Love You Dead Read online

  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.

  10

  Wednesday 18 February

  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 discredite
d? 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.

  Right now she felt no sunshine in her heart.

  Months wasted.

  As the effects of the champagne began to kick in, she gradually began to cheer up a little. ‘Never look back, girl. Only forward!’ she said aloud, drained the second glass, then emptied the remainder of the bottle into it and drained that, too. She flushed the cigarette butt down the toilet and rinsed out the glass, then sat on the edge of the bed. Walt Klein was history. She was now totally focusing on her next target, Rowley Carmichael.

  She liked the name Carmichael a lot. She could already visualize her signature. Jodie Carmichael. Much classier than Jodie Klein would have looked.

  And she liked everything else about Rowley Carmichael a lot, too. Most of all his listing, at equal number 225, on the most recent Sunday Times Rich List.

  She took an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table, cut it in half with the knife provided, and bit into it, hungrily. Then, chewing, she opened the lid of her laptop, and smiled as she saw that another email from Rowley had come in.

  Several months ago she had spotted his online advertisement:

  Mature widower. Seeks companion with love of fine art, opera, theatre, fine dining, wine, travel, adventure for companionship – and maybe more . . .

  Even though she had been engaged to Walt Klein, Jodie had responded using her maiden name. She was registered, under different names, with several online dating agencies for wealthy singles. She had, electronically, kissed a lot of proverbial frogs. But it was that one on Rich and Single that had caught her attention, a couple of months back. She liked the ‘and maybe more . . .’ To her trained eye, it had a subtext of a certain element of desperation.

  Desperation was good.

  She’d read it through a couple of times more, then pinged a carefully constructed email back, accompanied by a demure photograph, taken after she’d skilfully applied make-up, attached to the profile she had just created for herself:

  Beautiful, raven-haired widow of a certain age seeks mature male with cultured tastes in arts, food and travel for friendship and perhaps a future.

  Rowley Carmichael had replied less than an hour later.

  Since then, in preparation for Walt’s eventual demise, she had secretly and very carefully been reeling Rowley Carmichael in. Now he was ready. And she was free! She never kept all her eggs in the same basket; although Walt appeared vastly wealthy she’d always had a plan B, and that was to get rid of him as quickly as possible and move on.

  She yawned. It was just after 4 p.m. and it would soon be growing dark outside. She was increasingly feeling the effects of jet lag – and the champagne. At the same time she didn’t want to waste an evening in New York – you never knew what might happen. Maybe she’d meet someone for a one-night stand. Right now, she didn’t much care who, so long as he was good-looking and not a slobbering geriatric like Walt. This was a city of singles bars famed for one-night stands. That’s what she fancied right now. A one-night stand with a hunk, who would screw her brains out for a few hours. God, she’d not had decent sex for – a year. More than a year.

  And the good news was that one of the city’s hottest singles bars was right here, downstairs in this hotel.

  She set her alarm for 6 p.m., lay back on the bed and crashed out.

  11

  Wednesday 18 February

  Shortly before 7 p.m., showered and wearing the most revealing outfit she had with her – a short black dress and black leather ankle boots – Jodie perched on a red chair at the long, darkly lit bar and ordered a Manhattan. She was slender and beautiful, with all the confidence to go with it. She had styled her dark hair in ringlets and was classily – if just a tiny bit too revealingly – dressed.

  But her best asset of all had always been her eyes. They were wide, cobalt blue and crystal clear. You-can-trust-me eyes. Come-to-bed eyes.

  Dangerous eyes.

  She sipped her drink slowly, pacing herself. But sooner than she had anticipated, all that was left of it was the maraschino cherry at the bottom. Already she was feeling a warm glow from the alcohol. As she raised a hand to signal one of the bartenders, she became aware of a figure beside her, a man easing himself onto the next chair.

  ‘Allow me to buy you another?’ he asked in a richly charming voice that was part American, part mittel-European and part very drunk.

  She shot him a glance. He was in his late thirties or early forties, with Latino good looks beneath short, black tousled hair and beautiful, almost impossibly white teeth. He wore a black jacket over a white shirt, with a gold chain round his neck. And he looked wasted, either on drugs or booze.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, smiling back. ‘A Manhattan, straight up, with two cherries.’

  He ordered two, then turned back to her. ‘My name’s Romeo,’ he said.

  ‘Juliet!’ she replied, thinking on her feet.

  ‘You are kidding?’

  ‘Nope!’

  His eyes widened in a smile. Large, hazelnut irises. With very dilated pupils, she noticed. He was definitely off his face on something.

  ‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon!’ he said, theatrically.

  ‘Who is already sick and pale with grief!’ she replied.

  ‘You know it?’ he said with astonishment. ‘You know Shakespeare?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Well, I am impressed. Romeo meets Juliet in a bar! How often is that going to happen?’

  ‘Meant to be!’ she replied, locking eyes with his. ‘So what’s your full name?’

  ‘Romeo Munteanu.’

  Their drinks arrived and he raised his glass. ‘That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.’

  ‘Be not her maid, since she is envious.’ Jodie tilted her head. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think anyone would be envious of us at this moment. The two most beautiful people in all of New York seated in a bar together.’

  ‘So you’re a modest man, are you, Romeo?’

  ‘Truth before modesty!’ He clinked his glass against hers and they drank. ‘So what brings you to this city?’

  ‘Family business,’ she said. ‘You?’

  ‘Business, too.’

  ‘What business are you in?’


  ‘Oh, you know, import–export. That kind of thing.’

  She picked up on his evasive tone. ‘Sounds interesting. Where are you from?’

  ‘Romania – Bucharest. Have you been there?’

  Locking eyes with his again she said, provocatively, ‘Not yet.’

  Their drinks slipped down easily and quickly and he ordered a second round.

  ‘So do you work for a Romanian company?’ she asked.

  ‘International,’ he said. ‘International company. I travel constantly. I like to travel.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He lifted one cherry out of his glass by the stalk, held it up in the air and moved it towards her mouth with a quizzical look.

  She closed her lips around it, pulled it clear of the stalk and chewed it, tasting the sweetness of the marinated fruit and the tang of the bourbon and Martini Rosso.

  Twenty minutes later, as he drained his third Manhattan – and Jodie hers, too – he said, suddenly, ‘Do you do coke?’

  She nodded, feeling reckless from the drink now. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I’ve got the best stuff ever – like – I mean – the best, you know? Up in my room.’ He nodded at the ceiling. ‘That is – if you’re brave enough to come to a stranger’s room?’

  ‘Fortune favours the brave, right?’

  ‘Does that come from Shakespeare, too?’

  She smiled. ‘Fortune and men’s eyes.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Sonnet Twenty-Nine. When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state.’

  He looked at her, bemused, for some moments. ‘Not only are you very beautiful, you are a font of knowledge. What else do you know?’

  She stared back into his eyes. ‘I know how to drive a man I fancy wild in bed.’

  ‘Indeed? And I believe I know how to satisfy a woman.’

  ‘Is that so?’