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 Assad. 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 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 assorted 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 Assad 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 Assad 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 Assad 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.
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 shirt 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 Nassau 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 fuck are you suggesting?’ snapped Miles.