'Ryan Jones was one of Blake Stanhope's clients.'

Sam looked up with interest. 'Now that is a coincidence.'

'I thought it was odd. But I met Ryan and I think he barely knew Amy. I did some digging and he was filming in Wales the week she died. He didn't have anything to do with her death, I'm sure of it. At first I thought Blake Stanhope was covering for him, but a job like that would be expensive. Too big, too expensive for Ryan Jones.'

She looked up at Sam, big limpid eyes searching his.

'But Blake acts for more heavyweight people too. Politicians, billionaires, big, rich companies. Under-the-radar stuff. Big-money reputation-management jobs. He's not just in the business of brokering stories. He hides them too.'

'So what else was Amy up to?' Sam asked with a raised eyebrow.

'According to one of her friends, she was having an affair with a high-profile MP.'

'Who you think got in touch with Stanhope to hush it up?'

'I don't know,' she said quietly. 'But it's possible. We both know that the truth isn't always what we read in the newspapers. Sometimes, what we see in the media is what someone somewhere wants wants us to know.' us to know.'

He viewed her carefully. The serious expression, the sober blue dress, the flash of red lipstick, which gave her he found his mind wandering a touch of the bad-girl look. From the getgo he'd found Anna Kennedy the sort of pretty, sensible bluestocking girl he hadn't met since he'd joined the May Ball committee at university to score. But now she was beginning to sound like some conspiracy theorist. Still, who was he to spoil a nice evening in the sun? He looked at the red lips again and decided to run with it.

'This MP. You don't think he killed her, do you?'

'Probably not. More likely he doesn't want the embarra.s.sment of having a dead glamour girl on his hands. It's not exactly career gold, is it?'

'So the MP needs a smokescreen. Stanhope leaks one story at the same time he covers another one up. Paid twice for the same job, eh? Even my agent couldn't sort something like that.'

He was beginning to feel pulled in by her story.

'Who is this MP?'

'Gilbert Bryce.'

'Who?'

'I know. Not exactly the Prime Minister. But look ...' She handed him a sheet of paper. 'Here's a list of all the select committees he's on.'

Sam looked at it, and suddenly Anna's wild theory didn't seem quite so crazy. Defence acquisition, energy resources, aeros.p.a.ce development, foreign tax policy it was as if he had deliberately picked the committees that would give him influence over the wealthiest people in the country. Sam had no idea whether this man was corrupt or not, but he was certainly in a position where he could be involved with bribes and favours.

'Even if this is all true, how are you going to catch Stanhope out?' he asked, intrigued. 'I know you're after him for contempt of court, but how are you going to do that? I suppose the News News online editor and Scandalhound haven't fessed up.' online editor and Scandalhound haven't fessed up.'

'No,' she admitted. 'We have some investigators we use, but they cost money we have to sign off to a client.'

He looked at her playfully. 'So, you want me for my money. Wouldn't be the first.'

'And I want to speak to Gilbert.'

'Can't help you there, love. Brad Pitt I could introduce you to. MPs aren't on my Rolodex, though.'

'Well my ex is a broadsheet journalist. He owes me a few favours.'

Her face tightened at the mention of her lover. He suspected there was a story there as good as the yarn she'd just told him.

'Don't you want to know?' she said, touching the top of his hand. 'Don't you want to know if you were st.i.tched up to cover up for what someone did to Amy? Not just for you, but for her.'

He wasn't sure he did. After all, the horse had bolted. Whatever Blake Stanhope had or had not done to cover up the wrongdoings of some MP didn't matter any more, because the damage to his life or blessing in disguise had been done. And yet as he watched Anna's face, her soft scarlet bottom lip trembling with antic.i.p.ation, he felt an electric rush of panic that he might never see her again unless he helped her.

'Okay, let's do it,' he said suddenly. 'Let's look into it a bit more. I can pay for the investigator. Whatever you want.'

She grinned at him and gathered up her papers, and for a moment Sam felt like Jack Bauer. He was already so far out of his comfort zone, what did it matter if he was off on another left-field adventure?

28

'Mom!' Jessica Carr walked into the cavernous living room of her Malibu beach house, a furious scowl on her face. 'Mom! Where are you?'

She hadn't had her blueberry pancakes that morning gluten-, wheat-and dairy-free, obviously, which made them mainly blueberry and it was making her grouchy in the extreme. Well, that and the ordeal she had to face in half an hour.

'MOM!'

A small Vietnamese woman appeared from the bedroom holding a feather duster.

'Mrs Carr goes jogging,' she said with a grin. 'You want me make pancakes?'

'Yes, Mai, thank you,' said Jessica hurriedly. The housekeeper was a G.o.dsend, but she still found it slightly unnerving how the woman seemed to be able to read her mind.

