by Holly Watt
‘Table Eight. You’ll see them.’ Quietly.
‘Thanks, Jazz.’
‘Always.’
He gave her a half-salute and faded away. Casey walked down the mirrored stairs, and into the punch of noise.
Gigi’s was a maze of small tables and low sofas and ruthless hierarchies. A group of men would take a table for the night. When a table splashed out £10,000 for a bottle of vodka, the whole place came to a standstill. The club’s theme tune boomed and a parade of girls, all sparklers and sparkling smiles, sashayed the bottle to the table. That parade happened again and again, all night long.
Some days, it made Casey laugh. A playpen for the lost boys. But not tonight.
Table 8 was in a booth near the dance floor. Casey strolled over.
‘Oh God.’ She tripped and fell, landing awkwardly on one of the sofas surrounding Table 8. ‘I am so sorry.’
She had almost landed on one of the men. He turned in irritation, and Casey’s smile lit up like a torch.
‘I’m such an idiot. Oh God, my shoe is broken.’ It wasn’t, but he would never know. And if he did, he would never mention it. ‘And I’ve spilled your drink. I’m so sorry. Let me get you another one.’
That was the password. It reminded him why they were there.
‘Don’t worry about it, babe. We’ve got loads. Here. Let’s get you one. Champers, all right?’
And, limping gazelle, she was in.
Always wary, she watched him pouring the drink, ticking off what she knew about him. His suit, the shoes, the watch. Casey had seen his place in the table pecking order. Not the boss of the team. That was the guy in the middle, with the big laugh and the eye of the hostess. Not the office junior with the nervous smile, almost falling off the edge of the sofa.
They were all men, apart from the one beautiful girl, right next to the boss.
The girl had glossy dark hair and slanting green eyes, and was wearing a white dress, similar in style to Casey’s. Ravishing, Casey noted. As Casey watched, the girl began laughing at a rambling anecdote from the boss, mirroring his body language.
Not the PA, definitely not. He didn’t own her.
Not yet.
Casey forgot the girl and concentrated on the boss. Laughing at his own joke, he leaned back and snapped his fingers at the beautiful Nigerian hostess. The hostess was wearing pink satin hotpants with red braces. Just for a second, so that Casey was sure only she noticed, the hostess failed to hide her loathing.
Casey turned her attention to the man sitting beside her.
‘I like your tie,’ she said, and he preened.
She took the smallest sip of the drink and they talked for a while, and she knew he wouldn’t remember a thing she said.
‘I’m Brendan,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Callie.’ Because it was close enough to Casey to make her head turn if he said it. The first syllable, that was the key.
And soon she would ask, ‘And what do you do then?’
Girls always asked. He knew it was to find out what lay behind the Savile Row suit and the Rolex.
But this one, it turned out, was really interested. Girls never were, not really. They’d ask for a bank statement, if they could, to speed things up. But this one asked clever questions, questions that showed she was actually listening.
And so Brendan became expansive. And the more he boasted, the more impressed she was.
She was just edging the conversation around to Libya when the boss stood up. The men looked up, like dogs when their leads were rattled.
‘Oh. It’s Oliver. We’ve got this . . . thing . . .’
And they were marched to the middle of the tiny dance floor for some complicated drinking game.
Casey leaned back against the ruby plush of the sofa. She had learned patience.
On the opposite side of the table, the girl in the white dress smiled at Casey, easily likable.
‘I’m Amelie.’ She reached out her hand.
‘Callie. You’ve got a lovely tan.’
‘Oh, thanks. Just back from Dubai. You having a fun evening?’
‘Lovely, thanks. Do you know this lot well?’ Casey asked.
‘Kind of . . . But, you know, never put all your eggs in one basket case.’
Casey grinned back at the beautiful girl.
‘Tell me about it.’
The first bars of the next song played.
‘God, the music is dreadful in this place,’ Amelie grinned. ‘But I do love this song.’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ said Casey. ‘But me too.’
