Kiss Heaven Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

‘We can’t hide for ever,’ she had said, and there was a certain simple truth in her words. Alex had made himself unhappy all his life because he wouldn’t face things. Maybe now he could find some peace, however painful it was to do. He looked over at his friend with affection.

  ‘You OK?’ he said, and she nodded.

  ‘Under the circumstances.’

  Alex suspected that from Grace’s point of view, Michael Marshall’s phone call had been a relief. She was the one who had carried this burden around with her, trying to make amends with her good works, by living a good life, but it hadn’t been enough – and now here was a chance to make it right, or at least own up to what she – they – had done. He also suspected she’d much rather be facing a police grilling than dealing with the horrible mess that her personal life had become.

  A white Mini Moke appeared through a clearing in the palm-trees, beeping its horn as it approached the runway.

  ‘Here he comes, the lord of the manor,’ said Grace as they saw Miles in the driver’s seat.

  ‘You know, even as a lad I knew that having a friend like Miles was trouble.’

  ‘But he sucked you in anyway?’ asked Grace. ‘He does that. Even now.’

  Miles stepped out of the car in shorts and a white open-necked shirt, looking for all the world like a carefree tourist rather than a cornered felon. He strode over and slapped Alex on the shoulder.

  ‘Good flight?’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Alex.

  Miles grabbed Grace’s bag and pointed to the car. ‘Tight squeeze I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is Sasha coming?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Of course. Rejected the offer of the jet and she’s staying at the White Sands resort on Emerald Cay. You know Sasha. Always has to be different. Awkward. Still, she should be here in a couple of hours.’

  They clambered into the Mini Moke and Miles gunned the engine, propelling the car up the hill.

  ‘Benny, the temporary caretaker, is doing a barbecue later for old times’ sake,’ shouted Miles over the roar. ‘No one turned vegetarian as well as teetotal on me in the last few years, did they?’

  ‘Old times’ sake?’ said Alex. ‘This isn’t a bloody holiday, Miles.’

  ‘Exactly, but neither does it have to be purgatory.’

  They pulled up to the house. Since he had left this place, Alex had been around the world dozens of times and had lived a life of luxury most people only dreamt about, but still, there was something magical about Angel Cay. The view of the island from this elevated position was unmatched for drama and beauty anywhere on the globe. Somehow the sand here seemed whiter, the trees greener, the breeze more fragrant and sweet. It had a more potent tranquillity too, now the hordes of staff had left the island in preparation for the sale.

  Benny the caretaker took their bags and they went out on to the terrace where ice-cold drinks and a huge fruit platter, piled high with mango, pineapple, papaya and starfruit, were waiting for them.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Grace.

  ‘How about sailing?’ said Miles, picking up a slice of mango.

  ‘We’re here to talk, Miles,’ said Alex with irritation.

  Miles wiped the sticky orange juice from his chin with the back of his hand. ‘No point till Sash gets here.’

  ‘And when are we seeing Detective Carlton?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Tomorrow. One of his forensic goons is over the hill on the beach, though. Probably best to avoid that side of the island.’

  ‘I hope your lawyer’s here,’ said Alex.

  ‘Michael’s in George Town. Just left. Apparently Carlton and his colleagues are talking about doing a reconstruction of “the night in question”,’ he said, making quotation marks with his fingers. ‘You’d think it was bloody Crimewatch.’

  Typical Miles, thought Alex, still fiddling while Rome burns. He had expected a little humility to have crept into his personality after twenty years, but it seemed Miles Ashford still saw himself as Superman – bulletproof and unbendable. Suddenly Alex felt clammy and unclean.

  ‘I think I’ll go up to the room to change,’ he said.

  Grace followed him up and they were only mildly surprised to find they had been assigned the same bedrooms they had slept in on the 1990 holiday. Miles’ sense of humour at work, Alex assumed. He changed into a fresh shirt then went down the corridor to Grace’s room.

  ‘I can’t believe how little this place has changed,’ she said as he walked in. She held up a copy of Valley of the Dolls, the novel she had been reading that trip, with her bookmark still in the place she had left it. She shook her head. ‘This is going to be hard.’

  ‘We did nothing wrong,’ said Alex, trying to put a brave face on it, but Grace just gave him a sad smile.

  ‘You know that’s not true, Alex.’

  He put his arm around her and she looked up at him with big blue eyes. ‘You know, all the bad stuff that has ever happened to me in my life – Caro being killed in the car bomb, the collapse of my marriage, the death of my dad, my mum, Julian and Olivia . . . sometimes I think it’s karma. You felt it too, didn’t you, when you were in the clinic?’

  Alex gave her a squeeze. He knew that hot summer night in 1990 had damaged them all.

  ‘I try not to think about it too much. What’s done is done.’

  ‘But we can always do our best to make amends, can’t we?’ asked Grace.

  ‘We can try.’

