Love You Dead (6 page)

‘What’s to understand about eating a pig’s colon?’

‘All part of your education. And the
entente cordiale.
Never diss other people’s cultures. I think a trip to France to liaise with the French police and see Crisp would be
good. And you might enjoy the break, you’ve not really given yourself any time out since Ari died.’

Glenn Branson’s estranged wife, Ari, had died after an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic in surgery, following a bicycle accident. Subsequently the detective inspector had begun dating
a bright young reporter on the local paper, the
Argus
, and was now going to marry her. Glenn had given him the news while Roy had been in hospital. At first he’d been cautious for
his mate, marrying a newspaper reporter, but he liked her, and having seen the chemistry between them he felt they seemed right together.

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘And come home to Siobhan with that on my breath?’

‘So you’ve gone off Lyon now, have you?’ Grace chided.

‘No, I’ll go.’

‘We’ll apply for an extradition order, but almost certainly they’re going to want to keep him in France at least until that trial is over. And there’ll be a ton of
bureaucracy to work through for the extradition procedure. There are various protocols involved with a European Arrest Warrant. First we need to get the Crown Prosecution Service to agree that he
will face charges, prior to starting the whole process. He’ll have to appear in front of a French magistrate before being released to the British police. The National Extradition Unit will be
responsible for bringing him back to the UK, but the French police want you to travel to Lyon to share the intelligence we have on Crisp. They’ve informed me there’s been a development
in Crisp’s involvement. I’ve got a pile of paperwork that’s arrived from France, in French, which we’ll need to get translated, so we’ll need to find out who the
preferred external translation company is.’

‘That’s good,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘It’ll give me time to go to a chemist and buy some breath freshener – for the sausage thing.’

‘Yeah, from past experience dealing with French police bureaucracy, you’ll have plenty of time.’

Jodie sat, tearfully, in the huge, old-fashioned office of Paul Muscutt, the senior partner of the Manhattan law firm of Muscutt, Williams and Wooding, and executor of the
estate of the late Walter Irwin Klein. Twenty-seven storeys above Fifth Avenue, and with a glorious view through the window to her left directly down onto St Patrick’s Cathedral, she was
trying to mask her excitement. Warm sunshine streamed in. Jet lag was helping to take the edge off her skiing tan, making her look something of the pale, grieving widow she was trying to be.

Holding her lace-edged handkerchief, she sipped her strong coffee.

Muscutt, who had momentarily been called out of his office, strode back in through the door and headed towards her. In his forties, conservatively dressed, with neat brown hair, he had a
no-nonsense businesslike air.

He shook her hand firmly. ‘My deepest sympathy, Mrs Bentley.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, sounding as if she was stifling a sob.

‘I’m afraid the media are really going for the suicide angle,’ he said, slipping down into the black leather chair behind his uncluttered desk.

‘Suicide? What do you mean?’

‘It’s only a theory, of course, from the French police in the Alps, but with all the financial trouble poor Walt had gotten himself into, it would fit.’

‘I’ve read a bit on the internet, after the barrage of press at the airport when I arrived here, and caught some of the news stories, but I was hoping you’d tell me more
– is any of it true?’

The lawyer frowned. ‘Walt never told you? He didn’t level with you?’

‘Told me? No?’

‘About his finances?’

‘No, we never talked about money.’ It was true, they didn’t. ‘Are you saying the French police think he might have committed suicide?’

‘It’s a possibility. Walt was in true Walter Mitty land, he believed right up until – I guess about a week before his death, when we last spoke – that somehow everything
was going to come good for him. Maybe in that week he realized there was no way out. Walt was an experienced skier. He was following you in a white-out – why would he suddenly go off in a
completely different direction?’

Suicide
.

Her heart was pounding at the thought. So they suspected maybe it wasn’t an accident after all, but
suicide
!

For an instant she thought that would be great. But then, reflecting, it began to worry her.

Suicide? Trouble with finances? Shit, how is this going to affect things?

