Original Sin

TASMINA PERRY

Original Sin

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009

Copyright © Tasmina Perry 2009

Tasmina Perry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

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Source ISBN: 9780007265541

Ebook Edition © MAY 2009 ISBN: 9780007292967

Version: 2017-09-11

Dedication

In memory of W.E.P

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Confidential magazine

September 18, 1964

Pill-popping starlet feared dead after wedding vanishing act

Friends of the Hollywood actress, Olivia Martin, who mysteriously disappeared after the Louisiana wedding of cosmetics mogul Howard Asgill at the family’s Riverview Estate, now fear she might have taken her own life by means of a fatal late-night walk into the Mississippi River after consuming a cocktail of barbiturates. Martin was last seen leaving the $50,000 nuptials of Asgill and New Orleans socialite Meredith Carter just before midnight last Saturday. When Mr Asgill noticed her absence at the lavish brunch the next day, the newlyweds assumed that Olivia, known for her colourful love life, had left the celebrations with another guest.

But when she had not appeared forty-eight hours later, Martin’s sister Valerie filed a missing persons report, and Louisiana police began their inquiries.

River of death

Friends of the After the Sunset actress began assuming the worst when Louisiana State Police found prescription drugs in the guest cottage where Miss Martin was staying on the Carter family estate. So far police have not trawled the Mississippi, which runs just one hundred feet past the guest cottage and is almost one mile wide at this point. If the theory of a death plunge is true, investigators fear the body of the actress might never be found.

Haunted by Hollywood rejection

Insiders say the twenty-seven-year-old redhead had been sliding into depression after her contract with MGM Studios was cancelled in 1961 and a highly anticipated television career flopped. However, last year Martin signed a five-figure contract to be the face of Asgill Long-last Lipstick. She had proved so successful for the brand that the company had her lips insured for $1 million. But her modelling success was no substitute for her acting career, and a slide into drink and prescription-drug addiction was well known to those around her.

Dark cloud over wedding

Although the search for Miss Martin continues, her disappearance has cast a dark cloud over one of the most stellar society events of the season. Ava Gardner, Gregory Peck and Anita Ekberg were just some of the guests at the Asgill wedding. The CEO of Asgill Cosmetics was the butcher’s son from Brooklyn who turned a homebrewed face cream into a multimillion-dollar cosmetics company. Meredith and Howard Asgill, currently on honeymoon in Capri, Italy, issued a statement yesterday expressing their concern. ‘Olivia is a dear friend and wonderful ambassador for Asgill Cosmetics. We pray for her swift and safe return home.’

1

Present day, London

‘Wake up. I’ve got something for you.’

Tess Garrett forced her eyes open and peered over the top of her duvet to see her flatmate Jemma Davies sitting on the bed.

‘You gave me a fright. What time is it?’ sighed Tess, casting her glance to the bedside clock next to her. Five thirty! As deputy editor of one of the UK’s Sunday tabloids she was used to early starts, but the birds weren’t even singing yet. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that her friend was dressed head to toe in black.

‘What are you wearing?’ asked Tess warily. ‘You look like a cat burglar.’

‘Come on, shake a leg,’ said Jemma, bouncing on the mattress impatiently, ‘this is important!’

‘So is my sleep,’ mumbled Tess, pulling the covers back over her head.

Seeing that Tess was going to take some shifting, Jemma stood up again.

‘Okay, I’ll go and make some tea. Then we can talk. Five minutes, okay?’

As soon as Jemma had left the bedroom, Tess heard a muffled groan coming from under the pillow next to her.

‘You know I can’t hear you through six inches of goose down,’ said Tess.

A hand flung back the pillow and the handsome face of her boyfriend Dom Barton popped up, squinting into the light.

‘I said, “Remind me when Jemma said she was moving out?”’

‘Shhh! Keep your voice down,’ said Tess, peering through the open bedroom door where she could see Jemma filling the kettle in the galley kitchen across the hall. ‘Cut her a bit of slack, eh? She’s been through a rough time.’

‘She finished with Chris three months ago, Tess,’ hissed Dom, leaning back on his elbows. ‘Plus, the flat is a tip, and how can I use the study to write my book when all of Jemma’s belongings are in it?’

Tess glanced around and had to admit that things were a tight squeeze in their two-bedroomed Battersea flat, but Jemma was her best friend’s sister, she had known her since school; and besides, Jemma’s line of work sometimes came in handy.

