The Summer Without You (57 page)

‘And Kevin
did
die,’ Bobbi retorted. ‘Did he beat
himself
to death with the golf club?’ Both Ro and Greg winced at the brutality in her words.

‘Maybe you’re both right and both wrong,’ Greg said, cutting in, and breaking their deadlock.

‘Huh?’

‘From what’s been reported in the papers and what Ro’s saying about this necklace, it sounds like maybe Kevin did try to induce Florence to sell the house. But if what
you’re saying is true too, then he probably wasn’t behind the other incidents. Throwing boiling coffee over someone? Cutting earth wires? Those are
big
escalations from a pearl
necklace being returned.’

Bobbi planted her hands on her hips, looking so fierce she could have been standing on a chariot with flames shooting out behind her. ‘So then, what are you saying?’

Greg inhaled slowly. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe that someone else is behind the other attacks?’

‘Someone
else
?’ Ro whispered, feeling a cold shiver tiptoe through her bones. ‘You mean, if the person who hurt Florence wasn’t Kevin, and Kevin is now dead, then
they were
both
attacked by the same person?’

‘I’d say there’s a chance all the events are related,’ Greg said quietly, putting a soothing hand on her arm.

‘But how could Florence possibly be linked with Kevin?’ Ro asked, her voice tremulous. This was getting worse and worse. ‘And if they’ve killed him . . . what . . .
?’ She couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bear to articulate the danger her friend must be in still. ‘But what do they want from
her
? She’s said
she’ll put the house up for sale,’ she added quickly.

Greg was quiet for a long while, his eyes moving along the ground as he tried to join the dots. ‘It may not be about the house at all. It was for Kevin, clearly, but for these others
– whoever they are – it could be something else entirely. You said that Florence found out that the house next door was sold to an offshore company. Did she say where? Caymans, the
British Virgin Islands?’

‘Bermuda.’

‘Bermuda?’ he echoed thoughtfully. He looked back at Bobbi. ‘Did Kevin ever talk to you about going out to Bermuda? Any trips he took there?’

Bobbi shook her head slowly. ‘Not that I recall. He said he’d had a holiday at Easter in Antigua.’

He chewed his lower lip, deep in thought.

‘What?’ Ro pushed. ‘What’s so interesting about Bermuda?’

‘Just let me make some calls. My resignation isn’t being announced till Monday, so I’ve still got the company resources at my disposal till then.’ He disappeared inside
quickly, leaving Bobbi and Ro alone again.

Ro glanced at Bobbi, trying to gauge her housemate’s mood. The discovery of the necklace put them on opposing sides of both incidents – Bobbi on Kevin’s, her on
Florence’s, as they struggled to find the link between one’s friend and the other’s lover.

They sank in silence onto the porch swing.

‘Listen, I’m sorry about what I said about Kevin,’ Ro said. ‘I’m not trying to make him out to be a monster. I just have to protect Florence. She’s been
through so much – you couldn’t begin to imagine.’ She thought about Marina and the sadness in Florence’s eyes whenever she’d talked about her family. She’d lost
her daughter in the most terrible of circumstances, and now all this . . .

‘Hey, listen – I don’t know why I’m defending the guy, like I’m Girlfriend of the Year or something,’ Bobbi murmured. ‘The truth is, we went out a few
times. I wanted his contacts and a promotion; he wanted . . .’ She shrugged, pointing to the obvious. ‘It was never a love thing. And if I’m honest, I was using him to get back at
you-know-who.’ She fell quiet. ‘I guess I just feel like . . . ’cos of the way he died, he deserves a little loyalty. He’s had a bad enough deal.’

‘I understand,’ Ro nodded, her mind trawling back to the morning he had died.
She
had been the last person to see him alive. If Matt hadn’t picked up, she’d have
seen it all – every terrifying, soul-destroying moment of it. In all likelihood, she had seen the murderer. She remembered his companion, in the red trousers and panama, drawing his clubs
from the bag . . .

She stiffened.

‘What is it?’ Bobbi’s voice sounded far away.

‘I’m not sure.’ Fragments of memories were drifting up, her mind having settled momentarily into the free-flow state she sank into so easily in Melodie’s classes, making
associations that ordinarily she wouldn’t think to connect . . .

