Private Lives (51 page)

Helen was glad he had pointed that out. Jonathon, after all, was their client, and the judge’s patience appeared to be wearing thin.

Dominic Bradley looked uncomfortable.

‘I didn’t have any actual proof they were true, no.’

‘And what did
Stateside
think of this idea?’ said Collins, cutting him off.

‘Deena told me she’d submitted it to her friend Joanne Green, the commissioning editor. But she’d turned it down because it was too UK-focused. She also said that Spencer, the editor, wouldn’t go for it.’

‘And did Deena give up on the idea?’

‘No. She knew it was a great story.’

Collins looked at Bradley, tilting his head quizzically.

‘You didn’t give up on it either, did you, Mr Bradley? You had an idea that might get Joanne Green to change her mind about the story. A little sweetener, if you like.’

Judge Lazner grumbled, ‘Stick to English, if you please, Mr Collins.’

‘Apologies, m’lud,’ said Nicholas Collins, turning to look at the jury. ‘You offered Miss Green a
bribe
, didn’t you?’

Helen saw the disapproval cross the faces of the jury.

‘Jo and I cut a deal. I told her that if she made the story happen, I’d make sure the rent-controlled apartment I’d been living in would be turned over to her when my tenancy lapsed.’

‘But did Miss Green have that sort of power with her editor?’ asked Collins innocently.

‘Seeing as she was sleeping with him, I’d say so,’ replied Bradley.

Jasper Jenkins jumped up, his face pink.

‘Hearsay!’ he shouted, looking decidedly angry.

Helen glanced at Spencer Reed, who had a similar look on his face. As well he might, she thought. She had met Spencer’s wife in New York and she hadn’t seemed the sort of woman who would take this revelation lying down.

‘I’m sorry, I’m a little confused,’ said Collins. ‘Weren’t you just telling us that you suggested the Jonathon Balon story to Miss Washington as a way of helping your girlfriend get her foot in the door as a writer? And yet the byline at the bottom of this story reads Ted Francis.’

‘Joanne agreed to commission the story but wanted a London-based writer to do it. ’

‘Who suggested Mr Francis, the author of the piece?’

‘I did.’

‘Why?’

Bradley shifted uncomfortably.

‘Because he knew a lot about Jonathon Balon. And he’s a good journalist.’

‘You and Ted Francis are old friends. You’ve worked together many times. You told him that in return for getting him a commission at
Stateside
, he had to do a hatchet job on Mr Balon.’

‘I wanted him to tell the truth about Balon,’ said Bradley angrily.

Nicholas Collins snorted. ‘The truth? There were some serious criminal allegations in here: money laundering, favours given to known gangsters, and by extension, the insinuation of illegality to the whole of Mr Balon’s operation. And yet, as you acknowledge, as this court has heard again and again over the past weeks, there is not a shred of evidence to support any of these allegations.’

‘I just thought it was a great story,’ said Bradley defensively. ‘Rags to riches, mysterious shady benefactors. All I did was tell them about it. If they choose to spin it to make it sound more glamorous, that’s not my problem, is it?’

‘Spin it,’ repeated Collins. ‘Interesting choice of words. You mean spin as in “embellish”, spin as in “lies”?’

‘No!’

‘Let me repeat my question for the benefit of the jury. Did you ask Ted Francis to write about the unsubstantiated stories about Mr Balon’s connections to the Weston gangland family?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you tell Jo Green when she edited the piece to keep it as incendiary as possible?’

‘I don’t have that power.’

‘Did Miss Green still get rewarded with your apartment for running the story?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘A deal was a deal.’

‘Rubbish. You dangled that fabulous apartment in front of her again on the understanding that she keep the Balon story as derogatory as possible. Yes or no?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was this story, the tone of this story, so important to you, Mr Bradley?’

‘Because I want to see crooks exposed,’ he said fiercely.

‘You have a personal interest in this story, don’t you, Mr Bradley? You hate Mr Balon and you bribed Miss Green and Mr Francis to work to your agenda of getting revenge on him.’

Bradley shifted in his seat.

‘What happened to you in 1999, Mr Bradley?’ asked Nicholas Collins, still looking down at his notes. ‘The weekend of September the twelfth specifically.’

Helen noted the look of alarm crossing Bradley’s face. Jasper Jenkins saw it too and jumped to his feet.

