Perfect Strangers

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said quietly. ‘He was a small-time City accountant. He did people’s taxes and sorted out their pensions.’

  ‘That’s why he was perfect, Sophie,’ said Lana, sipping her brandy. ‘I don’t know whether he was involved from the start, or whether Asner approached him when things started to get hot and he had to make a contingency plan, but it was a stroke of genius to choose your father. Asner knew that the SEC, the FBI would investigate his close Wall Street colleagues, but a small-time British accountant who had lost all this money in the scheme? He’d be completely off their radar.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Josh.

  Lana stood up and pulled a thick manila file from a drawer in the desk.

  ‘I have spent nine months and hundreds of thousands of dollars looking into Asner’s affairs. Private investigators, forensic accountants, they’ve collected every last scrap of information on him and sifted through it. I think I know more about him than the FBI.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Sophie, shaking her head. ‘Why go to all that trouble?’

  ‘Because my family lost everything too,’ said Lana. Her eyes were bright and fierce.

  ‘Your family?’ said Sophie.

  ‘My family are based in Madrid. They were wealthy, but not super-rich. Like yours, they invested everything they had in Asner’s scheme, hoping for a glorious return for their pension. Like your parents, like hundreds of others, they lost everything. I support them financially now, but that’s not the point. No one should be allowed to get away with what Asner did.’

  She walked over to pour herself another brandy, and Sophie noticed that her hands were shaking.

  ‘I knew from the start we were unlikely to get anything back. The Securities and Exchange Commission has been trying to trace the money, of course, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, and besides, it has limited resources like any governmental department. So I recruited my own team to look into it. They did a very good job, if I do say so myself.’

  ‘So where is the money?’ said Josh.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? Why not?’

  ‘Because the trail ends here.’ Lana looked at Sophie.

  ‘With me? That’s crazy!’

  ‘Is it?’ said Lana. ‘Everyone involved with the Asner investigation believes he must have stashed the money somewhere, but I’m convinced your father was the one who hid it.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Sophie. ‘If he had all that money, why would he have made us suffer like that?’

  ‘Suffer?’ laughed Lana. ‘You hardly suffered, Sophie. You had to come down a few pegs in life, that’s all. And your father would have thought the discomfort was worth it for the rewards he knew were to follow. My guess is that he would have waited two or three years for the scandal to die down, then quietly distributed the money back to Asner’s wife and inner circle, and of course kept a big chunk for himself – he would have set you up for life.’

  A sickening thought suddenly occurred to Sophie.

  ‘Was my father killed?’

  Lana shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t know. But either way, the trail ends with you. With such a large fortune at stake, your father would have made his own contingency plan; he would have told someone else where the money was hidden in the event that anything happened to him or Asner.’

  ‘And you think that person was me?’

  ‘Of course. He loved you, he trusted you. Who else would he turn to?’

  Sophie looked at Josh, her eyes pleading.

  ‘But he didn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘So let’s get this straight,’ Josh said to Lana, narrowing his eyes. ‘You engineered it so that Sophie would come and house-sit for you, presumably so she would bring all her personal possessions with her? Then you hired Nick to seduce her, to work his way into her life and find out everything he could about it?’

  Lana nodded.

  ‘You’re a cold bitch, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘I thought it was the best way,’ said Lana uncertainly, her composure slipping.

  ‘The best way?’ snarled Josh, banging his fist down on the desktop. ‘You got Sophie wrapped up in all this, you got Nick killed, all for nothing.’

  ‘I did not get Nick killed!’ shouted Lana.

  ‘Well, who did?’ said Josh. ‘If you hadn’t roped him into your dirty little scheme, he’d still be alive!’

  ‘Why do you think his death was anything to do with this?’ said Lana defensively.

  ‘You want us to believe it was his little wine scam?’ sneered Josh. ‘Don’t make me bloody laugh! There are billions involved in this!’

