Private Lives

‘So does this mean you’re not going to turf me out after the three-month probationary period?’ She said it light-heartedly, but she knew she’d never get a better chance to put her case forward.

Helen smiled.

‘On the contrary, Anna. When I recruited you, I thought I would have to decide between you and David Morrow for the partnership. But if business comes flooding in, as I suspect it will after the Balon trial, then perhaps we can take on both of you. So long as there aren’t any more cock-ups,’ she added pointedly.

Anna stayed at the bar, watching as Helen picked up a tray of tequila shots and took them back to their colleagues. It was seven thirty already and she knew she had to leave. Her colleagues were so wrapped up in their tequilas that no one noticed her slip out of the door, out on to the streets, which had an agreeable buzz of anticipation of the Bank Holiday weekend ahead. She hailed a taxi and instructed the cabby to take her to Docklands. Partner, she thought to herself. Helen’s announcement had made her feel nervous, considering where she was now heading to. She had wanted this opportunity her whole working life – and part of her didn’t want to do anything to jeopardise it. But keeping her head down was not her style, and she had come too far with Amy Hart to give up now.

The cab drew up outside the modernist east London headquarters of Media Incorporated: Andy’s workplace. Anna had come here to meet him many times when they had been dating, and it felt strange now to be here to ask him another favour. She hated herself for it, of course, but then again, she was running out of options.

She paid the cabby and walked towards the entrance, pushing against the tide of workers flooding out, keen to start their long weekend. Andrew was waiting for her on the eighth floor.

‘Haven’t you got better things to be doing on a Friday night?’ he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and interest.

‘I’ve been doing that since we left court this afternoon,’ she replied, following him through the newspaper’s offices, an open-plan jumble of desks and bodies, still buzzing even at this time with chatter, ringing phones and the rattle of keys. News never sleeps, wasn’t that the excuse Andy had always given her on the many occasions he’d stood her up?

‘Been celebrating your win on the Balon trial, I’m guessing?’ he said, steering her into a small office. ‘We’re running a story about it in tomorrow’s edition.’

‘Then I’d send a reporter down to Gordon’s wine bar if I were you. Helen Pierce was on her fourth tequila shot when I left, and I think she’ll be a

s loose-lipped as she’ll ever be. You might get an exclusive.’

Andrew sat down and folded his hands across his chest, suddenly the businesslike newspaper executive.

‘So what’s going on, Anna?’

‘I’ve got a story for you,’ she said quietly.

‘Really?’ he said with surprise. ‘One of your clients?’

‘You wish,’ she said. ‘It’s to do with your pal Gilbert, actually.’

‘How did that go? I haven’t heard back from him, so I assume you behaved yourself.’

Anna frowned. That was odd; when she had left Gilbert, he had been mightily pissed off. She had actually been expecting an irate call from Andy telling her off for upsetting his contact. Why hadn’t Gilbert complained? For some reason, that was unsettling.

‘Well, he told me virtually nothing.’

‘MPs. They love to talk, but hate to actually say anything.’

‘Which is why I’ve come to see you,’ she said. She opened her bag and pulled out the file of newspaper cuttings on Amy Hart, handing them over. Slowly she began to tell him the story: the visit from Ruby, the possible cover-up with Sam Charles and the long trail she had been following that had led her all the way to Kerala. When she had finished, Andy sat for a long moment, staring out of the now-dark window.

‘Why are you getting involved in this, Anna?’ he asked. His expression had the soft, anxious look of concern.

‘Because a girl was possibly murdered and whoever did it has got off scot-free.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘But I’m not sure I can do this on my own.’

He smiled.

‘Now that’s one admission I thought I’d never hear.’

‘I mean it, Andy. One girl is dead. Another is in hiding . . .’ She didn’t want to add that she was scared, but Andrew knew her better than anyone.

‘Okay, well let’s start by saying that there is no story here.’

Anna began to object, but Andrew held up a hand.

‘There is absolutely nothing to suggest that Amy Hart was murdered, or that anyone else was involved in her death. No police investigation and nothing particularly suspicious in the inquest. Then there’s Amy’s boyfriend. We don’t even know who he is, apart from the fact that he’s called Peter and he’s friends with James Swann – maybe. Let’s assume for one minute that Amy was blackmailing this Peter; we still have no idea what she had on him. And even if we do know all these things, how the hell do we connect any of it to Amy’s death? Because that’s what you’re suggesting, isn’t it? That mysterious Peter had her killed because of what she knew?’

Anna felt her shoulders slump with disappointment. The sad truth was that Andy was completely right: there was no hard evidence of any kind; their information was sketchy and incomplete, nothing they could present to a court, just a trail of crumbs leading to the foot of Amy Hart’s stairs.