Deep Blue Sea

by Tasmina Perry

  Edward had met McIntyre in the children’s home where he had grown up, and had been offered work experience in his office, which had led to something much more sinister. His story had made Rachel hot with anger. She didn’t care if McIntyre was litigious. Why should he be allowed to get away with something as heinous as that just because he could afford an army of lawyers? So she’d gone after him. She was senior enough at the newspaper by now to authorise payments to Ross McKiney, who had linked McIntyre to pimps and pornographers, but had done so by hacking into his phone. And so Ross had gone to jail, Rachel had narrowly escaped it, and with pomp and spin and legal threats Malcolm McIntyre had been completely exonerated.

  ‘Does Diana know about Madison Kopek’s pregnancy?’ asked Adam finally.

  ‘No. And I’m not going to tell her.’

  He nodded in agreement.

  ‘Do you know the CEO of Denver Chemicals?’

  ‘Simon Michaels? I know who he is. I’ve met him a number of times. I wouldn’t say he’s a close pal.’

  ‘Can you speak to him for me?’

  ‘What about? Rheladrex?’ he said incredulously.

  ‘Of course. Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said?’

  ‘You’ve got your story, Rachel. Julian’s mistress was pregnant. With his baby. A child he was desperate for. Fuck, Jules. You idiot.’ He tipped his chin up towards the sky and closed his eyes.

  ‘That’s not the story. It’s information. And information isn’t always the truth,’ she said quietly. ‘It would be easy to stop here. Diana already knows about Madison. That’s enough. But I want the truth, Adam. I always have.’

  ‘And how do you know you’ve found it?’ he asked, looking at her.

  Her eyes scanned to a path that led to the edge of the cliff.

  ‘Somehow you always know when it’s the end of the road. And I just don’t think we’re there yet.’

  ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Will you call Simon Michaels?’

  ‘Tell me what you want to know and I’ll call him.’

  29

  Elizabeth Denver’s house was big, even by Kensington standards. A tall double-fronted town house set just off a square only a stone’s throw from the High Street, in the exclusive pocket known as the Phillimores, it seemed even whiter than the other properties, with a shiny black door that reminded Diana of 10 Downing Street. She was greeted by a maid – not a butler? she thought as she handed over her wrap and was shown towards the living room. Elizabeth is letting standards drop.

  Not that anyone else would think such a thing, especially when they saw the living area. It was an expensively designed mix of styles, with deep red floral-patterned wallpaper, extravagant gold picture frames and modern furniture. The centrepiece of the room was the huge crystal chandelier, twinkling like a fallen star.

  ‘Diana, wonderful to see you,’ said Elizabeth, striding purposefully through the door. Diana had rarely seen her sister-in-law in anything but a trouser suit and a serious blow-dry, but today she was wearing a pair of cream jeans and a silk blouse. Her hair was flat and tucked behind her ears, and she wore little make-up. ‘So glad you could come.’

  It wasn’t as if Diana had had a great deal of choice; Elizabeth had practically insisted, in her rather lofty, school-marmish way, when she had called with the invitation. ‘You can’t stay out there in that huge draughty house,’ she had said in a tone that suggested argument was not acceptable. ‘No, I will make you some comfort food and we’ll have a good old chin-wag. How’s that sound?’

  It actually sounded hideous to Diana. She had never warmed to Julian’s sister – in fact she doubted there was any warmth in the woman at all – and she was fairly sure the antipathy was mutual. When Julian had been alive they had seen Elizabeth once a month for supper, and each time she had made it seem like an interview for an MBA programme, with Diana forced to apologise for her ignorance. Elizabeth clearly felt that her brother should have made a more strategic marriage, possibly to an heiress due to come into a suitably compatible multinational business, or even some sort of minor European royalty, someone who fitted in with Elizabeth’s overblown self-image; certainly not to his secretary, at any rate.

  So under normal circumstances Diana would have done anything to put off her formidable sister-in-law. But things weren’t normal, far from it. Julian was dead, Charlie was at school and Rachel was out playing detective. And after her meeting with Stuart Wilson earlier in the week, Diana knew that she had to face the Denver family sooner rather than later. Adam was one thing, but Elizabeth was quite another, so it was with trepidation that she accepted her sister-in-law’s invitation to come through to the kitchen.

  The large oak table at one end of the room was set for two, with wine goblets.

  ‘It’s just the two of us for supper, although David might join us later.’ David Douglas was Elizabeth’s much older husband, who had a senior job in the City. Diana quite liked him. Although she thought he would doubtless be as fierce in business as his wife, he was an old-school gent with beautiful manners and she found herself wishing he was here.

  ‘So. How was your day?’ asked Elizabeth, her voice still breezy.

  ‘I’ve been to see Charlie.’

  ‘You’ve been to Harrow? How nice. I must drive up there one afternoon with David. And how’s Olga Shapiro? She’s good, isn’t she?’

  Diana couldn’t help frowning. Olga had not been Elizabeth’s recommendation, so she had no idea how her sister-in-law knew which therapist she was seeing. Then again, Elizabeth had always made it her business to know everything. It would not surprise Diana if there was some bugging device in her car that fed all her movements back to Elizabeth’s Kensington HQ. Or was she being ultra-paranoid?

