Deep Blue Sea

by Tasmina Perry

  They approached the restaurant that Charlie had recommended and went inside. It was warm and smelt of freshly baked bread. It was also quiet, and a waitress showed them to the best seat in the house, a small booth by the window.

  ‘I’m fine, you know,’ said Charlie after they had settled down and ordered.

  ‘I know you’re fine. That’s why I wanted to have this conversation with you.’

  ‘This sounds as if it is going to be rather grown-up.’

  ‘It is.’ She smiled, admiring his maturity. ‘I went to Dad’s solicitor this week. He wanted to tell me about the contents of his will.’

  ‘Money doesn’t matter. It won’t bring him back.’

  ‘No, it won’t. But there are lots of practical things we have to sort out, much as we’d rather not. And this is one of them.’

  ‘Did Uncle Adam get the Ferrari collection?’ Charlie asked, peering up at her through his long tawny fringe.

  Diana laughed. ‘Yes, he did. Why? Did you want them?’

  ‘No, but I wouldn’t have minded the motorbikes,’ he smiled.

  His mother put her hand over her son’s on the table.

  ‘That was never going to happen; Dad knew I wouldn’t allow it.’

  ‘So they went to Adam too?’

  ‘I’d say that was a good home, wouldn’t you?’

  Their drinks arrived. Charlie swizzled his straw around his glass of cola.

  ‘So you’ve made up with Auntie Rachel? I thought she might be at the funeral. I was hoping she would be. You know, sometimes you don’t think you need certain people, but you do.’

  He was wiser than his years. Diana knew that Julian had made a good choice gifting his shareholding to their son.

  ‘Charlie, I’m here to talk about something your dad wanted you to have.’

  ‘What?’ he asked doubtfully.

  ‘He’s given you all his shares in the company.’

  There was a couple of seconds’ silence.

  ‘All of them?’ he said finally.

  Diana nodded.

  ‘Voting shares?’

  She looked at her son with surprise. She’d had no idea that he understood the corporate make-up of the business.

  ‘Everything that Dad owned. They are to be held in trust until you are twenty-one. He also attached a letter of intent. It’s not legally binding, but he expressed a wish that one day you become CEO of the company.’

  Charlie had fallen silent.

  ‘The reason I wanted to talk to you about it now is that I need to know how you feel about it,’ continued Diana softly. ‘I spoke to Adam and he maintains that he never really wanted to join the family business, that he felt obliged to do so. And I would never want you to be in that position of feeling that it’s your duty.’

  She thought of the Denvers – steely Ralph, frightening Elizabeth, snobby Barbara – and wondered if she always wanted to be so tightly aligned with them. But then this was Charlie’s choice. Not hers.

  ‘He really thought of me as his son, didn’t he?’

  ‘Of course you were his son,’ she said, her mouth opening in horror.

  Charlie looked up at her, his mellow hazel eyes taking on an edge of defiance.

  ‘When he married you, he got me. I know he called me his son, but don’t you think I’ve often wondered how he could love another man’s child like his own?’

  ‘But he did,’ whispered Diana, wondering how much the thought of this had tortured Charlie.

  ‘I know that now,’ he said, his lips beginning to wobble with emotion.

  ‘You should read this,’ she said, pushing a sheet of paper across the table between them. It was Julian’s letter of intent that he had attached to his will. She had read it a dozen times over since she had left Stuart Wilson’s office and could memorise every word, even though it had felt as if she been intruding on a father’s parting words to his son.

  ‘I’ll read it later,’ said Charlie, putting it in his pocket. ‘I do want his shares,’ he added. ‘I want to make him proud of me. I want to be the man he thought I could be.’

  Diana clenched her fists under the table. She was determined not to cry in front of her son, even though this time, they were tears of happiness.

