Private Lives

32



Andrew had been right: the village of High Marple was perfect, especially on a warm summer afternoon like this. Thatched roofs, flint walls, tidy little front gardens overstuffed with foxgloves and marigolds. The drive down had taken ninety minutes but had seemed quicker, with the windows wound down and the radio tuned to a cheesy eighties station as the meadows zipped by. Anna realised that the pressure she had been feeling over the past few weeks had been mostly self-inflicted. Yes, Helen Pierce had been watching her more closely than the Stasi, just waiting for her to slip up again, but Anna was fairly confident her work on the Balon libel trial had been spotless. And then there was Amy Hart. The rational side of her brain told her she was wasting her time, quizzing models and soap stars about the death of a party girl she had never even met. Yet there was an emotional pull to this case she had never felt in her working life before, and she knew that Amy’s death was something she wouldn’t stop thinking about until she had got to the bottom of what was going on.

The Honourable Member for Derrington East lived in a large double-fronted former rectory on the outskirts of the village. Anna had been surprised that Andrew had arranged the meeting so promptly; then again, guilt could be a very powerful call to action. She parked the Mini as close to the verge as she could and pushed open the garden gate, which gave a satisfying creak.

‘Over here! It’s Ms Kennedy, isn’t it?’

Gilbert Bryce was sitting on a garden chair underneath a parasol reading a Robert Harris novel. He was wearing beige chinos, a navy polo shirt and chunky boat shoes, the sort they sold in M&S. Most people considered Gilbert Bryce a bit of a joke. Unmarried, with a colourful romantic life including two long-standing relationships, with a celebrity clairvoyant and a fifty-something character actress, he was a sitting target for Private Eye and the political columnists, who seemed to be incensed that someone like that could become an MP. But in the flesh, he certainly had something: not quite charisma, perhaps, but he was one of those people with an unshakeable belief in his own abilities, and that was a quality that instilled confidence. Anna could see why people would vote for him. He certainly was not a conventionally good-looking man, but his teeth were perfectly straight, his fingernails manicured, and his dark brown hair precisely clipped. Gilbert Bryce understood the power of image, even if it was a slightly ridiculous one.

‘Beautiful village you have here,’ said Anna, walking across the lawn towards him.

‘I like to think so,’ he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. ‘It’s a shame you’re not here next weekend. I’m due to host the village fete. The locals love it.’

‘I’m sure they do.’

‘Speaking of the village, I thought we might have our chat here, if you don’t mind?’

‘Of course,’ said Anna.

‘Normally I’d take you to the Crown – lovely place, by the way – but I do find that the locals start to ask questions.’

‘Questions?’ said Anna, suddenly nervous that he knew exactly why she was here.

‘You know, lunching with an attractive young woman,’ said Gilbert. ‘Believe it or not, that counts as news in these parts. Last week I heard a rumour that I was having an affair with the girl in the butcher’s; I’d only popped in for a chop.’

Anna laughed. She had to admit he had a certain charm.

Gilbert reached over to the table and poured her a glass of lemonade.

‘Sorry, I really should offer you Pimm’s or something, but it’s my housekeeper’s day off.’

He looked at her curiously.

‘So you’re a friend of Andrew Barton’s?’

‘That’s right. He’s my future brother-in-law actually.’

‘Then you must be the sister of that delightful television chef. What’s she called?’

‘Sophie.’

‘Yes, Sophie Kennedy, of course.’

Anna handed him her business card.

‘Oh, but you’re a lawyer, not a journalist,’ he said with a hint of disappointment.

Gilbert was a legendary self-publicist. He had been on Celebrity Big Brother despite the grave misgivings of his party whips, and had survived two weeks on Strictly Come Dancing.

‘Yes, I’m acting for the family of Amy Hart,’ she said, watching his face closely for a reaction. He gave nothing away. ‘She was a model who died about six months ago.’

‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Doesn’t the name mean anything to you, Mr Bryce?’

He shook his head slowly, as if trying to recall.

‘Amy Hart? Was she a constituent?’

Anna pulled a photo from her bag and handed it to him. He looked at it for several seconds, then glanced back at Anna. She knew he was deciding whether to call her bluff.

