The Yacht Party (Lara Stone)

Stella felt her heart jump.

‘Are you serious?’

It had always been Stella’s dream to work for the great Lara Stone, the glamorous, fearless investigative reporter, ever since she had read a piece Lara had written about match fixing syndicates in European football leagues. It had been brave and funny and riveting and it was why Stella had turned down a news desk job at The Scottish Herald to move down to London for a zero-hours contract assistant’s job – less of a sideways move, more a definite step back. But the job was Lara Stone’s assistant and Stella would drop anything to work with her again: even working for Uncle Jimmy.

‘Work with you where?’ she asked. ‘Hasn’t the investigations team been disbanded?’

Lara downed her espresso. ‘Not on a paper. Look, I’ll lay my cards on the table here Stella. No one except me seems to care that my friend is dead, no one else seems interested in looking into why she died. If the situation was reversed, I’m pretty damn sure that Sandrine would be moving heaven and earth to find out what happened to me. So I’m going to Paris. Tonight. And I’d like you to come with me.’

Stella put down her cloth and started to laugh. Lara always made everything sound exciting, as if they were constantly in the middle of an adventure.

‘Paris? Where are we going? Chanel? Dior?’

‘We won’t be going shopping,’ said Lara. ‘Call Jimmy. Tell him you won’t be in for a couple of days and I’ll fill you in on the way.’

Chapter 8

Sandrine lived on the top floor of an apartment block at the very top of Montmartre, the famous hilltop arrondissement north-west of the Gare du Nord. Stella leaned on the bannister breathing heavily as she pulled off the red beret that she had bought from a tourist shop on the Boulevard de Magenta. After catching a late afternoon Eurostar from London, they had made the short journey from Gare du Nord to Pigalle by dented taxi, but Stella had wanted to climb the long stairway to the Sacre Coeur. She had been correct that it had offered an amazing view over the city, but she had underestimated the puff required, especially when they then had to climb five flights of stairs to the top of Sandrine’s apartment building too. The sweat Stella had expended had left a pink line across her forehead.

‘Why couldn’t Sandrine have lived by the bloody river?’ she panted, fanning herself with the beret as Lara unlocked the door to her friend’s apartment.

‘Step inside and you’ll see why,’ said Lara.

Sandrine’s apartment occupied one corner of the top floor, with high moulded ceilings and a small balcony just big enough for two chairs. Lara crossed to the shutters and swung them open, filling the flat with lazy evening light.

‘Okay, totally worth it,’ sighed Stella.

The flat was just as Lara had remembered: cluttered and disorganised, but stylish, warm and artistic, a mishmash of thrift store and elegance. The apartment looked, she realised with a lurch, just like Sandrine: Parisian, chic and utterly individual.

‘Look at that view,’ said Stella, opening the door on the balcony.

The elevated vista over Paris was magnificent at any time, but it was never better than right now, just before sunset. The whole of the City of Lights, laid out flat and orderly like a model village, the horizon a blend of blue and pink, yellow streetlights just blinking awake like a holy procession.

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Lara.

Stella turned to look at Lara, a troubled expression on her face.

‘What?’ said Lara, sinking down on the sofa.

‘I don’t want to be morbid,’ said Stella. ‘But if Sandrine wanted to do what she did, why did she choose some anonymous London apartment?’

Lara had had the same thought. She could still hear her friend’s words every time she opened the French windows to let in some night air. ‘Careful,’ she’d always say in her sing-song voice. ‘Don’t go too close to the edge. You don’t want to fall.’

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. She had no answers and it had been a very long day. It was hard to believe that the Le Caché conference had only been that morning, and since then, she had been to Jimmy’s café, over to Stella’s flat to grab her passport and back to St. Pancras to catch the Eurostar. Add in that epic climb up to the Sacre Coeur, and Lara was exhausted.

‘I don’t know about you, but I need a drink,’ said Stella, as ever attuned to Lara’s thoughts.

‘That’s what Sandrine used to say every time we climbed those stairs,’ said Lara. Dozens of happy images flashed in front of her: Sandrine holding carrier bags of vegetables they had picked up at the local supermarché, Sandrine, a foodie and brilliant cook, sipping deep red Cabernet as she made thick stews or gratins, sharing their stories, both personal and professional. And the laughter – oh, how they’d laughed. There were two bottles of wine on the kitchen side that Sandrine had been using as book ends for a wedge of letters.

‘Do you think it’s inappropriate to open one?’ said Stella. Lara smiled.

‘I’m pretty sure Sandrine would approve. She never liked to see a good bottle of Merlot to go to waste.’

She waited as Stella rummaged about for a corkscrew, then clinked glasses.

‘Right, let’s get to work. I’m going to make a start in Sandrine’s study.’

Lara had already filled Stella in on what they needed to do. There were practical things, like closing up the flat – making sure that bills were being paid, that the premises were secure and the heating was off. Sandrine’s things needed to be boxed away too, but Lara wasn’t sure she was ready for that task just yet. And there was another reason to be here too. The story. There had to be something here that would give them a clue as to what Sandrine had been working on.