‘So the MP needs a smokescreen. Stanhope leaks one story at the same time he covers another one up. Paid twice for the same job, eh? Even my agent couldn’t sort something like that.’
He was beginning to feel pulled in by her story.
‘Who is this MP?’
‘Gilbert Bryce.’
‘Who?’
‘I know. Not exactly the Prime Minister. But look . . .’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s a list of all the select committees he’s on.’
Sam looked at it, and suddenly Anna’s wild theory didn’t seem quite so crazy. Defence acquisition, energy resources, aerospace development, foreign tax policy – it was as if he had deliberately picked the committees that would give him influence over the wealthiest people in the country. Sam had no idea whether this man was corrupt or not, but he was certainly in a position where he could be involved with bribes and favours.
‘Even if this is all true, how are you going to catch Stanhope out?’ he asked, intrigued. ‘I know you’re after him for contempt of court, but how are you going to do that? I suppose the News online editor and Scandalhound haven’t fessed up.’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘We have some investigators we use, but they cost money we have to sign off to a client.’
He looked at her playfully. ‘So, you want me for my money. Wouldn’t be the first.’
‘And I want to speak to Gilbert.’
‘Can’t help you there, love. Brad Pitt I could introduce you to. MPs aren’t on my Rolodex, though.’
‘Well my ex is a broadsheet journalist. He owes me a few favours.’
Her face tightened at the mention of her lover. He suspected there was a story there as good as the yarn she’d just told him.
‘Don’t you want to know?’ she said, touching the top of his hand. ‘Don’t you want to know if you were stitched up to cover up for what someone did to Amy? Not just for you, but for her.’
He wasn’t sure he did. After all, the horse had bolted. Whatever Blake Stanhope had or had not done to cover up the wrongdoings of some MP didn’t matter any more, because the damage to his life – or blessing in disguise – had been done. And yet as he watched Anna’s face, her soft scarlet bottom lip trembling with anticipation, he felt an electric rush of panic that he might never see her again unless he helped her.
‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said suddenly. ‘Let’s look into it a bit more. I can pay for the investigator. Whatever you want.’
She grinned at him and gathered up her papers, and for a moment Sam felt like Jack Bauer. He was already so far out of his comfort zone, what did it matter if he was off on another left-field adventure?
28
‘Mom!’ Jessica Carr walked into the cavernous living room of her Malibu beach house, a furious scowl on her face. ‘Mom! Where are you?’
She hadn’t had her blueberry pancakes that morning – gluten-, wheat-and dairy-free, obviously, which made them mainly blueberry – and it was making her grouchy in the extreme. Well, that and the ordeal she had to face in half an hour.
‘MOM!’
A small Vietnamese woman appeared from the bedroom holding a feather duster.
‘Mrs Carr goes jogging,’ she said with a grin. ‘You want me make pancakes?’
‘Yes, Mai, thank you,’ said Jessica hurriedly. The housekeeper was a godsend, but she still found it slightly unnerving how the woman seemed to be able to read her mind.
Jessica walked out on to the balcony, looking up and down the beach before she spotted Barbara Carr, power-walking in a pink Lycra sweatsuit.
‘Jesus Christ, she looks like a frankfurter,’ she muttered, sitting down at a glass table.
Her mother had moved into the house right after the Sam story had broken. They’d spent a couple of days at her friend’s place in Cape Cod, then come back to Malibu. Jessica might have been heartbroken, but she wasn’t going to let Sam Charles keep her away from the parties and restaurants of West Hollywood; that was where business
was done. But it hadn’t been going so well cohabiting with Barbara. While she was supportive and gung-ho about everything Jessica did, her constant rants about Sam and how he’d destroyed her career, which Jessica had initially revelled in, were now starting to wear her down. Yes, he was a bastard, but he had been part of her life for four years and they’d shared . . . what, exactly? Their lives? Not really. It was rare for them to spend two nights in the same house together. Or maybe she was just feeling vulnerable today. In twenty minutes, Sam’s removal guys were coming to take away his personal possessions. Not that there were many of those: a few clothes, a hideous ceramic coffee table, a running machine. He’d barely left a shaving kit in the bathroom. Maybe he’d been right when he’d said they weren’t – hadn’t been – in love. But what the hell did that have to do with anything in this town?
Sinatra, her golden retriever, came and nuzzled his wet nose against her leg.