‘So,’ Amelie rolled her eyes at the cliché, ‘what do you do?’
‘Marketing,’ said Casey, who felt she could hold her own in that field. ‘You?’
‘Same,’ said Amelie. ‘Where do you work?’
Casey did not want to get into a conversation with someone who actually worked in marketing.
‘Oh.’ She pretended a message had come through on her phone, making one-moment signs at Amelie.
‘Just going to run to the bathroom,’ said Amelie, standing up.
Casey tapped some notes to herself into her phone, smiling as she did so, because it would look like she was messaging a friend. She wasn’t recording this evening, because nothing could fight the wall of music. There were rules about undercover recording too. Not that she always followed them.
Brief googling revealed that the group’s alpha male was the chief executive of Cormium. Oliver Selby. Three years in post. Very rich; very tough. Pushed through a hostile takeover of one of Cormium’s main rivals last year, against all odds. Recently divorced, for the second time. No wonder Amelie was laughing at his jokes.
Casey put her phone away and smiled vaguely at Brendan, out on the dance floor. There was a famous actor across the room, flanked by girls. Casey watched him idly.
Almost by accident, fiddling with her cocktail, she tuned in to the conversation in the booth behind her.
‘He actually did that?’
‘Yeah. Fucking crazy.’
‘That is so fucking dark.’
At first, she was almost testing herself. Like when she read Ross’s notes upside down on his desk, when she was bored in a meeting. Eavesdropping was one of her professional skills. Something to take pride in.
One was French, she thought. They weren’t both French, because they wouldn’t have been speaking English. The other one was American, Casey decided.
‘He said you feel completely different afterwards,’ said the American.
‘I guess you would.’
‘He always wanted to do it, he said.’
The music was blaring. Casey struggled to hear, losing words to delighted screams as a new song billowed.
‘Still. It’s too far, no?’
‘I guess so. You’d have to be a good shot too. The place is near a camp . . . For fuck’s sake—’
‘What?’
‘I know. So you go to this camp, in the middle of fucking nowhere, and they give you a gun or something and you just shoot . . . From a hilltop or whatever. At some poor fucker . . .’
Casey jolted. Suddenly, glad she couldn’t see them. Because that meant they couldn’t see her, and for a second, just a second, her face dissolved to shock. She forced herself not to look round.
‘To do that . . . Sick . . .’
‘I know . . . I said to him . . .’
The music swallowed up their words. They must have leaned forward.
‘Are you all right?’ Amelie was back in her seat, eyes concerned. Casey hadn’t seen her sit down. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Casey’s mind raced. ‘I just saw an ex of mine, actually. Over there, with someone else. He always – I don’t know – throws me. The one that got away, I suppose.’
‘We’ve all,’ Amelie grinned, ‘got one of those.’
Brendan thudded back on to the seat next to Casey. He was considerably more drunk, she saw. Shots. He would tell her more, but know less.
‘All right, babe?’ He put his arm around her, sweaty from dancing.
Casey smiled automatically.
‘Stephano is shit-faced,’ one of the voices behind her was back, laughing now.
‘Man, do you remember that time in New York? Crazy fucker.’
‘That blonde is going to punch him out.’
The conversation had moved on and there was a third voice now.
‘Got to run to the loo.’ She stood up and smiled brightly at Brendan.
‘Right, babe.’ His eyes weren’t quite focusing.
She edged away from the table, heading for the bar. She sat down on one of the bar stools, where Brendan couldn’t see, as if she were resting her feet while searching for a friend.
Casually, she twirled the stool until she was looking at the group sitting behind Brendan. Phone out again, she snapped photographs of all the men sitting at the table.
‘Help you, madam?’
It was Jasper. He must have come down to check she was all right.
‘I’d love a vodka, Jasper,’ she sparkled back. It would look so normal, a pretty girl flirting with a barman. Then her voice dropped. ‘And can you tell me who that is at Table Nine?’
He glanced across at them, while she knocked back her shot.
‘Important?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hang on.’
