Perfect Strangers

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘And do you think it’s possible my father was involved in your husband’s investment scheme?’ asked Sophie.

  Miriam gave a weary smile.

  ‘It’s possible, of course, but you’re really asking the wrong person. As I said to the police – and the FBI, the SEC and the lawyers – my husband did not discuss his business dealings with me.’

  Sophie had to admit that would make sense, in the same way her own father would never tell Julia Ellis what he did in the office. Here, in polite American society, where divorce was just a career move, it would have been even less likely. Whatever else he was, Asner was a smart cookie, and he would never have given his wife – however close they were – ammunition to either blackmail him or take him to the cleaners should she take a shine to the golf pro.

  ‘Well I wonder if you could take a look at this?’ she said, reaching into her bag for her copy of I Capture the Castle. She knelt down next to Miriam and opened the title page to show her Peter’s inscription and the name of the previous owner – perhaps.

  ‘This name, Benedict Grear,’ she said. ‘We think this is the name of someone connected with Michael, perhaps a friend or an attorney who might be the key to where the money is. Does it ring any bells?’

  Miriam shook her head. ‘Never heard of him, sorry.’

  ‘What about the number?’ said Josh. ‘A date of birth, perhaps? It could even be a bank account number.’

  Miriam was beginning to look irritated. ‘It’s not familiar, I’m sorry. It’s not my birthday, or Michael’s, or anyone I know. And it seems a little short for a bank account number or routing code, doesn’t it?’

  Josh nodded. They had of course noticed that, but they were hoping Asner’s wife would see some significance not obvious to them. Sophie put the book away, feeling a flutter of despair. Surely they couldn’t have come all this way for nothing?

  ‘Think, Miriam, please,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Michael left something behind, a journal or a notebook?’

  ‘Really, I can’t help,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t have any diaries or notebooks. When the Ponzi scheme was discovered by the authorities, the investigators took the files, the computers, even the cell phones. They took everything.’

  Dismay had spread across Miriam’s face, and Sophie’s heart sank. Oh God, she really doesn’t know anything, she thought.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Asner, we didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just . . . well, I hoped you might have the answer.’

  ‘No, don’t apologise,’ said Miriam. ‘I can see you’re desperate, and why wouldn’t you be when people on all sides seem to be out to get you? I can certainly identify with that feeling.’

  She stood up, gathering the empty glasses on to her tray.

  ‘Why don’t you come up to the house?’ she said. ‘I don’t have the answer you’re looking for, but I do have something you might like to see.’

  They followed her up the lawn and into the cool darkness of the house. It was modestly furnished – mismatched furniture and whitewashed walls – with a distinctive nautical Cape Cod feel to it: gingham drapes with rope tie-backs, a stripped dresser with carved wader-bird ornaments. Leaving her tray on a table, she led them through into a comfortable living room dominated by two leather sofas facing a media centre.

  ‘It’s in here somewhere,’ she said, opening a glass-fronted display case and looking inside.

  While she was waiting, Sophie walked over to a bookshelf, fascinated to see what kind of reading matter Michael Asner might have gone in for. There were the usual suspects – Stephen King, James Patterson, Michael Crichton – and a surprising number of sailing books, just like her father. She was about to comment on it when she heard the TV clicking on.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Miriam, bending over the DVD player. ‘Now, if I can just . . .’ Then, to Sophie’s amazement, suddenly there was her father on the screen in front of her. Only it wasn’t the Peter Ellis she remembered. He was younger, much more handsome and happy. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The colours were oversaturated and the picture was grainy, but there was no mistaking her dad, in his tweed jacket and flared jeans. His hair was longer – well, he had hair! – but the glasses were the same and the slightly stooped way he stood made something in her chest hurt.

  ‘He’s so . . . young,’ she said, feeling a pang of sadness, and yet this connection back to her father gave her a strange reassurance that everything would be okay.

  ‘Home movies,’ said Miriam, smiling at Sophie’s reaction. ‘Super 8, I think. Michael had them all converted on to DVD about five years ago. I’d forgotten we still had them. This was when Mike and Peter were at Oxford, of course.’

