The Hunt and the Kill Read online

  When exactly, Casey wondered idly, listening in, did oil companies become energy companies?

  Now Delacroix smiled at Casey. ‘It sounds like your man has burned through any payout he got pretty fast, and he’s on the lookout for investors. Idiot. It’s easy to make money.’ Delacroix lay down on one of the sunloungers and pulled his Panama hat over his eyes. ‘The secret is to hold on to it.’

  A couple of hours later, Delacroix’s phone buzzed.

  ‘Yes?’ his voice was bored. ‘Sure. Yes.’

  Delacroix rattled off the address and hung up. He turned to Casey. ‘Your man’s on his way.’

  Garrick McElroy sauntered into the mansion.

  ‘This is a great place you’ve got here.’ He waved at the panorama of downtown Miami, across the sparkle of the bay. ‘And it’s so great to meet you, Mr Delacroix. I’ve heard a lot about your work in Africa.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Delacroix nodded. ‘Drink?’

  McElroy was tall and blond and aware of his own good looks. The voice was English, an American twang overlaid. He had a slightly weak mouth, Casey thought. Laughed too often.

  A flash of a thought: Ed, and a smile that glinted for an instant.

  She forced herself to focus.

  ‘A beer would be great,’ McElroy nodded.

  Delacroix had been sitting at a small table beside the vast swimming pool. Now McElroy threw himself into a chair opposite him, all athletic confidence.

  Dressed in a white polo shirt and camel shorts, with a baseball cap pulled down over her nose, Casey brought them both beers. The rest of the staff had been given the day off. Casey then retired inconspicuously to the bar on the other side of the swimming pool, where she polished a couple of glasses before bending her head over the crossword in the Miami Herald. McElroy barely glanced at her.

  ‘No cameras in this house,’ Delacroix had said firmly before Casey even left for Miami. ‘No recording equipment. Nothing.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You just listen to what he has to say. And none of this ever connects to me. You don’t use anything at all unless it could have come from somewhere else, OK?’

  ‘Of course not, Maurice.’

  Within minutes Delacroix was grilling McElroy about his CV. ‘My researcher looked into you,’ Delacroix began, smiling thinly.

  After ripping apart McElroy’s first venture, a tech company based in San Francisco, Delacroix moved on to the two property businesses McElroy had founded in Canada.

  McElroy was on the back foot now, trying to charm before being forced back again. He started to sound defensive, the voice almost a whine. From a distance, Casey admired Delacroix’s onslaught. McElroy had arrived a glossy jock, but the insecurities were rapidly being laid bare. The players were always insecure underneath it all. Casey made busy notes around the crossword puzzle.

  ‘And then,’ Delacroix dropped both his palms on the table, ‘we get to this little pharmaceutical company Pergamex.’

  ‘Pergamex was really positive—’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Delacroix flatly. ‘It never did anything.’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘Where?’ Delacroix threw his hands in the air. ‘I can only see Pergamex losing money.’

  ‘It was complicated,’ said McElroy.

  ‘Impossible.’ Delacroix pronounced it the French way. ‘I’m not going to invest in your company if I don’t understand how you do business, Garrick.’

  ‘You just have,’ McElroy tried the charm again, ‘to take my word for it.’

  ‘I don’t take anyone’s word for anything,’ Delacroix said darkly. ‘Not these days.’

  McElroy was silent for a few minutes, watching a yacht cruise past the island, music blaring.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Delacroix made to stand. ‘But I don’t think I can invest in this venture, after all. I wish you all the best with it, Garrick. I think it has some exciting prospects, but … ’

  Standing at the bar, Casey pressed a button on her mobile. Delacroix’s phone rang.

  ‘One moment please.’ Delacroix picked up his phone, and walked away from the table.

  McElroy stayed at the table, his eyes on the Miami skyline. After a minute, Casey picked up a tray and walked over to the table. As she walked, she felt a surge of adrenalin.

  What if he knows? What if he can tell you’re a lie?

  Don’t be ridiculous. It was a scream in her head. This is nothing.

