‘Miles Ashford, this is Detective Inspector Carlton,’ said Michael.
Carlton was fiftyish, short greying hair contrasting with his cocoa skin. Miles showed him into the suite and they sat on facing sofas. Miles wished he had taken the meeting on the terrace where sunglasses could have hidden his eyes. Calm down, he said to himself, you have nothing to be afraid of. No evidence, a twenty-year gap, there’s nothing left to find. He smiled at the detective.
‘So how can I help?’ he asked.
‘I assume Mr Marshall has filled you in?’ asked Carlton.
Miles shrugged. ‘As much as he could. Neither of us knows a great deal, but we’d be grateful for anything you could tell us. As I’m sure you’re aware, I have a fifty-million-dollar business deal at stake here. Fairmont – the company buying Angel Cay – won’t exchange contracts until they get a satisfactory survey, and I’m sure you can appreciate that finding a dead body where they’d like an infinity pool to be hasn’t exactly gone down well with their board of directors.’
Carlton simply nodded. ‘So you know nothing about the body other than the details we have told Mr Marshall?’ he asked.
‘Of course not. My family have owned the island for nearly thirty years and we’ve had no reason to ever think that something like that was buried on the west coast beach. Can I ask how old you think the remains are?’
Carlton held out his hands. ‘Forensics isn’t an exact science, I’m afraid, particularly when the body is so decomposed. But the initial report from the lab dated the time of death between twenty and thirty years ago.’
Miles felt his heart jump. ‘Which suggests the previous owner of Angel Cay might know something about it?’ he offered helpfully.
Carlton flipped over a few pages in his notebook. ‘A gentleman named Ron Casey. Lives in Las Vegas now. It’s not making our lives easy, all you people being so far-flung.’
‘I can only apologise,’ said Miles with a sympathetic laugh.
For the next twenty minutes, Carlton continued questioning Miles. What could he remember about the guests they had had on the island? Did he ever remember anyone unconnected to the family docking on Angel Cay? Did his father only invite business associates or did he rent the island out to friends? Miles was able to honestly answer that he had little recollection. He had only visited the island as a young man on family holidays. How his father used it in between was a mystery to him.
‘And you can’t remember anyone ever going missing?’
Despite the air-conditioning, Miles knew that his hands were clammy. He felt dehydrated and dizzy, but he had to maintain a cool exterior. He’d been under worse pressure than this, many times.
‘Missing?’ he said.
‘A guest, a member of staff . . .’ suggested Carlton.
Miles shook his head. ‘No, although I’m sure we’ve had staff do a moonlight flit on us.’
‘Moonlight flit?’ said Carlton. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that term.’
‘My apologies. It means they left the island without notice. I do remember someone made off with my mother’s pearl earrings once.’ He smiled. ‘But missing, no, I don’t recall anything like that.’
Carlton nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Miles’.
‘I assume I’m allowed to go to Angel Cay?’ asked Miles. ‘I wasn’t expecting to make this trip, but now I’m here, it’d be nice to have one last look around the family home before the developers move in.’
‘We can’t ask you to stay in Nassau, Mr Ashford. Not yet,’ said Carlton, rising and shaking Miles’ hand. ‘But I trust you’ll be available to speak to us at any time?’
Not yet? Miles thought with unease.
‘Our forensic team will be there another day or so,’ said the policeman. ‘Although it’s big enough for us to section off the appropriate area.’
‘Just the west beach?’
‘More or less.’
‘Have you spoken to Nelson Ford?’ asked Michael, leading Carlton to the door. ‘I gave you the up-to-date contact details we have for him.’
‘Not yet. He’s not at any of the numbers you gave us. Anyone would think he had gone underground.’
Miles laughed. ‘Not Nelson. He’s a sixty-five-year-old man, not a master criminal.’
‘Let’s hope not, Mr Ashford,’ said Carlton. ‘I hate to have mysteries like this hanging around. Here in the islands we find that secrets don’t stay that way for long.’
70
When Grace woke up the next morning, Julian’s side of the bed was empty. It had happened before; after eight years together, Grace was used to his hot temper and mood swings. In happier times, his mercurial disposition had manifested itself in spontaneity: leaping into the car to drive to the Cornish coast or the Scottish highlands simply because the muse had taken hold of him. Back then, Julian had been romantic and exciting. Now he was childish and petulant, using arguments – picking fights – as an excuse to go out to parties and bohemian dive bars. For a while Grace had put up with it; Julian was an artist after all and given to sensitivity. He certainly hadn’t taken Connie’s death well – it couldn’t have been pleasant to be the one to find her lying at the bottom of those stairs, thought Grace with a shiver. But lately, his behaviour had simply left her angry and dismayed. The pointless argument of the previous night had made her wonder if she really knew him at all.
