Perfect Strangers

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Is that a threat?’ she said.

  Stanton shrugged.

  ‘Take it any way you like, Miss Ellis. All I’m saying is that the stakes are high in this case. If you want to have any hope of going back to London and living a quiet life, I suggest you co-operate with us in every way possible.’

  ‘That does sound like a threat,’ said Josh.

  ‘So sue us,’ said Stanton with a twisted smile. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you could tell us everything else Mr Ellis found out about the Asner case.’

  Sophie repeated the version of the story she had given to Andrea Sayer, the one where her father was playing amateur detective in the slim hope of recovering some of his investment, all the time becoming more and more convinced that Josh was right: she had to keep going, had to get to that money before the authorities, before the Russians, because without it they had nothing.

  ‘So you’re sure that’s all you know?’ said Stanton when she had finished. ‘Just a random name your father had written down in a file?’

  ‘My father was an accountant, not a policeman, Mr Stanton,’ said Sophie. ‘He had no real idea if Asner had hidden that money, it was just a hunch.’

  ‘A hunch,’ repeated Stanton.

  ‘Yes. I know it sounds stupid,’ said Sophie, ‘but we lost everything to that man. My mother is having to sell our family home. I thought my children would play on the garden swing just like I did, but Michael Asner took that from us. So excuse my father if he was clutching at straws – he was just trying to get back what was ours.’

  She could hear the words coming out of her mouth but she could barely believe it was her. Was she morphing into Josh, she asked herself, able to weave a line, a story at the drop of a hat? What was it that Andrea Sayer had said back in New York? If they find out you have been withholding information, they will find a way to hurt you.

  But she couldn’t stop now. She met Stanton’s gaze directly.

  ‘Please, Hal. Find the money. I can’t speak for the rest of Asner’s victims, but it killed my father and now it’s broken my mother.’

  Hal Stanton nodded and handed her a business card. ‘Do you have a number I can reach you on?’

  She wrote her own mobile number on a napkin, knowing her phone was sitting waterlogged in Josh’s lock-up.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, getting up. ‘And kids? Please stop with the Scooby-Doo shit, okay? If we catch you on our turf again, we won’t be so nice.’

  They watched as he left, followed by the other anonymously dressed men, and got into the black town car in the parking lot.

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ said Sophie, cupping her hands around her cheeks. Josh put his finger to his lips. ‘Don’t speak,’ he mouthed. ‘Let’s go.’

  They walked outside into the hot, humid air. The town car had gone. Josh led her away from the diner into the car park, where the noise from the highway would stop anyone from overhearing them.

  Her heart was pounding. ‘Oh my God, Josh, what have I done?’ she said, struggling for breath. ‘I’ve just spent the last ten minutes lying to a government agent.’

  ‘You did well,’ said Josh.

  ‘Well?’ she stammered. ‘The Commission has resources. How difficult is it going to be for him to find out I’m not poor Miss Innocent-Michael-Asner-Victim and that I’ve been questioned in connection with the death of a high-profile American in London?’

  She looked at him with wide eyes. ‘What if he arrests me? In Florida? I could end up in jail like Michael Asner, and Ty and Uri the Bear.’

  Josh turned to face her.

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ he ordered, gripping her arms. ‘You did what you had to do.’

  ‘This isn’t a game, Josh,’ she croaked, a sob swelling in her chest. ‘You heard what Andrea Sayer said. When they find out we’re lying, they will screw us.’

  ‘If they find out we’re lying,’ corrected Josh. ‘He didn’t know squat about your dad, that much I could tell.’

  His mouth curled into a grin.

  ‘You gave him your old phone number, eh? You’re learning, princess.’

  ‘I’m learning to be a con,’ she said miserably.

  ‘You’re learning to stand on your own two feet, Sophie,’ he said. ‘And by the way, I loved the bit about the garden swing. Like I said, you’re a natural.’

  Despite herself, Sophie couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Oh Josh, what are we going to do?’