‘It’s my understanding, Mr Bryce, that you knew Amy rather well.’

‘Heavens,’ said Gilbert, handing the photo back. ‘You really are a lawyer, aren’t you?’

Anna smiled politely. She had known all along he would deny the relationship; if Mandy Stigwood was right, he had kept his fling with Amy completely under the radar. Indeed, Anna only had Mandy’s word that there had ever been a relationship, and Mandy was what a judge might call an ‘unreliable witness’.

‘As you can imagine, Ms Kennedy, in my line of work I meet a lot of people. I’m generally good at remembering names and faces, though. I find it helps at election time if you keep things personal.’

‘So you do remember Amy?’ she pressed.

‘Possibly, yes. But as I said, in my line of work . . .’

‘She’s dead, Mr Bryce.’

‘So you said.’

Anna laid the photo on the table so Gilbert could not help looking at it.

‘And you say you’re involved with the family?’

‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘The inquest into her death was held the other week. It was an open verdict, but her family aren’t convinced it was an accident.’

She paused for a moment, searching his face. If the news had rattled him, he gave no indication.

‘I’m speaking to people who knew Amy, putting together her movements . . .’

‘So you think it was foul play?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Well I wish you the best of luck with it,’ said Gilbert, reaching for his drink. ‘But I still don’t see why you’d want to talk to me.’

He’s very clever, thought Anna. Much sharper than people give him credit for. He hadn’t specifically denied or confirmed that he knew Amy, leaving himself room for manoeuvre either way. Time to push a little, she thought.

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions, Mr Bryce,’ she said. ‘But it has been suggested that you and Amy had an affair. My source wasn’t sure of the seriousness of the relationship, but was convinced that the two of you had been involved. Can you tell me if this is true?’

He looked immediately uncomfortable. Drawing a hand up to his neck, he rubbed it nervously.

‘Yes, I knew Amy. No, we did not have a relationship.’

‘How well did you know her?’

He shook his head.

‘Barely. Now that you mention it, I had heard that she had died. It was a terrible tragedy. But really, I hardly knew her.’

‘Did you ever sleep with her?’

He flashed her an angry, impatient look. ‘Really, Miss Kennedy, this is not the sort of thing I’m happy to discuss. I am a public figure, yes, but I am entitled to some sort of private life, am I not?’

She knew she was treading towards thin ice. For all she knew, Gilbert was a friend of Helen’s or Larry’s, and the last thing she needed was for him to voice a complaint.

‘I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I’m just helping a family come to terms with their grief. To help make sense of it all, if you like.’

‘It sounds more like you’re in the business of finger-pointing. Does Andrew Barton know the real reason you’re here?’

‘No.’

Relief softened his expression.

‘Although it would make a great story. “MP Had Affair with Dead Model”.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

The atmosphere was now decidedly hostile.

‘I’m just trying to get a picture of Amy’s life in the months before she died. Were you having an affair with her?’

‘No I was not!’ he said angrily, then stopped himself. ‘I met her once at a party as I recall,’ he continued more evenly. ‘Perhaps we flirted, I don’t really remember. I’m a single man, it’s hardly the stuff of news.’

There was a long pause. Anna heard Andrew’s voice nagging at her. Don’t piss him off.

‘Who was it said I’d had an affair with her?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

He gestured towards the garden gate. ‘Then I think this discussion is at an end, don’t you?’

She couldn’t believe she had failed to gain any information from him. Then again, the man’s a politician, she reminded herself. He’s hardly going to break down and confess, is he?

She leaned across the table, picked up the photograph of Amy and put it back in her bag.

‘You asked me if Andrew knows anything about this case,’ she said as coolly as she could. ‘The answer, for now, is no. I’m one solicitor, looking into this on behalf of a family. But as you can imagine, I’ve got a lot of heavyweight media contacts . . .’

‘Who all love the lawyers at Donovan Pierce, I’m sure,’ he said sarcastically.

‘What if the family go to the press? Then it’s out of my hands. They think Amy was murdered, and for someone this is a really big scoop. Tell me what you know, Gilbert. So I can manage it.’

