‘Don’t worry, Helen. I already have.’
68
Ruby Hart ran up to the ice-cream van parked outside Richmond’s White Cross riverside pub on the edge of the Thames and bought three enormous Mr Whippy cones.
‘A thank-you to the world’s greatest lawyer.’ She grinned, handing one to Anna and another to her mother, Liz Hart. Anna felt so pleased that the two Hart women had come down to London to catch the first editions of The Chronicle hitting the street. And when Liz Hart had wept tears of relief as she had read the story about her daughter, Anna had felt a sense of justice more potent than anything she had experienced in all her time in the law.
‘World’s greatest lawyer? I don’t know about that,’ she giggled, secretly feeling very proud of the copy of The Chronicle that was poking out of her bag. ‘Party Girl in Suspicious Death’ read the headline on page three. She’d felt a pang of disappointment that Amir’s exposé hadn’t made the front-page splash, but a big royal story had pushed it off. Anna knew more than anybody that newspapers were in the business of selling copies and the better story wasn’t always the biggest story when the editor came to decide what would drive more sales.
But it was enough. Enough to cause a stir. Enough for the other newspapers to pick the story up. It wasn’t enough to bring Amy back to life but it was enough to stop her death being invisible, and in time, with a police investigation to back up the work of the Chronicle news team, maybe it was enough for someone to be finally held responsible for her killing.
‘Is it true that the paper’s going to run a bigger piece at the weekend?’ asked Liz, looking visibly
less tired and grave than the first time they had met.
Anna nodded. ‘The Sunday Chronicle are going to do a more in-depth piece, yes. The Chronicle wanted to break the story, but there’s so much to follow up about the Atlanticana rig, and Dallincourt’s involvement in the explosion, that the bigger weekend editions can really go to town on it. It’s going to be a major international story.’
‘I hope Amy’s not going to be dragged into all that,’ said Liz quietly. ‘This is enough. We only wanted justice for Amy. Not celebrity.’
The three women walked along the bank of the Thames in a contented silence as they licked their ice creams.
‘Do you think it will be possible to say thank you to Sam Charles too?’ asked Ruby hopefully. ‘I know he paid for your investigator.’
Anna knew that Ruby was right. On their date in Mougins, Sam had made his motives for helping them sound so flippant, but without him there was a good chance the story would never have seen the light of day.
‘I’m sure he’d love to meet you,’ she said honestly. ‘I can arrange a meeting with him if you’d like.’
‘Yes, please,’ beamed Ruby. ‘When are you seeing him next?’
It was a good question. All week she’d been avoiding Sam’s calls demanding that she contact him. Of course, with so much else going on, there hadn’t really been time to meet, especially as he was in script-writing lockdown at his Wiltshire country manor. But the real reason, she acknowledged to herself, was that she could not work out how she felt about him; his initial interest in her had been thrilling and the sex had been incredible. But she also knew that dating someone of his celebrity would change her life completely, and she wasn’t sure if she was prepared for such a precarious, if exhilarating, ride.
She had thought a few days’ distance might give her some clarity on the situation. But the longer she left it, the more Sam Charles seemed to fade back into what he always was to her, a magnificent and yet unobtainable face from the movies.
‘I need to see him soon,’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Today. Go today,’ pressed Ruby. ‘Me and Mum are in London until Monday. Maybe Sam can come and meet us tomorrow.’
‘Don’t let us hold you up,’ said Liz Hart with a smile. ‘We’re happy. We’ve got tickets to go round Buckingham Palace this afternoon.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Anna.
‘Go,’ said Liz knowingly.
Anna slowed the car as she wound through the sleepy streets of Haversham. What a beautiful place, she thought to herself, passing bloom-filled gardens and honey-stone cottages covered in ivy and wisteria; it was like a perfect English village, imagined by Hollywood, created by set directors and then deposited in the most stunning countryside possible. No wonder a British movie star had chosen to live here, she thought, feeling a flutter of nerves as she pulled up at the gates of Copley Manor.
She stopped the car, opened her diary and found the entry code Sam had given her in the south of France. ‘Just come by whenever,’ he had said on his voice message. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
The gates swung open and Anna drove in, her heart fluttering. Would Sam be glad to see her? Would he even be in? It would be embarrassing trying to explain herself to a housekeeper. Still, her surprise arrival seemed like just the sort of spontaneous gesture that Sam would approve of – he was always telling her she was too controlled. Picking up her handbag, she got out of the car and walked towards the house, beginning to feel like a deranged groupie rather than a respectable lawyer going to see her client to . . . to what?
Make up? Break up? She wasn’t exactly sure why she was here, but it had been such a good day so far, she knew things might just work out the way they were supposed to.
She pushed a smooth marble bell and a small oriental man answered the door. She announced herself and he disappeared, and when he returned, Sam was right behind him.
She took a deep breath, ready to say her piece.
‘So you were right.’ She smiled at him, stepping into the cool interior of the house. ‘I work too hard, and to show you I’ve changed, I’m playing truant from work.’
She stopped, realising he did not look happy to see her. His smile was frozen, his face was pale, while his eyes betrayed his alarm.