Private Lives

Great. The room was probably lead-lined or something. He was just turning to leave when he spotted a bulky black laptop bag on the top shelf. He stretched up and grabbed it, carrying it out to Helen’s desk. There was no label on the bag, so he unzipped it and fired up the computer inside, hoping there might be a clue as to its ownership on the home screen.

If it was all in Mandarin, that might be a hint, he thought.

Finally the bright blue screen lit up and the white software registration box popped up in the centre of the screen: ‘This software is registered to Amy Hart.’

Matt took a sharp breath, recognising the name immediately.

‘Surely not,’ he whispered to himself. He quickly pulled out his phone and scrolled to Anna’s number. ‘Pick up, pick up,’ he willed her, but it went straight to voicemail. ‘Dammit,’ he said, turning back to the computer.

Looking up, he noticed people beginning to file back into the office from Chablis. He picked up the laptop and took it to his own room, closing the door behind him. Opening the computer again, he hit the ‘Mail’ icon on the desktop. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but if Amy had been trying to blackmail Peter Rees, that was the most likely place to find something that might confirm it. Immediately he saw that there were dozens of emails to and from Rees. Some were simple discussions relating to a meeting place in a restaurant or bar. Others were love letters, some of a sexual nature. Amy had even sent Peter photographs of herself. Glamour shots, some more candid: naked, laughing, in bed, with white sheets barely covering her body. There were a couple of shots with an older, grey-haired man in them – Peter himself, he assumed. The images were happy and carefree. It was difficult to reconcile this lively, vibrant girl with the Amy Hart who was now dead. Fascinated, Matt began looking at the emails dated within a week of her death. She and Peter had clearly had a falling-out.

I wish you hadn’t said so many hurtful things, darling. I’m not twisting your arm, I just love you and I want us to be together – I thought that was what you wanted too?

Peter had responded:

Haven’t I always given you everything you ever wanted? Clothes, jewellery, the flat? But I can’t do what you ask, you always knew that. I don’t respond well to threats, Amy. I’ve given you things, but I can take them away too.

Then Matt clicked on another email, a message from Amy to Peter, and his heart began beating harder.

Don’t play games, Peter. I can do that too. You shouldn’t have left your office unlocked on Wednesday. I’ve read the report. I know about the Atlanticana rig and I know why you felt guilty about Doug’s death. I’ll tell everyone about it unless you do the right thing. It’s not a threat, don’t ever call it that. I’m just doing what needs to be done. We belong together, you know that.

‘Oh Amy, you silly, silly girl,’ he murmured, feeling as if it was all happening in real time.

He clicked on Peter’s reply. It was short and pithy.

Call me. Need to discuss.

Matt stared at the computer screen. Two days after that email was sent, Amy was dead. He jumped as the door opened and Anna walked in.

‘Did you call me? I was on my way back to the office.’

Matt gestured to the computer in front of him.

‘I’ve found Amy Hart’s laptop,’ he said quietly.

She gasped, moving around to his side of the desk.

‘Where was it?’

‘In the vault.’

They glanced at each other, both knowing they did not need to confirm that Helen was definitely involved.

Matt quickly showed her the emails he had just read.

‘Poor Amy,’ whispered Anna. She looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I wonder . . .’ she said, leaning over the keyboard. She closed the Mail application and began opening other files on the desktop.

‘What are you looking for?’ said Matt.

‘Patience,’ she muttered, clicking on a PDF file. Matt could immediately see the fancy logo of some company called Cassandra Risk, followed by the heading: ‘Report on Atlanticana Platform for Dallincourt Engineering, May 15th. Assessment of structural integrity’.

‘This is it,’ she said quickly. ‘The report on the rig that exploded. Amy copied it. She knew she needed leverage to get Peter to leave his wife – no wonder the laptop disappeared from the flat.’

‘But does this prove that Peter knew about the rig being faulty?’

‘Look at the date,’ said Anna, pointing to the screen. ‘That’s months before the oil disaster. He must have known.’

Matt nodded.