Muscutt peered for a moment at a stack of documents in front of him, which were held together by a single length of green tape, then looked back at her. ‘Anyhow, Mrs Bentley,’ he
said in his strong, confident voice, ‘I guess we might never know what was going on in Walt’s mind.’

‘He loved me – we adored each other. I can’t believe he never talked to me about this. I mean – he told me he’d changed his will to include me. What do you mean,
exactly,
financial troubles
?’

‘You didn’t find him looking a little worried just recently? A bit distracted?’

She shrugged. ‘Not really, no – he was pretty much like he always was.’

‘OK, well, I’m sure you are anxious to know the – ah – situation regarding the provisions for you in your late fiancé’s will?’

She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant and not show her excitement. Her past husband had been a disappointment, leaving her far less than she had anticipated. Enough to buy her the Roedean
house and to keep her comfortable, but nowhere near enough to pay for her dreams. But this time, she had been confident, she had struck gold. Just how many millions was she about to inherit from
Walt? Riches beyond her wildest dreams. Maybe it ran into billions!

‘No, not at all,’ she said, acting her heart out. ‘I just loved Walt so much. I can’t believe he’s gone – we had such a short time together. Anything he might
have left me is meaningless. I just want him back.’

‘Is that so?’ He gave her a dubious look.

She nodded, bleakly.

‘I thought it would be better to see you alone, rather than have Walt’s whole family present at this time.’

‘I appreciate that,’ she replied.

‘I have to tell you that I don’t have good news for you.’

She stiffened. Muscutt’s whole demeanour seemed to have changed. It felt as if the sky had clouded over. She gave him a wide-eyed look.

‘Walt’s wealth came from a group of funds he ran – he had several billion under his management. But during recent months he was under investigation by the US Securities and
Exchange Commission. Would you know what a so-called Ponzi scheme is?’

She frowned. ‘I’ve heard of the expression.’

‘Remember a shyster called Bernie Madoff? He’s currently in a Federal Correctional Institution after defrauding investors in one of the biggest financial scams of recent years.
Basically he used funds from new investors to give high returns, way above market rates, to earlier investors – and siphoned off a percentage for himself. I’m afraid it looks like
that’s what Walt was doing, too. All his bank accounts have been frozen and all his assets are being seized. If he was still alive, he could have been looking at a jail sentence equally as
long as Madoff’s, if not longer.’ The sympathy seemed to have gone from the lawyer’s voice and demeanour. ‘And I guess the other problem will be to get any payout from his
life policies – most companies don’t pay out on suicide.’

She stared at the man, and could swear he was struggling to conceal a smirk.

‘What are you actually saying?’ she asked.

‘What I’m saying is that it doesn’t look like you will inherit one cent, Mrs Bentley. But that’s not the worst of it. As his fiancée, you may well be investigated
yourself as a possible accomplice. I imagine the police will be wanting to talk to you.’

‘What?’ She felt limp, as if all the energy had been sucked out of her. ‘Accomplice? I knew nothing at all about his affairs.’

‘But you enjoyed a nice lifestyle in your short time with him, right? Living high on the hog.’

‘He never said a word to me about his business. I just assumed he was the successful businessman he seemed to be.’

‘I have to remind you that all his credit cards have been stopped. I’m aware you used your own to pay for Walt’s funeral expenses, including the casket, and for the flights
back – but I’m afraid you are likely to be out of pocket – there is no way of reimbursing you.’

‘God, that’s why his credit cards were declined! What a fool – I thought – you know – he was just over his limit or something. This can’t be true!’

He pushed a bundle of documents towards her. ‘Have a look through these. They are all Grand Jury indictments against your late fiancé.’

She reached forward and ran her eyes over several pages without absorbing anything. It was all written in legal terminology she did not understand. A wintry chill rippled through her. At the
same time, she felt anger rising. ‘This is just bullshit!’

‘I wish it was, Mrs Bentley, believe me. Walt has been one of this firm’s biggest clients. He owes us many thousands of dollars – that we’re unlikely to see
now.’