  On the TV, Peter Ellis was standing by a river waving at the camera.

  ‘Bring it closer!’ Sophie heard him say. The picture cut to a boat sitting in the water, the name clearly visible on the bow.

  ‘Iona?’ she gasped. It was her dad’s beloved sailing boat.

  On the TV, she could now see Michael Asner – younger, and actually quite handsome – sitting at the back of Iona, his hand against the tiller, a cricket jumper tied around his shoulders.

  ‘I think they were all fixated with Brideshead Revisited and Chariots of Fire back then, some stupid imagined ideal of Englishness. Michael told me he tried, but he didn’t fit in.’

  ‘Weren’t there other Americans at Oxford then?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Oh yes, but old money, New England, Ivy League types who rowed and swanked about in their school scarves. Mike was from Sacramento, he had long hair and listened to all that horrible rock music.’

  Sophie gave a sad smile. Julia had never approved of her father’s taste in music, but he would play Pink Floyd and Deep Purple at full blast when they were in the car together. It was one of their little shared things.

  ‘The two of them were thrown together out of necessity,’ continued Miriam. ‘I believe your father was a grammar school boy, wasn’t he? From a blue-collar background? He didn’t fit in with the stuck-up private school guys any more than Michael got on with the jocks, so they scraped the money together for the boat. That way they could join the sailing society and fit in with the money crowd. I don’t think it worked too well.’

  The film finished and switched to another scene: a birthday party for someone Sophie had never seen before. Miriam stepped across and ejected the DVD.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sophie. ‘It was kind of you to show me that.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Miriam smiled and crossed to the bookshelf, taking down a leather-bound album. ‘Here, I think I’ve got one you can keep.’

  She opened the book; it was full of photographs stuck to the page with old-fashioned photo corners. She turned the pages until she got to a spread of snaps presumably taken at the same time as the Super 8 film: pictures of Michael Asner standing proudly by the Iona. She pulled out one of Sophie’s father standing with his arm around his friend, the boat’s sail visible in the background. ‘There you go; I’ve got plenty of these as you can see. Something to remember your visit by.’

  Sophie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you so much, I’ll treasure it.’

  ‘Could I just ask,’ said Josh. ‘Peter and Michael were obviously very close at Oxford. Why did they fall out?’

  Miriam glanced at Sophie warily.

  ‘They always said it was over the boat. Peter bought out Michael’s share, and later regretted it. But it could have been something else. Mike said he and Peter used to make plans together, cooking up get-rich schemes to show all those toffee-nosed stuck-ups. They were going to move out to New York, take on Manhattan. But then . . .’ She looked at Sophie again. ‘But then Peter got married . . .’

  Sophie nodded.

  ‘It’s okay, I know my mother wouldn’t have let him run off to America. Dad used to make a big thing about family being important, keeping the family firm going, but he was always looking at his sailing charts, always planning his big getaway. In some ways, I wish he had.’


  ‘Well, if what we’ve been told is true, perhaps they did come up with a get-rich scheme in the end,’ said Josh.

  Sophie looked at the picture of Iona again. Up until this moment, she hadn’t been able to believe that her dad, this staid, boring accountant from Surrey, had been involved with a scheme which had swindled millions – billions, perhaps – from wealthy investors on both sides of the Atlantic. But now? Well, it was still hard for her to imagine, but at least now Peter Ellis had a motive. Perhaps it had all been a way of getting even for something that had happened at university. Had it just been revenge? She turned to Miriam.

  ‘Did Michael and my dad make up? I mean, could this story be true, that Peter and Michael cooked up the scheme together?’

  Miriam shook her head.

  ‘If they did, I didn’t hear about it. Peter never came to dinner, I can tell you that. But then, I guess if his part in it was to hide the money, they would have kept their friendship a secret, wouldn’t they? Perhaps we’ll never know.’

  Sophie looked at Miriam.

  ‘But I have to, Mrs Asner, I have to find out. I’m in danger, and I’m scared.’ To admit it out loud made the situation more real.

