'What are you looking for?' Ruby asked.

'Pictures, photos, letters, anything like that,' said Anna.

Ruby shook her head. 'I wouldn't bother,' she said. 'I packed those boxes and there's nothing like that. I thought it was a bit strange, actually, 'cos Amy was a bit like our mum, she was a h.o.a.rder, could never throw anything away.'

Anna frowned at her.

'You mean that in that whole flat, there were no photos at all?'

'No, should there have been?'

Of course there should, thought Anna. Amy was a model, and she spent her life in a social whirl. The place should have been covered in pictures.

'What about a computer? Did she have one?'

'I thought she did,' said Ruby. 'She definitely used to have a laptop and she'd send me emails all the time, so she must have done. But when we cleared her flat, we couldn't find it. Or her mobile.'

Anna frowned, while Ruby began rifling through her sister's chest of drawers.

'Before you ask, there were no mobile phone records or a diary, although who keeps one of those these days? But she did have this.' She took a battered address book out of the drawer and gave it to Anna. 'I had to use it to ring her friends about the funeral. Their numbers are all in there.'

Anna flicked through.

'How many of them came to the funeral?' she asked.

'About a dozen.' She rattled off the names, although none of them meant anything to Anna.

'The only one who didn't come was Louise, actually,' said Ruby. 'I was a bit sad about that because Lou was Amy's best mate in London. They used to be flatmates before she moved into that posh flat by the Thames. I met her a few times; she was nice, she worked at a magazine.'

'Why didn't she come?'

Ruby shrugged. 'Don't know. She sent my mum a really nice letter saying how sorry she was, but when I tried to call her, her number had been disconnected. I rang the magazine and they said she'd left to go travelling.'

'When did she leave?'

'Not long after Amy died.'

The sky was turning dark as Anna's car crept slowly along the inside lane of the motorway. At least she wouldn't have to lie to Helen Pierce about traffic snarl-ups it seemed as if the whole of the M1 was being dug up tonight and it certainly gave her time to think. Not that it was getting her anywhere. The further she delved into Amy's life, the harder it was to see clearly; it was like walking blindly into a dark wood. If only she had been able to go through Amy's missing laptop and mobile phone, she was sure she would have found something of interest: photographs, emails, texts. But then, of course, perhaps that was the exact reason she hadn't been able to check them. It was as if Amy's flat had been cleared before Liz and Ruby Hart had done the official job.

She pulled out her phone, wondering if it was too late to ring. No, men like Phil Berry were always on call. That was sort of the point. She scrolled to his number.

'Phil. It's Anna Kennedy.'

'Friday night,' said the man, his Irish accent softening the words. 'Ten thirty. Someone's been a bad boy if you're calling me now, Anna.'

She laughed. Phil Berry was a former consultant with Hill Securities one of the private investigation giants that Davidson Owen had used for forensic accounting and chasing down witnesses. She'd worked with him on half a dozen cases before he'd left to set up on his own, undercutting his old firm. He was cheap, he was quick and he was completely reliable. If you wanted to find someone, he would find them. Anna thought of him as a human bloodhound.

'I need you to track someone down for me.'

'Don't you ever call to invite me to dinner?'

Anna chuckled.

'Not this time, Phil. I need the whereabouts of a girl named Louise Allerton. Twenty-four, works in fashion journalism. Cla.s.s Cla.s.s magazine. Left the country six months ago to go travelling, not been heard of since. I need to speak to her urgently.' magazine. Left the country six months ago to go travelling, not been heard of since. I need to speak to her urgently.'

'I'll get on it straight away.'

She laughed. 'I appreciate the dedication, but as you point out, it's ten thirty on a Friday night. Don't you have a life, Phil?'

'This is is my life, darling,' he said, and hung up. my life, darling,' he said, and hung up.

Mine too, thought Anna, as the traffic ahead of her began to move once more.

37

Helen Pierce stared at the calendar in front of her, wondering if she could turn back time or somehow change the frustrating facts written down there in black and white. It had been deeply irritating to discover that Stateside Stateside had gone to press over a week after the registration of the Balon4Mayor domain name, but much worse, it was potentially fatal to her case. She seriously doubted that anyone at the magazine had really had a clue that Jonathon Balon had registered the web name or even had political ambitions when they had gone to press, otherwise they would already have used it as a big stick with which to beat him. After all, the article had been a hachet job, and 'Property Developer With Criminal Connections Wants To Run London' would have been ten times more sensational. The annoying thing was that none of that mattered. The fact remained that Balon4Mayor.com pre-dated the magazine's print date, and legally that was enough for the magazine to argue that the story was in the public interest. had gone to press over a week after the registration of the Balon4Mayor domain name, but much worse, it was potentially fatal to her case. She seriously doubted that anyone at the magazine had really had a clue that Jonathon Balon had registered the web name or even had political ambitions when they had gone to press, otherwise they would already have used it as a big stick with which to beat him. After all, the article had been a hachet job, and 'Property Developer With Criminal Connections Wants To Run London' would have been ten times more sensational. The annoying thing was that none of that mattered. The fact remained that Balon4Mayor.com pre-dated the magazine's print date, and legally that was enough for the magazine to argue that the story was in the public interest.