  Diana sat down at the table and Elizabeth slid her slender hand into an oven glove, an image that Diana wanted to capture on her phone for posterity.

  ‘It’s Consuela’s night off, so I’m afraid you’re lumbered with my cooking. Cordon bleu standard cuisine sadly isn’t in my repertoire of skills.’

  She pulled a tray out of the oven and a steaming highly glazed salmon en croute presented itself.

  ‘Looks impressive to me,’ said Diana, knowing that Elizabeth’s idea of casual supper for two would inevitably involve some aspect of showing-off.

  Elizabeth was an incredibly accomplished woman, but unlike many of her type and class she had no qualms about letting people know it. Educated at Yale and Stanford Business School, she had gone out of her way to be different from her brothers. She’d had a short tenure in her twenties working for Denver, specialising in the finance side, but had promptly left to set up her own business when her father had made it clear that Julian would be his heir. Diana wasn’t exactly sure what Elizabeth did, but it was certainly profitable – her asset management company was worth over $1 billion in less than five years. Three years ago, her operation had been ‘folded’ into the Denver Group – perhaps when she had made her point to her father – and she was now a very vocal member of the board.

  ‘So, were you surprised by the contents of Julian’s will?’ said Elizabeth, slicing a knife through the pastry. She looked up, her bright eyes challenging Diana’s as she served the food. It was typical of her to cut straight to the chase.

  ‘Well, Adam got the Ducatis. That wasn’t too much of a shock.’

  Elizabeth licked a fleck of pink salmon flesh from her fingertip and sat down.

  ‘I thought it was only fair to let you know as soon as possible that we intend to contest the will,’ she said, as matter-of-factly as if she were reporting the weather.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ gasped Diana, feeling the words stick in her throat.

  ‘Don’t take it personally,’ replied Elizabeth more kindly. ‘But you should understand that this is family. This is business.’

&nb
sp; ‘What do you mean, this is family? Charlie and I were Julian’s family. His wife and son.’ She could feel a circle of heat pooling around her neck. She was determined not to wither, but Elizabeth had switched into full aggressive business mode.

  ‘We accepted you into this family, Diana, but Julian was your only connection to it. Charlie is not Julian’s natural son and he is not a Denver. We certainly can’t allow him to be on the board.’

  ‘Of course Charlie is his son,’ said Diana, willing herself to stay strong. ‘Not by birth, but legally. Julian adopted him.’

  Elizabeth waved her hand as if that was a trifling legality.

  ‘This is bigger than that, Diana. This affects the whole company. We can’t allow Julian’s sentimentality to undermine the stability of a multi-billion-pound business.’

  ‘Sentimentality?’ said Diana, amazed. ‘Julian loved Charlie; he was his father!’

  Elizabeth was clearly unmoved by this argument. Diana forced herself to think. She knew she was not as smart as her sister-in-law, she didn’t have the mental nimbleness to win arguments, but she thought about Charlie’s face over lunch, his quiet determination that he was going to make his father proud.

  ‘Challenge the will. On what grounds?’ she asked, battling to disguise the shake in her voice.

  ‘Mental incompetence, of course.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ spluttered Diana.

  ‘I spent the whole day with a very experienced team of probate lawyers yesterday and they seem to think otherwise. Julian killed himself. I hate to remind you of that detail. But he did. He had lost his mind. He was unstable, depressed, unpredictable undoubtedly. It was a very recent will and I am not convinced that he was of the appropriate soundness of mind to make it. Certainly I am aware that previous versions made proper provisions for Julian’s shareholding. I believe they were gifted to Adam and myself which my lawyers are calling a testamentary promise, especially in view of all the work I do for Denver. Julian could not have done his job without me . . .’

  ‘You’re wicked, you know that,’ said Diana, standing up and throwing her napkin down on the table. Her cheeks were burning.

  Elizabeth put a regal arm out to soften the atmosphere.

  ‘I am not the bad guy here, Diana. Believe it or not, I don’t want to see you and Charlie lose out. You deserve Somerfold. And if Julian wanted you to have his other investments, then so be it.’ Her mouth twitched as if she didn’t exactly believe what she was saying. ‘But forget the Denver shareholdings, Diana. Be reasonable. Think of the family, the business. And ask yourself – do you really, honestly want it for Charlie? The profile, the responsibility? The family certainly don’t want to see him fall short. There is an earlier will we suggest should be admitted to probate. In it there are plenty of provisions that will make you a very wealthy woman. Richer than you ever dreamt possible when you first arrived in London. I mean, ask yourself, how much money do you and Charlie need?’

  ‘This isn’t about the money,’ Diana whispered. ‘This is about Julian. His wishes. What he wanted for Charlie.’

  Elizabeth gave a hard, superior laugh. ‘Julian could be a fool. He let his heart rule his head. You know that more than anyone.’

  ‘Ralph, Adam, I don’t believe they would do this . . .’ She had to put her hands on the table to support herself. Her whole body felt beaten and weak.