‘Relevance, m’lud?’

The judge sighed.

‘Get to the point, Mr Collins.’

‘Certainly, m’lud. Mr Bradley was beaten up in an alleyway close to his flat. Beaten up rather badly, sustaining injuries that necessitated admission to hospital for . . .’ he checked his notes, ‘three days, I believe. Is that not correct, Mr Bradley?’

‘Yes,’ Bradley said quietly.

‘I understand you still bear a scar on your forehead from the assault.’

‘Yes.’

Helen saw the jury crane their necks to look. This was excellent stuff. Libel trials were usually mired in boring detail, and drama like this was all in Balon’s favour.

‘Was anyone charged with this serious assault?’ asked Collins.

‘No,’ said Bradley, his voice shaking with anger.

‘But you called the police about it, didn’t you? You told them you knew who was behind it.’

His questions had now hardened into statements of fact. Helen could see the jury sitting forward in their seats, all eyes trained on Dominic Bradley. Slowly he began to speak, as if he had finally decided that it was time to come clean.

‘Balon was my landlord. I was a student, I’d got into arrears, so Balon sent round the heavies. I still couldn’t pay. I sort of became a squatter. A few days later, I was jumped on and attacked when I was walking back from the pub.’

‘And did the police interview Mr Balon?’

‘Apparently,’ said Bradley. ‘But the whole thing went quiet. No evidence, they said.’

‘Even so, you were convinced Mr Balon had ordered the attack on you,’ prompted Collins.

Bradley’s face grew hard.

‘Yes, I was. I asked around, I even spoke to the local newspaper. Everyone said Balon was in with these thugs and that this sort of thing had happened before. Apparently everyone was too scared to challenge him, because of his connection with the Weston family.’

‘So you were angry.’

‘Yes.’

‘You wanted revenge.’

Bradley looked at the barrister sharply.

‘Wouldn’t you?’

Collins didn’t reply; he simply looked over at the jury.

‘Who wouldn’t be angry when something so awful has happened to them?’ he asked. ‘Especially when the person you believe is responsible has escaped prosecution. And who wouldn’t
stay
angry when they still bear the scar of that attack, reminding them on a daily basis? Wouldn’t you be incensed if you saw the person you regarded as the culprit rising to become a billionaire?’

He turned back to Bradley.

‘They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, and that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it, Dominic? You moved to New York, met your journalist girlfriend Deena, all by happy coincidence. But when she needed a story, you saw your opportunity to finally get back at Balon for what you thought he had done to you all those years ago. No wonder you were so keen for this story to run, why you were prepared to bribe Joanne Green with your chi-chi apartment and force her to use your friend to write the article. A smear story against Mr Balon was your way of getting revenge, wasn’t it, Mr Bradley?’

Dominic Bradley looked from Balon to Spencer Reed, his expression one of fear, of a trapped animal. But Helen could see something else there too: triumph. He had finally got his story out, he had finally been listened to. She was fairly sure Spencer Reed would make sure Dominic Bradley never worked in the mainstream media again, but in that moment, she was equally sure Bradley didn’t care.

‘Mr Bradley?’ prompted the judge. ‘Answer the question, please. Did you propose the story to get even with Mr Balon?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

Helen held her breath as Nicholas Collins turned to Bradley for the death blow.

‘And your friend Ted Francis, the man who wrote the feature, did he know about your motivation?’

‘Yes,’ said Bradley.

‘And did you ask him to – my apologies again, m’lud – stick the boot in?’

‘This is most irregular, m’lud,’ began Jasper Jenkins, but no one was listening.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Bradley, looking at Jonathon Balon with a satisfied smile. ‘I told him what a thug and a gangster Balon was, and that I wanted him to bury the bastard.’

The court was immediately in uproar, with both sides shouting objections and threats and the judge calling for order.

Helen Pierce simply sat where she was, closed her eyes and smiled.

‘Gotcha,’ she whispered.

53

It was easy to spot who was going to a party. Cath was waiting for Anna outside Sloane Square tube station dressed in a sparkly silver dress, like a space-age flapper girl lost in the sea of drab commuters piling into the station to go home. Anna smoothed down her own emerald-green shift dress, wondering if it was dressy enough. She wasn’t entirely sure how this evening was going to go, but she was glad Cath was there to hold her hand.

