Private Lives

Oh God, not a crank call, she thought. Or even worse, a fan who wanted to ask what Sam was really like.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Mr Charles’s representative. Or rather I was.’

‘I’m sorry for calling so late,’ said the voice. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to ring.’

‘Who is this?’

The voice was

young. Maybe teenage. They certainly didn’t sound like anyone able to afford Anna’s £250 an hour Donovan Pierce associate rate anyway. And too timid to be a journalist or another solicitor.

‘You don’t know me,’ said the voice. ‘But I really need your help.’

‘Are you in legal trouble?’

There was another pause.

‘I think my sister was murdered.’

Anna frowned.

‘In which case I think you should be talking to the police,’ she said.

‘Oh, I’ve done all that – she died seven months ago, you see – but they don’t seem to be interested any more.’

‘In that case I don’t see—’

‘It was the inquest into her death last week,’ said the girl quickly. ‘The coroner didn’t say it, of course, but I know she was murdered and I want – I need – to prove it.’

Anna took a sip of coffee. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand why you are calling me.’

‘You deal with celebrities, don’t you? My sister’s death made the newspapers when it happened so I thought someone might look into it a bit more, especially after the inquest. But now there’s this big story about Sam Charles having an affair everywhere and it’s as if my sister never even existed.’

Despite herself, Anna was intrigued.

‘Who was your sister?’

‘Amy Hart.’

Anna wrote it down, but it didn’t ring any immediate bells.

‘I still don’t understand why you think I can help you,’ she said.

‘I called you because you know about the law and you know about celebrities. Someone famous killed my sister and they’re trying to cover it up. Even the newspapers are in their pocket.’

Anna felt her heart beating faster.

‘Look, I can prove that my sister was killed. Can’t you meet me? Please.’

Anna knew she shouldn’t touch this with a bargepole, but the pleading in the girl’s voice did make her feel sorry for her. She sounded lonely, desperate, alone. It was no fun facing anything traumatic on your own; the last three days had taught her that. The girl’s words rang around her head: Even the newspapers are in their pocket. Was it possible? Anything was possible if you had connections and money.

‘What do you think happened to Amy?’ said Anna softly. ‘Who did this to her?’

‘We should meet.’

The rational side of Anna’s brain told her that this was a crazy, mixed-up kid who needed expert advice of the pastoral rather than legal variety.

‘I can’t help you unless you tell me what you think.’