  Miriam’s face softened.

  ‘You should speak to Andrea Sayer,’ she said quietly.

  ‘The lawyer you hate?’ Sophie asked, raising a brow.

  Miriam nodded. ‘She’s spent long enough demanding things from me; now maybe it’s time she gave a little back. Andrea Sayer is always crowing about how she knows more about my husband’s case than anyone alive, so if anyone might know who this Benedict guy is, she will.’

  ‘And you’re thinking that it will annoy her having to speak to us?’ said Josh.

  ‘Maybe a little,’ laughed Miriam. ‘That woman’s so self-important, I’d love to see the look on her face when she meets someone who knows things about Michael Asner she doesn’t.’

  The smile faded.

  ‘She’s based in Manhattan,’ she said, pulling a letter from a drawer and handing it to Josh. ‘Her address and phone number are on there. If you’re quick, you’ll be able to catch her before she leaves the office for the weekend. Although that woman is constantly on the job.’

  ‘What’s the quickest way to get to the city?’

  ‘Trains from Pleasantville station go all the way to Grand Central,’ replied Miriam. ‘My car’s in the garage or I’d run you to town.’

  ‘How far is the station?’ asked Josh.

  ‘Five miles west of here. There’s a bus stop just opposite the house. Or you could give ten dollars to Jim Bryant at the gas station and he’ll take you.’

  They walked away from the house and out on to the road, looking for the bus stop. Josh tried to make banter but Sophie was deep in thought. It was strange: she’d gone to Miriam Asner’s expecting to hate her; she had been so angry that she had managed to ride out the waves of her husband’s maelstrom, escaping virtually unscathed whilst Sophie’s family, and hundreds like them, had lost everything. But now she only felt sorry for her. Miriam Asner was a woman who knew nothing except how to hold the perfect tea party or organise a wonderful dinner for her husband’s clients. Now she was alone, friendless and trapped in a little cottage on the edge of nowhere, where no one ever called. It was as if someone had chosen the perfect punishment for her.

  They crossed the road and looked at the bus timetable. Sophie groaned: one hour until the next connection.

  ‘I can run five miles in about forty minutes,’ she said seriously.

  ‘You run. I’ll pay Jim Bryant my ten bucks,’ grinned Josh, hefting Sophie’s bag over his shoulder.

  After they had been walking a few minutes, he glanced across at her.

  ‘So how are you feeling?’

  Sophie shrugged.

  ‘Strange. I didn’t believe it, you know? About my dad, I mean. But now it feels real, like I can understand how it happened.’

  ‘You think what Miriam said was true? That they did it to get even with the posh kids who made them feel small?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever know. If my dad was involved, I don’t believe he just did it for the money.’

  ‘Well, maybe . . .’

  Josh trailed off and Sophie looked up at him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She noticed it as soon as the words came out of her mouth. Up ahead, a car had slowed to a stop and was sitting in the road. It hadn’t pulled over into a lay-by; it had just stopped dead, gunning its engine.

  ‘You know what? I think we’ll go the other way,’ said Josh, taking Sophie’s hand. But there wasn’t time. With a screech of tyre rubber on asphalt, the car leapt into motion, driving straight at them.

  ‘This way!’ shouted Josh, throwing the bag into a field to their right and bundling Sophie over the fence just as the car rushed by, missing him by millimetres and sending him pinwheeling into the dirt.

  ‘Josh!’ shouted Sophie, but he scrambled to his feet, swearing.

  At the side of the road was a line of trees that marked the start of some woodland.

  ‘Grab the bag and make for the trees,’ he said through gritted teeth. He was limping, but he was moving, and that was all that mattered at that moment. Frantically she wondered if they could use his mobile to call the police. But how crazy would that phone call sound? ‘Can you help us, we’re being chased by hit men who are after a billion dollars of stolen loot. Yes, I know I put “vacation” on my customs form. No, I’m not on medication.’ There was no time to worry about that now, though, only time to act. She helped Josh squeeze through a gate, then felt her heart jump. Glancing back, she could see two men gaining on them. There were two tracks – one that led deep into the wood, and another that skirted around the perimeter.