  ‘My parents are old, as you well know, and my father is in ill health. You correctly guess that they won’t want a fight, but they will, believe me, if it means protecting the company, protecting the family.’

  ‘Is that how you see yourself now? The head of the family?’ she said with as much scorn as she could muster. ‘I am glad to hear that Julian’s death has been of some use to you.’

  Elizabeth put down her fork. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’ she said, making no attempt to conceal her contempt.

  Diana could feel her resolve crumbling. The fog was creeping back in, ready to suffocate her.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Fine. Go,’ said Elizabeth sharply. ‘Go home and think about whether you’ve got the strength for the fight.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate the strength a mother can find to protect her child,’ Diana said as she turned for the door.

  She let herself out and sank on to the stone steps outside. She could sense a presence at the window behind her, Elizabeth watching her from a crack in the curtains, but she didn’t care.

  Her hands were shaking as she pulled her phone out of her bag. ‘Mum,’ she whispered when a voice answered at the other end. ‘Mum. Come and get me. I need you. And find Rachel, please. Find her and bring her to us.’

  30

  Rachel stood at the bottom of the steps leading to her mother’s apartment for a long time, too scared to go inside, too worried about what she was going to see or hear. She had been on her way back to Somerfold in the executive Mercedes that Adam Denver had laid on for her, not wanting to admit to herself that she’d had an unexpectedly pleasant afternoon in Jersey, when her mother had contacted her saying that she had to come to Bayswater immediately. The urgency of Sylvia Miller’s voice and the knowledge that her mother would rather communicate with her via homing pigeon than actually talk to her had sent a cold shiver of worry down her spine. All she could hear were Adam’s words about Diana being on the edge, and despite Sylvia’s reassurances that her sister was okay, Rachel had spent the entire journey into London feeling sick with fear and guilt that something dreadful had happened to her.

  Finally she pressed the bell and took the long flight of stairs to her mother’s first-floor flat. The door was slightly ajar, so she crept inside, using the few moments she was alone to take in her surroundings. She had been aware that Julian had bought Sylvia a property in London when Diana had first fallen pregnant three years earlier. A large lateral space with long windows that overlooked a pretty square, the property was an estate agent’s wet dream, not so much a granny flat as a bribe. After his infidelity, after his betrayal of her daughter, it appeared that Julian had paid for Sylvia’s forgiveness the only way he knew how – with money.

  She heard footsteps from the other end of the hall and felt her pulse quicken; the last thing she felt like was another hostile reception, but instead her mother crept out of the kitchen with the quietness and solemnity of an undertaker.

  ‘Hello, Rachel. How are you?’ she said softly.

  The gentle welcome almost knocked Rachel sideways and heightened her concern even further.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ she said quickly. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the guest bedroom. I didn’t know whether to call the doctor for a sedative.’

  Her mother hadn’t actually told her anything other than that Diana was upset and wanted to see her. In the car over here Rachel had been imagining all sorts of scenarios. As a child she had never been able to wait to see what happened at the end of a story, always sneaking a look at the last page, desperate to find out if Cinderella and Prince Charming got together. Of course they always did – but then that was only fairy tales, wasn’t it? Look how it had turned out for Diana and her handsome prince: no happily-ever-after there.

  ‘Can’t she sleep?’

  ‘She says she can’t.’

  ‘But she’s okay?’

  Sylvia nodded, her eyes closed, her lips pressed together. ‘She called me from Kensington,’ she said, her voice not even a whisper. ‘She was sobbing so hard I could hardly hear where to pick her up from. I found her eventually. Slumped up against a wall in the Phillimores like a homeless person. I hope to God that no one saw her.’

  Rachel didn’t like to point out that being spotted by a west London acquaintance was probably the least of Diana’s problems.

  ‘She wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Then you’d better put the kettl
e on.’

  Sylvia put her hand out and touched her daughter’s forearm. Rachel flinched. Sylvia had never been the most demonstrative of parents – Rachel couldn’t remember being scooped up or hugged as a child – and whilst the gesture wasn’t unwelcome, it certainly made her jolt with surprise.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Rachel knew it was not an apology for excommunicating her daughter for almost four years, but it was a peace offering, a sign that the worst was over, and she smiled back softly.

  She walked down the hallway, taking slow, quiet steps. It wasn’t more than ten metres to the bedroom at the far end of the apartment, but it felt like a very long way indeed. She pushed open the door and peeped inside. The room was unlit and gloomy. Diana was standing by the window, peering out. As she turned to look at Rachel, a cone of light from the street lamp outside illuminated her face. Despite its soft, fuzzy glow, Rachel could see that she was as white as a ghost, and her once glossy hair was lank around her face. Her eyes seemed to have receded a little further back into her skull, her cheekbones were sharper, her beautiful fine-boned face looked haunted.

  Rachel turned a lamp on and sat on the bed.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’ she said simply.

  Diana just nodded.

  ‘Maybe we should go for a walk. This place is so close to the park . . .’

  ‘Now?’ asked Diana, wrapping her arms across herself. ‘Won’t it be dangerous?’