Chapter 14 #2
‘… been trading about three months now. Our backer is Mac, do you know him? He’s my uncle, but only by marriage, so it’s all above …’
‘… one of the bigger islands. What was it called? Oh, I’m so annoyed, it’s on the tip of my tongue. What was its name? Anyway, the hotel was gorgeous, so we didn’t see much of the …’
‘… Yes, but these are heritage gooseberries, that’s the difference. Anyway, they juice them, put them in the pessary and then insert the whole thing …’
‘… Fifty grand, to go to some poxy dinner where you have to sit next to a nobody like the Culture Secretary. I mean …’
It’s about 85–15 women to men. The few men are divided: they’re either very fashion or they seem like bemused uncles, with a distinct vibe of ‘the Garrick isn’t open yet so I may as well be here’. The women are tightly clothed, exuberant, and as skinny as whips.
We stand in the middle of the room for a second, looking around, and then:
‘There.’
We make our way through the crowd to the bar, where a highly trained barman is wasting his career pouring endless low-calorie vodka tonics with sprigs of juniper in.
‘Hi. Hello? Hi. Vodka tonic,’ Em snaps. ‘No juniper, they’re just little sugar pouches.’
I start to speak and she cuts across me. ‘No, Dom, absolutely not, you’re driving.’ And then she notices the woman next to her. ‘Oh my God. Charli Harcourt?’
She turns.
Charli Harcourt is a beautiful woman. She was about eight years Davy’s junior when they got together, I read that in one of the newspaper obits, and from the photo of the pair of them I thought: Lucky Davy.
Today she’s still quite something. Don’t let anyone tell you surgery can’t yield incredible results – in Charli’s case, the procedures have dovetailed magnificently.
She could be in her mid-thirties, even though I know she’s grazing fifty.
As always when I meet someone really expensively assembled, I marvel at the amount of effort people are willing to spend getting other people to look at them.
I’ve spent my whole career trying to achieve the opposite.
Despite all the work, there’s something vulnerable about her too, some air of late tragedies around the corners of her eyes. She’s no killer, I can tell that much instantly.
‘Tiff,’ Em says. ‘Tiff Branagh.’ (This is a nice touch.
Pick a surname just famous enough that people think: ‘Surely not a cousin of …?’) ‘I used to write on Snatch when Guggy was editor. We met at the opening of the Palm in Mustique. You probably don’t remember.
’ Nice one, Em. That was on Charli’s Instagram, but three years ago, and you could forget anything in that time.
Charli’s brow furrows slightly, in a manner consistent with the life-of-a-thousand-cuts I reckon her face has been through. ‘Did we?’ Oh, shit. I hope Em got the reference right.
‘Pretty sure we did. You were wearing this amazing Balmain gown, I remember that much.’
Charli nods, vaguely; then – and it’s a lovely bit of acting on both sides, actually – her brow clears. ‘Oh, Tiff. Sorry, I was miles away. God, that was fun. Didn’t we watch the fireworks display together? They sent us all up to the roof? And then the lifts broke down?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Absolute chaos.’ Em looks round as if she’s noticed me for the first time. ‘Oh, this is, um …’ She flaps a hand.
‘Dom,’ I say.
‘Dom. He’s my latest fucktotum. The last one was actually flogging my old clothes on Vinted, can you believe?’
Charli frowns at me, as if to say Watch your step, pal.
There’s a certain flintiness about her, alongside the grief.
Maybe it’s just the frost-coating of recent bereavement I’m detecting, but there’s something there that chimes within me.
I sense she wasn’t born to the world of newtiques or tweakments, and she’s spent a long time making damn sure she looks the part.
She turns back to Em. ‘So what are you up to now?’
‘Oh, I’m running my own travel thing. Trips of a lifetime.
But each one takes about three years to put together.
Anyway.’ Em leans a little closer. ‘I just wanted to say. It’s so brave of you to be here, given everything.
I saw the news and I just wanted to offer my condolences. I didn’t know him, but …’
The image of Davy dying before our eyes reappears to me against my will, and I imagine the same thing is happening to Em, because there’s a little vérité in the way her voice catches.
‘… but I just thought of you straight away. I’ve been through something similar myself.’
Charli nods. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I was away, in—’
Em interrupts her. ‘Actually, I’m so sorry, if you just want to enjoy the party …’
‘No, that’s fine.’
A couple of guests have arrived behind us, waggling empty glasses at the poor barman. ‘Shall we get away from the bar?’
‘Let’s.’
We move to a corner room of the newtique, which is either so expensive or so cheap that nobody’s in there.
We’re out of the canapé firing line, so nobody’s going to interrupt.
Charli fiddles with one of the expensive bags, sips her drink through a straw (corner of the mouth, no lipstick loss).
Outside the context of the party, she looks exhausted suddenly.
Em prompts her. ‘Sorry, love, you go on. You were away. Anywhere nice?’
‘Dubai,’ says Charli. I’m avoiding everyone’s gaze, but I see Em glance at me.
‘Wasn’t Davy meant to be there? They said on the news he had a ticket.’
‘That’s right,’ Charli says, after a pause. ‘But he was already late to meet me. I flew back as soon as I heard. Bunny put me on her plane. You know Bunny Winthrop?’
