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‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help,’ said Tom more gently. ‘But you must understand my position. I said the same thing to the other woman.’
‘Which other woman?’
‘French. Dark hair. Attractive.’
Lara snatched her phone from her bag and scrolled to a selfie that she and Sandrine had taken of themselves at The Engineer.
‘She came here? Before Jonathon died.’
‘Yes. When we were still moored in Port Hercules. I refused to let her on the boat, but she accosted Mr Meyer on his way out.’
‘What did they talk about?’
‘Perhaps you should ask her.’
‘She’s dead,’ said Lara quietly.
‘Oh,’ said Tom, looking shocked. ‘I’m sorry.’
Lara held up the photo again.
‘Tom, this was my best friend Sandrine. Her death was as strange and random as Jonathon’s. If you know anything, please tell me.’
Tom looked out to sea.
‘Look, maybe you should speak to Melissa Gelman. She arranged Mr Meyer’s party guests: the girls anyway. She might have seen something, heard something. Melissa always has her ear to the ground. It’s Grand Prix weekend so she’ll be busy, but you can try her.’
He took a pen out of his pocket and scribbled her number on the back of his business card.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said stepping forward and kissing him on the cheek.
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘I really do.’
Chapter 12
; Schmoozing the advertisers, that’s what he was supposed to be doing. Alex looked around the Fairmont Hotel’s rooftop pool, packed with people in designer sunglasses and unbuttoned Armani shirts, lanyards and laminates catching the afternoon sun, over-loud music clanging like a fire drill. How anyone was supposed to sweet-talk anyone out here, Alex couldn’t imagine. It was hard enough to get the bar-staff to hear your order. Still, a free weekend at the Monaco Grand Prix was a free weekend. The sun was out and, for a while at least, Alex didn’t have to worry about tomorrow’s front page.
He watched Charlie Avery weave his way through the crowd, somehow looking fresh and tanned. Charlie found this stuff effortless; something to do with being the boss’s son, perhaps. Charlie was born to do it. But then so was I, thought Alex with an ironic smile. Alex’s father had been a newsagent and Alex had learned about the news sitting on the bales in the back room, reading headlines about the ‘Missile Crisis’ and ‘Stripping Vicar’, his eyes wide.
‘Alex, come and meet Anton Cuovo,’ said Charlie, gripping him on the shoulder and steering him towards a roped-off seating area.
‘Anton’s the VP for Volcan rum. We could do with getting them onboard, so be nice.’
‘Aren’t I always?’ said Alex, taking a glass of champagne.
As deputy editor, it wasn’t usually his job to come to corporate events like this. It was Darius who was parachuted in to drink the free cocktails, press the flesh and build relationships with advertisers. But today the editor had been called to Chequers to interview the PM, a last-minute date-shuffle, meaning Alex had to do his bidding in Monaco instead.
Anton was wearing a bright red Ferrari cap and was leaning over the balcony when Charlie introduced them.
‘So this is where the race takes place on Sunday?’ shouted Anton, above the music.
‘All through these streets,’ said Charlie, waving a vague hand around the principality. ‘We’re going to be right on top of the action!’
The Fairmont wasn’t the most beautiful hotel in Monaco – a modernist structure that reminded Alex of an airport terminal – but it was one of the in-demand places to stay during the Grand Prix for the simple reason that it had the best view, right on a hairpin bend. It was costing the Chronicle a fortune but Charlie had insisted it was money well spent.