  28

  Rachel was feeling terrible. She had a pounding headache and her skin had that crawling feeling you get just before the onset of a three-day cold. Glancing into the window of the taxi, she was pretty sure she looked as bad as she felt. Her flying visit to Washington had been one of those classic red-eye in-and-outs that was a positive magnet for jet lag. She had been living on coffee, junk food and nerves for three days, and the return trip had been disrupted by a baby in the row behind her. What she wanted right now was a long bath and three or four glasses of red wine, not to be zooming down the motorway to meet someone who had called her a bitch the last time they had spoken.

  ‘You have to go, Rach,’ Ross had said when Rachel had explained her plan on the way to the airport. ‘Adam Denver could be useful even if he doesn’t know it.’

  Of course, it was easy for Ross to say. Rachel couldn’t help but think she had got the raw end of the deal – she was flying straight into the dragon’s den, whilst he was probably sitting on the beach now sipping a cocktail.

  She looked down at the phone in her lap and opened the message again. It had been waiting for her when she turned on her phone at Heathrow.

  Blackbushe, midday today. I checked your flights, car will be waiting. GU17 9LQ. You’ll see where. Adam.

  She shook her head at the self-importance of ‘I checked your flights’. He was telling her he was in control and that he knew she would drop everything to come and meet him. She toyed with the idea of leaning over to tell the driver to turn around, take her back to that hot bath and Pinot Noir at Somerfold, but she couldn’t. Adam knew that, and it drove her wild. He probably knows that too, she thought. That’s why he’s doing it.

  Rachel couldn’t quite believe that she had once found Adam Denver attractive. Shuddering, she thought of all the cack-handed seduction attempts she had made over the years. She had been seated next to him at a number of dinner parties, and each time had got so drunk that she could scarcely string a sentence together, let alone dazzle him with her line in witty repartee. He’d been there too on that fateful Tuscan holiday, and during the first couple of days she had invited him to Sienna, for a walk in the poppy fields, to a wine-tasting session at a local vineyard, before a six-foot model called Carina had turned up at the palazzo – straight from a modelling assignment into Adam Denver’s bed. She was older now, wiser. She wouldn’t make those sort of mistakes again.

  They turned off the motorway and on to a country road. Where the hell were they going? She wondered about asking the driver, but he had just tapped the postcode into his GPS, so there was no point. It was all big houses and open fields: a golf course? Funny, she didn’t see Adam Denver playing golf, it was a little too parochial for him, a little too Rotary Club, especially out here in deepest Surrey – or was it Hampshire by now? And then she saw it, and began to chuckle despite herself. Of course. Blackbushe was an aerodrome, complete with a tall red-brick control tower and one of those stripy windsocks waving over the dozens of cute little propeller planes parked next to the runway.

  She offered the driver a fistful of notes, but he refused to take them. The cab had apparently been paid for on account.

  Adam Denver was standing by the double doors to the airport office, wearing a navy flying jacket, cream chinos and aviator sunglasses. He looked like Steve McQueen and Rachel was damn sure he knew it.

  ‘An aerodrome, Adam?’ she said, wincing as a small plane came in to land, cutting through the air with a roar.

  ‘Nothing gets past you, does it, Rachel?’ he said. ‘Are you ready for this?’
/>   ‘For what exactly?’

  He nodded towards the runway and set off without looking to see if she was following.

  ‘I’ve got some things to attend to,’ he said when she had caught up. ‘I thought we could kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘What, in that?’ she said, as she saw where he was leading her. A shiny black helicopter was sitting to one side of the aeroplanes, its bubble-shaped cockpit catching the sun.

  ‘I thought you might enjoy a ride,’ he said coolly.

  ‘I’m not some hick from the sticks who has never been in a helicopter before,’ she said as Adam leant over her to strap her in.

  ‘Here, put these on,’ he said, handing her a pair of headphones with a microphone attached, then turning away to flick switches and start the engine.

  Come to think of it, Rachel couldn’t actually remember ever being in a helicopter, and she was secretly rather thrilled as she adjusted the earphones on her head. She glanced over at Adam as he worked, seeing the sharp cheekbones, those lazy green eyes behind the sunglasses.

  ‘So where are we going?’ she asked, raising her voice over the noise of the helicopter.