‘Honey, you are never going to write that novel, with or without anyone living in our spare room. You’ve been talking about it for as long as I’ve known you. Come on. It’s time to get up anyway. Your flight leaves at eight thirty – shouldn’t you be at Heathrow in an hour?’

Dom was the deputy travel editor of the broadsheet, the Sunday Chronicle, which meant he was on some exotic press trip at least once a month. Groaning, he slid out of bed, scratching his tousled hair. Tess rubbed her eyes as she watched his gym-honed bum cheeks vanish into their en-suite bathroom. Jemma returned with two mugs of tea and thrust one towards Tess.

‘So, what’s worth a five thirty summit meeting?’ Tess smiled.

Jemma took a slurp of tea. ‘I’ve been to a Venus party,’ she said with a grin.

Tess’s eyes opened wide and she sat cross-legged on the bed, feeling suddenly energized. Jemma was a paparazzo photographer who usually sold her work into one of the big picture agencies, but sometimes Tess asked her to work on solo projects for her. Tess had been hearing rumours of organized ‘membership only’ sex parties in London for years but, despite the best efforts of Fleet Street’s finest, no one had ever been able to track them down. She had begun to suspect they were one of those wishful-thinking urban myths, like Diana’s love child, but, around three months ago, Jemma had got the scent of a new underground scene called ‘Venus parties’ and the whisper was that they took decadence to a whole new level. Understandably, access to them was near impossible – entry was via personal recommendation and the vetting process rigorous – but the guest list was said to be dynamite: senior politicians, Hollywood stars and players, high-ranking police, Premiership footballers – and that was just for starters. Tess had put Jemma on a retainer to work on tracking them down.

‘There was a Venus party last night at a big house in Wycombe Square out in St John’s Wood,’ said Jemma gleefully. ‘I got in.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ said Tess, barely able to hide her excitement. ‘How on earth did you get past the checks?’

Jemma glanced behind her, making sure that Dom was still in the shower. Tess understood; Dom might have been her boyfriend, but he still worked for a rival publication.

‘I was a security guard,’ she whispered.

Tess laughed. ‘You? A bouncer?’

Although she was dressed completely in black, the pocket-sized busty blonde looked more like a glamour model than a security guard.

‘Don’t laugh,’ said Jemma huffily. ‘These parties need women at the door. Ironically they’re to frisk the female guests to make sure nobody’s taking in cameras. It took me two months to get the gig. I had to moonlight on the door of a club in Chelsea first.’

‘Was it worth it?’

Jemma smiled. ‘Oh yes.’

Tess was practically salivating; this would be an excellent story at any time, but Jemma’s timing was perfect. All week she had been acting editor of the Sunday Globe. Her boss Andy Davidson was on holiday and she had picked up the reins. This could be her big chance to make her mark.

‘So, come on,’ she said impatiently, ‘who was there?’

Jemma rattled off a list of household names. ‘There were a few Hollywood names as well. I had the misfortunate of seeing that foul producer Larry Goldman in the buff. He has man-breasts the size of space-hoppers.’

‘What about photos? We need photos.’

In her twelve years in newspapers, the unwritten law had always been ‘assume they won’t sue’, and Tess had always found that it was an accurate enough yardstick. She had a little black book of litigious stars and those who rarely took legal action, but when anybody did seek to challenge a story they had printed, the onus was on the newspaper to prove what they had written was true. That was why photographs were essential for a story like this.

‘The quality isn’t great,’ said Jemma, opening her laptop to flick through the digital images she had taken. ‘I used a spy camera that I’d hidden in the house during the afternoon.’

Tess leaned over her shoulder and pointed at an image of a flaxen-haired blonde. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked. The woman was wearing nothing but a strap-on and a Venetian mask and stood astride a naked fat man on his hands and knees.

‘That’s Larry.’

‘But who’s the woman?’ said Tess hopefully.

Jemma shrugged. ‘Some hooker, I think.’

Tess’s excitement was starting to wane. So far, this wasn’t the big-noise story she was hoping for. Ten years ago, a cheating MP had been front-page news; but today hookers and studio heads did not shift newspapers like footballers and soap stars.

‘Do we have anything clearer of a bigger name?’ she asked hopefully. ‘What about a soap actress?’

‘How about this?’ said Jemma, enlarging an image with a triumphant look.

