Deep Blue Sea (22 page)

‘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.’

‘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 kettle 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?’

‘Don’t be daft. It’s a warm summer night, it’ll be teeming. I think there’s a concert on, actually. We might even be able to buy ice cream and beer.’

‘I think I’ll pass on that one,’ Diana said weakly.

There was a cardigan draped across the back of the chair. Rachel picked it up and handed it to her sister.

‘Come on. Let’s get some fresh air.’

Sylvia was standing outside in the hallway, her face racked with worry. Her eyes darted between the two women as they came out of the room.

‘We’re going out,’ said Diana briskly.

‘Is that a good idea?’ Sylvia’s expression indicated that she thought it was anything but.

‘I think so.’

Rachel noticed how Sylvia instantly deferred to her elder daughter.

Leaving their mother’s flat, they came out of the square, crossed Bayswater Road, dodging the traffic and the cyclists, and walked into Hyde Park. The distant sound of drums and guitars came to them on the breeze, muffled as if it was travelling through water.

‘So how was Washington?’

‘Interesting.’

‘Did your friend go to Jamaica?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you going to tell me about it, or am I just here to pick up the tab?’

‘Why did you want me here?’ asked Rachel, ignoring her jibe. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to see me again for a very long time.’

‘Did Mum tell you where she found me?’

Rachel laughed. ‘She was worried Richard Branson was going to spot you in the gutter.’

‘It was so embarrassing.’ She looked pained at the very thought of it. Diana was usually so elegant, so poised, she rarely had anything to be embarrassed about.

‘It can’t have been as embarrassing as the time I bumped into Daniel Craig in Soho and asked him if I knew him from school,’ said Rachel, attempting to lighten the situation.

‘You didn’t?’ said Diana, staring at her wide-eyed.

‘He was polite. I kept pressing the point home. Asked him if he was from Ilfracombe. If he was in the swimming club . . .’

Diana giggled. It was a proper chuckle, and Rachel felt proud that she had been able to provoke that response from someone consumed with grief.

‘What happened tonight, Di?’

‘I went to see Liz Denver. She’s going to challenge Julian’s will.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘You know he left everything to me and Charlie. I get the houses, his investments, all his money. Charlie gets the shareholding in Denver.’

The wave of envy was unwelcome, but so palpable it almost took her breath away. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she and Diana had started out from the same point. Two ordinary girls from an ordinary town. Rachel remembered their Saturday waitressing jobs that paid two pounds an hour, half of which had to go to their mother for their keep. Those were the days when a five-pound note in a birthday card meant you could have a social life, the days when ferreting under the sofa cushions for loose change meant being able to afford your bus fare. She remembered helping Diana with her GCSEs so her sister could get enough of them to move into the sixth form, because Rachel knew that education was the way to get them out of their small town and on to a bigger, more exciting stage.

She had never wanted that stage to be Diana’s world. She liked making her own money, her own excitement, not just hanging off the bespoke coat-tails of a rich man she had met and married. But now it was impossible not to feel disappointed with her own lot in life. Diana was no longer just the long-suffering wife of Julian Denver; she was one of the richest women in Europe in her own right. And Rachel? Despite years of hard work, she was just a diving instructor, who couldn’t afford to be anything more.

She pushed the thought away, remembering what Diana was going through. She might be a billionairess, but she was also a widow.

‘So what did Elizabeth say to you?’

‘She told me that she thought I didn’t have the fight for taking her on.’

‘Does she expect you to roll over and accept it?’ asked Rachel incredulously.

‘She has a point. I’m drained, empty. I can’t even cry any more because it feels as if there is nothing left inside me.’

‘She can’t do it,’ said Rachel, suddenly feeling united with her sister against a common enemy. ‘On what grounds does she plan to make the challenge?’

‘Mental incapacity. Testamentary promise, I don’t know . . .’

‘She’s got no chance,’ scoffed Rachel.

‘Her expensive lawyers think otherwise.’

Rachel’s mind was whirling. The beauty of being a journalist was that you got to know a little about a lot. Probate law was not a particular area of expertise, but she knew enough to try and reassure Diana.

‘Honestly, the courts won’t accept it. I don’t see how Elizabeth can win.’