‘What a bastard,’ she said. ‘What a fucking bastard! He conned me! How many months have I—?’ She fell silent for a moment.

‘
Wasted?
Is that the word you are looking for?’

‘He conned me!’

‘Good to see you showing your true colours, finally, Mrs Bentley.’

‘Just what the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh, I think you know, Mrs Bentley. I think you know exactly what I mean.’ He peered, hard and unsmiling, at her.

‘I don’t like your tone,’ she said. ‘I don’t like what you are insinuating.’

He looked at his large, ornate watch. An Audemars Piguet, she could see. She knew all the top watch brands and their values – and this one was over $50,000. Then he stood up. ‘I
would be very happy to continue our discussion, but up until now my time has been on the late Mr Klein’s account. I will require payment from you, in advance, for any further time you require
from me.’

She also stood up, and scooped the Chanel handbag that Walt had bought her off the table beside her. ‘I don’t think there is anything more to discuss,’ she said, tears of
shock, anger and huge disappointment in her eyes.

As she reached Muscutt’s office door, the lawyer said, ‘See you at the funeral.’

‘I don’t think so.’

He smiled, remaining behind his desk. ‘I didn’t think so either. Nor did any of his family. Oh, and if there’s anything you need when you’re back in the UK, we do have a
London office.’

She slammed the door behind her.

Back in her suite in the Four Seasons, Jodie kicked off her shoes and sat down on a sofa, thinking hard. Weighing up the pros and cons of staying in the city for Walt’s
funeral.

Her room phone rang. It seemed like it hadn’t stopped since she’d arrived in New York.

She answered it, hesitantly. ‘Hello?’

‘This is the front desk, Mrs Bentley. I have a Dave Silverson who’d like to speak to you.’

‘Dave Silverson? I don’t know anyone of that name.’

‘From the
New York Post
.’

Her brain raced for a second. ‘Er – no thanks. Thank you.’

She hung up.

The phone rang again almost immediately. It was a different voice this time. ‘Mrs Bentley, I have a Jan Pink from the
National Enquirer
. Can I put her through?’

Shit. ‘No,’ Jodie said, emphatically. ‘I did ask before, I want privacy, OK? No calls.’

Then her phone rang again. She let it ring on. Six rings then it fell silent and the red message alert began flashing. A few seconds later, it rang again. She sat on the bed, thinking. Someone
had told the press where she was. Walt’s snotty children? That arrogant lawyer?

She let it ring on until it stopped.

Should she go to the funeral?

She would only be attending for appearances’ sake. And did they matter at the funeral of a man already totally discredited? There would be major press and media coverage, for sure, which
she could do without. There was also the risk of her being arrested because of her association with Walt. The more distance she put between herself and New York, and the quicker she did it, the
better, she decided.

Starting by getting out of this suite.

There was a hotel she’d stayed in a couple of years back, overlooking Central Park. She called them and to her relief they had availability. She checked out, and took the hotel’s
limousine the few blocks to the Park Royale West Hotel.

Twenty minutes later, checked in under a carefully created alias she used on occasion, Judith Forshaw, and giving her address as Western Road in Brighton, she was comfortably installed in a
suite on the forty-second floor. She phoned down to the concierge for the number of British Airways, and booked herself on the day flight to Heathrow, leaving Kennedy Airport at 8 a.m. the next
morning. She also booked a limousine for 5 a.m. to take her to the airport.

Then she went to the minibar, removed the half-bottle of champagne that was in there, opened it, poured some into a glass and, ignoring the no-smoking warnings, lit a cigarette with hands still
shaking with rage at smug Muscutt. At that bastard Walt Klein.

At the world.

She shot a glance up at the smoke detector on the ceiling, knowing from experience that the smoke from a single cigarette was not usually enough to set the alarm off, then she downed the
contents of the glass in one gulp, refilled it, and went over to the window. She stood beside the tripod-mounted telescope that was part of the décor and, using another glass as an ashtray,
stared down at the people, the size of ants, strolling, jogging, cycling or walking their dogs in the late-afternoon sunshine in Central Park.