Peter James: Love You Dead

‘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.