Diana regarded her sceptically. ‘You know what’s it’s like. If she’s got enough of a claim to take this to court, they’ll run circles around us, grind us down. But I can’t let her, Rach. Julian loved Charlie, his will proved that, and Charlie equally wants to make his dad proud . . .’

The two women fell silent. Usually Rachel would enjoy an evening like this: the sight of rollerbladers speeding through the park, couples lounging on the grass, teenagers shrieking and laughing as they played frisbee. But tonight she hardly noticed them.

‘What should I do?’ said Diana finally.

‘You get a good lawyer.’

Diana looked at her sister carefully. ‘The reason why you are so smart is that you know the best way isn’t always the right way to do things.’

Rachel knew what her sister was implying.

‘Yeah, and it almost got me sent to jail,’ she said cynically.

‘But if you didn’t want to fight Elizabeth in the courts, what would you do?’ pressed Diana.

‘Do you really think I’m a criminal mastermind?’

They stopped to buy ice creams from a vendor who looked as if he was about to pack up and go home.

‘I think you’re smart and brilliant and resourceful,’ continued Diana. ‘I’d always want you in my corner even if you weren’t my sister.’

Rachel gave a slow, grateful smile. She peeled the lid off her ice cream and beckoned Diana to come and sit on a bench beside her.

‘If Julian didn’t commit suicide, then he wasn’t depressed,’ said Rachel thinking out loud. ‘And if he wasn’t depressed, the Denvers have no chance of challenging his will under mental competence. That’s as far as my thinking goes without speaking to a lawyer.’

‘What do you mean, not suicide?’ There was a spark of something in Diana’s eyes. Fear? Hope? Rachel reminded herself that she had to tread carefully. There was no more margin for error, no room for mistakes.

‘Maybe it was an accident.’

‘You don’t have to be kind,’ said Diana suspiciously.

‘It’s not unheard of. Has anyone considered whether it could have been an auto-erotic accident?’

‘You mean kinky stuff?’

Rachel knew she was clutching at straws, but she had to give her sister some hope, even if it was just for one night.

‘The coroner’s official is coming round tomorrow. He wants to speak to me.’

‘Then you should ask him about it.’

‘I think he is supposed to be interviewing me. Not the other way around.’

‘Are you going to tell him about me? What you’ve asked me to do? What I’ve found out?’

Diana stopped in her tracks and looked at her.

‘What do you think?’

Rachel gazed over Diana’s shoulder, fixing her sights on a distant line of trees as she struggled with the dilemma.

‘Look, we want to help the police, the coroner’s office, but if you tell them what we know, what we suspect, then it’s just going to give people an excuse to pack Julian’s death into a tidy little box.’

‘You mean Julian died of heartbreak,’ Diana said bitterly.

Rachel found it hard to contradict her. Diana had brought her back to England to find answers, and Rachel had discovered a more potent reason for Julian’s death than the teenage depression his family seemed to be accepting. Julian’s pregnant mistress was dead. That felt like the end of the road, the reason for his suicide they had been looking for. Rachel knew how easy it would be to stop things right here. Confess about Madison’s pregnancy. Diana would be devastated, but it would decrease the Denvers’ chances of a successful challenge to the will. Charlie meant everything to Diana, and obviously she would want him to inherit her husband’s legacy.

‘Was he in love with Madison Kopek?’

‘I don’t know.’

They stood up from the bench and started walking back to Bayswater.

‘I’m sorry about what happened the other night,’ Diana said finally.

Rachel didn’t respond.

‘I was wrong to react the way I did. I was just hurt and angry and humiliated . . .’

‘I’m sorry too. I was insensitive. I was caught off guard. I didn’t think. Typical me, eh?’

Diana shook her head. ‘Turns out you’re a better person than my husband.’ She was obviously referring to Tuscany.

‘He was drunk, and men like sex,’ replied Rachel obliquely.

‘When you told me about Julian’s mistress, I wasn’t surprised,’ said Diana. ‘We didn’t have sex any more. He was spending more and more time in London. But I always thought he loved me. To find out he might have killed himself over another woman sort of crushed me.’

Rachel knew right then that she could not tell her about Madison’s baby. She had to find another reason, another answer. As Ross had pointed out on her first visit to Clapton: tell her what she wants to hear. She’s been through enough pain.

‘When are you coming back to Somerfold?’

‘I’ll come back with you.’