Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 57

He sighed heavily. 'If you must. You know the address. And it's ten minutes, Sasha.'

Long minutes later her car drew up next to one of west London's most prestigious addresses. Randall owned a huge white stucco house at the Notting Hill end of Kensington Park Gardens. What an incredible place to live What an incredible place to live, she thought, looking up at the double-fronted building. As she climbed from the car, she wondered how much it would cost her to buy a place like this. Too much, she decided. London might be in a recession, but super-prime properties like these were still selling for sixty, seventy million, fuelled by foreign money and the huge bonuses still awarded to the biggest City players. Light jazz drifted on to the street, and from the shadows of dozens of people at the windows, Randall was having more than a quiet dinner party. As a uniformed maid let her in, Sasha craned her neck to see inside the reception room which was crammed with at least fifty people. Any other time she would have been piqued not to have received an invitation, but for once, she had no desire to socialise.

Randall appeared at the door holding a tumbler of cognac. 'Sasha, why don't we go outside,' he said, leading her on to a terrace at the back of the house. There would have been a time when she would have found this intoxicating; alone with a handsome, successful man in one of the finest homes in London, but now all she felt was anxious and out of control. She took a deep breath.

'a.s.sad wants me out,' she said simply.

'I know.'

'You know?'

'He told me yesterday.'

'Has this always been the plan? To push me out?'

'No, Sasha. There was never a plan. But there are management issues, even you must admit that. We're lucky that a.s.sad is even interested in buying the company with a president and CEO wanting to kill each other.'

'I am not stepping to one side, Randall,' she said, her voice fierce.

He looked at her for a moment. 'Why?' he asked.

'Why?' she said with a laugh. 'Why would I?'

'Because you've been working full throttle since you were twenty-one years old,' said Randall. 'Because you've made yourself a very rich woman; because you have the respect of the entire industry and should be confident enough to take a break, look at other options, have a baby ...'

'A baby baby?'

Randall pressed on.'How old are you, Sasha? Thirty-eight, thirty-nine? You are one of the most beautiful women in London, yet you are alone.'

'Don't patronise me, Randall.'

'I'm talking as a friend, Sasha. Why not cash in now, why not make a fortune? Then you'll have time for a relations.h.i.+p, family.' His grey brows knitted together with fatherly concern.

'What I want is this company,' she growled, feeling her eyes p.r.i.c.k with emotion.

She blinked angrily. Now was not the time for a show of weakness. The worst thing was that there was a whiff of truth in what he said. Recently she'd seen a picture of Grace Ashford and her children at the Cannes film festival; the smiling photograph of a successful woman with her two teenage children and glamorous artist partner had filled her with a crus.h.i.+ng sense of loneliness that had lasted for days. But she couldn't let sentiment like that overcome her. She was Sasha Sinclair, one of the contry's top business-women. She lived for the cut and thrust of business.

'I'll fight it, Randall,' she said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice.

'Don't make trouble, Sasha,' he said. 'I know how much you love the business and I know how hard it must be to let go, but do the right thing and step aside.'

She left without another word and walked down Kensington Park Gardens towards the High Street. To her left, smoky lilac dusk was setting across the park. Fleetingly she considered speaking to Randall again, but she couldn't bear the humiliation; she knew they had made up their minds. To them it was just another deal, just another line of numbers on a spreadsheet. They had no idea what she had sacrificed to get to where she was; they had no idea what she had put into that company. And now they were yanking it out from underneath her. Slowly she walked back to the car.

'Just take me home,' she said.

Matthew was just about to move away when an Aston Martin coming from the other direction pulled up at the kerb. Two men jumped out, crossed the street and began climbing the steps towards Randall's front door. At first, in the dark, she wasn't sure it was him, but then she recognised the pale camel jacket he had been wearing at Claridge's: Simon a.s.sad. But it was his shorter, slimmer companion that made her catch her breath. It was Miles Ashford.

