by Holly Watt
‘Did he say where he went in Morocco?’
‘Essaouira?’ Bella screwed up her face, concentrating. ‘They went to do surfing there, I think. He’d been there before, a few years ago. He’d had a brilliant trip.’
‘How long was he there for?’
‘A week, I think. He was very brown when he got back.’
‘And how was he changed when he got back?’ asked Casey.
For a second, Bella’s eyes filled with real tears.
‘He was so different. In every way. Sometimes, he would be completely up, and so hectic and crazy. And other times, he would just slump. He was doing a lot more drugs. I mean, everyone would do the odd line here and there, but not much. And suddenly he was taking them for days and days and disappearing for nights. And he would get so angry. I never knew what was going to happen next . . .’
‘It must have been very hard for you.’
‘I don’t know what happened to him,’ she said. ‘It was that trip to Morocco, I am sure of it. He was completely all over the place after that.’
‘Did he ever say what happened in Morocco?’
‘No, he wouldn’t talk about it at all.’
‘And do you know who he went with?’
‘I think there was someone called Charlie?’ Bella hazarded. ‘I don’t think I ever met him.’
‘Charlie.’ Casey scribbled notes. ‘Have the police asked you about it all?’
‘Not really,’ said Bella. ‘I think they thought it was suicide.’
‘Had he ever mentioned killing himself?’
‘No,’ said Bella. ‘Never.’
‘And what do you think? Deep down.’
‘I don’t know,’ Bella said quietly. ‘Sometimes, I think that I never really knew him at all.’
Casey wrote up the interview with Isabella on the train down to Exeter, looking out over fields of black and white cows. She put in a few hints of tragedy, but made Milo’s death sound like a suicide. She didn’t want her rivals getting interested. Then she filled the article with adjectives and filed it to the fashion desk, adding a quick note to Ross.
‘Could you boot Fashion into publishing? I know she’s not a name, but brownie points with Bella Monroe would be helpful. You never know. Not fussed about whose byline goes on, if that helps. In fact, probably best if it isn’t mine.’
Articles were the easiest currency, for the Post.
Now she stared out of the train window, watching green fields slip past. Everyone has their Achilles heel, she had learned. Not always money. Often not money, surprisingly. But once you understand greed, you understand everything. And there is always a bait.
The big tabloids dangled ridiculous carrots, back in the day. Fame. Fortune. Power. And their props were a Rolex, a Ferrari, a yacht in Dubai.
Casey remembered one of the Post’s boys laughing over a Lamborghini, borrowed for a review in the driving section, and then used to turn over some soap star. The hacks promised the world and their prey fell over themselves. It felt oddly unsporting to Casey.
‘Timeo danaos,’ Miranda had grinned once.
The train slowed into the station, and Casey got a taxi out to the small village on the edge of Dartmoor.
The Newburys lived in Georgian perfection just outside Chagford. Early roses were coming into flower as the last few tulips collapsed in scarlet petals. The wisteria spilled across the front in Japanese beauty, so the house looked like it was wearing eyeshadow. Swallows were building nests under the eaves. The moor soared away in the distance, up to the granite might of Kes Tor.
Casey knocked at the door. She could see the echoes of Milo in the man who opened the door. The clear blue eyes and the straight eyebrows. He was wearing a golf jumper, grey and blue diamonds.
‘Sir Conrad?’ she asked.
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Cassandra Benedict and I’m a reporter at the Post. I am very sorry to bother you, but could I possibly talk to you about your son?’
His face shuttered.
‘I’ve told your newspaper once. No. Absolutely not.’
‘Please . . .’
‘Please leave.’
The door closed firmly in her face. Not unusual. Casey retreated down the path. As she turned down the pretty lane towards the village, she caught a glimpse of a woman in the window. The woman looked as if she had forgotten how to smile.
