Private Lives

The waitress arrived with Ryan’s beer and tea for Anna, and she used the distraction to take a deep breath and control her emotion. She needed to keep him talking, make him think she was on his side, however loathsome she found him. Poor Amy Hart, she thought. Was that how she’d be remembered? A quick fuck, just a bit of fun to round off a night out? Anna didn’t really know much about Amy, just what her sister had told her, stuff she’d found on Google: a swimwear shoot in a men’s mag she’d done a couple of years before, a two-line biog on her model agency’s website and a handful of mentions in gossip sheets, and that was it until her death. Even then, the meagre reports on ‘Party Girl Tragedy’ revealed very little more. One paper had referred to her as a ‘brainbox beauty’ because she’d managed a year’s study at university before she’d dropped out to model. Anna was never judgemental about how people chose to make a living; if Amy Hart wanted to wear lingerie and hang out in nightclubs hoping to snare a footballer or soap star, then that was her right to choose.

But even though she hadn’t known Amy, Anna felt sure that she had never wanted to be used, to be thought of as that night’s plaything, just because she was pretty and blonde and liked the odd glass of free champagne.

‘You know what?’ said Ryan, taking a swig of his beer. ‘I really thought I’d got away with it . . .’

Anna looked at him, startled.

‘Yeah, I mean I owe that guy Sam Charles a pint or two. After all those stories when she died, I thought the inquest was going to be big news, but then he gets caught shagging the wrong bird and’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘my story disappears.’

She looked at him closely.

‘Thanks to Blake Stanhope,’ she said casually.

Ryan frowned. ‘Stanhope? What about him?’

‘Oh, I thought Hugh had said something about Blake handling your PR. I assumed he had helped you with the Amy Hart thing.’

‘Nah, that old wanker’s too bloody expensive.’

‘I thought you were a client of his . . .’

‘I was. Ages ago. I was young and I got stitched up, didn’t I? Racist thing. I needed help. But I don’t trust that dirty old bastard any more. Set me up with a dolly-bird once. One of his clients. Next thing I know, I open the Screws of the World and there it is. “Ryan’s a flop in bed” or some crap. Load of bullshit, it was. Never had any complaints in that department.’

Anna looked at him. Ryan Jones was clearly not an upstanding, trustworthy young man, but she believed him when he said he no longer dealt with Stanhope. The casual, dismissive way he had spoken about Amy was even more telling. Was he really so cold-blooded, so duplicitous that he could be flippant about someone he had killed? It felt impossible.

She put down her teacup.

‘The reason I’m here today is just to find out what you said at the inquest, so I can play down the whispers if we need to.’

‘You think it will flare up?’ he asked, looking alarmed.

‘I think the story’s probably passed,’ she said with more conviction. ‘You were lucky. The Sam Charles thing happened at the right time.’

‘To Sam Charles.’ He smiled ruefully, raising his beer bottle.

‘So tell me,’ she pressed.

‘I told them the truth,’ he said with a hint of bravado. ‘I met this blonde piece in a club last December. We met up a few days later. I took her back to mine, but it turned out she was a cock-tease so I never saw her again. That’s it. The next thing I know, she’s dead. Police interviewed me about it a couple of days after I read it in the papers.’

‘Did you tell the police or the coroner that you thought Amy was a cock-tease?’

‘I didn’t phrase it like that. Why do you ask?’

‘Because it sounds a bit angry.’

He ordered another beer without asking if Anna wanted a top-up.

‘What are you saying, Anna? You think I pushed her down the stairs because she wouldn’t fuck me?’

‘No.’

‘You’re right she pissed me off, though. I didn’t tell that to the police either.’

‘Why were you pissed off?’

‘Because girls like her don’t know how to keep their end of the bargain.’ He wiped his wet top lip with the back of his hand. ‘They’re happy to get all the attention when they’re out with people like me. The free drinks, the VIP area, all that. And they love getting papped when they come out of a club with me. Amy was lapping it up that night, sticking her tits out for the flash-bulbs. But back at my flat, she was just a prick-tease. Suddenly she’s not interested. So I kick her out.’

‘Nice,’ said Anna, unable to hide her feelings.