Jessica walked out on to the balcony, looking up and down the beach before she spotted Barbara Carr, power-walking in a pink Lycra sweatsuit.

'Jesus Christ, she looks like a frankfurter,' she muttered, sitting down at a gla.s.s table.

Her mother had moved into the house right after the Sam story had broken. They'd spent a couple of days at her friend's place in Cape Cod, then come back to Malibu. Jessica might have been heartbroken, but she wasn't going to let Sam Charles keep her away from the parties and restaurants of West Hollywood; that was where business was done. But it hadn't been going so well cohabiting with Barbara. While she was supportive and gung-ho about everything Jessica did, her constant rants about Sam and how he'd destroyed her career, which Jessica had initially revelled in, were now starting to wear her down. Yes, he was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he had been part of her life for four years and they'd shared ... what, exactly? Their lives? Not really. It was rare for them to spend two nights in the same house together. Or maybe she was just feeling vulnerable today. In twenty minutes, Sam's removal guys were coming to take away his personal possessions. Not that there were many of those: a few clothes, a hideous ceramic coffee table, a running machine. He'd barely left a shaving kit in the bathroom. Maybe he'd been right when he'd said they weren't hadn't been in love. But what the h.e.l.l did that have to do with anything in this town?

Sinatra, her golden retriever, came and nuzzled his wet nose against her leg.

'Come here, boy,' she pouted, crouching down and wrapping her arms around the neck of her beloved dog. 'We don't need Sammy any more, do we?'

The dog licked her face, apparently in agreement, and feeling much better, Jessica went to sit down on the white suede sofa overlooking the ocean. Sighing, she grabbed a red folder from the table and flipped it open: a collection of this week's Jess-related press cuttings a.s.sembled by her PR company. It was thick with news features and gossip pieces from every magazine and paper that counted: everyone from People People to to US Weekly US Weekly in the States, and the big Euro t.i.tles like in the States, and the big Euro t.i.tles like Heat Heat, Paris Match Paris Match and and Bunde Bunde across the pond, all running different versions of the same story: 'My Pain, by Jessica'. 'Bowed but unbroken', as across the pond, all running different versions of the same story: 'My Pain, by Jessica'. 'Bowed but unbroken', as In Touch In Touch put it, Jessica was being portrayed as a strong woman who was rising above her heartbreak. And it didn't hurt that they all had shots of her looking sad but s.e.xy in a white Eres bikini to show that she still had it. put it, Jessica was being portrayed as a strong woman who was rising above her heartbreak. And it didn't hurt that they all had shots of her looking sad but s.e.xy in a white Eres bikini to show that she still had it.

'Like there was any doubt,' she said, tossing the file on to the table and walking back inside.

The Malibu house was one of the more impressive ones on the PCH strip, the road that snaked north from LA and hugged the coast behind some of the most expensive houses in America. She loved being on this private strip, with the gla.s.s foldback doors down the beach side of the house that let in the scent and sounds of the ocean, but it had been Sam who'd gone crazy for the stark John Lautner-designed aesthetic. She'd always preferred something more lived in.

Jessica cursed as she heard the intercom buzz. There was no point in shouting for her mother, and Mai was in the kitchen.

'Do I have to do everything myself?' she muttered, picking up the phone.

'Hey, Jess, Jim Parker.'

Rolling her eyes, she pressed the b.u.t.ton to let him in.

'Jess! You're looking fabulous as ever,' cried the agent as he swaggered in, looking as much a movie star as the actors he represented: perfect white teeth, a tan Armani suit and a white T-shirt underneath. He looked hip, slick and powerful. 'So how you doing?' he asked, glancing around the house with greedy eyes.

'I'm fine, Jim,' said Jessica, crossing her arms across her chest, 'and I don't mean to be rude, but can we just get on with this?'

'Sure thing,' he said, taking his cell phone out of his pocket and barking some orders into it. Seconds later, two men came through the back door, each holding a large cardboard box.

'It's all in the den, straight ahead as you go down the stairs,' Jessica said to them, then turned to Jim. 'How long do you think this is going to take?'

'Depends how much has been done.'

Jess clenched her jaw. When Jim had called to say he was sending a removal team to clear the detritus of Sam's stuff, he'd had the royal cheek to tell her to pack it up. She had thought of making a bonfire on the beach, then telling him to pack that, but she had wanted the job done, so she had taken both her personal a.s.sistants off their existing duties the day before.

'It's all ready,' she said with a cold smile. 'You want to wait outside?'

As if by magic, Mai appeared with a tray bearing fresh papaya juice, and Jessica and Jim moved on to the terrace.

'So I hear you've moved your mother in,' said Jim, leaning on the balcony as if he owned the place.

'Doesn't every girl need her mom at a time like this?'

'I'd say you've been holding up pretty well. I mean, if the press is anything to go by.'