Miles slapped Simon on the shoulder as the door opened and they stepped inside. Matey, familiar, celebrating their good fortune. And finally the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. What had changed Simon's mind so suddenly? Why had he chosen to replace her instead of an interchangeable number-cruncher like Steven? The answer was right there in front of her: Miles Ashford. Coming along to destroy all her hard work on a whim, just as he had done twenty years ago. For a moment back there on the terrace, Sasha had felt defeated; she had even begun to think that perhaps Randall was right, it was time she took her foot off the gas, settled down and started a family. But not now. Now she was going to fight. And if that was what it took, she was going to fight dirty.

68

Back in the comfort of his Manhattan office, Miles Ashford held his copy of Forbes Forbes magazine aloft and allowed himself a smile as he read the words on the cover: 'Going The Extra Miles: How Ashford Conquered New York' read the headline over a very flattering David Bailey portrait of himself. magazine aloft and allowed himself a smile as he read the words on the cover: 'Going The Extra Miles: How Ashford Conquered New York' read the headline over a very flattering David Bailey portrait of himself.

Although the Big Apple was no longer his home, Miles still felt a great attachment to the city and was glad of this visible and prestigious recognition of his achievements. Not that he had any plans to rest on his laurels. The New York Globe was still incredibly popular, but Andre Balzas' Penthouse bar at the top of the Standard was generating the sort of excitement the Globe had drawn at the start of the decade, and if there was one thing Miles hated it was other people stealing his thunder. There were residential opportunities to exploit too: two landmark buildings were coming up for sale downtown and Miles was determined to have them for his own.

Tipping his chair back, he looked around his office at the trappings of success: the Francis Bacon that hung above the leather sofa; the collage of photographs of Miles with a.s.sorted luminaries Obama, Clinton, Mandela. He wasn't about to give any of this up. Yes, the recession had shaken him badly, but things had to be on the upturn, especially since he'd gone in with Anil on the Mumbai deal on a personal level as well as professionally. Randall Kane's get-together the other night was the sort of macho back-slapping party he usually found boring, but Simon a.s.sad had made it much more interesting. Firstly because he had told Miles that he was forcing Sasha out of the company exactly the sort of thing to perk him up but mainly because of a.s.sad himself. He intrigued Miles, excited him. That night in his penthouse when Miles had cracked open his best whisky, he'd wanted to carry on the evening and show a.s.sad exactly exactly why all work and no play made Simon a very dull boy. He smiled to himself. There would be plenty of time for that. He swivelled his leather chair so he could see the New York skyline in front of him. First he had a city to conquer. why all work and no play made Simon a very dull boy. He smiled to himself. There would be plenty of time for that. He swivelled his leather chair so he could see the New York skyline in front of him. First he had a city to conquer.

There was a knock at the door. Irritated, he turned back towards the office. 'Enter.'

Michael Marshall came in and took a seat under the Bacon, and immediately Miles noticed the troubled expression on the lawyer's face.

'Trouble?' he asked.

Marshall nodded. 'It's about Angel Cay.'

The warmth seemed to disappear from the room. Miles' skin felt cold and his mouth dry.

'Angel?' he repeated as steadily as he could.

The Fairmont hotel group who were buying the island were keen for a quick sale as far as Miles was concerned, he couldn't get rid of the place quick enough. But any sale was dependent on a detailed survey to see whether it was suitable for the required level of construction for the proposed two-hundred-room resort.

Michael put his hands up. 'I don't think it's anything to worry about just yet, but I have just got off the phone with the Royal Bahamian Police.'

'What on earth about?'

Michael pushed his lips out as if he were pondering a difficult problem. It was a gesture that always unsettled and yet excited Miles no one was better at finding solutions to problems than Michael. Over the years, Miles had come to rely on him to find ways out of tight spots. Michael was by far his most trusted and valuable member of staff the one most like him. But if Michael Marshall was troubled, Miles knew it was serious.

'I've been speaking to our contact at Fairmont. Apparently surveyors have been on the island for about a week. They've been taking soil samples from around the island. Suitability for building work and so on I understand they were planning on building the spa at a place called West Point Beach on the far side of the island?'

Miles realised he was gripping the edge of his desk and deliberately relaxed his fingers.

