Upstairs, she stopped with a pang of melancholy at the door of Miles’ old bedroom. She wondered idly what would have happened if she had got her wish and become the next Mrs Ashford. Would she have been satisfied? At eighteen, she had believed it was her destiny to settle down and spend her life being a chattel, a possession, Miles Ashford’s wife. Instead she had gone entirely the other way and been completely independent, beholden to no one, making her own way in the world on her wits and her talents. She hadn’t needed anyone. Apart from Robert, of course. As much to distract herself as anything else, she went in. Laid out on the bed were Miles’ clean clothes, a pressed pink shirt, Ralph Lauren chinos. This was obviously where he was sleeping tonight, she thought, wondering why he hadn’t moved into the master bedroom with the best view of the beach. Same reason I’m not going in there, she thought. Too many ghosts.
Her eyes was drawn to the laptop computer sitting on the walnut desk by the window, a white light on the front blinking at her. Glancing back towards the door, she walked over and sat down. I wonder . . . she thought. In all the maelstrom of the past forty-eight hours, she had not entirely forgotten about her business and in particular how Miles was trying to pull it from under her. She knew he was in league with Simon Assad, but how exactly and why? Maybe there would be some clues on his personal computer.
She made a few clicks, but it was immediately clear that he had protected his emails with a password. Dammit, she thought. If there was going to be evidence, it would be there. His desk-top files, however, were not protected in this way. Systematically she began opening them. Most were dull Ash Corp.-related items. Spreadsheets, projections, PowerPoint presentations with pie charts and endless contracts in dense legalese. She was just about to give up, when she found a folder full of dozens of photographs. Miles skiing. Miles on a yacht somewhere hot and sunny. Miles with his arm around a clean-cut handsome ski instructor. Miles in bed with another man, laughing at the camera. She recoiled in surprise and then almost laughed out loud. Of course! So many things began to fit into place. Their strange sex life, which had swung between the borderline kinky and the lacklustre. He was either at her like a piston or couldn’t get it up. It also explained his remote relationship with Chrissy – perhaps even his bond with Alex Doyle.
She clicked on another folder entitled ‘Dubai’ – it looked like some sort of Ash Corp. company jolly, or maybe the launch of one of his resorts – there were loads of shots on the beach, various men and women in swimsuits horsing around on the sand and in the water. Lots of shots of Miles with yet another good-looking man in aviator shades and surf shorts. And then she saw something that make her heart beat faster. It was such a small thing, she could easily have missed it, but there it was – and she was sure she had seen it before. The main photo was of Miles smiling as he held up a cocktail in salute to the camera, but what was grabbing Sasha’s attention was in the background; the good-looking man was running out of the surf, which had pulled his shorts low. She enlarged the image as far as it would go; it pixelated as it expanded, but it was enough to see the mark on the man’s hipbone. It was a tattoo of the sun, its rays curling outwards. A tattoo she’d recognise anywhere. Bradley the boat boy – the dead boat boy – had had exactly the same tattoo, in exactly the same spot. Was it simply a coincidence? Could it be? Sasha’s palms felt clammy; intuitively she knew it was the same tattoo, the same man. But who was he? Why was he with Miles?
‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ she whispered to herself.
She shut the laptop and glanced around Miles’ bedroom. There were few personal possessions here, just the clothes and a small overnight bag, nothing to give her more clues.
Who are you, surf boy? she thought frantically, her mouth feeling dry. And why are you with Miles?
Unzipping his leather holdall, she looked inside. Toothpaste, floss, deodorant, nothing out of the ordinary. She pulled out a magazine: Forbes, with a picture of Miles on the front cover, a fat cigar between his grinning teeth. Typical, she thought. Miles’ idea of porn: a picture of himself.
Sitting on the bed, she flicked through the magazine until she found the feature about Miles. And then she stopped as she saw a small black and white photograph inserted into a body of text. It was the same man in the surf shorts, but instead of sunglasses he was wearing small wire-framed spectacles. She ran her finger across the page. Was it him? Could it be? His face had slimmed out. His hair was darker, not as blond. The nose was different too – thinner, straighter, with the perfect nostril shape; the work she knew instantly of an expert cosmetic surgeon, because she’d had similar work done herself. But it was him. Her breath was ragged, her hands shaking. It was him. She read the caption: ‘Miles Ashford and Ash Corp. director of business affairs Michael Marshall.’ Oh shit, she thought. She had no idea what was going on – was this guy scamming Miles? Was Miles in on it? Was this some sort of sick game he was playing? Whichever way you looked at it, it wasn’t good, and instinctively she knew they were in danger. Putting the magazine back, she slipped out of Miles’ bedroom and went into her own, pulling her BlackBerry out of her bag.
Who to call? Whether Miles was manipulating them or not, he had to know something. But when she dialled his mobile number, her heart sank as she heard it ringing back in his bedroom.
Shit, shit, shit, she whispered.
She scrolled through to Philip’s number and walked towards the window, her eyes searching the sea for a sight of Miles’ boat.
‘Phil. It’s me,’ she said, keeping her voice low.
‘You’re there already?’
‘Yes, and I have a horrible feeling that something weird is going on.’
‘What’s up?’
‘You know we found the body of the boat boy?’ she whispered. ‘Well, he’s not dead. He’s Michael Marshall.’
‘The lawyer who invited you here?’ said Philip. ‘So whose body have the police got, then?’
‘I wish I knew.’
She was shaking her head, trying to process the facts in her mind, trying to work out what made sense.
‘Look, the boat boy had a tattoo on his hip; it’s one of the few things I remem
ber about him. I’ve just seen a photograph of Michael Marshall on Miles’ computer. Phil, he has the same tattoo. He’s changed his appearance, his name, but it’s him. I know it.’
‘Why on earth would Miles have the boat boy working for him?’ asked Philip.
‘I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t even know it’s him. I don’t know what to think.’ She closed her eyes tightly, trying to blot out her fear.
‘Do you want me to come to Angel?’ asked Philip.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can, but the weather’s changed. I’m guessing that’s going to slow me up, but Sasha, I’ll get there.’
She felt a wash of relief, but she hated being so vulnerable. She was Sasha Sinclair, the arse-kicking global style icon, but she was just grateful that Phil was on the way.
‘Where is Marshall now?’
‘I don’t know. He told me he was going to be here, but the caretaker didn’t mention him.’