  But the tray was shaking. Her feet were clumsy as if the ground were suddenly uneven: tripping on a raked stage. She forced herself to breathe slowly, eyes on the paving stones. Nearly at the table now.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ Casey said quietly, as she approached.

  The words sounded rehearsed, anxious. But it didn’t matter. She was a white polo shirt, a pair of camel shorts. She was nothing.

  McElroy looked up at her, almost surprised. ‘It is.’

  ‘Can I get you another beer, sir?’ The adrenalin was easing now. She was deferential, forgettable: big sunglasses and dark hair tied up under her baseball cap. McElroy would never connect her to the bubbly, perky Madison.

  ‘A beer would be great, thanks.’

  Casey retrieved another bottle from the bar, and opened it. McElroy was still staring into space, dark brown eyes glazed over.

  ‘He’s a great boss.’ McElroy looked up in surprise as Casey spoke.

  ‘He’s certainly quite a character.’ McElroy was fiddling with the bottle, peeling away the label.

  ‘He is. But he’s also a great boss. He has our backs, always.’

  Casey picked up the used glasses and disappeared back towards the bar. A couple of moments later, Delacroix reappeared.

  ‘I am sorry to keep you waiting, Garrick. But as I said … ’

  ‘There was a side deal,’ McElroy interrupted him. ‘We had an amazing new drug, and we sold off the rights.’

  Delacroix sat down again slowly. ‘Sold them off to whom?’

  28

  ‘I can’t believe you invested in McElroy’s bloody oil company,’ Casey stormed afterwards. ‘I’m going to put him in jail.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Delacroix shrugged. ‘I priced that in.’

  ‘But the company will collapse when I do.’

  ‘You may not manage to put him in jail. And the company owns some excellent rights in central Africa, either way.’ Delacroix stretched. ‘And my lawyers can make sure that if he goes to jail, someone ends up with those rights.’

  ‘I hope you lose your money.’

  ‘I won’t, Cassandra.’ He raised his glass to her in a mock salute. ‘I never do.’

  ‘Do you know anything about a company called Adsero?’ Casey asked later, as they ate stone crabs by the pool.

  ‘Elias Bailey?’ Delacroix’s eyes were sharp. ‘A bit, sure.’

  At a certain level, Casey thought, they all knew each other.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Very tough.’ Delacroix nodded appreciatively, ‘And very clever. He made Adsero into what it is today. I heard that one of their heart drugs – they’ve sold millions of dollars’ worth of it – came about because he had heart trouble, so he put every Adsero scientist on finding a cure, and they ended up creating a brilliant new drug. That’s what he’s like, I guess. Solves his problems and makes a fortune.’

  ‘He had a transplant in the end, though.’

  ‘Yes,’ Delacroix said. ‘When he needed it. He’s known to be a ruthless man, Casey. I wouldn’t cross him if I were you.’

  Casey picked at the crab and changed the subject. ‘How the hell did Garrick McElroy end up with a load of African oil rights anyway? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Apparently he bought them,’ Delacroix shrugged.

  ‘Thanks.’ Casey gave him a quick grin. ‘I’ll give you a byline for all this.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Delacroix shuddered, ‘even joke.’

  Casey flew back to London that evening. She hadn’t asked Dash for p
ermission to fly to Miami, just told Ross that as health editor she was going to a Wellbeing and Spiritual Wellness Conference over the weekend. Ross, in the middle of trying to recruit yet another night editor, had nodded vaguely. She hadn’t mentioned that the conference was in Miami.

  Delacroix gave her a lift to the airport.

  ‘Remember,’ he kissed her hand goodbye, ‘to have a word with your business desk about the Monet.’

  ‘Did you know,’ Casey grumbled, ‘that there is art worth $100 billion in the Geneva Freeport? It would be the greatest museum in the world, and no one ever gets to see a single painting.’

  ‘It is a true tragedy.’

  ‘Your ex-wife does seem quite interested in the Monet’s whereabouts, by the way.’

  ‘A wonderful woman,’ Delacroix sighed. ‘But she’ll have to settle for the Bonnard.’

  Miranda dropped her head into her hands.

  ‘You went where for the weekend?’