  For a moment they stood like that, both enjoying the moment of closeness. Miles might have called them all back saying they needed to stick together, but Alex seriously doubted that he – or Sasha for that matter – was motivated by that sentiment. He and Grace would just have to back each other up.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling away. ‘For once, Miles is right. No point moping around here; let’s go sailing.’

  ‘Miles is right?’ she said with a cynical half-smile.

  ‘About some things ...’ he said, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes and leading Grace outside.

  It was time to go. The hotel boat was waiting by the dock and Sasha knew it was now or never. She had to return to the island, or run away, never looking back. At that moment, neither option seemed particularly appealing, but she knew she couldn’t keep running. She was too bloody tired.

  Phil walked over, standing behind her, where she was looking out of the French windows leading to their private terrace.

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m grateful for you coming this far but I don’t want you to get more involved than you have to be. I’m just going to go over there and get this done.’

  Philip tilted his head to look up at the grey clouds gathering across the horizon. ‘Well you’d better be quick. The concierge thinks there might be some bad weather coming in and you don’t want to stay on that island overnight.’

  ‘I’ll swim away if I have to.’ She smiled.

  Phil put his arms around her and planted a soft kiss on her lips. She relaxed into his body, and didn’t want to pull away. There had been so many places that had just felt right over the past twenty years: on Pampelonne beach in St Tropez in the summertime. On a yacht in St Barts on New Year’s Eve. At the CEFA designer of the year awards picking up a gong. But right now, Sasha could not think of anywhere she wanted to be more than here in Philip’s gentle, protective embrace.

  ‘I should have said yes,’ she said quietly.

  He turned to look at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That night in your flat. I should have said yes.’

  His eyes twinkled with pleasure, but Sasha knew she didn’t have time for this right now.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she said quickly, grabbing her bag and striding out of the hotel with a purpose she had not felt in a long time. She had to get this finished. Only then could she get back to Philip and the life she had been searching for all these years.

  The boat taking her to Ang
el Cay was fast and powerful, slicing through the green water with such speed that a journey that should have taken forty minutes took only fifteen.

  ‘Shall I wait?’ asked the captain as he helped her on to the jetty.

  Sasha glanced at her watch. ‘No. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but that journey was so quick I’ll give you a ring when I need to be collected.’

  He lifted a finger to his cap. ‘Sure thing, madam. But don’t leave it too long; the weather’s turning.’

  ‘I’ll be two hours tops.’

  She walked along the pier, her heels tapping on the sun-blanched wood to where a man was waiting by a Mini Moke. He was about forty, with weathered skin and a clipped moustache.

  ‘Benny Law,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘I’m the caretaker.’

  ‘What happened to Nelson?’ asked Sasha as she climbed into the little jeep. ‘I thought he was part of the furniture around here.’

  ‘He retired,’ said Benny vaguely. ‘Now let me take you up to the house. Grace Ashford and that musician fella arrived a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘So everyone’s here?’

  He shook his head. ‘Naw, miss, not right now. They’ve all gone sailing. Should be back in about an hour.’

  Sasha tutted and looked anxiously at her watch again. She wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible, and Phil was right – she really didn’t want to spend a night on the island.

  Benny took her up to the house, then drove off in a cloud of dust towards the caretaker’s cottage. Left all alone, Sasha wandered from room to room, feeling the years slip away, remembering what it was like when she’d had the run of the house.

  God, I really thought I was going to marry Miles, didn’t I? she remembered with a smile, trailing her hands over the familiar furniture. I thought all this was going to be mine.

  Upstairs, she stopped with a pang of melancholy at the door of Miles’ old bedroom. She wondered idly what would have happened if she had got her wish and become the next Mrs Ashford. Would she have been satisfied? At eighteen, she had believed it was her destiny to settle down and spend her life being a chattel, a possession, Miles Ashford’s wife. Instead she had gone entirely the other way and been completely independent, beholden to no one, making her own way in the world on her wits and her talents. She hadn’t needed anyone. Apart from Robert, of course. As much to distract herself as anything else, she went in. Laid out on the bed were Miles’ clean clothes, a pressed pink shirt, Ralph Lauren chinos. This was obviously where he was sleeping tonight, she thought, wondering why he hadn’t moved into the master bedroom with the best view of the beach. Same reason I’m not going in there, she thought. Too many ghosts.

  Her eyes was drawn to the laptop computer sitting on the walnut desk by the window, a white light on the front blinking at her. Glancing back towards the door, she walked over and sat down. I wonder . . . she thought. In all the maelstrom of the past forty-eight hours, she had not entirely forgotten about her business and in particular how Miles was trying to pull it from under her. She knew he was in league with Simon Assad, but how exactly and why? Maybe there would be some clues on his personal computer.

