‘But we don’t want to pay her off.’
‘No, but it will buy us time. We don’t want her going to one of the kiss-and-tell publicists or directly to the press if we can help it. Where is Sam now? I’ll need to speak to him, get every detail of the encounter.’
‘He’s filming in Capri. It will be difficult to pull him out.’
Helen tapped her gold pencil on the pad and smiled.
‘So we’ll go to him.’
She put down the receiver and looked at the stack of Balon case files on her desk, wondering how many she could fit
into her hand luggage, then shook her head. She really couldn’t justify popping off to a glamorous Italian island on expenses, even if the Ravello jaunt was off. Balon was her priority, worth millions in fees and, if they won, priceless in publicity. Sam Charles would pay handsomely too – and Helen rather fancied chatting about his indiscretions over a Bellini or two – but it was below-the-radar stuff and thus of less value to the firm. Reluctantly she picked up her phone and dialled Anna Kennedy’s extension.
Within a minute the young associate was at her door, notebook in hand.
‘Sit down,’ said Helen.
‘Is there a development in the Balon case?’ asked Anna.
Helen shook her head.
‘Sam Charles has been playing away,’ she said, watching Anna’s reaction. The girl simply raised her eyebrows. She was no star-struck groupie and had probably dealt with similarly successful clients at Davidson’s. ‘The young lady in question has threatened to go to the papers, and naturally Mr Charles wants to stop the media getting hold of the story.’
She paused for a moment.
‘This is partner’s work, Anna. The big time. I wanted to do this job myself, but with the Balon trial happening, it’s just not possible.’
Anna nodded.
‘I’m happy to take it,’ she said, her expression neutral.
‘This isn’t some jolly to the Med, Anna.’
‘I understand.’
‘Then I’m sure you also understand that I need the Balon work on my desk before you go.’
‘Of course,’ said Anna, standing up and walking to the door.
‘Oh, and Anna?’ said Helen as she was leaving. ‘Don’t even think about making a single mistake.’
5
Matthew’s heart sank the moment he saw Larry’s new wife Loralee.
Wearing denim hot pants and jewelled flip-flops, the tall blonde ran up to the hospital ward’s reception desk and immediately began shouting.
‘Where is my husband? Take me to him at once.’
Call security, thought Matthew, taking a sip of the coffee he had just got from the drinks machine.
Although it had been over twenty-four hours since his father’s heart attack, it was the first time that Loralee had visited the hospital. She had had to fly back from Mexico, where she had been on boot camp apparently trying to shift the excess weight she had gained on their month-long honeymoon.
Although the past day had been emotionally fraught, Matthew was glad that he had dealt with it alone. He had only met Loralee on two previous occasions, but he had quickly assessed that the fourth Mrs Larry Donovan was cut from the exact same cloth as the previous two. Selfish, grasping, young and above all, ambitious. She had been openly furious when Larry had announced his plans for passing the business to Matthew. ‘Underhand, scheming little shit,’ were the words she had used, if he remembered correctly. Obviously Loralee had had other plans for Larry’s money.
Now he braced himself as the receptionist pointed in his direction.
‘Hello, Loralee,’ he said.