Wandering around the village, Casey drifted into conversations, with the greengrocer and the baker, the postman and the woman at the Spar. It was a terrible shame. The funeral was the saddest day. Isabella couldn’t stop crying. Such a pretty girl, she is. Lady N hollowed out with sadness. Sir Conrad was just playing golf all the time now, over outside Okehampton. He was never home. Nothing like that had ever happened in Chagford before. Their only child, can you believe it? A tragedy. London, you know. A real tragedy.
Casey bought a Cornish pasty from the bakery and waited, on a bench, in Chagford’s pretty square. Eventually, a green Range Rover reversed out of the drive and disappeared in the direction of Okehampton.
A few minutes later, Lady Newbury came out of the house, carrying a trug and wearing gardening gloves. A snuffly pug followed closely.
She must have been beautiful, thought Casey, before her world splintered.
Casey walked to the garden gate, but stopped outside.
‘Lady Newbury?’
There was a long pause.
‘I’ll leave whenever you want me to,’ Casey promised.
The sparrows bickering on the bird table were the only sound. Casey waited, and very slowly Lady Newbury walked towards her. As she opened the gate, Casey saw that her hands were shaking.
Still in silence, they walked towards the house. Lady Newbury dropped the trug on the hall table, knocking some white roses to a shower of petals. In the library, without a word, Casey was pointed to a faded armchair. Lady Newbury disappeared towards the kitchen.
Casey looked around her. The room was lined with books, the spines a jumble of gold letters and battered favourites. A stag’s head mourned above, and an antique Persian rug glowed with jewel-box colour. A delicate globe, of fragile beauty, sat on a Sheraton table. The room was immaculate; letters on the writing desk neatly stacked. There were photographs everywhere, in silver frames: Milo opening birthday presents, Milo on the rugby field, Milo playing polo.
The art was superb. A watercolour of Milo, Milo at his best, hung by the window.
Casey looked at it for a long time. The Newburys’ golden boy, in a white shirt, open at the neck. He was laughing, lit up, happy.
‘I’ve always loved that painting.’ Casey turned at the voice. Lady Newbury was carrying a tray, with a blue and white teapot and a plate of shortbread. Her voice sounded rusty.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Casey.
‘I don’t know why you have come here, Miss . . .’
‘Benedict. Cassandra. I wanted to ask you about Milo. And how he died. I’m very sorry. Would you mind if . . .’
‘You can.’ Her voice dried up for a second, and then went on. ‘You can ask.’
‘We think,’ Casey said carefully, ‘that something may have happened to Milo on a holiday a few months before he died.’
‘The Morocco trip?’
‘I spoke to Isabella Monroe,’ said Casey. ‘She said that he changed a lot after that trip.’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Newbury. ‘I don’t know what happened out in Morocco, but Isabella is most certainly right. Something changed.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He didn’t come down here very much. He hadn’t for a long time. All the mothers round here would get together and laugh about it. Our children running around in London, being silly, having a fine old time. We would only hear from them when they had run out of funds. But we thought it was fun for them. We thought it was a phase, and then they would be back . . .’
Casey gazed out of the window, to give her time. The rain was coming down now, dancing the tulips to rag
s.
‘So he didn’t come down often?’
‘No. I last saw him when he was down for Christmas. He always came, for a few days. But this time, I was shocked. He’d lost a lot of weight, and he had terrible . . . Well, mood swings I think you would call it. One minute, he couldn’t stop talking, the next he was sulking like a teenager.’
‘Did you ask him about it?’
‘No . . .’ She hesitated for a long time. ‘I’m the verger at the church, you know. I keep an eye on it. Organise the flower rota, make sure we have enough candles.’
One of the building blocks of English village life, thought Casey. The foundations, really.
‘It’s a beautiful church.’ Casey had wandered around the churchyard, wasting time.
Milo’s headstone – most beloved son – was carved white marble. Among the crooked old gravestones, covered in lichen, it stood out like a false tooth.
‘I walked up there on Christmas Eve, just to check on it before Midnight Mass,’ said Lady Newbury. ‘I walked in, quietly. Not on purpose, I’m just quiet. My husband doesn’t like . . . fuss. And Milo was there . . . Up by the altar. He was on his knees, and Milo was never religious. Never. I had to drag him along to church when he was little.’