He sauntered away, while she fiddled with her shot glass.
Amelie walked past, effortlessly graceful. She gave Casey a glittery, flickery smile. In another time, another life, Casey thought, she and Amelie could have been friends.
‘Here.’ Jasper pushed a small piece of paper into her hand. ‘It’s the name from the tab. A Black Amex. All right, Amelie?’
‘Hi, Jazz,’ Amelie called back.
They always took a card when someone began ordering drinks. No one could walk out on a six-figure bar tab.
‘You’re a star, Jazz.’
‘Don’t know the name.’ He rubbed his eyes as he thought. ‘I know most of the guys who come in regularly. Not that one.’
She put a big tip down on the bar.
‘You know I don’t do it for that.’
‘I know. But it’s still there.’
He pocketed the money and smiled at her, disappearing off down the bar, looking for trouble.
Casey looked back towards Table 9. They had been joined by girls now, purposeful-looking girls. Casey knew her careful dance wouldn’t stand a chance against the professionals.
She moved back towards the Cormium table. They were too far gone now, she decided. Brendan would never concentrate on work now.
Still. Maybe next time.
‘I’ve got to run, Brendan.’
He blinked at her, remembering.
‘Babe . . .’ He was groping around for her name.
‘Maybe next time?’ There was something in this. It was worth chasing.
‘Yeah,’ he brightened. ‘We come most Thursdays. The boys.’
‘See you then.’ She put some promise into her smile.
‘Take my number?’ He was hopeful, and she accepted it, to a few desultory cheers.
And then she was off, swirling through the tables. Amelie waved a graceful goodbye, as Casey clutched her scrap of paper, reading the name again and again.
3
‘Do you think it’s fucking possible?’ The head of news leaned back in his seat.
‘Anything’s fucking possible,’ said Miranda. ‘That much I know.’
‘It would be . . .’ For once, words failed Dash Bishop.
The head of news is a step up from the news editor. News editors obsess over the list.
The list. The list. Always the list.
The list of the next wave of stories to be published, in just a few hours. The head of news, meanwhile, is meant to think long-term thoughts. Anything from the big Saturday interview to campaigns for the newspaper to battle. The head of news hosts breakfasts with fatcats, lunches with cabinet ministers and dines with film stars. Feeding back tips, while the newsroom beehives away.
Because their projects were long-term operations, Miranda and Casey reported to Dash.
Dash was quieter than Ross, more aloof; he watched more than he spoke.
‘Unclubbable,’ the political editor muttered once, not entirely approvingly.
The three of them were in Dash’s office, a small room with broken blinds and no view. Dash ran his hands through his dark hair all day, so it stood up scruffily. He never wore his suit jacket and often lost his tie over the course of the day, dark eyes narrowed with concentration. He could be very funny, under his breath.
‘I’ve got photographs of them.’ Casey tapped at her laptop.
The three of them peered at the eight men. The light was low in Gigi’s; the photographs blurry.
‘Not your best effort,’ said Miranda.
‘Have we heard of this guy?’ asked Dash. ‘The guy with the Amex. Sebastian Azarola.’
‘Hedge funds. He’s from Argentina originally, but now splits his time between Geneva and London. Thirty-seven. Married. Two kids. Cyan Capital is based in the Cayman Islands, for tax purposes. But they all are – tax neutral and all that. It’s had a belter of a few years. I would put his worth at two hundred million.’
Dash whistled. ‘Sterling?’
Casey nodded. ‘He was one of the founders of Cyan Capital.’
‘It would be a bloody hedge-fund manager,’ said Dash. ‘They’re all the same.’
‘And what’s he like?’ Miranda asked.
‘He’s very low-profile,’ Casey admitted. ‘No interviews. No profiles. He married an Argentinian girl. They’ve made a few donations here and there. An art gallery. A couple of hospitals. Nothing political. Nothing to draw attention. I don’t have a sense of him.’
She had pounded the databases before this meeting, the vast swamps of information the Post tapped every day. But this time they had given her numbers, not moods, not feelings.
