Private Lives Part 62

'See that you do,' said Benson. 'We don't want any unpleasantness.'

The line went dead, and Matt was left standing there wondering what had just happened.

Sighing, he walked away from the crowd to the bar's entrance, where it was quieter, dialling up Larry's number.

'Matty! Wonderful to hear from you,' came the cheerful reply. 'Is that a party I can hear in the background?'

'Listen, Dad. Does a Mr Taht's laptop mean anything to you?'

There was an ominous pause.

'a.r.s.e,' grumbled Larry. 'Jerry Benson been on, has he? I did mean to return that before I left.'

'What was it?'

'Evidence in one of the trials last year; or rather, it was deemed inadmissible due to the coppers involved being on the take. Sorry about this, Matty, but I'd recommend you get that sorted PDQ. Taht's a big-shot Chinese businessman not the sort of man you want to get on the wrong side of.'

'So where is it?'

'The vault,' said Larry.

The vault was the Donovan Pierce safe, which was in Helen's office. Something of a mythical location in the media business, it was supposedly filled with incriminating doc.u.ments, files and photographs of the great and the good things that could destroy reputations and ruin careers if they fell into the wrong hands.

'And it's fine to return it to Jeremy Benson?'

'Yes, yes. Make sure you get all the paperwork in order.'

Matt paused.

'And what's the combination for the vault?'

'Helen not given it to you?'

'No.'

Larry sighed, and then told him the confidential location in the office where he could find it written down.

'Dad, Helen is trying to push me out of the firm.'

'What?'

'One of the trainees heard her conspiring with the other partners. Something about an amendment to the partnership agreement.'

Larry snorted. 'I'm not b.l.o.o.d.y having that.'

There was a long pause; Matt could almost hear the devious thoughts going around his father's head.

'b.l.o.o.d.y b.i.t.c.h,' muttered Larry. 'Come round tonight and we'll get it sorted.'

Matt left Diane with the company credit card and went to sort out Mr Taht's laptop. The office was empty and strangely forlorn without the usual buzz of conversation and ringing phones. He found the pa.s.s code where his father had told him it would be and went straight into Helen's office. It was a beautiful sunny room with windows overlooking the square, but Matt's mood was dark, fuming about what Sid had told him. How dare Helen and the others push him out? It wasn't so much that he felt he had a right to the firm that bore his name; it was the way they were all so nice to his face, then stabbed him in the back at the first opportunity. Then again, what could he expect? Helen and Larry had chosen their workforce for their ambition and ruthlessness. Why should the internal politics be any different?

The vault wasn't a safe behind an oil painting, but a five-by-eight-foot strongroom opened from an illuminated keypad on the wall. Matt punched in the code, smiling grimly. He was intrigued about what he would find inside. Private Eye Private Eye had once run a satirical piece on the vault ent.i.tled 'Raiders of the Lost s.m.u.t', speculating on what incendiary stuff it contained. had once run a satirical piece on the vault ent.i.tled 'Raiders of the Lost s.m.u.t', speculating on what incendiary stuff it contained.

At first all he could see were rows of steel shelves on both sides of the room, all loaded with brown case boxes, each one marked with a white sticker and a case reference.

Matt felt a tingle of excitement as he walked inside. These innocuous cartons contained the most sensitive material possible: videotapes, boxes of letters, doc.u.ments and photographs, each file pertaining to a story that had never seen the light of day because of deals brokered or court orders granted to protect them. What dark secrets lay within them? What scandals might he find if only he had time to rummage about?

'Concentrate, Matt,' he said, running his finger across each row, looking for the word 'Taht'. He couldn't see anything under that heading, but then he didn't know anything about the case; it could well be under another name. Sighing, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Larry back.

'Dad? I can't see Taht's computer anywhere. Would it be filed under his name?'

'Possibly,' mused Larry. 'Truth is, I wasn't that hot about labelling things. Usually things went into the vault with the explicit intention of staying there for ever, so it didn't seem that important, given that no one except Helen and I had access. Maybe Helen arranged for it to be sent back. Have you spoken to Diane?'

