another ten minutes before Rachel wound the interview up. Sheryl clearly wanted to stick around, but Rachel was not in the mood. When the Australian girl had left the bar, she ordered two more beers and settled back in her chair.