  Adam reached across her and plugged her headphones into a socket so they could talk on the intercom.

  ‘Jersey,’ he said, his voice a little crackly.

  ‘Jersey!’

  ‘Got somewhere more important to go?’

  ‘How long is it going to take?’ she said. ‘I’m on a tight schedule and I’ve just flown in from Washington.’

  ‘Aren’t we the busy girl?’ smiled Adam, pulling smoothly on the lever next to his seat. The helicopter rose into the air and Rachel grabbed at the dashboard to stabilise herself as the ground dropped away beneath them.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and for the first time Adam glanced at her. ‘Why don’t you just shut up and enjoy the view?’

  It was certainly exhilarating flying over the English countryside, low enough to see people walking along the rivers, cows in the fields, and it was fascinating to watch everything from above, like peering into a hidden world. It was even more exciting to leave the English coast just west of the Isle of Wight and strike out over the Channel, which was twinkling in the late morning sun.

  The journey took a little over half an hour, and she was quite sorry when they eventually swooped over the patchwork fields of the island. Adam pushed forward on the controls and the helicopter tilted down towards the large white H of a heliport.

  They crossed to the terminal, where a man in a tie was waiting with a clipboard. ‘Morning, James,’ said Adam, signing something with a flourish, then jumping into a dark green Range Rover.

  ‘You coming?’ he called, leaning out of the window.

  Rachel pointedly didn’t ask any questions as Adam drove along the narrow lanes; she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead she sat and watched the scenery pass. It was surprisingly like rural England: hedgerows, stone walls, cute little whitewashed farmhouses; they could have been in Devon or Somerset, except that all the road names were in French. Rue de la Mare, Route des Landes.

  They drove into the capital, St Helier. Adam parked on yellow lines and told her to wait in the vehicle. ‘So we don’t get a ticket,’ he said, opening the door and hopping on to the pavement.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘In there.’

  ‘A bank? What are you doing? Staging a heist? I wouldn’t put the whole Thomas Crown thing past you.’

  ‘If you must know, I have to go and sign some papers. I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes.’

  ‘But what if a traffic warden comes? I don’t speak French . . .’ but he had already run up the stone steps into the building.

  He was back in the car within ten minutes.

  ‘Well that was an awfully long way for nothing.’

  ‘Actually, I was just securing a loan for seventy-five million euros. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Famished. I slept through breakfast on the plane. Those business-class beds are actually pretty comfy. But I thought you wanted to talk.’

  ‘I do want to talk, but I thought we could do it over food.’

  They crossed the island to its north-westerly tip. As they rounded a bend, the green-blue of the sea glistened in front of them, framed on either side by the plunging sides of a headland.

  ‘Wow,’ said Rachel. ‘Look at that.’

  ‘Plemont,’ said Adam. ‘One of the prettiest spots on the island.’

  He drove down a single-lane black-top road until it simply disappeared into a sandy turning space, fringed with yellow gorse, only the cliffs beyond.

  ‘This way,’ he said, jumping out and heading for a little footpath.

  ‘Where the hell are you taking me now?’ Rachel muttered under her breath, worrying that she was going to turn an ankle over in her city-girl heels. The thought did cross her mind that Adam could simply push her into the sea; there was no one out here to witness it, save a few squawking seagulls.

  She came up beside him, standing in front of the view: the dramatic cliffs plunging into the waves, a tiny strip of yellow beach just visible below.

  ‘This is amazing,’ she said with a gasp.

  ‘Glad you like it. I’m going to buy it.’ He pointed back up the hill. ‘See those buildings? Used to be a holiday camp, but it’s been derelict for years. The hotel division is in negotiations to buy this whole stretch of land and build a hotel.’

  ‘Another holiday camp?’

  ‘Deluxe private villas, each with uninterrupted views of the headland. Can’t you see it?’

  ‘Actually I can.’ She nodded. ‘It reminds me a little of the Scilly Isles. I used to love going there when I was a kid. It was so exotic, but homespun at the same time. And I guess this place is more accessible than the Scillies.’