She sat back and closed her eyes, going over the trial once more in her head. Stateside Stateside had called dozens of witnesses in the course of the week, most of whom had been humdrum: the writer of the piece, a selection of the people he had interviewed, most of them just there to nod and say 'yes, that's what I told him' it was all par for the course in a trial like this. The only witness Helen had been worried about had been Spencer Reed, the magazine's flamboyant editor. Spencer was one of the most famous editors in the world, and he had an ego and swagger to match. In the past decade she'd represented a handful of clients in defamation actions against had called dozens of witnesses in the course of the week, most of whom had been humdrum: the writer of the piece, a selection of the people he had interviewed, most of them just there to nod and say 'yes, that's what I told him' it was all par for the course in a trial like this. The only witness Helen had been worried about had been Spencer Reed, the magazine's flamboyant editor. Spencer was one of the most famous editors in the world, and he had an ego and swagger to match. In the past decade she'd represented a handful of clients in defamation actions against Stateside Stateside, and Spencer had always been an impressive witness: pa.s.sionate, defiant, deeply protective of his magazine. But this time, he'd been different. He was still outwardly confident and eloquent, but you could tell he was just going through the motions. I wonder ... thought Helen, walking across the office to the tall bookcase covering the wall opposite her. On the bottom shelf, neatly filed in boxes, were dozen of copies of the magazine. They had both the UK and the US edition delivered, as any given month there would be a few subtle differences between the two. Different advertising, occasionally a different cover.

She carried the magazines back to her gla.s.s desk and sorted them into two stacks, one American, the other British, then set about methodically going through each one, armed with a packet of pink Post-it notes.

Forty minutes later, the job was done. Helen stood back and smiled at her handiwork, then picked up the phone and called Anna.

Her a.s.sociate was there in less than a minute, standing at the door like a schoolgirl summoned to see the head teacher. It was a Sunday, so Anna was wearing her weekend clothes jeans, ballet pumps and a white T-shirt, but even so, she still had that clean-cut head-girl efficiency about her. Helen knew that Anna felt personally responsible for the Sam Charles debacle, and that was good; she had no time for 'clockers', people who just treated the law like a job they could clock on and off from. Like her, Anna lived and breathed her work, plus she was smart, sharp and hungry, and she had something to prove to her boss. Helen would never dream of saying as much, but for all those reasons, Anna was the member of her team she trusted the most.

'Do you know what I have always found strange?' she said, gesturing towards the piles of magazines. 'The fact that the Jonathon Balon story appeared in both the US and the UK issue.'

'I thought all features appeared in both issues,' replied Anna.

'Not quite. Only about ninety per cent of the editorial is the same. The UK issue usually has one major story pertinent to the British market, a couple of party pages and a handful of diary items to give a regional flavour, which are generated by their London bureau.'

'So the fact that the Balon story is in both issues means it was generated by the main editorial office in New York?'

Helen nodded. 'Which is the odd thing. Why run a five-thousand-word feature on a London-based property developer?'

'Because he's a billionaire and because he's politically ambitious?'

'They didn't know that when this piece was commissioned, I'm pretty sure of that.'

'Do you think that's enough reason to get the public interest argument thrown out?' asked Anna.

'Possibly,' said Helen, 'but possibly isn't good enough any more.'

Helen had no intention of taking any more chances with this case. She had been confident of a win, but they had been caught out by the defence: that couldn't happen again.

'See the pink notes sticking out of the sides?' she said. 'I've marked all the British-focused features that appear in both editions. They're British stories, yes, but stories with a real international impact. Stories that would interest you whether you lived in Manhattan or Manchester.'

Anna stepped closer, then looked at Helen in surprise. 'There aren't many.'

'There are just three,' smiled Helen. 'And there are eight years' worth of magazines there.'

'So it's unusual for Stateside Stateside to commission a story like the Balon profile, something with such a uniquely British flavour?' to commission a story like the Balon profile, something with such a uniquely British flavour?'

'Unusual?' Helen corrected. 'Almost unheard of.'

She could see that Anna was interested now, thinking through the angles, looking for a solution: that was exactly why she had called her.

'Find out everything about the senior members of staff on the magazine,' said Helen. 'Start with Spencer. I want to find a connection, however small, to Jonathon Balon.'

Anna looked at her, the penny dropping.

'You think this is an intentional hatchet job?' she said. 'Something personal?'