  He puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘You’re right about one thing. Now we’re in the picture, they’re going to do a full background check on you. It won’t be long before they know about Nick, your dad, everything. And then word will get back to Inspector Fox about where you are and what you’ve been doing. I can’t imagine you’re going to be the Met or the SEC’s favourite person.’

  ‘Thanks for the reassurance.’

  ‘The point is we’ve got to move fast,’ said Josh. ‘I reckon we’ve got forty-eight hours tops to find the money.’

  ‘That’s if we don’t get killed by Uri the Bear first,’ said Sophie grimly.

  ‘Well, that’s one thing we won’t have to worry about,’ said Josh, walking back to the taxi.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re not going to hang around and wait for the Russians,’ he said, opening the door. ‘We’re going to go and find them.’

  39

  That fence looked pretty high. Ruth looked down at her knee-length dress and her wholly impractical heels. Not exactly ideal mountaineering gear, she thought, slipping off her shoes and hitching up her skirt.

  ‘Here goes nothing,’ she muttered to herself, wedging a stockinged foot in the crossbar of the fence and hoisting herself up. She had tried ringing Lana’s bell, of course; she wasn’t entirely crazy. She’d knocked on the door and shouted through the letterbox too. She hadn’t really expected the woman to be in, but then it wasn’t the lovely Mrs Goddard-Price she wanted to talk to today. Stepping back into the street, Ruth had happened to look up toward the second floor – and had seen a curtain twitch.

  That – and a certain amount of desperation, if she was honest – was what had led her to be climbing over the Goddard-Prices’ fence and into their back garden.

  ‘Dammit!’ she hissed as her tights snagged on an overhanging bush. They came away with a small ripping sound. Great, that’ll look professional, she thought. Not that scrambling over six-foot railings and a thorny bush was something they taught at journalism school along with shorthand and interview technique.

  Scratched and grazed, Ruth finally thumped down on the patio on the other side, tugging her bag to get it free.

  After all that, this better work, she thought. Back at Scott’s restaurant, her theory about Lana being connected to Nick Beddingfield had felt watertight. But, trespassing on Lana Goddard-Price’s property, she realised how spurious her thinking actually was. There was only one person she was going to end up putting in jail the way she was carrying on, and that person was going to be herself.

  Ruth looked up at the windows with their drawn curtains. The whole place looked quiet and shut up, neglected almost. Presumably Lana Goddard-Price was in no rush to leave the South of France; why would she? If she really was mixed up with Nick Beddingfield, she would have wanted as much distance between them as possible. And Fox had told her that Simon was still in Geneva. But Ruth wanted to speak to Cherry, the housekeeper.

  She walked across the patio, skirting around some large terracotta planters, and peered in through the French windows, cupping her hands around her face to get a better view. It looked like a posh living room with white sofas and . . .

  She stepped back with a cry as a face loomed up in front of her. She turned her ankle over and stumbled backwards, landing painfully on one knee. She was busy swearing and rubbing her injured parts when the door opened and Lana’s Filipino maid appeared, waving a broom.

  ‘Cherry. Just who I wanted to talk to . . .’

  Th
e woman replied with a stream of rapid-fire Tagalog, most of which Ruth suspected was swearing.

  ‘You get out,’ she finished, jabbing at Ruth with the broom. ‘I call the police.’

  ‘No,’ said Ruth, staggering to her feet. ‘I came here to speak to you, ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘No speak,’ Cherry said angrily. ‘You go! Now!’

  Behind Cherry, Ruth could see another figure enter the room. A man, about forty; he had his shirt open and was holding a wine glass. The housekeeper followed her gaze and tried to close the door, but it was too late.

  ‘I see,’ smiled Ruth. ‘Using your employer’s house as a love nest when she’s out of the country? She won’t like that.’

  Cherry looked trapped.

  ‘Is my boyfriend,’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t make it right,’ quipped Ruth. ‘I think Mrs Goddard-Price will probably agree with me.’

  ‘You not tell her, please!’ said Cherry, knowing she was beaten.

  ‘Not if you answer a few more questions,’ said Ruth, pushing past her into the house.

  The housekeeper looked pained.

  ‘Mrs G, she tell me not to speak to no one.’