Greg stepped out onto the porch and leaned on the railing opposite. ‘So, I just asked for a search to see what came up on Kevin’s assets. Turns out he sold his entire portfolio to a
firm called SB Holdings Ltd, registered in Bermuda, three weeks before his death.’

Ro looked up at him, the tenuous connections fading again like footprints in snow. ‘Yes, that’s the name. Florence told me that.’

‘SB Holdings? That’s the name of the company he was non-exec for. I saw it on LinkedIn. Remember I told you, Ro?’ Bobbi said, her eyes keen and intense.

‘But hang on a minute, how could he be both?’

‘Both what?’ Bobbi asked her.

‘How could he sell them their stock and also be a director on their board? A friend of mine from uni was asked to be one last year and she was telling me all about it – independence
is mandatory; she said she couldn’t be involved in the running of the company or have a key relationship with them, like being a customer or a supplier. And surely Kevin would be counted as a
supplier?’

‘You’re right,’ Greg agreed. ‘It’s not an ethical way of running a board.’

‘That business sounds dodgy to me,’ Bobbi offered, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘We should take this to the police.’

Ro stared into space, trying not to make snap judgements, trying to make sense of the half-clues they had. ‘Hang on, let’s just take a minute and go over what we know for sure. We
know Kevin tried to bribe Florence. We know he sold his entire portfolio to a company that operates outside board regulations, and that this same company owns the house next door to Florence. We
know Kevin’s been killed, obviously, and that Florence has been the victim of a supposed freak accident that nearly killed
her
.’

‘Right. But one thing’s niggling me,’ Greg frowned. ‘Why list the company in
Bermuda
? Bermuda is an offshore hub for insurance and re-insurance and the banking
sector. Not property investment.’

‘Insur—’ Ro’s voice trailed away.
Ninety-eight per cent of my business is conducted on the golf course . . .
‘The police think Kevin was killed by a business
associate,’ she murmured.

‘That’s their angle,’ Bobbi agreed, watching her.

Oh no. No. Ro paced the porch, her head in her hands, pushing down on her temples, trying to fit the pieces together and in the same breath trying to push away the answer that kept forming.

‘Ro? Talk to us,’ Greg said, following after her, touching her elbow. ‘What is it?’

She looked up at him. ‘I think I know who killed Kevin.’

They rang the bell three times, but the solid-wood gates remained closed.

‘They don’t have dogs, right?’ Greg asked her, clearly deliberating scaling them.

‘No, I’m pretty su—’

‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice crackled through the intercom.

‘Hey! It’s me – Ro!’ Ro called out, leaning across Greg in the front of the Humper.

‘Ro? . . . Just a second.’

There was a minute’s pause and then the mechanism sounded up and the gates began to swing back. They rumbled noisily into the drive, not that they had ever thought there was a chance of
entering the property unheard. This wasn’t a stealth attack. They weren’t expecting him to run. As Greg had impressed upon them at home, ‘We’re simply there to ask questions
– the necklace alone isn’t enough to link Kevin and Florence: she’s got no proof she ever received it. We just have to get him to talk about Bermuda, trip himself up.’ Greg
had his phone set to Siri in his pocket.

‘Hey,’ Melodie smiled, greeting them on the doorstep, wrapping a towelling robe round her. Her hair was wet. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘No, no.’ Ro shook her head, greeting her warmly as usual. ‘We were just passing on our way back from the beach and wondered if you were in.’

Melodie took in Bobbi’s navy suit and heels, Greg’s work clothes too. The beach?

‘But please do say if it’s a bad time.’ Ro shifted weight nervously, worried her friend could see through her act. Oh, why couldn’t she have a poker face, just once?

‘Not at all. I was just having a swim. Come through.’

The small troupe wandered through into the enormous living space, the water trickling down the far wall like a fairy wonderland, Bobbi taking care to ‘mind the gap’ this time in her
heels.

The lights were on in the pool, the water still disturbed from her recent swim. Ro looked out, remembering the dinner they’d had there over two months earlier – how Brook had
dominated with his political and ecological posturings.

‘Can I fix you some drinks?’ Melodie asked, wandering over to a butler’s tray and holding up a bottle of gin.

‘I’m driving, thanks,’ Greg said.

‘So I see. You’ve got the Humper . . . but no Hump?’

‘No, he’s out.’

She handed a gin and tonic with a twist of lime to the girls, a sparkling water to Greg.

‘Is Brook out too?’ Bobbi asked.