'Press?' she said innocently, hoping he wouldn't see the folder of cuttings still lying on the table.

'The Enquirer Enquirer last week?' Jim prompted. 'Those shots of you looking sad and s.e.xy by that spa pool in Los Cabos. I noticed Jeff Benton at Pacific did the photos.' last week?' Jim prompted. 'Those shots of you looking sad and s.e.xy by that spa pool in Los Cabos. I noticed Jeff Benton at Pacific did the photos.'

'Really? I didn't see it.'

Jim raised his eyebrows.

'I use him sometimes for set-up pap shots,' he said knowingly. 'It's worked for you, hasn't it? Every wronged woman in America is rooting for you.'

Jess took a deep breath, hiding her anger. She knew that Jim was on to her. After all, he was one of the smartest, sharpest, most convincing agents in the business. Sometimes she envied Sam for having Jim on his team.

'What are you saying, Jim? That I set those shots up?'

'Of course I wasn't saying that, honey,' he said, holding a hand up. 'I was just pointing out that you looked beautiful. A beautiful wounded little bird. That's all. But I wouldn't overplay it, if you know what I mean.'

Jim was right, of course. Jeff Benton was the top paparazzo in Hollywood and he had done a fantastic job on the long-lens shots. It had taken two hours of careful ch.o.r.eography and three bikini changes, complete with hair and make-up people fussing around her between shots. They didn't take that much care on her publicity shoots for her hit TV show, All Woman All Woman.

Jim was also right that it had worked beautifully. To every disappointed housewife and lovelorn teenager in America, Jessica Carr was not some pampered distant superstar, she was one of them, a real woman who suffered heartache just like them. And the fact that she looked so good while she was doing it too had got every red-blooded male panting.

'I hope you're not planning on ten per cent for this advice.'

'I could do if you wanted me to,' he said playfully. 'You know I'm the best agent in town, Jessy.'

'I have the best agent in town, Jim. No offence.'

'Old Harry. She's the greatest,' he said with a touch of sarcasm.

'Hi, honey, you okay?' Barbara Carr walked on to the terrace, her pink sweatsuit now clinging to her with perspiration.

'Hey, Barb,' said Jim, waving his juice gla.s.s at her. Barbara looked at him suspiciously.

'Everything all right, hon?' she said, not taking her eyes off him. 'It's gonna be tough, but you'll feel better when that b.a.s.t.a.r.d's completely out of your life.'

'All right, Mom,' said Jessica with irritation. 'Go have a shower. I'll be fine.'

'You sure?'

'I'm sure.'

'Hey,' said Jim. 'Do you two ladies want to go out, grab a coffee, while I supervise the workers?'

'He's right, honey. This can't be easy for you.'

Jess rolled her eyes.

'Okay, okay. Let's drive over to the Plaza.'

Twenty minutes later, Jessica and her mother slid into her dove-grey Aston Martin and swung out of the underground garage, carefully avoiding the furniture truck standing at the rear entrance, its door open, stacked with boxes. Jess felt a single traitorous teardrop swell in her eye duct, and she blinked it away fiercely.

'Don't look,' said Barbara. 'Never look back.'

Jessica nodded as she turned the car and slipped into traffic. For once, it was good advice. She gunned the engine and drove away, that part of her life shrinking in the rear-view mirror.

29

Anna came out of the Royal Courts of Justice and leaned on the wall of the ancient building, breathing in the fresh air. The courtroom inside had been stuffy and crowded, crammed with barristers, their pupils, staff and rubberneckers, all breathing the same stale, dry air. They had been in there for five long hours with only a short break for lunch; after that, the sunshine on the court steps was like being released from a cell. Not that it had been entirely a ch.o.r.e. Part of her was excited to be involved in the Balon case; after all, there were only a handful of libel jury trials a year, and that alone brought its own glamour and energy. But did it have to be so d.a.m.n slow?

Perhaps she'd been spoiled; her area of media law was one of the few where things moved fast. A client came to you at 4 p.m. having 'misplaced' some dirty pictures, and by 9 a.m. the following morning you had served your injunction and sent out your bill. On the other hand, very few trials were as drawn out and pedantic as a libel trial; it was too expensive. Only the very rich could afford the full letter of the law.

'Whoo! They go on, don't they?'

Anna looked up to see Sid, her trainee, joining her. She laughed.

'It is a bit long-winded, yes. The sort of thing that gives lawyers a bad name.'

'I wouldn't mind,' said Sid, 'but the QCs seem to be loving every minute of it. I've never seen someone get so worked up about the implied meaning of the word "businessman" within a certain context.'

'Ah, that's because they're getting paid for every minute they're in there. The longer they can stretch it out, the higher the fees.'

'All this to keep them in golf shoes, eh?' replied Sid honestly.