  ‘You knew Garrick was going to be in Miami,’ protested Casey. ‘Anyway, I needed some sun. Plus I got three decent lines out of the Wellbeing and Spiritual Wellness Conference. I even filed 700 thrilling words on numerology to Cressida.’

  ‘Numer-what? You didn’t do any undercover stuff, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Casey said aloud. Barely, she thought.

  ‘You mustn’t,’ said Miranda. ‘Not for a while, Casey. It’s not good for you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And do consider my budget, please? Dash almost cried over last month’s figures.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘So the rights to Corax were transferred to some random British Virgin Islands company.’ Miranda was reading Casey’s notes again.

  ‘Yes.’ Casey bit her lip. ‘Garrick really didn’t seem to know anything else about it.’

  ‘Can you find out anything more about this company?’ Miranda asked. ‘Slopeside Inc.’

  ‘Slope side is a skiing term.’ Casey made a hopeless gesture. ‘Apparently. It doesn’t mean anything to me, and I can’t work out who any of the shareholders or the real directors are either.’

  ‘Doesn’t take you much further then, does it?’

  ‘No,’ Casey said. She was exhausted from the overnight flight. ‘It doesn’t.’

  Ross appeared at the door. ‘Casey, I need 500 words on that big medical trial in north London. The one that went wrong. Get on with it, yeah?’

  ‘Sure, Ross.’ Casey stalked to the door. ‘Sure.’

  The days rolled past. Casey ignored Christmas, barely aware of the glitter, the giggles, the fun.

  To Wiltshire, her calendar announced a few days before Christmas, and she crossed it out until the square was a black blur.

  The Post Christmas party was the usual disaster, enlivened by the new night editor getting off with one of the fashion writers.

  ‘He’s the most attractive man on the newsdesk,’ said the fashion writer dreamily.

  ‘Rarely have I heard fainter praise,’ muttered the home affairs editor.

  The next morning Eric, the junior reporter, was so hungover that he fell asleep on the Islington doorstep of an MP caught speeding after six glasses of mulled wine. Ross spotted him in the background of a BBC News live broadcast and took a taxi straight to Highbury.

  ‘He didn’t even stop the cab,’ Eric said woefully in the Plumbers later. ‘Just hurled his notepad at me as the taxi shot past.’

  ‘Another mulled wine?’ the home affairs editor asked, as he scrolled through the gleeful Papercut article. ‘They’ve spelled your name wrong, Eric.’

  ‘We have now been banned from every restaurant within a two-mile radius,’ grumbled the newsdesk secretary. ‘You can sodding organise it yourselves next year.’

  Miranda came round to Casey’s flat on Christmas Eve.

  ‘I miss Tom.’ Her husband: this Christmas, he was posting photographs of a pile of presents, matching dressing gowns, a pretty girl sitting by a fire.

  Rebecca. Becky.

  They peered at Instagram together.

  ‘You don’t miss him,’ Casey said soothingly. ‘You just worry that you should.’

  ‘It’s odd seeing her like that. Next to him.’

  Early on in Miranda’s suspicions, they had found the sleek grey website: Becky from business development, in pearl earrings and a neat black jacket. In the corporate photograph, she had looked up at the camera, so friendly. Tilted head, highlighted hair, coy little smile.

  The same smile in every photograph, Casey noticed, as they scrolled. It made it look as if she had been superimposed on to a series of backdrops.

  ‘She’s like a doll brought to life,’ Miranda snapped. ‘Everywhere you look.’

  ‘She’s precisely the sort of person,’ Casey zoomed in on Becky eating a cupcake, that same smile, ‘who quotes Love Actually as the start of the grand romance.’

  ‘Something, something, saying it at Christmas … ’ And Miranda was laughing, at last. ‘Yuk. And I never imagined Tom on bloody Instagram.’

  She looks happy though, Casey thought. He looks happy.

  ‘I’m sorry to go on about it,’ said Miranda. ‘When you’re … ’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  But Casey heard the sadness roar, a wave crashing on the beach, again, and again.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Miranda’s eyes were sympathetic.