  ‘This way,’ she hissed, taking the perimeter path. Josh stopped as if he was about to argue. She could see why he wanted to go into the trees. It was dark, with more places to hide. And yet there would be no one to see or help them. They would be murdered and the next people to find their bodies would be walkers in about two weeks’ time. She felt a surge of determination to escape.

  ‘Come on!’ she shouted.

  They were both fast runners but they could not outrun a bullet. Expecting a shot at any moment, she willed her legs to move even quicker until her muscles throbbed and her lungs ached.

  ‘It’s the gas station,’ she panted, noticing some buildings up ahead.

  They began running as fast as they could, Josh hampered by his injured knee but still managing to keep up with Sophie, her bag slamming against her legs. The gas station was in full view, a little two-pump affair with a wooden shack behind it.

  ‘Oh no,’ she gasped and skidded to a halt, Josh almost falling over her in the process.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he panted.

  ‘There,’ she said, pointing. Driving slowly out from behind the house was another SUV with blacked-out windows.

  ‘Shit,’ said Josh, swivelling around the other way. ‘We’re trapped. The others have doubled back.’

  Sophie looked behind him and could see the first car coming towards them at speed.

  ‘Which way?’ she said, her hands on her knees. They clearly wouldn’t get far cross-country, and their way back to Miriam’s was blocked. As they watched, the SUV at the garage began to power towards them, its wheels kicking up dust.

  ‘Grab my hand,’ said Josh. ‘When I say jump, go left.’

  ‘What?’ said Sophie, but Josh was already up and pulling her along with him – straight towards the gas station and the oncoming car.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ yelled Sophie.

  ‘Playing chicken!’ shouted Josh. ‘One . . . two . . . jump!’

  He yanked her to the left and they leapt together, landing on a grassy embankment, rolling over and over, finally coming to rest with Josh lying full-length on top of her, the bag jammed painfully between them. Looking over Josh’s shoulder, she could see the SUV skidding to a halt diago
nally across the road, blocking it. The doors opened.

  ‘They’re coming,’ she gasped as they scrambled to their feet.

  An old red pick-up truck was pulling into the garage.

  ‘Help us!’ screamed Sophie.

  The driver had white hair and a startled expression.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sophie glanced at the name embroidered over the man’s shirt pocket.

  ‘You. You’re Jim Bryant? We’re friends of Miriam Asner. She said you’d help us. Please. Those men are after us.’

  ‘Get in,’ he growled.

  They ran round to the passenger door of the truck and jumped into the big bucket seat inside.

  ‘You folks didn’t kill no one, did yer?’ said Jim as he fired the engine.

  ‘No, but it’s a long story. Please, just trust us and get us out of here,’ pleaded Josh.

  ‘She-it, boy,’ smiled Jim, revealing a missing canine. ‘In that case, think we’d better go the quiet way.’

  He slammed the truck into drive, twisting the wheel away from the road and jerking off down a farm track hidden behind the line of trees. Sophie turned in her seat to look out of the back window: she couldn’t see either SUV or the men, but she still didn’t feel safe, even though Jim was putting distance between them with every skidding turn, cutting across fields and skirting farmhouses, almost completely avoiding the roads.

  ‘You might want to watch your heads,’ he shouted as they thunked into a pothole and bounced straight out again, flying out of their seats and bumping against the roof. He wrenched the wheel to the right and the truck skidded through a gap in some trees and careered up through a dry river bed, sending stones flying in their wake.

  Who was after them? wondered Sophie, confident that they had left them behind. The Russians? The FBI? It could have been anyone. All that counted right now was getting away. They could worry about all the rest later.

  ‘Thanks for helping us, Mr Bryant,’ she said, raising her voice to be heard over the thrumming engine.

  ‘Call me Jim, sweetness. And you’re welcome. Don’t agree with what her scumbag husband did to all his investors, but Miriam is a pretty foxy lady.’