Em nods. ‘Only socially.’ Winthrop is the owner of the Frame Magazine Group.
Even I’ve heard of her; it’s the kind of publication my more fashionable interlopees tend to have lying around.
All the mags have about 350 pages, consisting of three features (a deep-dive on Bronzers of Tomorrow, a new Fijian resort you haven’t heard of yet, and something about a posh woman rewilding her estate).
To bulk it out there are some horoscopes, a sex column, and the rest is ads.
‘Why was he coming out?’
‘We were on the brink of … of reconciling, to tell you the truth. It’s been years in the making. We kept the Ealing place and we were always close, because of our daughter, but this time it felt better. And now this …’
I feel a pang for Charli Harcourt. Her husband was clearly involved in something or other, and she may have no taste in holiday destinations, but she didn’t deserve this.
‘How terrible. Have the police been to see you?’ Charli nods. ‘Do they have any … leads?’
Another pause. It feels like Charli’s being quite careful in what she admits. ‘They wouldn’t tell me. I did ask. A few people were spotted near the house, but they’re still investigating.’
That’s good. Em keeps talking. ‘That’s terrible. Is your daughter all right?’
‘Oh, she will be.’ Charli seems a bit more preoccupied with her own mental state than her daughter’s. ‘It’s not like it wasn’t a shock for me too. And I see a lot more of Lulu than he ever did. He was useless at keeping up with her life.’
‘Are there financial implications?’ That’s a bit on the nose, but I’ve found that when asked a blunt question, more often than not people are so surprised that they answer.
‘Are you a journalist or something?’ Charli’s eyes are narrow now. Dammit, Em, you shouldn’t have pushed her.
‘Of course I’m a journalist,’ Em says. ‘A travel journalist.’ Again, she’s steering in the direction of the skid. She is, in that moment, extremely attractive. ‘But I wouldn’t write about this. I am discreet, you know.’
‘Well, it’s none of your fucking business what the financial implications are,’ Charli snaps.
Ah. But after a few seconds – I’ve seen this happen so many times – it’s as if she’s been thinking about it so much she’s relieved to be asked.
‘Our daughter will be fine. She’s in his will. At least she’ll be all right.’
So no more maintenance for me is her implication. And her life is clearly expensive. I bet she wishes she’d personally escorted him to Dubai now.
‘I’m so, so sorry. When I lost my husband—’ Em begins.
Charli interrupts. ‘He died?’
‘Kitesurfing accident in Tanzania. Big gust, sharp rocks … it was terrible.’ I think Em’s pushing it here, but I’m in no position to say anything. It seems to work on Charli.
‘How awful.’
‘The hotel was negligent, but the authorities hushed it up. And I let them do it. Don’t let anyone keep you quiet.
In fact …’ Em wavers for a second. ‘Look, I dare say you’ve already thought of this, but if you want someone to look into it further …
my sister investigates this kind of thing. Discreetly.’
Charli looks dubious. ‘Won’t the police be enough?’
‘Well, yes and no.’ Em scribbles a phone number on a bit of card.
‘I mean, you hear so much about them screwing up investigations and taking backhanders and copping off with mob leaders. Sometimes you want peace of mind, you know? It’s kind of like going private.
Here’s me, if you want to get in touch. My sister’s agency is female-led.
None of that willy-waving copper stuff.’ This is catnip for Charli, I can tell, because her face has assumed the expression that the wealthy always get when they’ve just heard about an exclusive new service they can get in on.
She reaches out and takes the card Em proffers.
‘Excuse me?’ One of the Amazons running the party is leaning round into our corner. ‘Guggy’s about to speak. Would you care for a top-up?
Twenty-seven minutes later – Guggy had one or two people to thank – we slip out into the street and round the corner.
Elle and Jonny are waiting for us in a cab.
Jonny is halfway down one of the Yorkshire puddings from the posh place opposite the newtique (whipped feta and oregano).
We fill them in; Elle gets out her index cards and starts writing.
‘Jonny, can you check her claim about the flight?’ asks Em. ‘This Bunny Winthrop thing?’
‘Most private planes have trackers, so I can see if it took off. Although you’d have to be very stupid to claim it had when it hadn’t.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But so far she seems to have had an interest in Davy staying alive,’ I say. ‘Which is more than we can say for his co-founder at the agency. Or Bowling Ball.’
‘All right,’ says Em. ‘Oh, Elle, if you get a call from an unknown number, it’s probably Charli wanting to hire you as a private investigator. If you get flustered, just hand over to me.’
‘Em.’
‘I’m sorry. It was the only thing I could think of to keep her on the hook. We might need her again. All right, what next?’
Elle deals the index cards out onto her lap like a gambler with one pair.
‘Well. We could have another crack at Mr Wallace from Harcourt and Wallace, especially if he had a big row with Davy a few weeks ago. There’s these properties in the ledger, which we should check out.
Plus the appointments, one tomorrow and one two days later, which we still haven’t cracked. ’
‘215 Feathers and BB AGM.’
‘Exactly. And that’s about it.’
‘What about the daughter?’ I say.
‘Lulu?’
‘Yeah. I mean, if she inherits everything, that makes her a person of interest, doesn’t it?’