  ‘I don’t know how to describe it,’ Casey said quietly. ‘It feels as if I am living the echo of the life we might have had. This is how it might have been. And this is how it is. Running in parallel, and it feels as if I am trapped in the wrong version.’

  ‘Oh, Casey.’

  Casey spent Christmas Day on the sofa, under a blanket, eating chocolate and biscuits and waiting for it all to be over. And she volunteered to work the night shift on New Year’s Eve, as dawn chased the fireworks around the globe.

  And then, one morning in early January, the phone on Casey’s desk rang.

  ‘Casey Benedict,’ she said listlessly.

  ‘Casey Benedict from the Post?’ There was a laugh in the voice.

  She sat up. ‘Is that—’

  ‘Yes.’ He cut her off. ‘Can you meet me?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘My favourite place, of course.’

  29

  Casey walked cautiously down the aisle of St Paul’s. Black and white, the aisle stretched out in front of her. The cathedral soared above with that strange, frozen majesty.

  In black, though she might have worn white.

  Casey walked on, and paused, walked on, and paused, peering around. Anyone would hesitate here, mesmerised by the baroque glory. Amid the bustle of the city, the cathedral was nearly empty. There was a scattering of tourists, a school group traipsing around, an elderly woman praying in a pew, a plastic bag at her feet.

  Jewelled rainbows through a stained glass window …

  Now Casey was beneath the dome, a gilded false heaven glistening far, far above.

  No Zac.

  She moved awkwardly to a pew, sat down.

  She briefly considered religion as a pandemic. Touching, spreading, killing. And then from somewhere in the distance, she heard a scattering of notes, and a slow ripple of magic. Somewhere, someone was rehearsing on the organ.

  No Zac. Casey stood up, and wandered around the great cathedral again. She looked into the little chapels. Nothing. She headed down into the crypt, a long-buried secret. Nothing. She stared up at the organ. There was a woman practising, head down, all her focus on the keys. No.

  And at last, Casey saw a narrow flight of stairs, and climbed.

  Quite suddenly, she was out in the daylight. A winter sun poured through the long windows, light on light, gold on gilt. All at once, the huge dome seemed close enough to touch, exquisitely painted and oddly intimate.

  A gallery ran around the inside of the huge dome, the white statues gazing down blindly. Casey walked to the edge of the gallery, glanced over, and felt the void hook into her stomach.
It was a hundred feet down to that black and white floor, but the view was almost hypnotic.

  And there was only one figure up here, a tall, dark shape on the opposite side of the gallery. Relief flooded Casey.

  Zac.

  She stepped to her left to make her way around him, and he immediately stepped to his right.

  A step to her right, and he stepped left again.

  Stop playing games, she thought, irritated.

  A step to the left, and another step to the right.

  And then she heard it, the whisper.

  ‘I knew you’d guess.’ Zac’s words reached Casey effortlessly.

  They were in the Whispering Gallery, Casey remembered: an eccentric little quirk of the grand, old cathedral. By a fluke of physics, the tiniest sound travelled effortlessly around this round, empty space, the quietest whisper echoing from one side of the dome to the other. She almost laughed, then whispered back.

  ‘It was obvious, you know.’

  ‘I know. Did you come alone?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Good.’ Across the hundred feet of nothing, she could see that he was smiling. ‘Because anyone could be listening.’

  She watched him waiting for her in the little park. He wandered around the small space, apparently aimlessly, and then sat down on a bench. Next to the bench, the snowdrops were tiny green knives, slicing up through the winter chill. For a moment Casey hesitated, feeling shy, awkward, almost embarrassed by her mistakes in Mauritius, but then she squared her shoulders and marched towards him.

  ‘Very melodramatic,’ she said. ‘Back in the gallery.’

  ‘You never know.’

  Casey glanced around. This bench was in a corner of Postman’s Park, just to the north of St Paul’s. Whispering into the cathedral quiet, she had suggested they meet here in half an hour, both taking circuitous routes around the City.

  ‘Did anyone follow you?’ Casey asked.

  ‘There definitely wasn’t anyone behind me in the coffee queue.’ He handed her an espresso.