Private Lives

64



With Helen out of the office, taking a short break to recuperate from the Balon trial at her house in Devon, Matt had had to step up to the plate as commander in chief. For the past forty-eight hours he’d been harangued on an hourly basis to sign expenses slips, payment authorisations, letters of engagement; he wondered how Helen ever got any proper work done at all.

Diane, his PA, popped her head around the door.

‘Get your wallet out, Matt,’ she said cheerfully.

‘Who do I owe money to this time?’ he smiled, draining his mug of coffee.

‘It’s for Sid Travers’s present. It’s her last day today. You’re the only one who hasn’t coughed up yet.’

He pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out two twenty-pound notes, which he put into the metal cash box that Diane was waving in front of him.

‘Have we sorted out a leaving do?’ he asked.

Diane frowned.

‘I don’t think so. I think the trainees were going to go out for a drink after work.’

‘Why don’t you book the back room at Chablis?’ he said. Lunch at the local wine bar was the least they could do for Sid, he thought, and he didn’t doubt that the rest of the team would welcome the break too.

By the time he walked over to Chablis an hour later, the place was packed. The Donovan Pierce crowd were in the small back room, which had a back door flung open to let in some fresh air. Matt had never seen so many of them in one place outside the office, and he’d certainly never seen them enjoying themselves so much, enthusiastically emptying bottles of Rioja and Perrier Jouet and wolfing the finger food.

‘Speech! Speech!’ cried David Morrow, waving a glass of red wine in the air. ‘We can’t let Sid drink us under the table without making her sing for her supper.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Sid, wobbling slightly as she stood on a chair. ‘I wasn’t going to do this, but seeing as you’ve all been so kind . . .’

There was some whooping and whistling.

‘Well, when I say kind,’ she added with a sly smile, ‘I mean bastards for firing me.’

There was a roar of laughter and cries of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Recount!’

Matt watched a fifty-something woman come into the room pushing a buggy. She was obviously in the wrong place, but he had no problem with her having a free glass of wine if she wanted to.

‘I just want to say thanks to Matt Donovan for organising this do.’

‘You wait till Helen hears,’ shouted someone to nervous laughter.

‘And to Anna Kennedy for being a brilliant mentor. It’s been fantastic working with you and hopefully we’ll stay in touch. I might not be working full-time, though, because I’ll have my work cut out with this little one.’

She gestured to the woman with the buggy, who picked up the little boy and passed him to her.

‘Everyone, meet my son Charlie,’ she said. ‘Some of you may have wondered why I was sneaking off at six o’clock; well, here’s why.’

Matt was flummoxed. He looked over at Anna, who was sharing a knowing smile with Sid.

‘Three cheers for Sid!’ shouted David.

‘And three cheers for Charlie!’ added Diane. ‘Hip, hip . . .’

As the cheers and toasts went on, Edward French took Matt’s arm.

‘Did you know about this?’ asked the partner angrily.

‘News to me,’ said Matt.

‘Duplicitous bloody cow,’ hissed Edward. ‘Hoodwinks us all and then expects us to pay for her leaving drinks? A total cheek, if you ask me.’

‘Good for her, I say,’ said Matt. ‘Keeping all those balls in the air and not spilling the beans about a toddler. She’s got the makings of an excellent lawyer, if you ask me.’

Edward looked at him with ill-disguised disdain.

‘Well at least this ridiculous charade is over,’ he said, before walking off.

Anna came across holding two glasses of fizz.

‘I thought you might like to wet the baby’s head,’ she said.

‘I take it you knew about this, then?’

‘I only found out a week ago. I didn’t think it was my place to say anything, not when she was leaving anyway. Besides, I was pretty sure Helen would go up the wall.’

At the mention of Helen, they exchanged a look. Matt had barely spoken to Anna since the night he had found her snooping around Helen’s office and heard the strange tale of her investigation into Amy Hart’s murder. He could tell she was embarrassed about the intimacy of that evening, and of course the accusations she had made about Helen. Matt had thought long and hard about what she had told him, but the truth was that without more evidence, there was little anyone could do.

‘About the other night . . .’ began Anna, but immediately clammed up as Sid came over to join them.

‘Here she is.’ Matt smiled. ‘The international woman of mystery. Maybe you could consider a career at MI6 with your talent for deception.’

Sid flashed a grin. ‘No need. Anna has already arranged an interview for me to work for Ilina Miranova.’

Matt looked impressed.

‘So it is going to be all private jets and beach club business meetings from now on, is it? Very James Bond – very you, actually.’

‘Thanks, Matt, you’re one of the good guys. And you’re good for the firm. Don’t let Helen persuade you otherwise.’

‘What do you mean?’

Sid looked at Anna nervously.

‘Sid? What is it?’ asked Anna, glancing at Matt.

Sid looked as if she was regretting her words.

‘The other day I had to deliver an urgent by-hand to Helen. She was having dinner with the partners at Nobu – well, all the partners but you, Matt. I overheard some things . . .’

Matt could tell from the look on Sid’s face that he wasn’t going to like this one bit.

‘She wants you out,’ said Sid apologetically. ‘I heard her say she wanted to amend the partnership agreement to allow them to oust underperforming partners.’

‘And by that she means me?’

Sid nodded. ‘That was the gist, yes. I’m sorry . . .’

Charlie began crying, and Sid went to see to him.

Matt looked at Anna, who squeezed his arm.

‘You can handle her,’ she said reassuringly.

Matt was about to reply when Diane tapped him on the shoulder and waggled a mobile phone in his face.

‘I’ve got Jeremy Benson from Blandings and Co. on the line.’

‘Who?’ mouthed Matt as she handed him the phone. Diane’s expression told him that it was serious.

‘Is that Donovan?’ barked an upper-class voice.

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘Jeremy Benson,’ said the man, as if Matt would know exactly who he was talking to. ‘It’s been six months since the case concluded, and Mr Taht would like the laptop returned. As I am assuming that no appeals are to be made on either side, we would appreciate getting it back immediately.’

‘I don’t believe we’ve spoken before, Mr Benson.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Donovan,’ the other man snapped. ‘I’ve not got time.’

The penny dropped.

‘Sorry, Mr Benson. This isn’t Larry, I’m Matthew Donovan, his son.’

There was a disapproving tsk.

‘Well where the hell is he?’

‘He’s on sick leave, I’m afraid.’

Benson didn’t waste any time enquiring about Larry’s health.

‘So who’s dealing with his caseload?’

‘Helen Pierce is your first port of call, but she’s on holiday.’

‘Doesn’t anyone work at your firm? Listen, Donovan, or whoever you are, we have made numerous requests about retrieving Mr Taht’s laptop, yet we are still waiting. This is a very poor show and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.’

Matt tried to keep his cool.

‘Leave it with me, Mr Benson. I will track down Mr Taht’s property personally.’

‘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.

‘Arse,’ 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 documents, 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 bloody having that.’

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

‘Bloody bitch,’ 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 pass 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 had once run a satirical piece on the vault entitled ‘Raiders of the Lost Smut’, 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, documents 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 sexual 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 assumed. 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.





‘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 Cassandra Risk, followed by the heading: ‘Report on Atlanticana Platform for Dallincourt Engineering, May 15th. Assessment 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 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.’

Anna’s expression was defiant.

‘Not before I call Helen.’