‘What? Katie Grey was a set-up?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well what do you know?’ he said, leaning back in.
‘Wait there.’
He watched her disappear back into the cottage, returning with a bundle of documents, which she spread out over the table.
‘Newspaper cuttings?’ he said, puzzled. ‘But not about me.’
‘For a change.’ She smiled.
She had beautiful hands, he noticed, as she traced a long finger over the newsprint.
‘They’re about the death of a model called Amy Hart.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘You won’t have.’
‘So she died falling down the stairs,’ Sam said, leaning closer to Anna to read the text.
‘Found six months ago at her apartment with her neck broken. It was an open verdict at her inquest. Her sister maintains lots of little things don’t add up.’
‘So what’s this got to do with my injunction?’ he asked, frowning.
‘The inquest was held on the same day as your story came out in the press. Consequently it went unreported. Convenient, don’t you think, considering Amy Hart’s love life?’
‘What love life?’
‘Before she died, she dated a soap actor called Ryan Jones.’
‘So?’
‘Ryan Jones was one of Blake Stanhope’s clients.’
Sam looked up with interest. ‘Now that is a coincidence.’
‘I thought it was odd. But I met Ryan and I think he barely knew Amy. I did some digging and he was filming in Wales the week she died. He didn’t have anything to do with her death, I’m sure of it. At first I thought Blake Stanhope was covering for him, but a job like that would be expensive. Too big, too expensive for Ryan Jones.’
She looked up at Sam, big limpid eyes searching his.
‘But Blake acts for more heavyweight people too. Politicians, billionaires, big, rich companies. Under-the-radar stuff. Big-money reputation-management jobs. He’s not just in the business of brokering stories. He hides them too.’
‘So what else was Amy up to?’ Sam asked with a raised eyebrow.
‘According to one of her friends, she was having an affair with a high-profile MP.’
‘Who you think got in touch with Stanhope to hush it up?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s possible. We both know that the truth isn’t always what we read in the newspapers. Sometimes, what we see in the media is what someone somewhere wants us to know.’
He viewed her carefully. The serious expression, the sober blue dress, the flash of red lipstick, which gave her – he found his mind wandering – a touch of the bad-girl look. From the getgo he’d found Anna Kennedy the sort of pretty, sensible bluestocking girl he hadn’t met since he’d joined the May Ball committee at university to score. But now she was beginning to sound like some conspiracy theorist. Still, who was he to spoil a nice evening in the sun? He looked at the red lips again and decided to run with it.
‘This MP. You don’t think he killed her, do you?’
‘Probably not. More likely he doesn’t want the embarrassment of having a dead glamour girl on his hands. It’s not exactly career gold, is it?’