  Adam nodded. ‘It’s less than an hour from London, five airlines fly here every day and it’s the sunniest part of the British Isles by far.’

  ‘Actually I think the Scillies holds that honour.’

  ‘Do you have to challenge me on everything?’

  ‘I expect you’re about to have a go at me, so I thought I’d simply get a headstart.’

  They walked along the headland to a small, bustling café at the top of the cliff. They ordered two mugs of tea and some Victoria sponge, and sat on a wooden picnic bench outside.

  ‘So,’ said Adam, poking at his sponge. ‘What do you want to discuss?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk to me,’ she said, looking up at him over her mug.

  ‘I said my piece on the phone. I just want you to tread carefully with Diana.’

  ‘And I will,’ she said quietly. ‘How is she? Honestly? I was freaking out when you said she was on the edge.’

  ‘She feels angry, duped . . .’

  ‘I didn’t want to lie to her.’

  ‘Not with you. With Julian.’ He looked at her cynically.

  ‘What?’ she said tartly.

  He didn’t speak for a few moments. ‘I just think you’re your own worst enemy,’ he said finally.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You had it all. You were on track to being an editor by thirty, weren’t you? Beyond that the sky was your limit; you could have had an editorship in New York, a consultancy for one of the big lobbyists in DC. You threw it all away, and what the hell for? Petty revenge? One-upmanship with your big sister? Believe me, Rachel, when I say that it just isn’t worth it.’

  ‘You sound like you’re talking from experience.’

  He hesitated and a furrow appeared between his brows.

  ‘I actually had a row with Jules a couple of weeks before he died. A big one. It was about this place, actually. I was adamant I wanted to buy it; Julian said
it was a folly, that I was expanding the group too quickly. We said some nasty things. I didn’t go to their garden party . . .’ The corners of his mouth curled downwards, spoiling his prettiness. ‘I wonder if I’d been there whether I’d have been able to do something, spot that something was wrong.’

  ‘I think a lot of people have been thinking that.’

  ‘Some people might not want you around, Rachel, but I do. I want you to find out what happened, and I agree with Di that if there is one person who can do that, it’s you.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting a vote of confidence.’

  ‘What were you in Washington for?’ he asked finally.

  She sipped her tea and told him all about Madison Kopek. She told him that the autopsy had revealed that she was pregnant, and that Laura Dale had confirmed that Madison was sleeping with Julian. She asked him about Rheladrex, which he confessed he had never heard of, and told him how Ross McKiney was in Montego Bay trying to trace Julian and Madison’s steps there.

  By the end of the story, Adam had definitely paled.

  ‘So what’s your conclusion? You think Jules killed himself over Madison and the baby, or you’re thinking something else, because you don’t need me to tell you that conspiracy theories have got you into a whole heap of trouble before.’

  She knew he was referring to Malcolm McIntyre, and wondered how he knew. It wasn’t a secret why she had got booted off the newspaper – her arrest had been high-profile – but she wondered if he had been keeping tabs on her career.

  ‘That wasn’t a conspiracy theory. That was my Watergate. I almost nailed him, I had the evidence. It just wasn’t legal.’

  ‘Illegal evidence might as well be no evidence,’ said Adam harshly.

  Rachel didn’t like thinking about it. Malcolm McIntyre was a wealthy businessman, society figure and heavyweight political donor and philanthropist. Rumours that he also had a predilection for young boys had been around for years, whispered in the corridors of power and in the newsrooms around the country. But no one had outed him. He’d been reported to the police many times, but each time the allegations had been dismissed. Several of his victims had stepped forward years after the abuse happened, abuse that had damaged them and made them, in the eyes of the law, unreliable. That he was also incredibly litigious made every editor in the land want to keep him at arm’s length. But not Rachel Miller. She had met one of his victims, Edward, when he had called the Post and offered to sell his story. He was homeless, living in hostels and on the streets. He busked for money, dabbled in drugs, but Rachel had liked him, trusted him.