Deep Blue Sea (38 page)

It was an enjoyable supper. Michael especially was on top form and kept her distracted with stories about his eccentric circle of friends, who included a shark hunter, a hot-air balloonist and a beekeeper.

Over crème caramel, Patty leaned forward and broached the elephant at the table.

‘So, are you going to tell me what your sister has been up to over the past few weeks? I saw Greg Willets for lunch today. Apparently the three of you went out for lunch to discuss Julian’s
private
life.’

They hadn’t mentioned him all evening. Sometimes she was just desperate to hear his name, but tonight it had been fun talking about the future rather than the past with people who had loved Julian as much as she had.

‘I’ve been conducting my own private inquest into his death,’ she said honestly.

‘Is that why she called me the other day?’ said Michael with surprise. ‘She was asking all sorts of questions about Julian although she didn’t really specify what it was all for. What have you discovered?’

‘I discovered how much I love my sister,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve discovered how much I’ve missed her, how proud I am of her, how I never want her not to be part of my life again. I discovered that you can’t blame people and look back; you can only make amends and move forward.’

‘I think that’s sensible,’ said Patty, nodding slowly. Her phone was buzzing furiously. Looking irritated, she picked it up and went into the hallway to take the call.

‘Just let Jules rest,’ said Michael quietly when she had gone.

‘I know,’ whispered Diana, and for the first time she actually believed that that was the right thing to do. Nothing Rachel had discovered would bring Julian back. But living as happily and without drama as she could might mean a better, quieter, safer life for herself, Charlie and the baby. Elizabeth Denver had even called her the previous day to ask about her welfare, to send her congratulations about the baby and to explain, quite guardedly, that the challenge to Julian’s will had been a little bit hasty. She wasn’t sure if things were finally going right, but at least they weren’t all going wrong.

‘So how was Greg?’ she asked, dipping her spoon into the cold, wobbling custard.

‘A little worried about business, I detected. Although he didn’t admit that to me directly.’

‘Really?’

‘You know what investment banking is like, up one minute, down the next. Now that he hasn’t got Julian around feeding him deals, feeding him business, I think he’s worried whether his company will survive.’

‘I thought Greg’s company was doing well,’ Diana said with concern. She knew very little about what Greg actually did. It was the same with all of Julian’s friends in the world of finance – she didn’t know a junk bond from James Bond. But from what she understood, Greg’s company was a boutique investment bank working on smaller deals than some of the more established players. He had worked hard establishing his business over the past five years, ever since his world came crashing down when he lost his high-flying job with Lehman Brothers. Like many of their alpha-male acquaintances, he was an ambitious man and would not take any more failure well. She made a mental note to go and see him in the next week or so. People needed protecting, even the ones who seemed as if they could look after themselves.

Patty bustled back into the room.

‘So, who wants an Irish coffee?’ said Diana.

‘I’ll make it,’ said Michael. ‘Without the whisky for you, young lady.’

‘Why don’t you stay over? Adam is coming for lunch tomorrow.’

‘Oh, we can’t,’ said Patty with disappointment. ‘Michael has a very early flight to Namibia, so we should get back. Are you all right by yourself here? I mean, where is Rachel?’

‘She’s in London, back tomorrow, I think. And yes, I’m fine. Mr and Mrs Bills have been wonderful and my mother is here more often than not. What are you going to Africa for, Michael?’

‘Extreme sand-dune surfing,’ he grinned.

‘He couldn’t find any hobbies closer to home,’ said Patty, rolling her eyes.

‘Not these dunes.’

‘There’s always an excuse, isn’t there?’ replied Patty sharply.

Diana frowned. It was not like her friends to bicker.

‘You should come,’ said Michael.

‘Are you talking to me?’ laughed Diana.

‘You’d be hard pushed to find more spectacular scenery. It might be the break you need.’

‘I’m pregnant,’ she smiled, delighting at the word. ‘I don’t want to go dune surfing. But I know someone who might.’

‘I hope you’re not talking about me. I don’t want to get sand-blasted in the name of fun,’ said Patty more softly.

‘No. My sister. She’d love it, and she needs a break after everything I’ve put her through.’

‘Everything she’s
put
you
through,’ said Patty, raising a brow.

‘She doesn’t belong in London; she belongs in places like Ko Tao and Namibia,’ said Diana, remembering the first time she’d seen Rachel in Thailand, gleaming, relaxed and happy.

‘What about Julian’s investigation?’ asked Patty.

‘It’s over,’ said Diana quietly. ‘It’s time to move on.’