  ‘STOP! Both of you!’ yelled Sophie, holding her hands over her ears. ‘Please, I can’t stand it!’

  Silence descended on the room.

  ‘Whoever killed Nick is now after Sophie,’ said Josh, still glaring at Lana. ‘In London two Russians tried to shoot her. They turned up again in Nice. We don’t know who they are, but they are armed, connected and resourceful.’ He tapped a finger against the thick file. ‘So who are they?’

  Lana bit her lip and looked thoughtful. ‘Russians?’

  ‘Eastern European of some description. Although I suppose they could just be guns for hire.’

  ‘If my team managed to trace Asner’s involvement with Peter Ellis, it’s possible other investors made the same connection,’ said Lana. ‘A lot of rich people gave a lot of money to Asner, and no doubt they want it back just as much as me. There’s a list of the probables in my file. Ukrainian oligarchs, Chinese business fronts, maybe even the Russian Mafia.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Josh.

  ‘Could I have a drink?’ croaked Sophie.

  Lana poured her a large brandy and Sophie put the cool glass to her cheek. Could it be true? It was insane, but in some funny way, it did provide an explanation for what had happened. Peter and Michael Asner were old friends, and her dad was also experienced in offshore financial planning, Sophie knew that from her work at his firm. Dad didn’t really have any close friends, only the old duffers at the sailing club, and if he’d had a secret to keep, he certainly wouldn’t have shared it with her mother. Julia Ellis was not the sort of woman you’d tell anything important, not unless you were happy for everyone in the butcher’s and the post office to know every detail by the end of the day. She knocked back the cognac, wincing as it burned her throat.

  ‘What do you know, Sophie?’ asked Josh.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ she said, looking down at her empty glass. ‘Really, I don’t.’

  Lana came across and sat down beside her.

  ‘Sophie, you must. Maybe Nick did get killed because of it.’

  ‘You think he found something?’ asked Josh.

  Lana looked at him.

  ‘Perhaps. Nick’s brief was to talk to Sophie about her father, see if he had told you anything, maybe mentioned a bank account or some tax haven you used to go to on holiday. So yes, maybe he did discover something.’

  ‘And you think he tried to use that information to his own advantage?’

  ‘That might explain the Russians,’ said Lana sadly. ‘Nick was smart, he could have worked out that selling the information to the highest bidder was more lucrative than the money I was paying him. And perhaps they killed him when he was no longer useful.’

  Josh shook his head.

  ‘That doesn’t add up. If Nick had given them the information, then why go after Sophie?’

  Lana lit another cigarette and stood up.

  ‘Maybe he changed his mind, refused to tell them? I haven’t got all the answers,’ she said, taking a long drag. ‘That’s why I need you.’

  ‘Us?’ said Sophie warily. ‘What for?’

  ‘She wants us to find the money,’ said Josh. ‘Right?’

  Lana nodded, blowing out smoke. ‘If we find it and return it to the proper authorities, then you’re free.’ She shrugged. ‘There is no point in
anybody chasing you.’

  The silence in the room indicated that everybody agreed with the statement.

  ‘And by “return it to the proper authorities”, you mean after you’ve taken a big slice,’ said Josh with a twisted smile.

  ‘I only want what’s mine!’ snapped Lana. ‘I only want justice.’

  Josh and Lana began bickering between themselves, but their voices faded into the background as a vague thought sharpened into focus.

  ‘My book,’ said Sophie quietly.

  Josh and Lana both looked at her.

  ‘What book?’ said Lana.

  She looked over at Josh for reassurance.

  ‘Lana, you said that Nick’s brief was to find out if my father had given me any information, maybe a bank account number or something? Dad gave me a book for my birthday, this second-hand copy of I Capture the Castle – it was an in joke between us.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Lana. ‘How does this get us the bank details?’