She showered, dressed and had a breakfast of grapefruit and black coffee, but she still felt edgy. She thought about calling Joe who was at tennis camp in Marbella but it was too early. Usually when she needed to clear her head, she would go for a run: all those long jogs along Port Douglas’ Four Mile Beach or the muddy bridle paths around Toddington. But you never saw people jogging around this part of east London. Slouching, yes; scowling with studied indifference, that too. But jogging? No.
So I’ll clean! She smiled to herself, grabbing the keys to her scooter. Weaving through the streets of London, her hair streaming in a long ribbon from under her helmet, she immediately felt better. Grace’s friends had laughed at her for getting a scooter at forty, but it was her little shot at rebellion. She’d spent her entire life being sensible, doing what she thought was right, so why not have a little fun? At the time when she should have been falling out of nightclubs, sleeping with unsuitable men and feeling carefree and unfettered, she’d been bringing up two children in the stifling atmosphere of El Esperanza with a dark secret that would barely let her sleep at night. Come to think of it, she should get a real motorbike, she thought as she parked the scooter. That would really raise a few eyebrows.
Olivia’s apartment was in a red-brick mansion block behind Cheyne Walk. It had been a probate sale, still full of an old lady’s things, curtains from the fifties and knick-knacks not removed by the family, so Olivia had made Grace promise to come back to help ‘sort it’. Grace opened the front door with her spare key and went up the stairs. The apartment was still in the same mess she had left it yesterday: overflowing boxes, designer clothes hanging off every surface, thick layers of dust on the windowsills.
There was no sign of Olivia, but then it was still only nine o’clock and she had probably been out clubbing till all hours. Putting the kettle on, Grace went down the corridor to rouse her daughter from bed.
‘C’mon, sleepyhead, rise and . . .’ she began, the words dying in her throat. Olivia was lying on top of the well-upholstered body of a man, his face buried between her tanned, slender thighs. She was completely naked, her skin sheened in sweat, and her long blond hair could not disguise the fact that her mouth was on his cock. As Grace stood there, Olivia looked up, her hair dishevelled, her cheeks flushed, her moist lips glinting in the hazy morning light.
‘Mum. Shit.’
She scrambled off the naked man and knelt up on the duvet, her face suddenly blanched of colour.
The man sat up, and Grace thought she was going to die on the spot.
‘Julian,’ she croaked. Her whole body felt like lead, unable to m
ove, revulsion and fury rising in her chest like boiling magma until it reached her throat. Finally she took a breath and let out a scream.
‘You little whore!’ she spat.
‘Mum, I’m so sorry,’ said Olivia, jumping off the bed, knocking over a bottle of wine that leaked on to the carpet.
‘Get out!’ Grace bellowed at Julian, picking up his jeans, shirt and shoes and throwing them out of the door.
‘Grace, please,’ he said meekly.
‘Don’t you dare say another word,’ growled Grace. ‘I said get out!’
She watched him leave, his plump body scampering into the corridor. In the other corner of the room her daughter covered her naked body with a small pink robe with a teddy bear motif on the front pocket.
Olivia was frantic. ‘I know how this looks.’
‘You know how this looks? It looks like you’re a cheap, cheap slut, that’s how it looks.’
Olivia’s face immediately became defiant. ‘I love him, Mum.’
‘Love?’ She tried to roar but it came out as a pathetic little squeak. ‘The only person you love, Olivia, is yourself.’
‘It’s been over between you and Julian for months.’
It was a slap in the face and Grace willed herself not to crumble. ‘Who told you that? Him? Because last time I looked, we’d been living together for five years.’
Olivia wrapped her robe tightly around herself and squared up to her mother. Grace could smell the musky scent of sex on her teenage daughter’s face and stepped away, repulsed by the thought of where it came from.
‘Do you know why I care about him?’ said Olivia.
‘Because he’s a world-famous artist?’ said Grace, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Because you’re spoilt and vicious and you want the one person you know you can’t have, like some sick, sad power trip?’ She didn’t recognise herself in the hard, harsh words coming out of her mouth.
‘Because he cares about me,’ said Olivia, her voice level. ‘Because he gives me attention. Which is more than you’ve ever given me. You’ve always been flying off around the world helping orphans, empowering poor people, running photography clubs for fucking peasants. What about us, Mum? What about your children? And I don’t mean lecturing us on our moral well-being. Be careful. Don’t have sex. Take the pill,’ she mocked. ‘You’ve been so busy being a do-gooder, trying to save the world, when really you should be looking at how to save your own life. Look at you. You’ve got a boyfriend that doesn’t love you. Children you hardly know . . .’
‘Is that what you think?’ She could barely see now through the glaze of tears. It was like a knife through her heart. Forget Julian, he barely seemed to matter any more. But after everything she had done for her kids, her daughter’s words were shattering.
‘Yes,’ said Olivia simply. ‘That’s what I think.’
‘Then you’d better just go,’ said Grace, too weak to fight any longer.
