Private Lives Part 17

'Ruby, I can't even begin to understand how awful this has been for you,' she said gently. 'Sometimes trying to make sense of something helps us work through the grief. But I have to say that this sounds like a very tragic accident.'

Ruby nodded. It was as if that was the reaction she had been expecting.

'That's what my mum says. She says it's my coping mechanism. She wouldn't even let me speak at the inquest. No one ever takes a seventeen-year-old seriously anyway. But it just doesn't sound right.'

'So what makes you think this wasn't an accident?'

'The police report says that Amy was wearing high heels when she was found at the bottom of the stairs. But I'm not sure she was wearing them when she fell. For a start, she only had one nail painted and it must have been wet when the shoe went on because there was polish on the inside leather of her shoe.'

'What does that prove? She could have been painting her nails and then had to rush out. She grabbed some heels, she was in a hurry, she stumbled.'

'She was in leggings and a T-shirt when they found her. Stuff to lounge around in. Not to team up with a pair of Jimmy Choos. My sister would never wear her Choos with her comfy clothes.'

She looked back at Anna with embarra.s.sment.

'I know, it sounds like I'm clutching at straws, doesn't it? I can see no one's going to believe any of that in court or anything, but I knew my sister and it just doesn't add up to me.'

'So why didn't the police treat her death as suspicious?'

Ruby shook her head sadly.

'I don't know.'

Anna looked at her watch again. She felt bad letting the poor girl down, but she really didn't have time for this.

'Listen, Ruby, I'd love to be able to help you,' she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. 'But this isn't my area of law and besides, you really haven't given me anything I could work with. You said on the phone that someone famous killed your sister. Either you tell me everything or I'm really going to have to go.'

'I don't know who to trust.'

Anna put her hand over Ruby's.

'You can trust me, Ruby. Just tell me what happened.'

Ruby took a deep breath.

'My sister had started going out with a famous actor, I told you that. I was excited at first. Asked her to get me his autograph. But then after they'd been out, she didn't want to talk about him. She told me he was an idiot and that they'd had an argument and she didn't want to see him again.'

'So?'

'So she rejected him. And I bet famous people don't like that. I bet he went round to her house and they had another row and, well, the next thing we know, Amy is dead.'

'You know he went round?' she asked, puzzled.

'No. But it all makes sense. People are usually killed by people they know, aren't they?'

'Yes, but ...'

'What about the shoe? The nail polish? I think he went round to her flat, and at some point he pushed Amy down the stairs. Maybe it was an accident but he wasn't going to take the blame for it. I think he put the high heels on her feet to make it look like she fell, and left the flat.' She was twisting her hair furiously around her fingers.

'Was Amy's boyfriend interviewed at the inquest?'

She nodded.

'He claimed they had split up by the time she died.'

Anna's hopes of this turning out to be anything worth skipping lunch for were rapidly dwindling.

'You've not told me. Who was Amy's boyfriend?'

'Ryan Jones.'

Anna just blinked. The name meant nothing to her.

'You know, Ryan Jones,' said Ruby. 'He plays Jamie in Barclay's Place Barclay's Place.'

Barclay's Place was a low-budget suppertime soap aimed at students. It wasn't even on terrestrial TV. Anna had been expecting Ruby to name a Hollywood A-lister with top political connections, at the very least a theatrical 'sir' with some pull with the papers. was a low-budget suppertime soap aimed at students. It wasn't even on terrestrial TV. Anna had been expecting Ruby to name a Hollywood A-lister with top political connections, at the very least a theatrical 'sir' with some pull with the papers.

'I want to challenge the inquest,' said Ruby finally. 'And I want you to do it for me.'

Anna felt disheartened. 'Look, Ruby, I'm sorry for your loss, I truly am. But I think this is just a very, very sad accident, however hard that might be to accept. And I'm not sure challenging the inquest is going to help you and your family move forward.'

'But you can challenge an inquest?'

She shrugged. 'Well, yes. You'd have to apply to the High Court for a judicial review, although you're going to need more of a reason than "Amy didn't wear high heels in the house".'

Ruby ferreted in her bag and pulled out a tatty-looking purse.

'Listen, there's over a hundred quid in here,' she said, trying to press it into Anna's hands. 'I want you to be my lawyer. You know about the law and you know about celebrities. When I read about you in the papers I knew you were the person who could help me.'

Anna had to smile. 'You're one of the few people who probably does believe in my legal capabilities right now.'

'Take the money,' said Ruby.

Anna shook her head. 'Oh Ruby, I can't. I can't do this for you. This isn't what I do.'

'Please,' said Ruby, tears pooling in her eyes. 'My sister was beautiful and clever. She came from nothing, my dad beat us up, but she made a nice life for herself. And now she's dead. I don't know if you have a sister, Miss Kennedy, but if you do and she got killed, you'd want to know why, wouldn't you?'

'Obviously I would, but ...'

Ruby's eyes challenged hers.

'I know what sort of law you do, Miss Kennedy. You cover things up for rich people. Why don't you do the right thing for a change? Why don't you help uncover the truth for once?'

