Perfect Strangers (32 page)

‘So where did the rest go?’

‘Exactly. There are endless conspiracy theories about it; it’s like Blackbeard’s treasure. But it’s logical that a cunning, manipulative crook like Asner would have planned for the possibility of getting caught. He would definitely have buried some gold somewhere.’

Ruth was drawn in by Chuck’s enthusiasm. She usually found financial news quite dull – God knows she’d had to listen to enough of it with David – but the Asner scandal was like a blockbuster thriller: wealthy victims, pantomime villains, jets and limos, even the tantalising hint of pirate treasure. But juicy though it was, Ruth had a story to put together. This was a murder case, not a profile of a financial meltdown. Peter Ellis’s involvement with Asner was little more than a footnote, just another layer of the tragedy and bad luck that the Ellis family – specifically Sophie Ellis – had been forced to endure. Unless she could find something more, of course.

‘Okay, so let’s get back on track with the Riverton case,’ she said, turning to signal to Hayden, the Welsh barman, for another bottle. ‘How deep is the connection between Asner and Peter Ellis?’

Chuck pouted and pulled out a black and white picture of some young men in mortar boards and gowns.

‘They both went to St John’s College, Oxford,’ he said. ‘Asner had graduated from Columbia University and had gone there on a Fulbright scholarship. Peter and Michael met through the university yacht club and became best friends, according to most of the people I spoke to there. What’s also interesting is that Edward Gould, Sophie Ellis’s solicitor, was at Oxford then too.’

‘Gould knew Asner?’ she said. That seemed more than a little convenient. ‘Did you speak to him about it?’ she asked.

Chuck nodded.

‘Typical lawyer, very slippery. He just said Asner and Peter were thick as thieves. He remembers they started a company together selling sailing gear. As you might imagine, Asner was a brilliant salesman: loud, outgoing, pushy. Gould remembers buying a waterproof jacket from him which leaked. I don’t think he’s ever really forgiven him.’ Chuck smiled.

‘But did Asner get in touch with Ellis after the scandal? That would be some nice colour for the story.’

Chuck pulled a face.

‘I tried Julia Ellis, but she was less help than the lawyer. If I had to guess, I’d say that if Peter did speak to Asner, he wouldn’t have shared it with his wife. There’s no question that Julia hates Asner with a passion. Again, this is a hunch, but I got the sense her hostility wasn’t just because they lost all their money through the investment. I think she was resentful that Asner had gone on to be so successful while they were stuck in Surrey. Apparently Peter had asked Asner to be Sophie’s godfather, but he was “too grand” – Julia’s words – to bother replying to them.’

Ruth smiled; this was good. No answers as such, but then she hadn’t really expected that, but there was plenty of solid information that she could build on.

‘Excellent work, Chuck,’ she said, squeezing his arm. ‘Seriously, it’s very useful.’

Chuck shut his file and shrugged. ‘If I had longer . . .’

‘Listen, the FBI and the SEC couldn’t get to the bottom of it, I didn’t think you’d crack the case, but it’s brought the picture into focus.’

She felt a pang of guilt as the boy put his file back in his bag. He probably had no idea that the writing was on the wall for the bureau, and if Isaac did close it down, then where would he go? Degree from Yale, contacts in the media world; he’d probably be fine, maybe even fare better than Ruth herself. At least he was young and relatively cheap – on a résumé, that could count for a lot these days.

‘Let’s get drunk,’ she said, lifting her glass defiantly.

By eleven thirty, Ruth was absolutely hammered. She was faintly aware that she had been loud and opinionated, rather than witty and entertaining. She felt a wave of tiredness but had no intention of going back to her flat, with its empty wardrobes and fridge with its single jar of half-eaten olives.

‘Let’s hit a club, Chuck,’ she slurred. ‘I haven’t been out dancing in years.’

‘How about I get you a taxi home?’ said Chuck.

‘Ooh, a young man offering to take me home,’ she giggled, tipping her wine glass back to get at the last dribble of Chablis. ‘My lucky night.’

His face was indistinct, but Ruth didn’t think Chuck was buying her seduction technique.

‘All right,’ she sighed, clambering to her feet. ‘I can take a hint.’

Chuck held up Ruth’s coat, but she missed the sleeve and staggered against him.

‘Sorry. Too much to drink,’ she said in a theatrical stage whisper. ‘It’s just that I found my boyfriend in the bath with a woman fifteen years younger than me this afternoon. Is that bad?’

