‘This is the whole story of Amy Hart,’ he said, walking over and tapping a large picture of the dead girl. ‘The flow chart takes us from Amy leaving Doncaster to go to uni, then all the way . . .’ his finger traced the direction of the arrows, ‘to here.’ At the far right was a picture of Amy’s riverside flat.
Anna walked up to the chart, examining the material. She was impressed with the level of detail Amir had gone into. He had worked out a range of possible scenarios labelled ‘Murder’, ‘Accident’, ‘Suicide’ and so on.
‘So where does all this get us?’
‘Okay,’ said Amir. ‘First let’s start with what we know, putting aside the most likely explanation.’
She frowned.
‘Which is?’
‘A tragic accident. Amy was on her own, she got drunk and slipped down the stairs.’
‘But given that we know she was blackmailing Peter, I’d say that’s looking less and less likely,’ said Anna, disappointed that Amir thought a fall was still the most likely option. ‘There’s also the fact that Rees was so rattled tonight. If he’s innocent, we have to ask ourselves why.’
‘The other problem is that we have no way of knowing if she was pushed or if she just fell,’ said Amir. ‘I’ve had a medical expert look at the findings of the inquest, and the injuries sustained are consistent with a fall down the stairs: broken bones, fractures, bruising and, in this case, a broken neck. But push or fall, who knows. No coroner will ever be able to tell the difference.’
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.
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. Been 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?