The words sat with Anna uncomfortably. She looked at Ruby kindly.

'Go back to Doncaster. Go back to college. Get into Cambridge and make your sister proud.'

'Can you at least do me one favour?' said Ruby, handing Anna a brown envelope. 'At least take this. Everything I could find out about Amy's death is in there. Just read it.'

'All right,' said Anna, stuffing it into her bag. 'But now I really have to go.'

'Even if you don't want to help me, thanks for seeing me at least,' Ruby said. 'Most people would just think I'm some nutter.'

The thought had crossed my mind, thought Anna.

She turned away and practically ran towards the gate, praying that there would be cabs on Piccadilly. 'Helen Pierce is really going to kill me,' she muttered to herself. 'And to be honest, I wouldn't blame her.'

16

Helen was in the shower when the phone rang. It was 7.30 a.m. but her day had started an hour and a half earlier with a tennis lesson at her club; it took discipline to maintain both a body and a career. She snapped off the jets and called out through the steam.

'Graham, can you get that?'

The telephone continued to ring in the bedroom next to the en suite.

'Graham!' she shouted, then under her breath: 'Where is that b.l.o.o.d.y man?'

Grabbing a fluffy robe, she strode out of the en suite, leaving wet footprints on the cream carpet, and s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone from the bedside cabinet. She stabbed the b.u.t.ton to accept the call, glaring at her husband still slumbering in their bed, his mop of grey hair just visible above the duvet. It had been a long time since Graham had risen this early. In the months after he had lost his seat as a Home Counties MP, he would have been up before her, reading, researching, determined to carve out a new career as a political historian. But when the book deal and the accompanying television series had not been forthcoming, his drive had ebbed away and now he spent his days pottering in their Kensington garden and talking vaguely about 'shaking things up on a local level'. Not that Helen minded; she had enough ambition for both of them. She was simply irritated because this early in the morning, the call was bound to be work-related.

'Helen Pierce,' she snapped.

'He's back,' said a voice.

Helen recognised Jim Parker's West Coast drawl immediately.

'Sam?' she said.

'Who else?'

'Well it's about b.l.o.o.d.y time.'

'You don't have to tell me, sweetheart.'

Sam's LA agent had been furious when his headline-grabbing client had gone missing three days before. Well, not missing exactly. Eli Cohen, Sam's manager, knew where he was hiding, but was refusing to tell anyone, even Helen or Jim, for fear his location might leak out. Helen could understand Jim's anger after all, they desperately needed to get to work on Sam's damage-limitation plan as soon as possible, as the column inches weren't getting any less.

'So where is he? And where are you?' she demanded, towel-drying her hair.

'Sam is back at his country place,' said Jim. 'And I'm on my way. I got into Heathrow an hour ago.'

'Fine, I'll meet you there in an hour,' she said and hung up without waiting for an answer. Jim Parker was smart enough to know that Helen Pierce would move heaven and earth to fix this situation: she had to. In truth, Helen didn't give two hoots about Sam Charles's career that was the risk you ran when you were famous and unfaithful but what she did care about was the reputation of the firm, which was why she had to be on top of her game not just to firefight the situation but to turn it around. And that was why Jim had kept her on the team despite Sam's sacking of Anna.

She walked into her dressing room and ran her hand along the line of clothes, loving the way the hangers knocked gently together. In the calm orderliness of her dressing room, she took a minute to take stock of the situation. It had actually been fortuitous that she had a.s.signed the Sam Charles case to Anna. She had been sorely tempted to take it herself, for the glory, the spoils. The way things had turned out, it had been Anna's reputation that had been damaged. Over the next few weeks, Helen would a.s.sess how bad that damage had been; she didn't want to get rid of the smart, ambitious girl she still thought Anna had potential but if she had to sack her, then she would do it without a thought.

Finally Helen selected a starched white shirt and a tight navy pencil skirt. Usually she'd only wear such formal, highly tailored clothes on court days; the stiffness of her shirt collars and the structure of her skirt were like a suit of armour. For years the legal community had been debating the pros and cons of getting rid of the barrister's horsehair wigs, winged collars and gowns. The naysayers thought they were too haughty and ceremonious, relics of a d.i.c.kensian era, but Helen could understand why so many lawyers were fond of their regalia it was protective clothing, a shield and helmet for when you went into battle. Today was going to be one of those days, except instead of the courtroom the battleground was Sam Charles's country manor. And Helen was an expert in military strategy; she knew she couldn't afford to lose this one.

'What time is it?'

Graham stirred, rolling over on the pillow to look at her, his face lined with creases from the linen.

'Almost eight.'

He grunted and snuggled back under the duvet. 'Another five minutes then I'll get up and make you coffee.'

'Don't bother,' said Helen, striding past, picking up her leather briefcase from the desk as she went.

'Whatever you say, darling,' he mumbled, and turned over.

