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‘Tiny isn’t never. And we both know it happens.’
‘In war zone
s, the third world, not Marylebone.’
‘Sandrine didn’t take her own life, Alex.’
He looked away, feeling conflicted. Lara was grieving and he knew she was looking for meaning in Sandrine’s senseless death. On the other hand, Alex had always subscribed to the maxim of ‘chase the hunch’. And now Lara had a hunch. He pulled out his phone and quickly tapped out a text. There was a pause, then Lara’s phone chirped.
‘What did you just send me?’
‘Frank Benson’s mobile, in case you don’t have it. I also sent him a text telling him you were going to be in touch.’
‘Frank on the Chronicle news desk?’
Alex nodded. ‘When the Meyer story blew up, I got Frank to speak to Jonathon’s brother Simon. He’s a lawyer, somewhere out in Surrey I think. Frank will give you his contacts.’
Lara’s face lit up. Alex knew that look – she had the scent.
‘Don’t get too excited, Sherlock,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Simon didn’t have much to say, that’s why we didn’t run the interview.’
‘But it’s a start.’
Alex put his hand on hers.
‘48 hours, Lar,’ he said seriously. ‘That’s what I’d give you as an editor. Find the story or let it go.’
Lara turned and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thank you,’ she said, then jumped up and strode off down the garden. Alex just sat there, watching her go, two fingers touching the place her lips had just been.
Chapter 10
Lara zoomed down the A3 out of London, the long undulating stretch of road disappearing underneath her front wheel. Lara enjoyed having such a powerful bike, but sometimes the Triumph seemed hellbent on killing her, especially on a day like today when the roads were slick with a summer shower, the sunshine making the tarmac shimmer like a jeweller’s window. Still, it was good to get out into the light, especially after the morning’s gloom. It hadn’t been necessary for anyone to attend Sandrine’s pre-inquest review, but when Jean and Marion had said they were going to go before their return to Corsica, Lara had felt duty-bound to join them. The hearing had been short and formal, the room claustrophobic and dry, but it had been worth going along to catch up on Marion’s arrangements for the funeral, scheduled to take place in three weeks’ time once Sandrine’s body had been flown back to France. There was a family plot at the local church in their village and the wake was to be held at Sandrine’s favourite restaurant, a place by the beach where a teenage Sandrine had waitressed barefoot in the summer. It seemed fitting; an untamed spirit being remembered and celebrated in the place she had felt most carefree.
Lara downshifted and eased off the throttle as she saw the sign announcing her arrival in Cobham, the well-heeled Surrey village just beyond the outer limits of London. To her left, willows dipped their long fingers into the river Mole, a scene straight from Constable’s sketchbook, but on the right was a new-build gated estate and a car showroom specialising in high-sheen Range Rovers. Cobham was wealthy, but it wasn’t Monte Carlo. Neither was Simon Meyer his brother.
Whilst Jonathon held parties on his giant yacht in the Med, Simon Meyer was a solicitor working from an office on Cobham’s high street, doing the humdrum work of a local lawyer, writing wills and handling the conveyancing for house sales. According to Stella’s research, his most racy client was a supplier of school uniforms. It was hard to imagine someone more distant from the life of Ferraris and penthouses of Jonathon Meyer, and Lara wondered how two boys with the same start in life could end up so far apart. For a moment she thought of her cousin Charlie. He was a year younger than her and they’d been brought up like siblings after she had been sent to live with Nicholas and Olivia after the death of her parents. Like the Meyer boys, you’d think they’d landed at different ends of the scale. Charlie worked in the Avery publishing business but had a reputation as a spoilt playboy living on the family dollar, while Lara was driven and committed to her work. The swot and the waster – it fit the cliché, but Lara knew Charlie’s image was just that, an affectation. He wore flash suits and favoured fine wine, but it was a way to disarm and ingratiate himself with potential advertisers and brand partners. Charlie hid his light under a bushel. She wondered how different the Meyer brothers really were.
Lara pulled into a parking space next to the Cobham branch of Waitrose and headed towards the office of Meyer and Birch on the high street. She pushed through the glass door and was rewarded by the tinkling of a bell. The office had that air of dustiness and age that was both rare and reassuring. Lots of dark wood furniture, a worn green carpet, framed certificates on the walls: in an age when high street banks had been updated with cartoon characters and bright plastic mouldings, there was something solid and decent about Simon Meyer’s workplace.
‘Miss Stone?’ said a tall man in a shirt and sober tie, walking out from a back office. Simon Meyer looked like a slightly faded actor playing the role rather than the real thing. Lara could see the resemblance to the pictures she had seen of Jonathon, but it was more his bearing that made him stand out. He looked as solid as the office.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ said Lara, shaking his hand.
‘You’ve saved me from filing some Land Registry charges,’ he smiled as he led her back to his private office and closed the door. Simon was friendly and polite, chatting as he sat down behind his wooden desk. Lara felt herself being assessed, which was fine, she was used to it. Everyone was suspicious of journalists, it came with the territory.
‘So you’re from the Chronicle?’
‘That’s right.’
She didn’t think it was the time or the place to describe her employment instability.
‘I was surprised when Frank Benson called. I read the piece about Jonathon in the paper and saw my interview had been cut. I apologise if I wasn’t particularly interesting. When someone calls the day you find out your brother has died, I’m sure you’d forgive me for not being articulate.’
‘I’m sorry about your loss,’ said Lara. She’d had so many people say those words to her over the past few days, it was almost a relief to say them to someone else. ‘It must have been a shock.’
‘I don’t know about a shock,’ said Simon.