‘Look, as I said, I barely knew her, but from what I saw, she was a good-time girl. Isn’t it more likely that she was drunk and slipped on the stairs?’

‘I never said she slipped on the stairs. Or that she was drunk.’ She searched his face for a sign that he had been caught out, but there was nothing.

‘I suppose I absorbed the news story more than I’d thought.’

‘Her inquest got barely a few column inches.’ She paused. ‘You’re a smart guy, Gilbert. You know how bad this could look for you.’

He held up the palm of his hand. A cabbage white butterfly hovered around it.

‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘But don’t play with me, Anna, because I have lawyers too.’

‘Tell me about Amy,’ she said quietly.

It was a few moments before he spoke again. ‘I met Amy at a house party in Knightsbridge. We had sex that night and a few times after that in London. I suppose you could call it an affair, but it was a very short-lived thing.’

‘Why did it finish? Was she not good for your image?’

‘No, she wasn’t really appropriate. I know my love life is flamboyant, but a party girl like Amy on my arm would give Private Eye a field day.’

‘So you finished with her.’

He shifted in his seat.

‘Plus she’d met someone new.’

‘Who was it?’

A red rash had begun to flower from the opening at Gilbert’s neckline.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘But you have an idea.’

He shook his head slowly, puffing out his ruddy, jowly cheeks.

‘I think it was someone who runs with that set.’

‘Which set?’

Another long pause.

‘I don’t want to get into this.’

‘Gilbert, you’re already in it. Help me out and lead me somewhere new.’

‘The party I met Amy at was thrown by James Swann. He has a crowd, a circle of friends. They’re tight with each other, go to parties at one another’s houses. They’re all influential, very rich.’ His confidence, his bluster was deserting him.

‘How did Amy know them?’

‘Through the parties. They have them once every couple of months. Sometimes it’s little more than a dinner party, other times it’s more lavish. Lot of pretty girls attend. Out-of-work actresses, models, students.’

‘Friends of the set?’ probed Anna.

‘Not exactly. They get invited there to pep up the party, show the men a good time.’

‘Prostitutes?’

‘Generally not. Not to my knowledge, anyway. I’m certain Amy wasn’t a prostitute.’

‘She wasn’t,’ said Anna, feeling defensive about the dead girl.

‘The night I met her, it was her first time at one of these parties. She’d been invited, recruited she later called it, by Johnny Maxwell, the society photographer. He gets attractive, discreet girls to the parties. Girls who know they can make the right sort of connections by going.’

‘How do you know Amy’s new boyfriend was part of the set?’

‘Because we went to a splashy big party at Swann’s country house together. The week after that she finished our affair, saying she’d met someone else. I’m certain she met him there.’

‘Do you know who it was?’

‘Anna, please.’ His face looked in genuine pain. ‘I had nothing to do with Amy’s death. Nor did any of Swann’s lot. And to be frank, I wouldn’t go suggesting they did. They’re powerful people.’

‘How can I speak to him?’

‘Who?’

‘Swann.’

Gilbert laughed.

‘You’ll be lucky.

She felt a surge of determination.

‘Maybe Andrew and his news team will have more luck.’

Gilbert downed his lemonade in one anxious swoop.

‘Bloody hell, you’re not going to let this drop, are you?’

‘No.’

His shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

‘Then you should meet Johnny Maxwell. I’m not introducing you directly, but I can find out where he is this week. Which parties he’ll be going to. The rest is up to you, but he’ll like a pretty girl like you. In fact Swann’s summer party at his Oxfordshire place is sometime around now. Play your cards right, don’t tell him what you do for a living, and I bet Johnny will invite you.’

‘To be a Swann set plaything? I’m not sure I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘You’d better go.’

‘I will. And thank you.’

‘She was a lovely, lovely girl. I swear I had nothing to do with anything you’re suggesting, so please keep me out of this.’

His voice was trembling, desperate. Anna believed him. She walked down the path out of the garden, and when she turned round, his gaze was blank and regretful, lost in the memory of what was, what might have been, and what now never could be.