‘And these guys? Any ID?’ Dash peered closer at the three men on the far left of the photograph.
‘I think the one second from left is the one who knew about it all.’ Casey pointed. ‘But I’m not completely sure.’
They looked more closely at the men on the Cyan table. Azarola was in the middle of the group, the centre of attention.
The Cyan Capital website gave away almost nothing. A telephone number. An address near Green Park. A scramble of words about commitment to responsibility and careful calculations and not being responsible for anything on the site at all.
Casey had found only one picture of Azarola. It was on the Forbes site, as the magazine slavered over Cyan’s returns. In that one, he was in a neat dark suit with an unremarkable tie. Dark hair and cool, calculating eyes. Hair thinning, waist spreading.
In the Gigi’s photograph, the white shirt gaped sweatily, to show curls of dark hair and a thick gold chain. Azarola had a gold-braceleted arm round the neck of the man next to him, in what wasn’t quite a hug.
‘I can start asking around.’
‘No,’ Dash cut her off. ‘Stay dark for now.’
‘Sure.’
They were used to this, hunting silently in the shadows. There was always a point in an investigation when they broke cover. When their target finally knew they were coming for him. But that moment would be delayed as long as possible. Tracks could be covered, too easily.
‘Do you think it’s fucking possible?’ Dash said again.
He stood up and stared across the Post’s offices.
In that bit of Victoria that some call Belgravia, the Post newsroom looked like any other office. Messier, though. Newsrooms are never glamorous. The desks were grouped in rough sections. News. Business. Sport. Comment.
The fluffy sections – Culture, Books, Features, Mags – were a floor up, keeping themselves smartly separate from the ruffians on News. The glamour girls on fashion strolled up the stairs, watched appreciatively by the mostly male reporte
rs.
Down here, piles of newspapers and files lay everywhere. The walls were dotted with huge framed pictures of the paper’s best front pages. A royal wedding here. A new prime minister there. A bombed-out bus dominated the news desk.
Big screens showed constant rolling news. The sound was turned down, the focus not on the doe-eyed presenters, but the scrolling news along the bottom. When a big story broke, the volume would be cranked up. The chatter adding to the growing cacophony, as reporters were dispatched and phone lines hammered.
The reporters themselves were scruffy, grumpy; Dorian Gray paintings of their own byline photographs.
‘It could be possible. Maybe.’
‘It could be,’ he repeated. ‘It doesn’t even need to be Azarola. They could have been talking about anyone. You didn’t hear them mention a name, did you?’
Dash was used to taking a punt. His skill was deciding where to deploy resources, when to push on. But it was also his job to pull reporters out of blind alleys. Cutting his losses.
‘Kick the tyres,’ Dash decided. ‘I want to know everything about Azarola. Find out who those guys are, in the photographs. Think about it. Think about the whole thing. There aren’t that many places where you can just kill someone, and no one notices.’
‘We know that people go to Thailand to rape four-year-olds,’ Casey pointed out.
‘And we all know what else you can find on the Internet,’ added Miranda.
Miranda had posed as an eleven-year-old on the Internet once; the messages still shocked her awake at night.
‘There were rumours about this sort of thing during the war in the old Yugoslavia, I remember. Sniper Alley. In Sarajevo, with rich men up in the hills.’ Dash shrugged.
‘You said one of them sounded disapproving?’ Miranda had read the notes. Casey had typed up every detail before she had even left the club.
‘Sick, he called it. He’s the American.’
‘Could be a way in,’ said Dash. ‘But be careful. I mean it. Dead reporters are a pain in the arse.’
‘Charming.’
‘How did it go with Cormium?’ Dash asked. That was in the notes too.
‘I was a bit distracted,’ Casey admitted. ‘I didn’t get much. A foothold.’
‘Nicky thinks they might be vulnerable to a takeover,’ he said. ‘She thinks they’re a bit overstretched after last year, and Alphavivo might try and snap them up.’
