Page 57 of Private Lives

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.

‘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 g

et that?’

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

‘Graham!’ she shouted, then under her breath: ‘Where is that bloody man?’

Grabbing a fluffy robe, she strode out of the en suite, leaving wet footprints on the cream carpet, and snatched the phone from the bedside cabinet. She stabbed the button 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.