The Honourable Member for Derrington East lived in a large double-fronted former rectory on the outskirts of the village. Anna had been surprised that Andrew had arranged the meeting so promptly; then again, guilt could be a very powerful call to action. She parked the Mini as close to the verge as she could and pushed open the garden gate, which gave a satisfying creak.
‘Over here! It’s Ms Kennedy, isn’t it?’
Gilbert Bryce was sitting on a garden chair underneath a parasol reading a Robert Harris novel. He was wearing beige chinos, a navy polo shirt and chunky boat shoes, the sort they sold in M&S. Most people considered Gilbert Bryce a bit of a joke. Unmarried, with a colourful romantic life including two long-standing relationships, with a celebrity clairvoyant and a fifty-something character actress, he was a sitting target for Private Eye and the political columnists, who seemed to be incensed that someone like that could become an MP. But in the flesh, he certainly had something: not quite charisma, perhaps, but he was one of those people with an unshakeable belief in his own abilities, and that was a quality that instilled confidence. Anna could see why people would vote for him. He certainly was not a conventionally good-looking man, but his teeth were perfectly straight, his fingernails manicured, and his dark brown hair precisely clipped. Gilbert Bryce understood the power of image, even if it was a slightly ridiculous one.
‘Beautiful village you have here,’ said Anna, walking across the lawn towards him.
‘I like to think so,’ he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. ‘It’s a shame you’re not here next weekend. I’m due to host the village fete. The locals love it.’
‘I’m sure they do.’
‘Speaking of the village, I thought we might have our chat here, if you don’t mind?’
‘Of course,’ said Anna.
‘Normally I’d take you to the Crown – lovely place, by the way – but I do find that the locals start to ask questions.’
‘Questions?’ said Anna, suddenly nervous that he knew exactly why she was here.
‘You know, lunching with an attractive young woman,’ said Gilbert. ‘Believe it or not, that counts as news in these parts. Last week I heard a rumour that I was having an affair with the girl in the butcher’s; I’d only popped in for a chop.’
Anna laughed. She had to admit he had a certain charm.
Gilbert reached over to the table and poured her a glass of lemonade.
‘Sorry, I really should offer you Pimm’s or something, but it’s my housekeeper’s day off.’
He looked at her curiously.
‘So you’re a friend of Andrew Barton’s?’
‘That’s right. He’s my future brother-in-law actually.’
‘Then you must be the sister of that delightful television chef. What’s she called?’
‘Sophie.’
‘Yes, Sophie Kennedy, of course.’
Anna handed him her business card.
‘Oh, but you’re a lawyer, not a journalist,’ he said with a hint of disappointment.
Gilbert was a legendary self-publicist. He had been on Celebrity Big Brother despite the grave misgivings of his party whips, and had survived two weeks on Strictly Come Dancing.
‘Yes, I’m acting for the family of Amy Hart,’ she said, watching his face closely for a reaction. He gave nothing away. ‘She was a model who died about six months ago.’
‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Doesn’t the name mean anything to you, Mr Bryce?’
He shook his head slowly, as if trying to recall.
‘Amy Hart? Was she a constituent?’
Anna pulled a photo from her bag and handed it to him. He looked at it for several seconds, then glanced back at Anna. She knew he was deciding whether to call her bluff.
‘It’s my understanding, Mr Bryce, that you knew Amy rather well.’