60

Rachel picked up the phone and ordered room service. The menu changed to a skeleton one after 11 p.m. and as she knew that it was going to be a long night, she ordered everything she fancied to keep her going as long as possible. A cheeseburger, a club sandwich, a Caesar salad, French fries, a milkshake, a pot of coffee and an interesting-looking ‘trio of desserts’ that sounded like something from one of Diana’s dinner parties.

She blinked hard. Not only was she tired, but she had watched the footage of Greg Willets leaving again and again until it made her head spin. Perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. But what? She had fast-forwarded the footage from all three security cameras and it looked as if Liam was right. Greg’s girlfriend had certainly not left with him. Nor was she seen leaving at any other time during the party. It was as if she had vanished into thin air.

Swigging at a glass of tap water, she opened her notebook and noticed that Greg’s number was one of the first things she had written in it after their lunch meeting in the City. She picked up her mobile and debated whether to call him. But what was she supposed to say without it sounding like an accusation? No, she would go through the tapes one more time before she ruffled any more feathers. She had to think this through, think about what it all meant.

Greg’s companion couldn’t just have vanished. The security cameras were angled towards the doors of the property to monitor entrance and exit of guests, which meant that the blonde must either have slipped out undetected or had not left the house at all. She felt a cold shiver all over her body, recalling her meeting with Carl Kennedy in Notting Hill, remembering something he had said:
If it was foul play, then it must have been somebody already in the house
.

At the time she had shamelessly thought of Diana, but what if it was someone else? She felt suddenly nervous. She went to the loo and splashed water over her face. What did she really know about Greg Willets other than that he was Julian’s best friend? They had met many times – holidayed even on trips to Ibiza and Tuscany. Then again, what did anyone really know about anybody else?

Think
, she willed herself.

There was a knock at the door and she jumped. She peered through the spyhole, unchained and unbolted the door and opened it. A member of the hotel staff wheeled in a dumbwaiter laden with food. She tipped him generously, chained and bolted the door behind him and returned to her laptop.

There was no pithy Wikipedia entry for Greg Willets. Instead she had to do her own research. There were some details on LinkedIn, more still on financial newspapers and potted CVs from seminars he was appearing at around the globe. His company, Canopus Partners, was apparently a boutique investment bank, as opposed to a bulge bracket bank such as Goldman Sachs or J. P. Morgan. According to its own website it had a thirty-person team in London and a small outpost in New York. Greg Willets was listed as its founder, along with a brief history of his career and a flattering, unsmiling black-and-white photograph. There was a section listed ‘News’ which provided details of deals the firm had advised over the past twelve months, including an item about the Denver Group – selling their paint division to a German chemicals company for seventy-five million euros. A Companies House search was also revealing.

Greg Willets was successful. Everyone in their circle thought so. He had all the trimmings – a house in Chelsea, a place in Monaco and a vintage Ferrari, although he had won that off Julian in a poker game. And yet Canopus Partners did not look in particularly robust health, with current assets of under half a million pounds and heavy liabilities. Rachel was savvy enough to know that this was not particularly damning. Financial people were clever. Money was hidden offshore. She made a note to find out more about Greg Willets, but still, where would it lead?

His girlfriend had disappeared in the house. But did that mean Greg had had anything to do with Julian’s death? If Julian had been murdered, his killer needed a motive. Certainly it seemed to benefit Greg to have his friend alive, so that he could throw business his company’s way.

She went to the minibar and emptied it of all the miniature cans of Coke, pouring them into a tooth glass.

There was a notepad by the bedside cabinet. She tore off all the individual squares of paper and placed them around the table. On each square she wrote down a fact that she had learnt during her investigation. Julian wants to pull Rheladrex. Julian dies. Elizabeth Denver wants CEO job. Adam Denver sees Rheladrex report. Sale of Denver Chemicals going through. Julian helps Greg’s business. Greg’s girlfriend in the house?

‘What’s the motive?’ she asked herself out loud, staring at the notes.

Two bits of paper stood out. The sale of Denver Chemicals, and Julian giving Greg business.

She flipped back to her laptop and reread the Canopus website. The list of their areas of expertise wasn’t particularly narrow, but pharmaceuticals seemed to feature prominently. What if Julian had got Canopus to advise on the sale of Denver Chemicals? Alicia Dyer had said that her company was probably not in the running for the business, as Julian had his favoured bankers to deal with. Was that Greg Willets and Canopus? It was possible. Probable.

And if Julian
had
handed Greg the Denver sale, what did that mean? It meant a lot of money for Greg, that was for certain.