  I bet she did, thought Ruth, opening her bag.

  ‘All I want to do is show you a couple of pictures,’ she said, pulling out a file. ‘That’s all, then I’ll go.’

  Dammit, why didn’t I prepare for this? thought Ruth, fumbling with the pile of photographs. She’d just grabbed her research folder on the way out, and hadn’t sorted out the picture she needed. She put them on the tabletop and flicked through them until she found the right one. It was the head-and-shoulders shot of Nick Beddingfield the police had released when the Riverton murder was first announced.

  ‘Remember when I was here before and you said another man used to visit Mrs Goddard-Price? Is this the man?’

  The maid took the photo and examined it, then handed it back. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ pressed Ruth. ‘He isn’t the one who used to come when Mr Goddard-Price was away on business?’

  ‘No.’

  Ruth felt her heart sinking. She had felt sure this was the connection she had been looking for.

  ‘It was him,’ said Cherry, pointing down at the table. Ruth’s eyes opened wide. The housekeeper’s finger was on a picture of Peter Ellis, from the Ellis family snapshot that Julia had given her that day she had visited her at Wade House.

  ‘This man? You’re certain?’

  Ruth felt goose pimples run up her arms. Could it be true? Lana was having an affair with Peter Ellis?

  ‘Yes, certain. Once, twice, he come here.’ She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and pushed her other forefinger through the hole, in and out to signify sex.

  Ruth stifled a frown. It was another connection. But still she was no closer to putting Lana with Nick.

  ‘Sophie’s room. Could I just have one quick look?’

  ‘Top floor. Two minutes,’ frowned Cherry, knowing that Ruth had leverage.

  Ruth ran up the sweeping staircase, two stairs at a time. Instead of going all the way to the top, she darted into the master suite.

  This had to be Lana’s, she thought, admiring the sumptuous bedroom with white drapes and walnut furniture. She opened both bedside cabinets and the dressing table drawer, looking for a diary, a notebook, anything that might connect Lana to Nick, but there was nothing; only boxes of thank-you cards, and glossy magazines and piles of cosmetics.

  She turned as she heard a noise behind her. Cherry was standing in the doorway looking furious. Ruth cursed silently.

  ‘You go now,’ hissed Cherry.

  Ruth acted as if there was nothing wrong with finding a random journalist ferreting around the mistress of the house’s bedroom.

  ‘If Mrs G comes back home, I want you to contact me immediately.’ She rooted around her purse, but she had given her last business card to Mike at the gym. There was a biro on the cabinet top. She took it and scribbled her contact details on a page she ripped out of her notebook.

  Cherry looked wary.

  ‘I promise I won’t tell Lana about your boyfriend being here, but you must co-operate with me, okay?’

  ‘Please, go,’ said the housekeeper, almost wailing.

  Ruth nodded. She knew she was beaten. For now. But she wasn’t finished looking into Lana Goddard-Price.

  40

  Sunny Isles, a barrier island just off the coast of Miami, had the right name, thought Sophie as their car crossed the long bridge from the mainland. The late afternoon sky was bright blue, the air rushing in through the window tasted tropical and the beach circling the island was like a golden halo. But around Miami, Sunny Isles had another name: Little Moscow, and as they turned into the maze of pastel-painted condominiums, hotels and shops crowded around the foot of the bridge, Sophie could see why: Eastern European delis and restaurants advertising borscht and blinis, some even written in the angular Cyrillic script. But there were signs too of the modern Russia in the expensive fashion boutiques, the low rumbling sports cars and the body-beautiful women strolling the streets in tiny shorts and bikini tops. She caught Josh watching two model-grade beauties cross the street and nudged his arm. He turned to look at her, and gave her a surprised smile.

  ‘What’s up?’ he grinned as the cab pulled up outside the Steppes steak restaurant.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

  ‘Not exactly, no. But it’s a good guess.’