‘Of course.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The Town Board is meeting tomorrow to vote on the recommendations put forward by the Coastal Erosion Committee. He’s still lobbying for
the beach project, even with just hours to go.
Some
people still need persuading, apparently.’

So then he wasn’t even here? Ro’s eyes slid over to Greg and she could see the same sense of disappointment on his face too. Ro took tiny sips of her drink, feeling bad that they had
barged in here and were using Melodie’s hospitality to investigate her husband.

‘It sounds to me like Senator McClusky might have competition,’ Greg said lightly, lapsing into social chit-chat, a smile on his handsome face. ‘Pressure’s growing on him
to stand down. Has Brook ever thought about setting his sights higher than local politics?’

‘You joke, but you’re not the first to say it. He’s so passionate about these issues.’ She smiled. ‘Of course, he says passionate; I say obsessive.’

‘What drives him, do you think? Philanthropy?’ Greg asked, raising his hands slightly to indicate the lavish house they were standing in. ‘Giving something back?’

‘Oh, definitely. I think he’s seen enough hardship over the years, through his work, that he feels a sense of civic responsibility.’

‘You mean through running the National Flood Insurance Program?’ Greg confirmed, strengthening his theory.

‘I don’t know what that is,’ Ro said, shrugging apologetically.

‘It’s the insurer of last resort for those poor souls who can’t otherwise get mortgages along the coast; theirs are the properties most at risk and the other banks won’t
touch them.’ Melodie shook her head. ‘But even the NFIP can’t help everyone, and Brook’s seen too many people left ruined and homeless. He wants to be the good guy, but more
and more he finds he’s got to say “no”. There are entire swathes of areas that have been effectively ghettoized now by legal small print.’

And therefore going for stony-broke selling prices, Ro thought – remembering what she’d read in the paper about how Kevin had bought up the entirety of the Montauk Harbor wharves in
the immediate weeks following Sandy. Everything made sense now: Brook knew what was uninsurable; Kevin swooped in with a smile, an inducement and a better-than-nothing offer. They had been in this
together. But still she didn’t understand one thing: if the properties were uninsurable, why buy them at all? Without insurance, the buildings were effectively worthless, and even the plots
themselves held no value when the town policy was to leave them to the ocean . . .

Some
people still need persuading.

The glass fell from Ro’s hand, shattering on the concrete floor and making them all jump, as she made the connection at last.

‘Ro? What’s the matter?’ Bobbi asked, running over in her heels, crunching glass beneath her leather soles.

‘She’s gone as white as a sheet!’ Melodie cried. ‘Quick, hold her, Greg – in case she faints.’

Greg ran over to her too as Melodie, who was barefoot, slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops and ran over to a cupboard to get a dustpan and brush.

‘Good diversion,’ Greg whispered, as he threw her arm around his shoulder.

‘The vote’s tomorrow,’ Ro mumbled. ‘It’s all for nothing if he doesn’t get the vote for the beach. Don’t you see? It secures the funding for the
area’s long-term protection and regeneration. With that, he can redevelop and sell on at a massive profit – say to a waterpark?’

‘Jesus,’ Greg whispered.

‘Is she OK?’ Melodie asked, running back and beginning to sweep up the broken glass.

‘She doesn’t look well. We’d better get her home. I’m so sorry – we didn’t mean to barge in and then run out again,’ Greg said to Melodie as they led Ro
out towards the front door.

‘Don’t worry. Just look after her. She’s been overdoing it recently. I’ll come by in the morning,’ Melodie said, crouched down and watching after them with
concern.

Ro let herself be led away, feigning light-headedness but her mind running over the same two things.

One person was standing in the way of that vote.

And Melodie’s flip-flops were yellow.

‘No, don’t park there – we could be seen on the CCTV,’ Ro said two minutes later, stopping Greg from turning right into the driveway. ‘Just go
straight ahead. We’ll park in the general car park.’

‘But how will we get in?’ Bobbi asked from the back seat. ‘These places are all like fortresses.’

‘Not the older ones. Follow me,’ Ro said, throwing open the car door.

Greg stopped her, his hand on her arm. ‘You’re sure about this, Ro?’

‘Absolutely certain. Florence is opposing the measures he’s trying to push through and he needs to win that vote tomorrow. That development deal is worthless without the new beach.
He’ll be here, I can promise you.’