Perfect Strangers (37 page)

‘She must be devastated.’

Josh smiled. ‘It’s all relative, I suppose. If you’re used to the Royal Suite at the Waldorf, this is probably torture.’

Sophie looked towards the shuttered windows with their neat curtains.

‘Well I hope she’s in. It’s a long way to come if she’s spending the summer in the Bahamas.’

‘Lana says she is a recluse, gone slightly loopy since Asner popped off. I don’t think hermits go out much.’ He shrugged and picked up Sophie’s bag. ‘Let’s go and see, eh?’

As they walked along the gravel drive, the town car reversed back on to the road and Sophie turned to wave goodbye.

‘What time’s he coming back?’ she asked.

‘What time’s who . . .? Oh sh—!’ Josh dropped the bag and sprinted after the car, waving his arms. ‘WAIT!’ he shouted, but it had already turned on to the road.

Josh came back panting, his face flushed.

‘Why didn’t you bloody stop him?’

‘I’ve been asleep, Josh. I assumed you’d arranged for him to wait or come back later.’

‘Well now we’re stranded here. If only you’d thought instead of waving at him—’

‘
Me?
Now this is my fault . . .?’

There was a cough behind them.

‘Can I help you?’

A tall, slender woman with a dark auburn bob was standing in the doorway of the house. Sophie recognised Miriam Asner at once from the newspaper photographs of her sitting dignified and impassive throughout her husband’s court case. Long grey palazzo pants and a crisp white shirt showed off her willowy figure, and she was holding a Paulo Coelho novel, as if their shouting had disturbed her from a snooze in the garden. Perhaps it had.

‘Sorry,’ said Josh, immediately switching on his lady-killer smile. ‘We didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Joshua McCormack and this,’ he said, with a slight pause, ‘is Sophie Ellis. Her father Peter was an old friend of Michael’s.’

‘What’s this about?’ asked Miriam, frowning.

‘It might take a while to tell you that. Can we come in?’ Sophie smiled awkwardly.

Miriam hesitated and then nodded, turning along a path that skirted the house.

‘There’s no air-conditioning, unfortunately,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘We should sit by the pond.’ She gestured towards a group of four Adirondack chairs at the foot of the lawn and went back into the house.

When the Asner scandal hit her family, Sophie had read a great deal about Michael and Miriam, seeking out newspapers and magazine articles on the internet as if it would help make sense of what had happened. Miriam was from good New England stock, the sort of woman who was raised to support her wealthy husband and entertain on his behalf, with an occasional charitable project to fill the emptiness of her days. Her aloof manner and perceived ‘airs’ hadn’t gone down well with the press, who had demonised her for the way she had steadfastly refused to condemn her husband. But today Sophie thought she looked like the elegant, sixtyish widow she was. She didn’t come across as wicked or arrogant, just sad and rather tired. Miriam Asner had always claimed that she knew nothing about her husband’s Ponzi scheme. If that were true, it struck Sophie that she was also a victim, along with the rest of Michael’s investors.

Miriam returned with three tumblers of iced tea served on a silver tray. She passed them to her guests, each with a neatly folded white napkin wrapped around the base. Sophie wondered if the older woman still imagined herself as the social grande dame, or whether it was simply good manners that refused to be blunted by circumstance.

‘Do you want to tell me why you are here?’ said Miriam, her voice as crisp as her shirt. Sophie looked at Josh and he gave her a reassuring smile.

‘I suppose you know my father and your husband Michael were friends,’ began Sophie uncertainly.

‘Were, past tense,’ said Miriam, her mouth pursed.

‘Yes, well, either way, my family lost a great deal of money with your husband’s scheme; everything they had, in fact.’

‘And you want the money back?’

‘Well, yes, of course, but—’

‘My dear woman, look around you,’ said Miriam. ‘All I have is here, believe me. If you are seeking these spurious missing millions, well all I can say is good luck.’

‘Don’t you believe your husband had hidden anything else, perhaps for you?’

Miriam shook her head vigorously.

‘The authorities have been over this,’ she sighed. ‘They have found nothing. That is because there is nothing to find.’

‘Well, if you’ll forgive me, Mrs Asner, we believe there is.’

Miriam waved a hand in front of her face, her eyes welling up with tears. ‘My husband is barely cold in the ground,’ she said quietly. ‘Can’t you people just leave me alone?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Asner, but—’

‘Do you think I like living this life?’ she cried suddenly. ‘Do you think I enjoy being too scared to go to town? If there was money, I’d take it and find a new life on some far-flung desert island, believe me. My life has been ruined. My friends have gone. Everything’s gone: the beach house, the boats, the jet, even my golf clubs. The US marshals changed the locks on the house I’d been living in for thirty years.’

She took a drink of her tea and Sophie saw her hands were shaking.

‘They’re still watching me, you know that? Waiting in cars on every corner, following me, listening on the phone.’

‘Who?’ asked Sophie, glancing at Josh. ‘Who’s following you?’

‘FBI, SEC, Donald Trump, who knows? But I’m sure of one thing: they all think I know where the money is.’

‘And you don’t?’ asked Sophie, her heart sinking.

‘No. No, I don’t.’

She took a ragged breath and blew her nose.

‘The irony is no one comes here, no one calls.’ She looked at them fiercely. ‘Not unless they want this buried treasure you all seem to think exists. Crackpots, con artists, they all send letters. And the lawyers, of course. Always the lawyers. No doubt you’ve seen this creature Andrea Sayer on Fox News?’

‘The lawyer trying to bring the class action?’ said Josh. ‘I read about that on the internet.’

Miriam nodded. ‘Yes. Her,’ she said, her voice dripping with disgust. ‘She plagues me almost daily, threatening to take even this,’ she said, gesturing towards the house, ‘unless I turn over the secret to this money. But I’m sorry to have to tell you this: it does not exist.’

Josh sat forward.

‘I think you misunderstand us, Mrs Asner. We’re not here to ask you about the missing money; we’re here to
tell
you about it.’

Sophie looked at him and he nodded.

‘Someone has tried to kill me, Mrs Asner,’ she said. ‘They think I have some of Michael’s money, a secret stash that he – or rather my father – siphoned off before the scheme collapsed.’

Miriam’s clear green eyes widened and she looked from Sophie to Josh and back.

‘Is this a joke?’ she whispered.

‘I wish it was,’ said Sophie, and taking a deep breath, she gave the woman a brief outline of the events since Nick’s death. The burglaries at her flat and at Wade House, the chase along the river, the near-miss in Nice and Lana’s revelation about her father’s involvement.

‘You’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you?’ said Miriam when she had finished. ‘And I was sorry to hear about your father,’ she added quietly. ‘I know they hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but Michael spoke highly of Peter. I think he believed Peter was the only man who really understood him.’

‘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.’