  ‘This book, it’s old, a bit worn, and the name of the previous owner is written in it. There’s a number in it too. I assumed it was a phone number or a date of birth, but . . . You think it could be an account number?’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ snapped Josh. ‘We’ve been running around all this time risking our necks, and all along we had the bloody thing with us? Sophie, why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was relevant!’ she shouted back. ‘And you said I was in danger because of something Nick gave to me, not my dad.’

  ‘I’m not bloody psychic!’ he replied.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Lana, holding up her hands. ‘Where is this book now? Do you have it with you?’

  ‘It’s in my bag, back at the hotel in Cannes.’

  ‘In the least secure hotel in France,’ scoffed Josh.

  ‘Then we must go there immediately.’

  Lana stood up, grabbed the manila file and headed for the door. ‘Well?’ she said, turning back, her hand on the doorknob. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  33

  ‘So do you really think Sophie killed this American?’ asked Francesca Manning, peering over the top of her skinny macchiato. ‘I tried to get it out of that dishy police inspector, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘I kind of wanted to know what you thought,’ said Ruth, glancing at her wristwatch. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and she was still feeling terrible. Her blood felt like glue, she had a thumping headache, and she was trapped in Starbucks with the Sloane from hell. This morning, she had been quite pleased with herself that she had tracked down Sophie Ellis’s best friend through Facebook, but ten minutes in Francesca’s company and Ruth was beginning to wonder how good a friend she actually was. Instead of concern for her missing friend, Francesca seemed to be revelling in the drama of Sophie’s misfortune, as if she was watching some soap opera with ringside seats.

  ‘Twelve months ago I’d have said there was absolutely no way she could do something like that,’ continued Francesca, spooning the froth off her drink. ‘But after the year that Sophie’s had, you know, losing all her money, well, you just don’t know how that sort of stress affects people, do you? Take the night she met Nick. Left me high and dry to make my own way to my boyfriend Charlie’s apartment, just so she could stay and pull one of the Chariot party guest list. Very selfish,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Entrez nous, I think she’s just totes jealous that I’m getting married to someone as successful as Charlie. For all we know, perhaps this Nick character told Soph he wasn’t interested in anything more than a shag and then she killed him.’

  Ruth turned on her Dictaphone, sensing something interesting.

  ‘So what’s the Chariot party?’

  ‘The party where she met Nick,’ said Francesca, rolling her eyes. She flicked her hair over one shoulder and leant into the tape-recording device. ‘Basically she was house-sitting for some woman at the gym who said that Sophie could have all of her party invitations for the season. The Chariot party was a real high-rollers’ shindig at Waterloo station the other day.’

  ‘Who was the woman who owned the house? Do you know?’

  ‘Lana Goddard-Price,’ said Francesca confidently. ‘I googled her; she’s married to a Sunday Times Rich-List banker – you would not believe the labels in that woman’s wardrobe.’

  ‘So you’ve been to the house?’ asked Ruth, her interest going up another notch.

  Francesca nodded. ‘It’s this amazing place just off Brompton Road. I was telling Charlie only yesterday that he’d better start getting some bigger bonuses, because I want a place just like it when we’re married.’

  Ruth pulled out her notebook. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have the address, would you?’

  ‘It’s about a twenty-minute walk from here,’ said Francesca, writing down the Egerton Row address. ‘And don’t forget, if you ever need any financial experts for the Tribune’s business section, my Charlie is the man for the job. He’s going to have to raise his profile internationally if he’s ever going to get a promotion.’

  Ruth was glad to get out of the café and breathe in some fresh air. She took a paracetamol out of her bag and washed it down with a vitamin C drink the bottle insisted would ‘get you feeling your old self’. Ruth had drunk two bottles of the stuff already and was prepared to swear in court that it wasn’t true. She still felt as bad as she did when she crawled out of bed that morning, although there was something other than alcohol poisoning that was making her feel unwell. She grimaced at the memory of her predatory lunge at poor Chuck Dean outside the Frontline Club. What an ass she’d made of herself, she thought, wondering if she could avoid the Tribune office for the rest of the day.