  She made a few clicks, but it was immediately clear that he had protected his emails with a password. Dammit, she thought. If there was going to be evidence, it would be there. His desk-top files, however, were not protected in this way. Systematically she began opening them. Most were dull Ash Corp.-related items. Spreadsheets, projections, PowerPoint presentations with pie charts and endless contracts in dense legalese. She was just about to give up, when she found a folder full of dozens of photographs. Miles skiing. Miles on a yacht somewhere hot and sunny. Miles with his arm around a clean-cut handsome ski instructor. Miles in bed with another man, laughing at the camera. She recoiled in surprise and then almost laughed out loud. Of course! So many things began to fit into place. Their strange sex life, which had swung between the borderline kinky and the lacklustre. He was either at her like a piston or couldn’t get it up. It also explained his remote relationship with Chrissy – perhaps even his bond with Alex Doyle.

  She clicked on another folder entitled ‘Dubai’ – it looked like some sort of Ash Corp. company jolly, or maybe the launch of one of his resorts – there were loads of shots on the beach, various men and women in swimsuits horsing around on the sand and in the water. Lots of shots of Miles with yet another good-looking man in aviator shades and surf shorts. And then she saw something that make her heart beat faster. It was such a small thing, she could easily have missed it, but there it was – and she was sure she had seen it before. The main photo was of Miles smiling as he held up a cocktail in salute to the camera, but what was grabbing Sasha’s attention was in the background; the good-looking man was running out of the surf, which had pulled his shorts low. She enlarged the image as far as it would go; it pixelated as it expanded, but it was enough to see the mark on the man’s hipbone. It was a tattoo of the sun, its rays curling outwards. A tattoo she’d recognise anywhere. Bradley the boat boy – the dead boat boy – had had exactly the same tattoo, in exactly the same spot. Was it simply a coincidence? Could it be? Sasha’s palms felt clammy; intuitively she knew it was the same tattoo, the same man. But who was he? Why was he with Miles?

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ she whispered to herself.

  She shut the laptop and glanced around Miles’ bedroom. There were few personal possessions here, just the clothes and a small overnight bag, nothing to give her more clues.

  Who are you, surf boy? she thought frantically, her mouth feeling dry. And why are you with Miles?

  Unzipping his leather holdall, she looked inside. Toothpaste, floss, deodorant, nothing out of the ordinary. She pulled out a magazine: Forbes, with a picture of Miles on the front cover, a fat cigar between his grinning teeth. Typical, she thought. Miles’ idea of porn: a picture of himself.

  Sitting on the bed, she flicked through the magazine until she found the feature about Miles. And then she stopped as she saw a small black and white photograph inserted into a body of text. It was the same man in the surf shorts, but instead of sunglasses he was wearing small wire-framed spectacles. She ran her finger across the page. Was it him? Could it be? His face had slimmed out. His hair was darker, not as blond. The nose was different too – thinner, straighter, with the perfect nostril shape; the work she knew instantly of an expert cosmetic surgeon, because she’d had similar work done herself. But it was him. Her breath was ragged, her hands shaking. It was him. She read the caption: ‘Miles Ashford and Ash Corp. director of business affairs Michael Marshall.’ Oh shit, she thought. She had no idea what was going on – was this guy scamming Miles? Was Miles in on it? Was this some sort of sick game he was playing? Whichever way you looked at it, it wasn’t good, and instinctively she knew they were in danger. Putting the magazine back, she slipped out of Miles’ bedroom and went into her own, pulling her BlackBerry out of her bag.

  Who to call? Whether Miles was manipulating them or not, he had to know something. But when she dialled his mobile number, her heart sank as she heard it ringing back in his bedroom.

  Shit, shit, shit, she whispered.

  She scrolled through to Philip’s number and walked towards the window, her eyes searching the sea for a sight of Miles’ boat.

  ‘Phil. It’s me,’ she said, keeping her voice low.

  ‘You’re there already?’

  ‘Yes, and I have a horrible feeling that something weird is going on.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You know we found the body of the boat boy?’ she whispered. ‘Well, he’s not dead. He’s Michael Marshall.’

  ‘The lawyer who invited you here?’ said Philip. ‘So whose body have the police got, then?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  She was shaking her head, trying to process the facts in her mind, trying to work out what made sense.

  ‘Look, the boat boy had a tattoo on his hip; it’s one of the few things I remem
ber about him. I’ve just seen a photograph of Michael Marshall on Miles’ computer. Phil, he has the same tattoo. He’s changed his appearance, his name, but it’s him. I know it.’

  ‘Why on earth would Miles have the boat boy working for him?’ asked Philip.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t even know it’s him. I don’t know what to think.’ She closed her eyes tightly, trying to blot out her fear.

  ‘Do you want me to come to Angel?’ asked Philip.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, but the weather’s changed. I’m guessing that’s going to slow me up, but Sasha, I’ll get there.’

  She felt a wash of relief, but she hated being so vulnerable. She was Sasha Sinclair, the arse-kicking global style icon, but she was just grateful that Phil was on the way.