The picture was grainy. The man in the shot was naked and bent over what appeared to be a line of cocaine. Tess frowned and squinted.

‘Don’t you recognize him?’

Tess shook her head. ‘Who is it?’

‘Well, maybe you’ll see better in this one.’

Jemma clicked onto an image of a black van. You could clearly make out that somebody was being carried into the back of it on a stretcher.

‘Shit,’ said Tess, her eyes widening. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘The same guy being stretchered into a private ambulance,’ said Jemma with a smile. ‘He’s at a private hospital in North London now.’

‘So who is it?’ asked Tess.

‘Sean Asgill.’

It took Tess a second to recognize the name. Sean Asgill was a New York playboy. Heir to a cosmetics family fortune. Handsome and wealthy, he was a fixture in the society pages with a string of model and actress girlfriends. It was a headline all right: ‘Tragedy at A-list Sex Party.’

‘Christ,’ said Tess. ‘Did he … die?’

Tess felt bad asking, but it was an occupational hazard for someone in her job, wishing the worst on people because it made a better headline.

‘I followed the ambulance on my scooter and I told the nurse I was family. She told me it was a suspected ketamine overdose. Asgill probably thought it was a line of coke. Apparently he’s in a coma. I hung around for a bit and, after half an hour, this guy of about fifty turned up. His dad maybe? I scarpered pretty quickly.’

Jemma looked at Tess hopefully. ‘So what do you think? Is it the splash?’

Tess shook her head. The irony was that, in the States, this would not only be front-page news, it would also lead the TV news and would probably even make waves in Washington. Sean Asgill’s sister had just become engaged to the son of one of America’s richest and most powerful men, which made her brother’s drugs overdose at a sex party very hot gossip indeed. But over here, Sean Asgill was virtually unknown outside society columns.

‘We’ll talk about this later,’ whispered Tess, snapping the laptop closed as Dom walked back into the room, naked except for a small towel wrapped around his waist, his tanned skin glistening with droplets of shower-water.

‘What are you two gossiping about?’ he smiled, clearly enjoying the two women’s eyes on him. ‘And where’s my tea?’

The Sunday Globe was a newspaper whose glory days were long gone. Tess sat back in her chair and looked at the chipped paintwork and tired carpet: the state of the office reflected the paper’s decline. After twenty years as a Daily Mail wannabe with a dwindling circulation, it had been bought by ruthless media mogul Matthew Jenkins, who had turned it into a red-top tabloid, but the change of direction had failed to boost sales; Jenkins had drastically cut costs and jobs to keep afloat. He certainly hadn’t spent any money on improving the working conditions, thought Tess, shutting down her temperamental and near-obsolete computer. When the Globe’s much-loved editor, the jolly, corpulent, fifty-something Derek Bradford had had a heart attack and died, Tess had been considered a shoo-in for the top job. Even though she was only twenty-nine, she had paid her dues: three years in local papers doing hard news, women’s editor at the Mirror, features editor at the Sunday Globe, and finally deputy editor. Quite a CV for someone her age. She’d been disappointed but not entirely surprised when, six weeks ago, the vacant editorship had been given to Andy Davidson, number three on the daily paper and Wentworth golfing buddy of the proprietor. Jenkins had long been labelled a misogynist; she’d even heard that he’d once laughed that, as far as the editorship of one of his flagship titles was concerned, he ‘wanted to fuck Tess Garrett, not give her the top job’. Well, he could go and fuck himself, thought Tess angrily, taking a quick swig of coffee. It was why she was determined to use this week in the editor’s chair to prove her boss had made the wrong decision.

Tess stood up, smoothed down her Armani skirt and slipped on her sharply tailored jacket; it was time to show them who was boss. Every morning at ten a.m. the Sunday Globe had a news conference for the editorial team and, as today was Friday, the urgent item on the agenda was the splash for the Sunday front page, the first edition of which was sent down to the printers at six p.m. on Saturday night. Friday was therefore the most hectic time of the week, with the staff often working right through the weekend until the early hours of Sunday morning, ready to change the splash if a better story came in. In newspapers, the front page was everything.

‘So. Nothing obvious for the splash yet,’ began news editor Ben Leith boldly, when the key editorial staff were gathered around the oval conference table. Tess narrowed her eyes. She knew Ben was after her job, but there was no need to blatantly undermine her at the first opportunity.

‘Well, what do you have?’ asked Tess pointedly. ‘Speaking as news editor.’

