The Yacht Party (Lara Stone)

Sandrine had said very little about where she was staying during her trip to London. Her friend was never particularly loyal to one place, staying in whichever hotel Le Figaro’s travel agent had sorted out for her. When she came to London for pleasure rather than work, she often stayed with Lara on the houseboat, but Sandrine had turned her offer down this time, saying she wanted to be close to Paddington for the conference she was attending. Why? thought Lara, torturing herself as she twisted the throttle.

As Lara turned into Wallace Square, she could tell where Sandrine had been staying from the police van and an ambulance parked directly outside, their lights spinning blue and red in competition with each other, as a handful of rubberneckers were held back by fluttering tape and a bored-looking uniformed copper.

Lara kicked her bike onto its stand and ran across, pulling off her helmet as she announced herself to the young policeman. He frowned, then turned to shout for someone inside the building. ‘Sarge?’ he called without moving. ‘Someone here for you.’

A tall man in a navy raincoat emerged, pulling off blue latex gloves as he approached her.

‘Detective Sergeant Monaghan? I’m Lara Stone, we spoke on the phone?’ She fumbled for her driving licence and held it up, her hand still trembling. Monaghan tilted his head to read the card, then met Lara’s gaze.

‘You’re a journalist.’

She was about to look at her ID again – her occupation wasn’t on it last time she looked – before the penny dropped.

‘You Googled me,’ she said. Of course he had. He was a detective investigating a suspicious death.

A death. Lara tried to swallow, but found she couldn’t.

‘What happened?’ she said quietly.

The detective caught the waver in her voice and his expression changed. ‘A body was found behind the building. We believe she fell from the top floor balcony.’

‘Is she alive?’

Monaghan shook his head.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Can I see her?’

Monaghan looked at her for a long moment, then gave a curt nod.

‘This way,’ he said.

Sandrine’s apartment was at the end of a long row of tall stuccoed terraced houses that faced the square. Lara followed Monaghan around the back of the building to an alleyway that had been taped off. The sky was beginning to lighten, but still it was dark, eerie in the narrow throughfare, thrown into sharp shadow by a white light where two paramedics were lifting something onto a stretcher. Someone. Lara’s legs felt like dead weights as she followed the policeman and Monaghan noticed her hesitation.

‘Are you okay to do this?’

Lara nodded, although she wasn’t sure at all. She had been around bodies before – it was part of the job – but this was different. Very different. Taking a shallow breath, Lara approached the stretcher. She was still praying it was an error, some bizarre coincidence, mistaken identity.

Monaghan muttered something to the paramedic and he unzipped the body bag. There was no mistaking Sandrine’s serene face, even in the low light. Her eyes were closed as if she had just fallen asleep on Lara’s couch, and around her slim neck Lara could see her tiny gold bird necklace still glinting.

‘Yes,’ was all she could manage to say. ‘That’s Sandrine. Sandrine Legard.’

Lara’s hand covered her mouth to stifle a sob, the tears beginning to flow. Rob Monaghan touched her shoulder, then gently led her back towards the street.

‘It’s fine,’ said Monaghan. ‘Take your time.’

There was a flash to their left and they both turned. A paparazzi was taking pictures from the other side of the tape. Lara knew how it worked. A lone wolf trawling the streets intercepting police calls and chatter, and within the hour the pictures would be offered to all the news outlets.

‘Get away from her,’ shouted Lara. ‘Leave her alone!’

The photographer didn’t flinch, his shutter still whirring, and all of Lara’s grief boiled up into a white-hot rage. She lunged at the man, hands like claws.

‘Woah, steady there.’

She felt a firm hand of restraint on her arm and Lara turned.

‘Fox…’ said Lara, some of her anger draining away. Ian Fox was a chief inspector at Charing Cross police station. Ten years ago, when Lara had worked the news desk at the Chronicle, Fox had been one of the media-friendly officers in her phonebook, not exactly a friend but someone who knew how it worked. Journalists got tip-offs from the cops and that information was a two-way street if something came up in a reporter’s investigation. Word on the street was that Fox had dated a journalist for a while, so he was generally sympathetic to the job.