  She shook her head and powered down Pelham Street, mulling over the Nick Beddingfield story in her head. Despite her hangover, Ruth was never happier than when she was chasing down leads, putting clues together. The past few months she had felt quite frustrated on the job, but the truth was, she couldn’t imagine herself doing anything else. Trapped in some dingy office thinking up marketing slogans for breakfast cereal? Ringing up strangers persuading them to take out life insurance? The very idea gave her the shivers. She loved being out there alone, left to her own devices. You could disappear for weeks on end and your editor would understand, your friends wouldn’t get pissy – because that was your job. You were the job.

  Of course, that was the old days, back when spending the night in a bombed-out house or watching mortars fly over your head still felt romantic. Here in London, buzzing and energetic though the city was, there were precious few stories that made Ruth feel as engaged, as excited as this one. Which was why she had to crack it – she couldn’t let Nick Beddingfield get away from her.

  Ruth looked up, realising she was at her destination. Nice place, she thought at she studied the glorious white stucco-fronted house in front of her. Francesca had been right when she had described it, rather enviously, as one of the most beautiful houses in London. Ruth took a second to imagine herself as its owner, and quickly decided she had no desire to ever live in something this grand. A girl could get lost just going to the bathroom, she smiled to herself.

  She went up the front steps and pressed the bell, knocking on the door for good measure. Finally, the door opened a crack and a housekeeper in a black and white uniform peered out, her expression one of faint irritation.

  ‘I’m looking for Lana Goddard-Price,’ said Ruth, trying to see past the woman into the house.

  ‘No here. South of France,’ the woman said, beginning to shut the door.

  Ruth made a guess that the housekeeper was Filipino. She had no command of the Tagalog language, but she knew of one currency that was understood the world over. She rooted around in her purse, drew out three twenty-pound notes and held them through the gap like a fan.

  ‘Could I ask you a couple of questions?’ she said with a winning smile. ‘Five minutes of your time. Please?’
>
  The housekeeper hesitated for a moment, then opened the door just enough for Ruth to slip through.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ruth as the woman folded the money into her pocket. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Cherry,’ she said warily.

  ‘Okay, Cherry, nothing to worry about,’ she said soothingly. ‘No one’s in trouble. I just wanted to asked about the girl who stayed here. Sophie Ellis? She house-sat for Mrs Goddard-Price.’

  ‘I see her only one time. Thursday. I let her in, then leave for holiday.’

  ‘So she arrived last Thursday?’ said Ruth, glancing around the entrance hall, craning her head into the living room, trying to take in as much as she could.

  ‘Girl gone. She bad girl. She go in Mrs G’s wardrobe.’

  Ruth nodded sympathetically. Francesca had told her, without any apparent remorse, how she and Sophie had borrowed ‘a few nice things’ for the Chariot party.

  ‘Did she leave any of her own things?’

  Cherry shook her head.

  ‘Can I just look at Sophie’s room, where she slept, where she kept her belongings?’

  ‘Police take everything,’ said Cherry. She clearly hadn’t enjoyed their visit. Ruth wondered if the woman had a proper work permit.

  ‘Well could I at least speak to Mrs Goddard-Price?’

  ‘I say, she in France.’

  ‘And who is she in France with? Mr Goddard-Price?’

  There was a glint in Cherry’s eye.

  ‘Husband in Switzerland,’ she said with a hint of smile. ‘Maybe she with other man.’

  ‘Other man?’ frowned Ruth. ‘What other man?’

  The maid’s mouth opened and closed like a fish and she began backing Ruth towards the door.

  ‘No more questions; I know nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Cherry, please. Who is Mrs G with?’ But she could see that the housekeeper would say nothing else.

  ‘All right, okay. But couldn’t you at least give me Mrs Goddard-Price’s number so that if I have any more questions later, I can call her?’