'Miles, they found a body.'

His heart was thumping. 'A human body?'

Michael nodded. 'Well, decomposed remains anyway. Of course, the first thing the surveyors did was call the police in George Town. Second thing they did was call Fairmont, and they called me.'

'So the police are on to it?' He could feel sweat collecting at the back of his neck, dampening the collar of his s.h.i.+rt that felt suddenly too tight around his throat. He'd dreamt about this moment before in distant nightmares of his youth but had never actually prepared for it, never really believed that it could actually happen.

'Two officers from the Royal Bahamian Police force are on their way to Angel Cay now,' said Michael.

'Have you spoken to them?'

'Not the investigating officers. I've left three messages.'

Miles tried to compose himself and think more rationally. 'Do we know how long the body's been there?'

'No idea. I'm sure forensics in Na.s.sau will be able to date it.'

Michael sat forward slightly, and Miles could feel him searching his face.

'Miles, you don't know anything about this, do you?'

'What the f.u.c.k are you suggesting?' snapped Miles.

Michael shrugged. 'As your lawyer and adviser, I have to ask the question.'

Miles knew he had to be convincing. 'Look, I'm as surprised and horrified by this as you are,' he said. 'My family has owned that island for thirty years and I can a.s.sure you I know nothing about any body. Anyway, we have no idea how old these remains are, do we? It could be the bones of b.l.o.o.d.y Blackbeard for all we know.'

Michael nodded, his eyes still searching Miles' face. Did he see something there? wondered Miles.

'Have they interviewed Nelson?' he asked, if only to deflect Michael's scrutiny. As soon as the deal with Fairmont had been announced, he had made sure Michael dealt with Nelson's severance from his job. He didn't want to run the risk of the long-term caretaker being viewed as a sitting tenant. A temporary handyman had been installed in Nelson's place.

'No.'

'Well make sure Nelson is out of the way; pack him off to Timbuktu if you have to. And make sure this new handyman keeps quiet too. I want us to deal with this directly.'

Michael's expression was still serious. 'You do know they are going to want to talk to you?'

'I can understand that,' said Miles. 'But we really have to nip this in the bud before there's talk. You need to get out to Na.s.sau today. In the meantime, we need to contain the story.'

'Miles, I think you should come with me,' said Michael.

'What? For some old pirate bones?' he snapped. 'Don't be ridiculous. '

Michael shook his head. 'Even so, you need to go. The police are going to get suspicious if you don't cooperate fully and it's going to look strange if this does leak and you're sitting in an office in New York. If the press twist this the wrong way, it could be a major scandal. Now's not the time, Miles.'

Sighing, Miles nodded. Michael was right. There was no point hiding from this; they needed to get it sorted as soon as possible. Everything could be solved or hushed up when you had power and money.

'Very well. Arrange for the jet to take us to Na.s.sau.'Grace was in the kitchen of their Spitalfields house, reading a trashy novel at the huge farmhouse table, when Julian poked his head into the room.

'Can you fix us a snack?' he said. 'We're getting a bit peckish. Some sandwiches with that nice cheese maybe.'

He had been locked in a meeting with his business manager Lars Johnstone for a couple of hours now. Grace fought her irritation. He was spending more and more time with Lars and his trendy east London artist crowd and only seemed to notice her when he needed something. Yesterday he'd walked in and said, 'You do know we're out of bog roll,' like she was a maid who wasn't doing her job. Perhaps she wasn't. Julian didn't seem to be satisfied with anything about her at the moment.

'Sure,' she said, shutting her book. 'What are you doing down there anyway?'

'Just talking tactics.'

'Oh yes? For what?'

He sighed. 'We're thinking about having a big one-off auction of my latest work. Lars thinks Zenras at Moonlight Zenras at Moonlight might go for twenty million.' might go for twenty million.'

Grace frowned. 'I thought you were planning to show that collection at the Singleton Gallery?'

'Nah. Thought we'd cut Neil out of this one.'