'Did you notice the way Spencer was glaring at Jonathon in court?' said Helen, nodding. 'I thought it was because he was annoyed that Jonathon had brought the libel action, but what if it's something else? Spencer is famous for using his magazine to voice his anti-Republican standpoint; why wouldn't he go a step further and use it to trash an individual he didn't like?'

Anna's eyes opened wider.

'And a story printed with malice would stop Stateside Stateside from using the Reynolds defence in a libel case, because even if it's in the public interest, it has to be balanced and fairly reported.' from using the Reynolds defence in a libel case, because even if it's in the public interest, it has to be balanced and fairly reported.'

Helen nodded gleefully.

'Go and find out what this is really about.' She smiled. 'Then we'll give them a hatchet job of their own.'

38

As far as Matthew was concerned, the White Horse was the perfect London boozer. Dark, cramped, done out in chipped mock-mahogany and red velvet, the walls covered with pictures of boxers and racehorses. The gents' had grafitti and a broken mirror, and they still sold cling-film-wrapped cheese rolls behind the bar. It certainly wasn't the sort of place where you'd order a white wine spritzer.

Perhaps that explained why Matthew was the only Donovan Pierce employee in the pub at half past seven in the evening, despite the fact that the White Horse was by far the nearest watering hole to the office. He'd asked a few people, of course, but everyone seemed to be chained to their desks, still making calls and furiously writing reports. That was the kind of work ethic Helen Pierce demanded, and they were probably terrified of her coming back from court to find them drinking lager, but Matthew had been brought up to value his leisure time. His mother Katherine had worked long, hard hours as a lecturer at University College London, but when work was done for the day, she felt no guilt in letting her hair down.

'There's always time for fun,' she'd say with a smile, filling their weekends with trips to the beach, the cinema and London museums. When Matthew was just starting out as a solicitor, he'd still meet up with his mother for after-work suppers or her trademark G and Ts, dissecting their days and sharing the gossip.

Matthew smiled nostalgically as he sipped his bitter. It was warm, foamy and tasted of bracken. During his career as a family lawyer, he'd met dozens of men who'd turned to alcohol as a way of numbing the pain of losing their family. And after Carla had left him, he had almost gone the same way. But he'd taken hold of his heavy drinking before alcohol had become his crutch. He'd started rowing again, and bought a motorbike for long rides deep into the countryside that made him feel better than whisky ever could.

'That looks good,' said a familiar voice behind him.

Matt glanced up and saw his father standing there clutching a white plastic bag under his arm.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. What are you doing here?'

It was actually quite a shock to see Larry. In Matt's mind, his father was always a charging bull. Maddening at times, yes, but always vital and strong. Now he was pale and thin, his shirt baggy and loose around the neck. Perhaps it was the dim light in the bar, but his hair seemed greyer, his skin transparent. But he still had the same twinkle in his eye.

'I'm allowed to come into pubs, you know,' he said. 'Laid off the heavy drinking but I can still breathe in the fumes.'

The chestnut-haired barmaid waved at him.

'Melinda, my dear,' he boomed, his voice as loud as ever. 'Just a vodka and tonic for me, hold the vodka, there's a darling.'

He carried his gla.s.s over to Matthew's booth and lifted it in salute.

'How did you know I was here?'

Larry shrugged. 'Sarah on reception said you'd gone to the pub. This was always my favourite place to sneak off to, so I figured, like father like son.'

'Well it's good to see you up and about,' Matt said. 'Were you coming in to work? The Garrick Club?'

'Absolutely not,' said Larry. 'I was shopping.'

'Shopping? You? I never thought I'd hear you say those words.'

Larry slid his plastic bag towards Matthew. It had a Hamleys logo on the side.

'For Jonas. I hope he likes it, but the receipt's in the bag G.o.d knows what kids like these days. I felt rotten for forgetting his birthday. Not quite got used to not having a secretary there to keep a diary.'

'It was a shame you weren't in on Sat.u.r.day,' said Matthew, peering into the bag.

'Sat.u.r.day? What do you mean?'

'We stopped off to see you. Me, Jonas and Carla.'

'I didn't go out on Sat.u.r.day. I was probably in the den watching the cricket and didn't hear the bell. Strange that Loralee didn't answer, though.'

Matt frowned. Why had Loralee turned them away? Perhaps Larry wasn't as well as he was making out and she wanted him to rest. Either way, he didn't want to press the point.

'Maybe she'd popped out for something,' he said.

'So you were with Carla?' said Larry, not missing a trick. 'I didn't know you were even talking these days.'

'We've always tried to keep up the tradition of going out on Jonas's birthday, however awkward it is, because Jonas loves it. But this time we actually had a lovely day. Went to the New Forest. Carla and I weren't even at each other's throats for once.'

'And what did her banker fellow think of that?'

'He didn't know. She's divorcing him.'

Larry guffawed, slapping the table.

'And now she's sniffing back after you, is she?'

'Don't be daft. That ship has sailed.'

His father looked at him probingly.