'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 ent.i.tled 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 p.i.s.s him off Don't p.i.s.s 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 b.u.t.terfly 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 s.e.x 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 Private Eye a field day.' 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 bl.u.s.ter 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.'

'Prost.i.tutes?'

'Generally not. Not to my knowledge, anyway. I'm certain Amy wasn't a prost.i.tute.'

'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 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.' 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.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, 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.

33

Jessica slipped on her oversized Tom Ford sungla.s.ses and glanced about nervously. The Primrose Gym on Mulholland was LA's workout s.p.a.ce du jour du jour, and as such it was exactly the sort of place you'd expect the paparazzi to be lurking. Not that Jessica usually minded; in fact she'd often had her publicist tip them off that she would be there at a certain time, looking lithe and lovely. Today, however, had been a particularly strenuous and sweaty Bikram yoga session, and her beet-red face was not the sort of look she wanted to project to the outside world.

Satisfied the coast was clear, she walked as fast as she could to her car and leapt inside, only allowing herself to relax when the doors were firmly locked.

Rigorous exercise always made her feel fantastic, as if her whole body was being purged, and today was no exception. In fact today was the first day in ages she had felt a surge of optimism that life was returning to normal.

She smiled as her mobile rang and she saw the caller was Joe Kennington. She hadn't heard from him about her invitation to Tori's art party and was beginning to worry she'd pushed it too far.

'Joe, honey,' she purred into the phone. 'How are you?'

'Not so good, Jess,' he said. She noticed the panic in his voice immediately. 'Have you seen US Weekly US Weekly?'

'No, I came straight to the gym this morning. What's the matter? Is it about the reshoot on Slayer Slayer?' She had been worried that the industry would read 'reshoot' as 'disaster'.

'No, it's about you and me,' said Joe. 'About how we went out for a romantic meal and then ...'

'Then what, Joe?' she snapped, a familiar flutter of panic rising in her belly.

His rich baritone sounded meek, apologetic.

'And then they're saying you came on to me and I turned you down. Honestly, Jess, I didn't tell anyone about it.'

It was like a fierce sideways blow. A dozen different thoughts leapt into Jess's head. None of them good.

'Didn't tell anyone? Then how the h.e.l.l did they get hold of the story?' Then how the h.e.l.l did they get hold of the story?'

'Who knows? We didn't exactly go to the most discreet place for dinner.'

'Not that,' she snapped. It was a fairly standard procedure for gossip magazines to link two stars on a movie, especially if they were both single and seen out in public. 'I want to know how the h.e.l.l they found out about ... the thing at my house.'

'I swear to you, Jess, I didn't tell anyone.'

'Well neither did I!' she growled. That wasn't strictly true. Her mother had seen Joe arrive at the house, and when she'd returned she'd found Jessica moping on the balcony with a joint, all alone. As for Mai, she was always sneaking around the house like some silent ninja. For all Jess knew, she was making a packet on the side selling her secrets. 'You must have told someone, Joe.'

'Why would I?' said Joe. 'I mean, if they find out the truth, I have more to lose, don't I?'

'Not in this case,' said Jessica, her voice rising. 'According to this story, you look like a G.o.dd.a.m.n stud and I look like a pathetic, needy reject.'

'I'm sorry, Jess,' he said. 'I promise you I didn't-'

'Bulls.h.i.t, Joe!' she yelled, throwing the phone across the car. She twisted the ignition of the Aston and stamped her foot to the floor, fishtailing out of the parking lot.

'I sound like some stupid desperate b.i.t.c.h who can't even get a man by begging.' Jessica threw the copy of US Weekly US Weekly on to Sylvia's desk in floods of tears. on to Sylvia's desk in floods of tears.

'It could be worse,' said her publicist in her usual measured tones. She leaned over and tapped the paparazzi picture of Jessica in a bikini. 'At least they used the Jeff Benton pictures. You look amazing.'