Chuck gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I always thought you deserved better than him,’ he said quietly.

‘Now you tell me!’ she said, slapping him on the arm. ‘I could have saved myself all that bother!’

Chuck steered her through the bar and out on to the street. For a moment, the pavement felt unsteady beneath her and she grabbed Chuck’s shoulder.

‘See? You’re always there for me, aren’t you?’ she mumbled, pushing her face close, but missing her aim and cracking her head against his.

‘Oww!’ she cried, sinking down on to the steps of the club, clutching at her brow, although she was too anaesthetised to feel much pain. ‘Sorry, Chuck, sorry, sorry, sorry,’ she said, as he sat down next to her. ‘You should stay away from me, I’m a walking disaster area.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Chuck.

‘Look at me! I’m just some broken-down old hack.’

‘Ruth, you are the reason I got a transfer to London,’ said Chuck seriously. ‘I’d read your pieces in the
Tribune
and hoped I’d get to work with you.’

Ruth squinted at him, trying to absorb this information.

‘Really?’ was all she could manage.

‘Yes, Ruth. You’re brilliant, you must know that.’

‘But I’m drunk,’ she whispered. ‘And I’m a fraud.’

‘You’re drunk all right,’ said Chuck with a smirk. ‘But you’re not a fraud. You’re one of the best journalists in the business.’

‘Was,’ said Ruth, holding up one finger. ‘
Was
one of the best. When I was young like you, I had ideals, principles. Freedom of the press!’ she shouted towards the street. ‘Democracy! Liberty! I’d go out of my way to seek out the truth, no stone unturned. True, very true.’

‘So what’s changed?’ said Chuck.

‘Now, I slip a police officer five hundred bucks in a brown envelope under the table in some horrid coppers’ pub. I follow people, I doorstep them when a daughter is missing or a son is murdered. I intrude on their grief and their misery. I’m a disgrace, Chuck. I’m the worst sort of traitor; a traitor to myself.’

She was feeling totally wretched; tears began to spill down her cheeks.

‘Come on, Ruth, that’s just the job,’ said Chuck.

‘No! No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘It didn’t used to be like this.
I
didn’t used to be like this.’ She twisted around to face him. ‘Do you know, I’ve failed to hold down one successful relationship in twenty years? Not one! And who’d want me? Look at me, crying, drunk in the street.’

Chuck smiled.

‘One day you will find a guy who deserves you,’ he said kindly. ‘Not a dork like David who doesn’t appreciate what he’s got; a real man, a man who knows that Ruth Boden is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.’

His words were so soothing, so flattering. She wasn’t entirely sure they were right, but she’d take whatever reassurance she could get right now. She had never noticed what long lashes Chuck had. Dark and thick, like a girl’s. Before she could even think about what she was doing, she moved in and pressed her lips against his, tasting the wine on his mouth. Gently Chuck pushed her away.

‘God, I’m so sorry, Chuck,’ she said, her hand over her mouth. ‘See? I can’t even get that right.’

‘Ruth, you’re wonderful and beautiful and maybe if you hadn’t had two bottles of wine to drink, I’d be doing cartwheels that you tried to kiss me. But . . .’ He stood up and, taking her hands, pulled her to her feet. ‘. . . I think it’s time you went home to bed. Alone.’

He raised an arm and a taxi puttered to the kerb.

‘Here,’ he said, helping her inside and handing her the research file. ‘Take this, it’s sobering reading if nothing else.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ruth simply. ‘I don’t deserve a friend like you.’

‘Yes you
do
, Ruth Boden,’ smiled Chuck kindly. ‘And the sooner you realise it, the better.’

30

Loud knocking woke Sophie with a start. She had had a rather fitful sleep, laced with dreams about being chased by faceless monsters, and it took a moment to realise where she was. La Luna Motel was a two-star hotel on a back street in the Le Cannet district of Cannes. The Bristol it was not, looking more like the sort of establishment you could hire by the hour, sheets extra. But it was cheap, it was anonymous and most important, it’d had rooms available when Josh and Sophie had rolled in from their jaunt to the wine country at almost midnight.