  Arriving in Miami from Fort Lauderdale, they had checked into a cheap motel in the touristy Coconut Grove area and split up. Sophie’s job was to go shopping: a razor for Josh, some clean underwear and new shoes – hers had been ruined in their off-road chase two days ago. Josh meanwhile went to an internet café, where he had found a Miami Herald story documenting the rise of the Russian mob in the south Florida area. In the story, the Steppes steakhouse in Sunny Isles had been linked to ‘noted Russian mobster’ Uri Kaskov, which was why they were sitting outside it now. The Steppes was where they were hoping to find Uri’s son, Sergei.

  ‘Look, if our boy’s not here, we’ll just share a chateaubriand and soak up the sun.’ He smiled, but she could see the nervousness in his eyes.

  ‘It’s not too late to turn back,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked.

  Sophie didn’t have to think; she simply nodded.

  ‘Then let’s go in.’

  They walked up the steps and on to a large open-air terrace overlooking the ocean. The waiters wore the embroidered waistcoats and high leather boots of traditional Russian dress, but the menu was typical Florida: steaks, seafood and elaborate cocktails.

  Sophie had been expecting the place to be full of Tony Soprano lookalikes in silk suits and chunky gold jewellery, but she was relieved to find it was packed by well-heeled tourists and smart-looking business people, all chatting and laughing. Josh seemed in the mood to join in, because when their waiter came by, he immediately ordered champagne and lobster for two.

  ‘What’s this? The Last Supper?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Come on, princess, lighten up,’ said Josh. ‘This is Miami – you’re supposed to get a tan, but you look absolutely white.’

  ‘Is it any wonder?’ she muttered. ‘I feel like I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.’

  ‘Hey, for all we know, this Little Moscow thing could be something they cooked up for the tourists. Have a cocktail and relax.’

  But Sophie couldn’t relax. In the taxi outside Ty’s place, she had said it was the end of the trail, and she still felt that way. They had started on this journey as a way of finding out who had killed her boyfriend and to clear her name. But along the way, she had discovered that nothing – her boyfriend, her life, even her father – was as it seemed. And now they knew who was chasing them, it seemed they were giving up, surrendering themselves to whatever fate the Russians chose for them: for the first time since they had started running, on th
at cold back street by the Thames a lifetime ago, it felt as if it was out of their hands.

  ‘Is this really such a good idea?’ said Sophie.

  ‘The lobster?’

  ‘No, Josh,’ she said. ‘Handing ourselves in to this Sergei, Uri’s son.’

  Josh let out a long breath.

  ‘Sophie, we just don’t have a choice,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Yes, we could keep running, keep looking for the money, but what then? What if we found it?’

  ‘We could go away, disappear,’ she said urgently. ‘Just you and me, somewhere they’d never find us.’ She blushed as the words came out of her mouth. She paused, holding her breath, but if Josh had caught her intention, he didn’t react.

  ‘Sophie, listen to me,’ he said quietly. ‘There is nowhere we could go that these people wouldn’t find us. Right or wrong, they think that money is theirs, and if we take it from them, they will keep hunting us – for ever. Do you want that?’

  ‘No,’ she said simply.

  ‘Then we have to go see the top man, tell him what we know – and hope that’s enough.’

  ‘And what if it isn’t?’

  Josh gave her a smile. ‘Then we’d better hope this lobster is pretty bloody good.’

  Right on cue, two waiters appeared bearing a silver tray laden with food, with two enormous lobsters centre stage.

  ‘You crack on,’ said Josh as they laid the feast out on the table. ‘Just got to see a man about a dog. See if you can dig the good stuff out for me, I’m rubbish with those nutcrackers. I’ll only be a few minutes.’

  Sophie watched him thread his way through the tables, then glanced down at the lobster, staring back at her with blank eyes. Curiously, it made her think of a boy named Charlie Simmons. Sophie guessed she must have been fourteen and head over heels in unrequited love with the floppy-haired boy from the school down the road. Her mother had clearly decided it was time for a talk about the birds and the bees, so she took Sophie to a posh restaurant in London, ordered lobster and announced that if she was ever to stand a chance with any man, she had to learn to be a lady – and for Julia Ellis, being a lady involved knowing how to behave in polite society. Being able to crack a lobster without losing your dignity was just one of the things on her checklist.