‘This is so exciting,’ said Cath, giving Anna a hug. ‘Where are we going again?’

‘You’re excited about something you don’t even know about?’ laughed Anna, flagging down a taxi.

‘Hey, you’re the one who sent me this cryptic message saying “drop everything, I’m taking you to the most glamorous party you’ve ever been to”.’

‘It’s the launch of a big hotel. Very high end,’ said Anna as the cab rumbled down Lower Sloane Street towards Chelsea Embankment. ‘Think the Plaza in New York, only more modern.’

‘Will there be any celebrities there?’

‘Wall to wall.’

Cath gripped her arm. ‘Why don’t you invite me to things like this more often? I’ve got a dozen Karen Millen party dresses in my closet collecting dust and my best mate has a hotline to the stars.’

That wasn’t strictly true. They had Sam Charles to thank for this invitation; using his name had been the only way Anna could think to get inside. And she needed to get inside, because there was someone there she desperately needed to meet.

The traffic was in gridlock as they approached the Chelsea Heights, a stand-alone suite-only hotel catering specifically for high-rollers, people who came to the capital for Bond Street and Canary Wharf, people who thought nothing of spending over two thousand pounds per night, breakfast extra. It also incorporated the Duel, London’s first high-concept restaurant, where two Michelin-starred chefs, placed in separate kitchens, would compete nightly to create the best menu possible, no expense spared.

‘This place is amazing,’ gasped Cath as Anna gave their names at the door and they walked into the cavernous lobby. That was an understatement. It was as if someone had taken a giant apple corer and pulled out the centre of the hotel, replacing it with a golden waterfall that cascaded from the roof, disappearing into a hole in the floor of the lobby. It was a marvel of science or civil engineering or magic, thought Anna, not really sure which. It was certainly impressive, though. As was the gathering for the party. TV stars rubbed shoulders with novelists, artists and sports stars.

‘Wow,’ said Cath, clasping at Anna’s arm. ‘Is that David Beckham over there? And Elton
John
? Oh please, please tell me that you come to things like this every week.’

Anna giggled.

‘I’m afraid not. Most nights I’m still in the office at this time.’

Live jazz floated through the marble lobby, whilst the canapés were like miniature works of art. A handsome waiter handed them each a deep red cocktail and the two girls clinked their glasses together.

‘Well I’d say all that hard work was worthwhile,’ said Cath. ‘I work stupid hours too, and no bugger has ever invited me to anything more glamorous than All Bar One.’

Anna was happy Cath was so excited, but at the same time she felt bad about having dragged her friend into her deception. She scanned the crowd, but there had to be five hundred people packed into the hotel’s lobby, and besides, she only had images from magazines to go on.

‘Listen, Cath . . .’ she began, pulling an awkward face.

‘What is it?’ said Cath warily. ‘I know that look; you’re about to tell me we have to serve the nibbles or something.’

‘No, but I do have a confession to make. I’m here to find a man.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Cath grinned.

‘A specific man, by the name of Johnny Maxwell. He’s a society fixer and I need to charm him into . . . well, it’s something to do with work.’

Cath sighed, putting a hand on her chest. ‘Is that all? Honey, you can chat up Jabba the Hutt for all I care, as long as I get to ogle Beckham’s bum while drinking free booze.’

Anna pulled her BlackBerry from her clutch bag: one message. Sam. She clicked on it: ‘Missing You. S xx’

She looked up to see Cath examining her face suspiciously.

‘What are you smiling at, young lady?’ she said.

‘Just some work thing,’ stammered Anna.

‘I knew it!’ cried Cath. ‘It’s a bloke, isn’t it? You sly little minx. Have you been on Match.com like we told you?’

Anna shook her head, wishing her cheeks didn’t feel so hot.

‘It’s just Sam,’ she said, quickly slipping her BlackBerry back into her bag.

‘Sam who?’

‘Sam Charles.’

Cath looked at her incredulously.

‘
Just
Sam Charles. I thought he fired you?’

‘He did. But he came round to apologise. We’re working on something together.’

‘He came round to your
house
? OMG. You’ve slept with him, haven’t you? I don’t believe it, you dirty old sod. I knew there was something different about you today. It’s that “just been shagged” glow.’