'She's in the pub and Helen's still away,' said Matt, losing patience. 'What colour is it?'

'Silver, black? I don't know. Laptop colour.'

The phone cut out and Matt looked at the screen: no signal.

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 s.e.xual 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 a.s.sumed. 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. 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 Ca.s.sandra Risk, followed by the heading: 'Report on Atlanticana Platform for Dallincourt Engineering, May 15th. a.s.sessment 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 must have known.' have known.'

Matt nodded.

'Doesn't prove that he killed Amy, though, does it?'

'No, but it does tell us one thing,' said Anna. 'It tells us that Helen Pierce is up to her ears in this. Why else was the laptop in the vault?'

She snapped the computer closed.

Matt looked at her uneasily.

'I think it's time to call your friends at The Chronicle The Chronicle.'

Anna's expression was defiant.

'Not before I call Helen.'

65

Helen put down the phone and moved towards the big picture window overlooking the Devon coastline. The view had always soothed her: the jigsaw of interlocking green hills that stopped so suddenly, dropping away in sheer grey cliffs; the curve of shingle sand; the blue-green water that stretched away until it was swallowed by clouds. She didn't come down to Seaways, the big seaside house she had bought when she started making serious money, as often as she'd like. It was the perfect place to be alone with her thoughts and yet now, not daring to leave it, it felt like a prison.

She stepped on to the wide veranda that circled the house, feeling the cool breeze coming in off the sea, and listened to the cries of the gulls and the cormorants. She wrapped her arms around her body, for once feeling vulnerable and insignificant. Straining her ears, she could hear the crunch of footsteps at the side of the house; sports shoes against the gravel path that snaked down to the beach. Anxiety dried her mouth as she watched him approach the house.

Simon Cooper was dripping with perspiration. For a fifty-year-old man he was in fantastic shape; long runs around the headland kept him fit and sharp. He came over, snaking his arm around her waist, making her shirt damp with his sweat. Helen stiffened as he kissed her neck, and he caught the gesture.

'I thought we came here to relax,' he murmured into her ear, his breath warm.

'I've had a call,' she said.

Simon gave no reaction; instead he slid his hand under her shirt, circling the bare skin.

'Don't,' she said, pulling away from him.

'What's wrong?' He frowned.

'The call. It was from Anna Kennedy, my a.s.sociate at work.'

'Sod work,' he muttered. 'Even I've had my phone switched off this afternoon.'

Helen closed her eyes, remembering the glorious hours they'd spent in bed together, undisturbed by anything or anyone. She could still almost feel him moving inside her, making her feel like no man had ever made her feel. For a long time, work had been her pa.s.sion, but the desire she felt for this man was like an addiction. And what if that stopped? What if he was taken away from her? The thought of it was almost a physical pain.

There had always been a connection between Helen and Simon, even when they had first met five years ago, but nothing had happened until his divorce. They had never discussed whether she should do the same and end her sham marriage to Graham. In the early days of her affair with Simon, they had both seemed content with their s.n.a.t.c.hed hours of s.e.x, meeting in hotels near the places they both worked, but soon it just wasn't enough. And soon their relationship was not simply about s.e.x. Helen was too cynical, too world-weary to believe in the concept of soulmates, but even she could see that she and Simon were a perfect match. He was the one person who had ever made her see that there was more to life than work or money. And to her shock, he had given her so much more: desire, understanding, togetherness, love. Helen had never had to or wanted to think of anybody but herself; that was why her marriage to Graham was able to limp on, because he asked for little and let her get on with her own independent life. But her feelings for Simon had compromised her natural default setting of self-interest. And that had got her into trouble.

'She knows,' said Helen simply.

Simon wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand.

'Knows about what?'

'Amy Hart and Peter Rees.'

Simon looked up at her sharply, and time seemed to stand still.