Page 196 of Kiss Heaven Goodbye

72

Miles couldn’t concentrate. In the Pool Room at New York’s Four Seasons restaurant, he should have been in his element, charming the group of Japanese bankers opposite him, cutting deals, laying the groundwork for his next attack on another territory ripe for exploitation. But with yesterday’s trip to Nassau still weighing heavily on his mind, he could barely order coffee successfully, let alone impress new financial backers. He’d been like this all day – so distracted and wound up he’d had to leave the Ash Corp. offices and go to the driving range to work off some of his anger and frustration. How had he allowed this to happen? Why had he sold the island? If he had kept it in the family, no one would have gone anywhere near that bloody beach.

His phone was vibrating in his pocket, but he let it ring out: the Japanese were always sticklers for politeness. Its angry insistence made him feel under siege. Finally, the Japanese group began to leave, citing early flights back to Tokyo. Smiling and bowing, he waved them off, then let out a long breath and headed straight to the bar by the Grill Room and ordered a large gin and tonic, then took a seat in a quiet corner to make a call.

‘Michael, you called?’ he said.

‘Yes, it’s probably nothing, but Detective Carlton has been in touch.’

Miles closed his eyes and let his gin slip down his throat.

‘Apparently they’ve spoken to an ex-Angel Cay employee,’ continued Michael. ‘A chef who worked there in the late eighties, early nineties. He remembered one of the casual staff disappearing – 1990, 1991, he thought.’

Miles was determined not to let his anxiety show. ‘Hmm, yes. I vaguely remember that too. It was 1990, because I’d just finished at Danehurst. It was some boat boy and he hardly disappeared. He was drinking on the job and bunked off nicking one of our boats before he got fired. Damn inconvenient it was too. My father had a very important corporate event going on and didn’t need the hassle of disappearing staff.’

Miles was surprised at his own calm manner as he spoke. He certainly would have found this more difficult to say if he had been with his lawyer face to face. That probing look Michael had, like he could see straight through whatever you were saying.

‘Well, either way, you’re going to have to go back to Nassau,’ said Michael.

‘But I was only bloody there yesterday!’ cried Miles.

‘We have to give them something, Miles. They want to know if you have any contact details for this boat boy at least.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ snapped Miles. ‘I was eighteen years old.’

‘Carlton wants to know if there are any records of staff on the island or at the company offices.’

Miles felt his anger flare into red spots of heat on his cheeks. ‘Michael, don’t bother me with this shit. Sort it out. Pay someone off.’

‘Look, Miles, I am trying to get them off our backs,’ said Michael with irritation. ‘Forgive me if I don’t have as many police contacts in Nassau as I do in London or New York.’

The tone of Michael’s voice made Miles shiver. Michael Marshall was a top-notch fixer, always happy to roll up his sleeves and get dirty; he never baulked at anything Miles asked, dealing with it with implacable calm and efficiency. In all the years they had worked together, he had never been tart or sarcastic. The fact that he sounded harassed and anxious made Miles think that the situation was more severe than Michael was letting on. But this was no time for rolling into a ball and giving up.

‘Michael, I don’t expect you to know every spook on the planet. But I do expect you to get on top of the situation. If you don’t have the contacts, get them. Everyone, especially policemen, has their price. Try fucking harder.’

He slammed twenty dollars on the bar and stormed downstairs, out of the restaurant on the warm midtown night. His driver was waiting for him and took him uptown to his Fifth Avenue home, the lights of Manhattan slipping past in a blur of colour. Back at the apartment, he took a hot shower and a Xanax. He needed something to help him sleep. He needed something to make him forget.

73

It was almost eight o’clock by the time Philip’s Range Rover pulled up outside a detached grey stone farmhouse with a low-slung gable roof, in an idyllic spot behind Westonbirt Arboretum. The journey from London hadn’t been nearly as awkward or uncomfortable as Sasha had been expecting, not once she’d employed the tactic of just letting Philip talk about his daughter. There didn’t seem to be any limit to Philip’s pride and affection for Lily. It was bittersweet for Sasha to listen to him; she was happy to see his face light up, but sad that she had no one she could speak of with such warmth or love.

Dusk was still an hour off but light had already fallen from the sky, smudging it with a peachy glow like a wash from a watercolour brush. This is a summit meeting, not a bloody mini-break, she told herself as she took her overnight bag from the boot and made her way into the house.

‘The blue room at the front of the house is the nicest guest room,’ said Philip. ‘Put your bag upstairs and I’ll start dinner.’

Sasha had been in many country house guest rooms before – confections of four-poster beds, de Gournay wallpaper, Jo Malone candles and well-chosen antiques. But an interior decorator hadn’t been near this place, she thought, looking at the uneven floor, chintzy curtains and rickety white wooden furniture.

Unzipping her holdall and removing the slim skirts, three pairs of high heels, Hermès riding boots, jodhpurs and assortment of silk and cashmere items, she felt immediately ill-equipped for the weekend ahead. This was a chunky jumper and Hunter wellies sort of place, not a dress-for-dinner one. She also felt ill-equipped for spending so much time with Philip. Emotionally, she was raw anyway, but it was somehow worse seeing Philip so well and so . . . sorted. She’d always assumed that he’d have spent his days pining away for her, but he’d moved on, healed whatever wounds he had.

A cast-iron claw-foot bath sat in front of the huge bay window that looked over fields and hills, just smudges of olive and charcoal in the twilight. She turned the stiff brass taps on, and the bath quickly filled.

There was a knoc

k at the door. ‘You decent?’

Smiling at the propriety of it all, she saw Philip’s arm appear around the door holding a glass of wine which she took gratefully.

‘Thanks, Phil,’ she said.