Neil Singleton was Julian's long-term dealer, the man who had plucked him straight out of Goldsmiths and navigated his career into the stratosphere. Admittedly, the forty per cent commission he took from all his sales was more than adequate compensation, but Grace was a little unsettled by Julian's casual dismissal of someone who had been so pivotal in his development.

'Isn't Neil going to be a bit p.i.s.sed off about being bypa.s.sed?'

'I make the rules now, Grace,' Julian said. 'If we make what Lars thinks we can make at auction, I'm thinking of buying something really special. An island. A ma.s.sive yacht.'

She laughed nervously. 'Julian, we don't need a yacht.'

His eyes narrowed and his voice took on a petulant edge. 'Strictly speaking we don't need anything, do we?' he said. 'This book. That pan. That clock on the wall. None of it's really necessary, is it? But you want it all, don't you?'

She could tell he was spoiling for a fight again. It was happening more and more these days. Julian would sneer and snipe at her until it blew up into a row, then he would have the excuse to storm off and spend the night 'at Lars".

'OK, OK,' she said, standing up and walking over to the big steel fridge. 'I'll just make those sandwiches, shall I?'

It had all started to go downhill at that horrible party when Connie had been found dead in the south wing at Toddington. Olivia had been inconsolable and Julian had become sullen and withdrawn. She was surprised how hard it had hit them both. Julian had refused to talk about it with her and became angry when she pressed him about it. By contrast, Olivia had cried on her shoulder for a week and as a consequence they had become much closer, spending more quality time together. Grace supposed that Liv had been brought face to face with mortality and didn't want to lose her mum in the same way. Whatever it was, Grace was glad to have her daughter back. In fact she had spent the weekend helping Olivia move into her new Chelsea flat, which had been bought with an inheritance from her grandmother. Two days of painting, cleaning, lifting boxes, unpacking had left her with a vague fluey feeling. Onset of middle age Onset of middle age, she thought to herself.

Piling a stack of sandwiches on a plate, she took the narrow staircase to Julian's bas.e.m.e.nt den. Grace was not a big fan of this part of London. It was too trendy, intimidating and gritty. But she loved Julian's Georgian terraced house, tucked away just past the market; it was light and roomy and it had the whiff of d.i.c.kens about it. As she approached the study door, she could hear Julian and Lars talking.

'Do you honestly think we can get fifteen million for the Zoltar?'

'Not normally, no,' said Lars in his crisp public school voice. 'But if we get Chris Abrams and Hugh Benton bidding against each other then we'll make it.'

Julian did not sound convinced. 'But we're barely out of recession. I know the Russians and the Chinese are still swimming in cash, but are Chris and Hugh prepared to pay eight figures in this climate?'

Lars laughed. 'The purpose of this auction is for for them to pay over the odds for your work. To bid against each other until one of them pays an inflated price.' them to pay over the odds for your work. To bid against each other until one of them pays an inflated price.'

'Why?'

'Because both of them own at least a dozen of your works, Julian. Estimated value may be one hundred million dollars. This auction will set a new benchmark price for your work and the value of their collection increases twenty, maybe thirty per cent overnight. That's better than any stock pick, I tell you.'

Grace left the sandwiches by the door and tiptoed back up the stairs.Julian came into the bedroom an hour later. Grace had been trying to get to sleep but she couldn't; too much was going around in her head. Julian took his s.h.i.+rt off and threw it on the armchair. His belly was round and slack, hanging over the edge of his waistband.

'I heard you talking about the auction.'

'Really? Learn anything?' he said without looking at her, his voice bored.

'Actually I did. You're rigging it.'

He didn't even deny it. 'Get off your f.u.c.king high horse, will you,' he said. 'Since when have you been all art is for the people art is for the people? You seem pretty happy to live off the proceeds.'

She gaped at him, stung. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You know exactly what I mean,' he said. 'I know you like p.i.s.sing about taking your little black and white photos of slum kids, but two hundred and fifty quid a day jobs don't buy houses like Toddington.'

'Well I'm sorry that it's not all about the money for me, Julian,' she replied. 'I'd rather people wanted to look at my little black and white photos because they were interesting, not just because some self-interested collector decided they were valuable.'