Part One
Proof of Life
1
Ibiza
Most years it was Phoebe Chadwick who got the ball rolling, usually in late January, when the weather was at its gloomiest and the streetlamp outside the window of her Bloomsbury office burned for days on end without a break. Phoebe was a senior project coordinator for a respected but perpetually underfunded international relief organization. Her work, while rewarding, left her forever short of financial resources herself. Her three closest friends all had piles of money. Sophie Maxwell worked for a Magic Circle law firm, and Ella Burns did something dubious in the City. Beautiful Alice Winter got her money the old-fashioned way. Alice had married it.
It was not the way they had planned it when they were at Cambridge. Back then, when they were afire with youthful zeal, they swore they would avoid the trappings of wealth and material comfort. They were going to put their costly educations to good use, help others, make a difference. Only Phoebe, after earning a prestigious first in global economics, had lived up to her word. Sophie had planned to be a human rights lawyer but ended up looking after the interests of corporations instead, including Ella’s appalling bank. And Alice? She was going to be a crusading journalist, perhaps write a novel or two, but all that changed when she met Edward. Now she was a boldface name inTatler. The it girl.
They had taken another vow before leaving Cambridge, that every summer they would spend a week together somewhere delightful with no spouses or offspring or significant others present, just the four of them. That promise they had somehow managed to keep, though it was Phoebe who inevitably saw to the planning. She shouldered this burden with the blessing of the others. If she could organize an airlift of food and medicine into Darfur, they reckoned, she could arrange something as ordinary as a weeklong stay in the South of France.
They had holidayed there twice, first in Saint-Tropez, then, two summers later, in the Luberon, in the same yellow villa where they had filmed that movie. They had done Venice and Tuscany, of course, and no fewer than three Greek islands. Looking for a change of pace, they had spent a week cycling across Switzerland, a dreadful mistake. Patagonia had been spectacular but exhausting, the yoga retreat in the Himalayas an unmitigated disaster. So disastrous, in fact, that Phoebe feared the trip might be their last. This year had to be perfect; otherwise they might drift apart. Alice was already floating away, held aloft by Edward’s billions. Text messages went unanswered for days, phone calls went straight to voicemail. Even Ella, who was closest to Alice, sometimes had trouble reaching her. Phoebe had all but given up trying.
Her work intruded—an outbreak of severe famine in the Central African Republic—and it was officially spring before she had a spare moment to think about the trip. After considering and rejecting several options, she settled on Iceland. Yes, it was cold there in June, but there were glaciers and volcanoes to explore, and the spa at the Blue Lagoon was to die for, or so Phoebe had been reliably informed. She made preliminary inquiries, drafted a proposed itinerary, and forwarded it to the others in a group text. Sophie was game, butElla groaned. The ever-delinquent Alice waited ten long days before responding. She did so with a call to Phoebe’s mobile. Her voice sounded postcoital.
“Sorry, darling Phoebe, but I’m afraid dreary Iceland simply won’t do. We’re going somewhere very warm and obscenely glamorous. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Imean, Pheebs, that this year’s trip is on me.”
“I can’t possibly allow you to pay for my holiday.”
“Trust me, I’m not.”
Alice refused to divulge their destination or offer any description beyond her originalvery warm and obscenely glamorous. Phoebe packed accordingly and, as instructed, presented herself at the London City Airport Jet Center at 4:00p.m.on the second Friday of June. Accompanied by Sophie and Ella, she boarded a waiting Bombardier Challenger 605. Alice was seated in the passenger cabin, one golden leg crossed suggestively over the other. She looked as though she were returning from a holiday rather than embarking on one.
“Where are you taking us?” asked Phoebe as she accepted a glass of champagne from the cabin attendant.
“Definitely not Iceland,” replied Alice. “Good heavens, Pheebs! What on earth were you thinking?”
Their destination turned out to be a Bond-villain fortress of glass and stone perched atop a cliff on the northern coast of Ibiza. There were six bedrooms, three adjoining sitting rooms, a media room, a game room, a hotel-style fitness center and spa, and a staff of four, including a chef from one of the hottest restaurants in Paris. At thebase of the cliff, reached by a treacherous footpath, was a rocky cove with water the color of lapis lazuli. Evidently the cove had a name—Cala something or other. When spoken by Alice it sounded like the most exotic place in the world.
Their schedule, to the extent they had one, revolved around the consumption of food and alcohol. Lunches were lengthy wine-soaked affairs served on the shaded terrace. They passed the late afternoons poolside or dozing in their rooms—Phoebe’s was the size of her flat in Notting Hill—and at half past nine each evening they drove to dinner in an open-top Mercedes Cabriolet. Alice always paid the bill with that flashy black credit card of hers. Then she would drag them to a nightclub for a few hours of ear-shattering music and dancing. Inevitably they would run into a member of her crowd from London. She posted selfies on her many social media feeds. Her legion of followers swooned with envy.
By Tuesday morning Phoebe needed a vacation from her vacation—and perhaps from Alice as well. She slept late, then logged on to the villa’s Wi-Fi network and returned a few emails. It was approaching one in the afternoon by the time she went in search of the others. Sophie and Ella were waging war on the red clay tennis court. Alice was stretched topless on the sunbaked tiles at the edge of the pool, one foot dangling in the water, so beautiful she scarcely looked real.
Phoebe sat down on a chaise longue and drew a book from her bag. Alice stirred, took note of Phoebe’s presence, and closed her eyes again. “What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Your breasts, if you must know.”
“Lovely, aren’t they?”
“Scrumptious.”
“They can be yours for twenty-five thousand quid.”
“I dare you to post a photo of them online.”
“Tempting, but Edward might not approve.” Alice turned onto her stomach as though suddenly self-conscious and raised a hand to her brow. “What are you reading?”
Phoebe showed her the cover. It was an old P. D. James mystery.
“The killer is Julius Court,” said Alice. “Apparently he was in business with some rather awful people from Marseilles. Heroin, I believe. He leaps to his death from the cliff near Toynton Grange after shooting Dalgliesh in the shoulder.”
Phoebe set aside the book with a sigh. “When are you going to write yours?”
