Page 145 of Private Lives

‘Okay, it’s Friday night,’ he said. ‘If the jet’s fuelled and ready, we’ll be in Kerala by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. We fly back on Sunday and you’ll be at your desk at nine o’clock Monday telling everyone that you had a nice quiet weekend.’

Anna still looked hesitant.

‘I thought you wanted to find out what happened to Amy?’

‘I do,’ she said passionately.

‘So let’s go.’

‘What time would we leave?’ she asked, looking more confident about the idea.

‘I’ll need to speak to the pilot, but we’ll get the first slot out of the airport.’

‘So like, now?’

Sam could see this was freaking her out and didn’t want to scare her off.

‘Let me make a few calls,’ he said, getting up. ‘You just relax and have another drink. It might be easier if you stay here. There are two bedrooms,’ he added quickly.

‘But my bag and passport are at my hotel,’ said Anna, with a look of panic. ‘I’d better go.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Call me when you know what the arrangements are,’ she added, opening the door to the suite.

‘But what about that . . .’

The door slammed.

‘. . . other drink?’ he said to empty space. Then he burst out laughing.

45

‘So who is this Deena Washington exactly?’ said Helen with irritation, flicking through the notes her private investigator had prepared. She looked up at Mark Carrington at the wheel of his SUV as they drove towards the Hamptons on the Sunrise Highway. Helen was tired, jet-lagged and annoyed that she’d had to come to New York at all: wasn’t that why she employed PIs like Mark? Carrington was a forty-something former cop who had left the force to join Travis Sim, the prestigious global risk management firm. If you wanted anything found – a person, a computer file, a missing aeroplane – Travis Sim, and more specifically Mark Carrington, could find it for you. He was the best in the business. Which was why Helen was particularly annoyed with him. Previously, his work for her had been flawless: background screening checks, profiles on witnesses, finding evidence that had conveniently disappeared into the bowels of the US justice system, he’d done it all with speedy efficiency. But this time, he had failed.

By Mark’s account, he had hit a brick wall trying to find something, anything that linked a member of the Stateside staff to Jonathon Balon.

‘Everyone’s clammed up,’ he had told her over the phone, ‘They all seem terrified of this guy Spencer Reed. No one will talk.’

Helen couldn’t sit back any longer. They only had a few days to go until the end of the trial and she couldn’t risk – wouldn’t even consider the possibility of – losing the case. The whole reputation of Donovan Pierce rested on it, and she hadn’t worked so long and hard to let that happen. So she had left court on Friday and flown straight to JFK, determined that she would return to London on Monday with a piece of information that would blow Stateside’s case out of the water.

But now, sitting in Mark’s untidy car, watching his stubby fingers drumming on the wheel as he hummed along to Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run’, she wasn’t at all confident that was going to happen. She reached out and snapped off the radio.

‘If you couldn’t get any of the others to talk, why do you think this girl’s going to tell anything?’

‘Deena doesn’t work in magazines any more. She’s gone into TV,’ explained Mark, turning the radio back on.

The car threaded along the highway, towards Long Island’s South Fork. The traffic was slow; clogged by wealthy New Yorkers escaping the city humidity for the seaside towns. Helen had visited the area many times to attend parties or stay at the homes of powerful clients, but she could never see the appeal of spending a whole summer cooped up with so many snooty bankers, all playing the same game of one-upmanship: who’s got the biggest house, yacht, bank balance. She herself was much mo

re interested in making money than showing it off.

‘Is this it?’ she asked as they pulled off the main road and into the town of Bridgehampton. It was almost six o’clock and the sun was slinking towards the horizon, sending out flashes of orange between the large houses as they passed. Mark turned into a small private road, more sand than blacktop, and stopped the car in front of a dove-grey cottage, set back from the sands. Little more than a shack, it was still a shack with a view that Helen guessed rented at more than $30,000 a summer.

Mark and Helen got out and followed a path leading around the house. They could hear music and laughter coming from the side facing the pale-almond sands of the beach. As they turned the corner, they could see a small group: young men in chinos and blue shirts, girls in bikinis and sarongs, all standing around a huge barbecue pit, drinking wine.

‘Deena’s the redhead on the tiki seat,’ said Mark.

Seeing the strangers, the girl stood up and walked over. She was petite, with delicate features and freckles across an upturned nose.

‘Deena Washington?’ said Helen.

‘That’s me,’ she said, looking instantly defensive.