‘No,’ said Olivia quietly, lifting her chin. ‘This is my flat. You go.’
Looking at her daughter, the pit of Grace’s stomach welled up with love, sorrow, disappointment. She stumbled back into the corridor, out of the door, taking the flight of steps down two by two and out on to the street, gasping for air as she sank down onto the cold concrete pavement. Desperately she tipped her handbag out on the ground, scrabbling for her mobile phone, her fingers shaking as they stabbed the numbers.
‘Be there,’ she whispered to herself as she held the phone to her ear. ‘Please, please be there . . . Alex, is that you?’
‘Grace?’ came the familiar voice. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me.’
‘I need you, Alex,’ she sobbed. ‘Come quickly. Please, just come and get me.’
71
Few people liked going to parties by themselves, but it was something that had never particularly bothered Sasha Sinclair. She was attractive, funny and a master networker; after nearly twenty years on the party circuit, she usually knew at least half a dozen people at any gathering. Today, however, that was a distinct disadvantage. Normally a party like Amelia Hambro’s fortieth, held in the gardens of Inner Temple Inns of Court along London’s Embankment, would have been an ideal opportunity for Sasha to flirt, make contacts and exchange gossip. The trouble was, today the gossip was about her. Word was out about the Assad bid for Rivera and everyone was whispering about Sasha: was she leaving the company – and if so, was she jumping or was she being pushed? For the first time, Sasha had no desire to talk to anyone. She felt adrift, dislocated. Everywhere she looked, happy couples were laughing, talking about their holiday plans for Tuscany or Provence, their children at expensive prep schools: normal everyday life. The truth was Randall had been right when he said she had been consumed by her ambition. If she lost her place in the fashion world, she genuinely wouldn’t know how to behave. Of course there were thousands of things she could do with fifty million pounds in the bank and two decades’ worth of experience in the fashion industry. But right now she couldn’t think of any of them – she didn’t want any of them. What Sasha Sinclair wanted was her life back.
‘I thought it was you.’
She had been sheltering from the furtive glances and the whispered gossip under a lime tree a little way from the party. She spun round and opened her eyes wide.
‘Philip Bettany!’ she exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
She leant in to kiss him, wincing inwardly. She had always regretted treating Philip so badly. He was a good man and a good friend, but she had pushed him aside in favour of her ambition and her feelings for an unsuitable married man. He was still looking good. His hair was peppered with grey at the temples, and his skin looked sun-worn, but at forty-seven he was still the most handsome man at the party.
‘I didn’t even know you were in the country,’ said Sasha. ‘The last I heard you were in Hong Kong.’
‘I was in Sydney for eight years. I moved back two months ago, escaping the Aussie winter.’
He smiled. It was a warm, genuine smile although there was no reason for him to be so happy to see her. Sasha remembered the final days of their relationship: Philip’s marriage proposal, her plan to oust him from the company, his quiet, dignified exit. How could she have been so selfish, so brutal? Looking at him now, she wondered what it was that hadn’t worked. Certainly, she could have shown more grace.
‘So who are you here with?’ asked Philip.
‘Just me. I was only popping my head in,’ she said. ‘I try not to dwell too much on fortieths, with mine being just around the corner.’
‘Forty? Try having fifty out there.’ He laughed. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t bring my walking stick today.’
‘I think you’re looking great, Phil,’ she said, blushing slightly and rushing on to cover her embarrassment.‘So tell me everything. What were you doing in Sydney?’
‘CFO of a car manufacturing company. Not as sexy as evening dresses.’
‘But you always loved cars, didn’t you?’ She glanced down at his left hand. ‘Married? Kids?’
‘Both.’
‘Great.’ She smiled too brightly.
‘Well, the marriage is past tense, actually. It didn’t quite work out as I’d hoped. Ended rather badly in fact.’
Sasha raised her eyebrows. ‘A horror story you wish to share?’
Philip pulled a face. ‘I wish it was something original,’ he said, ‘but it was just plain common-or-garden infidelity. Natalie, my wife, is English. We moved out to Sydney together, had Lily, our little girl. And then Natalie had an affair. End of story, really.’
Sasha touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
He shrugged. ‘The day she told me she was leaving me and taking Lily, it was such a blow, I wrote a cheque for half of what we had in the bank and told her to get out.’
‘Very dramatic of you,’ said Sasha. ‘Like an eighties mini-series.’
Philip laughed. ‘Turns out it was a big mistake. In Australia, you can’t begin divorce pr
oceedings until you’ve been separated for twelve months, by which time she’d spent all the money I gave her and came after me for another half. I got screwed twice.’
‘Gosh, Phil, that’s so not like you,’ said Sasha. ‘At Rivera you watched every pound, shilling and pence.’
‘Love makes people do the strangest things.’
She nodded, hating the thought of Philip being hurt so badly again. He deserved better.
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