She sighed, crumpling up a ball of paper and throwing it in the bin in frustration. Her knowledge of the Denver Group and how these sorts of deal worked wasn’t up to joining the dots. She needed to brainstorm with someone who knew more than her. But who? Elizabeth Denver? She’d know the answers to all of these things, and more. But Rachel didn’t trust her. There was Adam – but she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him either. And there was Greg himself.

She had only meant to close her eyes for a second, but when she awoke, there was a crack in the curtain and pale morning light poured through. Her head was resting on the table and dribble from her mouth had trickled on to her patchwork of notes. She blinked hard and sat up, shrugging back her shoulders and stretching her arms in front of her. It was almost eight o’clock. She was tired and stiff, but noticeably less anxious than she had been the previous night.

She looked at the damp spread of papers; they were still no clearer than they had been last night.

One thing she had learnt from her days on the newspaper was that she often had all the pieces she needed for her story; it was just a case of putting them together in the right way. And that was what had led her down an illegal path of phone- and email-hacking. The need to prove and connect the dots.

The prospect of speaking to Greg Willets was no more attractive than it had been the night before, although she knew she had to confront him at some point.

Who is smart and clever and knows about the Denvers?
she asked herself, wondering if she should try Alicia Dyer one more time.

She flicked through her list of contacts, her finger stopping at two names she knew and respected. Patty and Michael Reynolds. Patty was known as one of the sharpest minds around. Michael was another of Julian’s inner circle. Both were close friends of Greg and the Denvers. Both were financial whiz-kids.

She ordered some breakfast to wake her up – a full English, with a Virgin Bloody Mary with extra Tabasco sauce. By the time it had been delivered to her room and she’d wolfed it down, it was past nine, a perfectly respectable time to call even if it was a Saturday morning. Michael was usually the more jovial of the two, so she decided to try him first. She didn’t know him well, although she had always liked him: his sense of humour, and his upper-crust English manners.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s Rachel. Rachel Miller.’

‘Hello, Rachel.’ His voice lacked the frostiness of many of Julian’s friends she had spoken to. His disapproval had been registered the first – and only – time they had spoken after she had arrived back in London. ‘You’re going to have to be quick. I’m on a plane. Just about to take off, in fact. Stewardess giving me rather dirty looks as we speak.’

‘Do you know if Greg Willets was handling any deals for the Denver Group?’ she said, jumping straight in.

‘This isn’t really the place to talk about things like that,’ said Michael carefully.

‘Just yes or no. Specifically the pharma division.’

‘There was talk of that, yes,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I’ve got a small but significant shareholding in the company, as you probably know, so I’ve been keeping an eye on it all. Encouraged Jules to sell the division, in fact. Was Greg involved in the transaction? Possibly. Canopus have some expertise in that sector, although it would be an incredible coup to get the business.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘A bank like Greg’s handles deals up to a hundred million, maybe two hundred. The Denver Chemicals sale would be worth billions. The fees alone on a transaction that size could be fifty, sixty million. I dare say he could do with the business. I know it’s somewhat fashionable to banker-bash, but it can be tough for some of those guys too,’ he said.

Rachel suddenly had lots of questions.

‘Darling, the stewardess is about to slap my wrists with a hot towel. I’d better hang up.’

‘When do you land? I can speak to you then.’

‘I’m flying to Namibia, so try me tomorrow.’

‘Michael, please. Just five more minutes.’

‘What do you want to know?’ She could almost see him frowning.

‘I want to know how M and A deals work.’

‘Well we can’t cover that in ten seconds. Why don’t you speak to Patty? Do you have her number? She’s driving down to Greenfields this morning. Give her a ring.’

He hung up. Slapped down by a hot towel perhaps, although Rachel doubted very much that that happened to first-class passengers.

Patty’s mobile number was in her book. She tried calling, but it went straight to message. No doubt Patty was still on the A3, heading south to their rural retreat. She should go and see her. Patty Reynolds was sharp as a whip but could be gossipy and indiscreet under the right circumstances – a face-to-face meeting was definitely better than a phone call. She couldn’t recall the exact address but remembered its New Forest location, having wangled an invitation to Michael’s fiftieth about five years ago, after they had all been in Tuscany together.

She grabbed a piece of cold toast and stuffed it into her mouth as she started to pack. Her phone beeped and she picked it up hoping it would be Patty returning her call, but it was just the device running out of juice. She sent a quick message to Diana to tell her where she was going, then switched off her phone to conserve the battery. She had to check out. She had to get going.