‘What was he saying?’
‘I couldn’t hear.’ His mother’s voice shook. ‘But he was saying something. I froze.’
‘And then?’
‘The door slammed,’ said Lady Newbury. ‘In the wind. It was such a bang. And Milo jumped up. He was furious with me, shouting had I heard anything. I said I hadn’t. I don’t know why. I should have asked him what on earth was going on . . . I should have asked him . . . And I didn’t . . . It was so stupid of me. My son. My only son.’
She ran out of words then.
‘Did you ever ask him about it?’
‘No. It was Christmas the next day. My sister, and her family. And they all stayed until Boxing Day, and Milo went back to London that evening. And there just wasn’t time. I tried to ask him about it, just on the phone a few times. But he wouldn’t talk about it . . . He would just hang up. So eventually, I stopped asking.’
‘And then?’
‘He died.’ The words were stark in the gentle room. ‘He died, and I’ll never know now. My darling boy. My darling, darling boy.’
‘Do you think that he jumped? I am so sorry to ask.’
‘I don’t know.’ There was agony in every word. ‘I just don’t know. I don’t know which is worse.’
The rain was pouring down now. Sir Conrad’s golf would be washed away. Hopefully, he would head to the bar, but he might return.
‘Lady Newbury . . .’ She paused. ‘I know it is an odd question, but do you have Milo’s passport?’
‘His passport?’ She was bewildered.
Casey nodded.
‘I suppose so. It must be somewhere. Upstairs. Conrad handled his . . . effects.’
Uncertainly, she went to the door. Her footsteps hesitated around the bedrooms above. A few minutes later she reappeared.
‘Here.’
Casey examined it.
Laos. New York. Kenya. Barbados. The Seychelles.
Dozens of them, but finally, Casey found it, feeling the shiver go down her spine. The Tinkarine border crossing, in the south-west corner of Libya. Into Libya, over from Algeria. It was always astonishing how seriously chaotic states took their bureaucracy. As if insisting on a stamp could end the havoc.
‘Would you mind if I made a list of the places he visited?’
‘Of course not.’ Lady Newbury was confused, but seemed untroubled.
Casey quickly noted down the times and places. She snapped a photograph of the Tinkarine stamp, and an Algerian one too. Last October, middle of the month. This passport had never been to Morocco.
‘You’ve been generous with your time, Lady Newbury. Thank you so much.’
‘I don’t do much any more,’ she said. ‘Will you let me know if you find out anything about my son?’
My son.
I am Malak.
‘Of course,’ said Casey, because that was her job. Her brutal, agonising job. ‘Of course I will let you know, if I can find out.’
Casey handed over her business card.
‘I think it’s the worst thing,’ said Lady Newbury. ‘The worst thing. Not knowing what happened to him.’
14
Casey left before Sir Conrad could return, meeting the taxi driver in the pretty village square. Lady Newbury watched her go, lost in an irreparable grief.
‘He was clearly having problems after this October trip.’ Casey called Miranda when she was safely at the station. ‘Could have been struggling with guilt. Could have been having a meltdown with whoever organises this crap.’
‘And he flew to Algeria, not Morocco?’
‘Yes, exactly, and then crossed over at Tinkarine. They obviously don’t trust Libyan airspace. Which is probably sensible given the number of lunatics who could be wandering around with surface-to-air missiles. Gaddafi’s lot left weapon dumps all over that country, and no one knows where they are now. The SAS didn’t get to some of them in time.’
‘Who the fuck is this Charlie character Bella mentioned?’
Over the next week, they trawled every angle. Milo had no visible connection to anyone called Charlie who wasn’t a PR girl or an estate agent.
Casey even pretended to be interested in buying a ten-million-pound mansion in Knightsbridge to check out one possible Charlie.
‘Not him,’ she sighed to Miranda on the phone later. ‘Although it has huge potential for digging out an Olympic-sized swimming pool and cinema room in the basement. And I could hear the people in the garden next door doing some leisurely insider trading. I must mention it to Nicky.’