Leith sighed. ‘There’s still the air hostess/prostitutes story hanging around. But the lawyers think the airline might sue.’

Tess grimaced. That particular story had been filed three weeks earlier and so far Andy had passed it over, leaving it for a dire week when there was nothing to splash with. Tess certainly didn’t want to run the lame-duck story in her week as editor.

‘We have Serena Balcon’s hen-night shots,’ said Jon Green, the Globe’s photo director eagerly. ‘She’s in Miami topless.’

Tess shook her head. ‘Great for inside, Jon, but we can’t run a nipple shot on the cover.’

‘Yes, the nips are out in every shot,’ replied Jon, looking a little deflated. ‘Although we could always put globes over her tits for the cover-shot. Readers might think it’s funny,’ he said, gaining a few sniggers from the younger members of staff.

‘I think people want to see Serena’s nips,’ said Ben Leith, seizing another opportunity to put pressure on Tess. She reminded herself that the news editor was best friends with the editor, Andy, and would no doubt be reporting everything back to their boss.

‘Maybe we can run something next to the logo,’ said Tess, firmly, ‘but it’s not the big story.’

Leith looked sulky and muttered something about feminist bullshit under his breath, but Tess ignored him.

‘Let’s take a view at four o’clock conference. Ben, can we meet after lunch? I have a stringer working on a story which we might be able to turn into the splash.’

She stalked back to her office, sat in her chair, and swivelled it to stare out of the window. Her reflection stared back at her. Dark green eyes, a strong brow, creamy skin with good bone structure; a face to be reckoned with. A glamorous newspaper editor’s face, she smiled grimly. That meeting was exactly the reason she was struggling to enjoy this week as editor. There had been none of the empowering buzz she always thought she would feel in the editor’s chair, and she had been tense and crotchety all week. It was not that she didn’t think she was up to the job – she had spent her whole adult life wanting to be a newspaper editor, from the first time she’d seen The Front Page and His Girl Friday as a little girl, to the day when she had got her first paying job as news assistant at her local rag in Suffolk, where she’d covered village fetes and bicycle thefts, and she knew she could do it better than anyone. What bothered her was the acknowledgement that she was just wasting her time. That the new editor and the CEO were just biding their time until they could get rid of her in the most inexpensive way possible.

Just then, the phone rang. It was Andy’s assistant Tracey.

‘I have a Mark Wilson in reception for you.’

Tess didn’t recognize the name, but had an instant intuition that whatever Mark Wilson wanted it was going to be trouble.

‘He says he’s acting for the Asgills, if that makes any sense to you?’ said Tracey.

‘Oh shit,’ groaned Tess under her breath. This was exactly why she hadn’t broken the Asgill story in the meeting: she wanted to be sure of it; she didn’t want word to get back to Andy of the story that never was. She walked over to the small window of her office and snapped the blinds shut just as there was a sharp rap on her door.

Mark Wilson was in his mid-forties, dressed in a conservative tailored suit and carrying a silver briefcase. He held out a card, but Tess simply slipped it into her pocket. She didn’t need Mark Wilson to tell her he was an expensive lawyer, because he looked exactly like every other expensive lawyer she had ever met.

‘Tea? Coffee? Water?’ Tess asked, motioning towards a seat in front of her desk.

‘Straight to business I think, Ms Garrett,’ he said as he settled down. ‘Some illegal photographs were taken of my client at a party in St John’s Wood last night.’

‘I know,’ said Tess, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Sean Asgill was partying so hard he ended up in a high-dependency unit at a North London hospital.’

Wilson looked slightly taken aback by the blunt, attractive woman seated across from him, but quickly rallied.

‘Well, Ms Garrett, you’re an experienced journalist, one assumes,’ he said. ‘So I don’t need to remind you of the privacy laws at issue here. Sean Asgill was enjoying a night out in a private place and that privacy has been invaded. Run these pictures and the legal ramifications could be punitive for your newspaper.’

Tess looked at him, determined to stand her ground, particularly after Wilson’s snipe about her experience. In fact, Tess had been in this situation many times before. Andy Davidson didn’t do much hands-on editing and was more often to be found schmoozing politicians and publicists; he certainly never dealt with Rottweiler lawyers. It was Tess who was sent to deal with them, and, as barely a week went by without some celebrity publicist or media lawyer threatening the Globe with injunctions, Tess knew the law backwards.