Helen looked at him with a mixture of irritation and pity. So strange to think that just a decade earlier, Graham had been the perfect catch. She'd been thirty-eight when they'd met at a c.o.c.ktail party in Mayfair. Helen had never felt any strong desire to be a wife, and certainly no ticking biological clock, but as she climbed higher up both the professional and social ladder, she'd observed that a husband was a desirable accessory. Singles were viewed with suspicion on her high-flying society circuit. It was fine for men, of course; single men were playboys, dashing roguishly around town, playing the field. Single women, on the other hand, were seen as either predatory or dysfunctional.

Graham was well bred, connected and handsome in that ruddy-cheeked public-schoolboy way. His grandfather had been a leading light in the sixties Conservative government, an old-school-style politician with money, power and an aristocratic lineage, and there were whispers that Graham's political career could have a similar trajectory. When they had married after a nine-month courtship, Helen had genuinely held high hopes that one day their marital home might be 10 Downing Street. But humiliatingly, Graham had turned out to be a one-term MP. In the new political climate, his style was seen as old fashioned and fuddy-duddy, and he lost his seat to an articulate Lib Dem fifteen years his junior. And that had been it. Graham had spent his life having everything laid out in front of him; he didn't know how to cope when something didn't fit the script.

She could have divorced him, of course. Should Should have divorced him, in fact. If Helen had had any close female friends, this might have been the sort of thing they discussed over long, commiseratory lunches in San Lorenzo. But she had no time for lunch and no time for divorce. Not yet, anyway. have divorced him, in fact. If Helen had had any close female friends, this might have been the sort of thing they discussed over long, commiseratory lunches in San Lorenzo. But she had no time for lunch and no time for divorce. Not yet, anyway.

'Well, see you later,' grunted Graham. 'What time you back?'

Why? she thought. Are you thinking of whisking me off to Rome?

'Oh, late probably,' she sighed instead. 'I'm at a client's in Wiltshire. I'm not sure how long it will take.'

He pulled the duvet down, his interest evidently piqued.

'This the Sam Charles thing?'

Everyone was talking about the scandal; the fact that it had penetrated into Graham's clubby upper-cla.s.s world was an indication of what big news it was. Helen nodded.

'Crisis-management talks at his house.'

'Well, it's nothing you can't sort out,' he said encouragingly. 'You got that chap Svurak off, didn't you?'

Just a month earlier, Helen had extracted the Premiership footballer from an even tighter spot. The bad boy of the pitch had been caught with a sixteen-year-old girl in a seedy hotel room. Not only had he gleefully filmed the whole event, he had thought it hilarious to send the footage to all his friends one of whom had thought it even more funny to send it to a red-top in exchange for a large stack of cash. Helen had only avoided the complete destruction of Svurak's career by going straight to the top. She had struck a series of deals first with his club, who had agreed to trade the hotel footage for an exclusive and uncharacteristically candid interview with the team's captain for the tabloid. On top of that, the paper was given the scoop on Svurak's surprise marriage to the ambitious singer of a struggling girl band. The wedding would be held at the luxurious Carlos Blanco hotel in Marbella, whose owner, another client of Donovan Pierce, was only too happy to lap up the publicity.

They should call us cleaners, not lawyers, thought Helen. That's all we do: clean up the s.h.i.t before anyone even knows it's there.

'I think it's going to be a long day,' she said, checking her phone for more messages. 'It might even run into tomorrow, so if I decide to stay out there I'll call you tonight.'

'You go get 'em, darling,' said Graham as she walked out.

One of us has to, she thought as she closed the door.

'Jesus! Can't you leave me alone for one second?' shouted Sam. He pulled back behind the curtain as the helicopter hovered over the trees at the bottom of his garden. Could they see him? he wondered. Would Sky News viewers see him cowering next to his Smeg fridge and read the guilt on his face? What did they even want from him? It was like a dream he couldn't wake up from.

Even in LA, Sam had never thought he needed to live in a fortress. At his Hollywood Hills home, he'd rejected Jessica's calls for a twenty-four-hour armed guard and made do with a state-of-the-art alarm system and a gated drive. Here at Copley's, his Wiltshire manor house, security was even more lax: just some electric gates and CCTV, which was currently showing him the dozens of reporters and photographers on stepladders crowded around the gate. He'd never needed anything before, even when Jessica had been visiting. The locals in the village had been respectful of his privacy and his att.i.tude had always been, why turn yourself into a prisoner when you didn't have to? Besides, he'd have felt a fraud with all that movie-star nonsense it was only pretentious LA w.a.n.kers who bought into that kind of 'I'm so important' b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, wasn't it? But it was at times like these, times when you didn't dare look out of your kitchen window, that you could see the wisdom of 'better safe than sorry'.

'I wish I'd put b.l.o.o.d.y landmines around the drive,' he muttered as he watched the helicopter finally turn and spiral off into the clouds. The real shame of it was that Sam usually adored his time at Copley's. He loved the glorious eighteenth-century house with its honey-coloured facade and its own trout lake and woodland. It was his very own Neverland, with a five-a-side pitch beyond the ha-ha and a rope swing in the woods instead of Jacko's rollercoasters and carousels. Sam had felt safe at Copley's, he'd felt at home, even if it did have a dozen bedrooms he never went into. But now ... now would it ever feel safe again?