Casey let her eyes drift around the room. She was back in her sitting room, the tiny haven where she spent her occasional evenings off. She always meant to paint the walls something other than dull magnolia.
Tonight she was frustrated. Bella, thrilled by the flattering article about her hats, had dug under her bed and unearthed Milo’s bank statements. He had withdrawn thousands in cash, but there were no transfers to anyone called Charlie.
‘Could be drugs,’ said Casey now. ‘That would explain the cash withdrawals.’
Charlie; cocaine. Molly; MDMA. Dangerous when they became close friends.
‘Bella did say he was doing a lot towards the end, didn’t she?’ said Miranda. ‘Too much can make anyone a bit crazy. And paranoid. And all over the place.’
They thought about, but didn’t mention, the Post’s defence editor. He had taken a pill just before the last Christmas lunch, and spent the party arguing with a pillar. Then he had a fight with himself behind a sofa. He’d been dispatched to rehab somewhere, after faxing death threats to Ross.
‘He faxed them?’ someone said. ‘I didn’t even know we still had a fucking fax. Jesus, that man spent far too long in Afghan.’
They sat in silence.
‘Doesn’t quite make sense though, does it?’ said Miranda eventually. ‘Going on holiday with drugs. Even if you’re totally losing it, Algeria is the last place you’d go with drugs. They kick up a fuss over alcohol over there.’
Casey slumped down at her tiny dinner table. She examined her pot plant, a pretty purple flower bought one lazy Sunday morning in Columbia Road. It was dead. Very dead. The label a tiny tombstone.
‘So what’s the next step?’ said Miranda. ‘Wynford Mortimer is driving me to drink.’
‘You were there already.’
There was a pause.
‘The problem is that I think we know the next step,’ said Casey. ‘And we don’t want to say it.’
‘What is it?’ asked Miranda, although she knew.
‘The next step is obvious. Undercover.’
‘Out there? It’s total madness, Casey. We don’t know where, or when, or who. The basic questions. We don’t know what the rules are. And we’re dealing with people
who appear supremely unfussed about killing. It’s close to suicide.’
Casey fiddled with the pot plant, pulling off the shrivelled leaves.
‘We know where,’ said Casey. ‘And knowing the name Charlie could be enough.’
‘In a country where people die,’ added Miranda, ‘all the time.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Casey.
Casey could hear Miranda’s husband asking about dinner in the background.
‘Just a minute.’ Miranda’s voice was impatient.
‘I could go with a guy,’ Casey said, in the end. ‘Just be a couple of slightly dim backpackers. Hang out in the nearest town and see what happens.’
‘Long shot,’ said Miranda. ‘And fucking dangerous. It’s dangerous crossing a road in that country, let alone anything else.’
Casey poured a teacup of water over the purple flower. The water ran off the dry earth, splashing over the table.
‘Shit. OK. Let me think.’
‘I may have thought of something. Speak tomorrow.’
‘You’re not going to like this plan,’ Miranda smiled at Casey the next morning.
Casey hadn’t slept. She had spent the night playing war games in her head instead.
‘You’re probably right,’ Casey agreed.
‘You look terrible by the way.’
‘I know,’ Casey said equably.
‘Ed.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘He could do it,’ said Miranda. ‘And I can’t think of anyone else.’
‘Miranda,’ said Casey. ‘I can’t.’
Even his name made her heart twist.
‘Let’s go and talk to Dash,’ said Miranda.
‘Fine,’ said Casey, knowing it was a trap.
They sat down at the conference table. Dash steepled his fingers and waited for them to speak. Miranda presented the evidence, point by point.
‘We’re going to have to go in,’ Miranda kept her voice steady. ‘Through Algeria.’
‘That would be insanity,’ said Dash.
‘It would be such an important story,’ said Miranda, light in her eyes. ‘The very best. It’s worth a risk.’
‘More importantly,’ interrupted Casey, ‘we can’t let this carry on. We know . . . We think we know that somewhere out there, refugees are being hunted like animals . . . ’