Not that Sophie had really wanted the day to end. Despite the simmering danger of the past few days, she had enjoyed going out into the warm green vineyards, and despite their awkward shared history, she had liked Sandrine, with her quiet dignity and her undiminished love for Nick, although she knew that he was planning to leave her. Best of all, after the chateau they had stopped at a tiny bistro in Bois du Lac. At the mention of Sandrine’s name, they had been welcomed with open arms by the patron, a red-faced, jolly woman named Madame Babette, who had plucked the menus from their hands and insisted on bringing out ‘only the best’. As they sat on a terrace overlooking one of Sandrine’s vineyards, course after course was placed before them, each more delicious than the last: bean soup with fresh parmesan, pasta parcels of mushroom and shallots, giant shrimps; there was even a plate of Parma ham and some of the juiciest grapes Sophie had ever tasted. As they ate, Josh poured a wonderful local wine and told her stories about his adventures. Hiking in the Scottish Highlands, a tour to Brazil with an amateur football team, motorbiking from coast to coast in America. He had once even dated the actress and model Summer Sinclair. Sophie knew he was cleaning it up for her, presenting himself as a lovable rogue with an interesting past, but she didn’t mind that; she was in no particular hurry to have reality intrude on what had been a magical night.

Now she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and peered through the peephole in the door. Josh’s face bulged up at her, looking impatient.

‘Who did you think it was, princess? Prince Albert?’ he asked as she undid the safety chain and let him in. He looked around at the tiny single bed and the ‘en suite’, a cupboard-sized toilet-cum-shower with a tiny sink.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘I think you got the better deal. My room looks like a prison cell.’

Sophie thought back to when they had checked in, how the Chinese night porter with the missing front tooth had smiled when he had said they had ‘velly nice’ doubles. Light-headed from the wine and conversation, she had hesitated for a moment then asked for two singles, whilst giving Josh a sidelong glance almost willing him to object. But this morning, the haze of the wine faded, she was glad they had not put themselves in a compromising situation.

Josh pulled a passport out of his back pocket.

‘Look what arrived this morning.’

‘Yours?’ said Sophie, raising a brow. ‘Or another dodgy friend’s?’

‘Mine,’ he said crossly. ‘Christopher went to the boat and retrieved it. He sent it to a friend in Paris who couriered it here overnight.’

‘Was the boat safe?’

‘There was no one there. No blue tape, no police, no Russians.’

Sophie widened her eyes.

‘So we can go home!’

Josh frowned.

‘When we’ve come this far? Sophie, I think this wine scam is the thing that got Nick killed. But do you trust the police to pursue it? I don’t.’

She knew he was right.

‘So have you phoned that number Sandrine gave you?’ she asked officiously, perching on the bed. Josh shook his head, obviously disappointed.

‘Been trying since eight this morning, but for some reason it won’t connect. I keep getting that annoying French voice telling me the number is not recognised.’

‘Can I try?’

‘I don’t see why you’d have any more luck,’ he said, but he still handed her Sandrine’s note and his mobile phone.

Sophie carefully keyed in the number written on the paper, but Josh was right, it didn’t seem to be connecting. She looked down at the phone for a moment, thinking.

‘Do you think maybe Nick’s new girlfriend is having the same problems as us?’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we’ve been assuming they’re chasing us for some information Nick gave me about this wine thing, right? If that’s true and Nick had multiple women on the go, then it follows that the bad guys will have been chasing them too. Maybe they found this mysterious “A” woman and burgled her flat too. If I was her, I would definitely have changed my number.’

Josh nodded.

‘That would explain why we can’t get through,’ he sighed. ‘We should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.’

He put the note back in his pocket.

‘Anyway, enough of that, Columbo,’ he said, ‘better make use of that shower, ’cos I’m taking you out.’

‘Where?’

He smiled mysteriously.

‘You’ll have to come with me to find out. It’s a surprise.’

Sophie raised her eyebrows sceptically.

‘Josh, the last two times you “surprised” me, we ended up breaking and entering and playing fisticuffs with Maurice the fence.’

A smile played at his lips.

‘You will like this. I promise.’

Sophie stood in the street, giggling nervously.

‘What is it, Josh? Tell me, please!’

‘Stop struggling, it’s a nice thing, remember?’

He was standing behind her, his hands over her eyes. Their taxi from the hotel had dropped them near the harbour, then Josh had led Sophie through the streets of Cannes, past the bustling Forville market and the majestic Carlton hotel with its steel-domed turrets, and finally up past the exclusive shops of Rue Mace. He’d stopped her at a corner, then covered her face and turned her around. Sophie was feeling the flutter of butterflies as if she was on a first date.