Love You Dead

97 Thursday 12 March

Jodie Carmichael walked through the busy concourse of Victoria Station to the Brighton line platforms. She was in a foul mood after a distinctly unsatisfactory meeting with her lawyers. She used a top London firm of solicitors as she felt more anonymous there than with a local Brighton firm.

She reflected, as she walked, on the costly hour and a half of advice she had received from one of the firm’s senior matrimonial law partners, Drendia Ann Edwards. Jodie had been correct, Edwards had told her, the captain of the ship was a certified registrant and the marriage was indeed legal and binding. But, with almost unprecedented speed, a marker had already been put down by the law firm acting for Rowley Carmichael’s children. Alarmed at the haste of their late father’s marriage — and subsequent death — she confirmed they were not accepting the Goan Coroner’s report and, despite the fact that their father’s body was embalmed, were demanding a second post-mortem. They were prepared to take their fight to any level — and they had pockets deep enough to do so, Edwards had warned.

Which meant she would almost certainly be in for a massive fight over Rowley’s estate, too. Something that could easily drag on for a couple of years, maybe longer, with costs that could run into tens, if not hundreds, of thousands, which she would have to fund. At the end of the day she should certainly inherit some of his fortune — but that could easily be some while into the future.

Most of her inheritance from her first husband, Christopher Bentley, had gone on buying the house in Roedean, and on living and travel costs. She had the $200,000 windfall from the Romanian in New York, which would see her through for a bit, and she had a small emergency fund stashed away, but bloody Walt Klein had caused her to eat into that. She’d had to pay for everything out in Courchevel on her own card, because both Walt’s card and the one he had given her had been declined at checkout; on top of that, she was out of pocket for that ridiculously expensive coffin she’d bought him.

If she didn’t find another source of funding quickly, she might need to sell one of her properties. The Roedean house had soared in value in the years since she had bought it, but having to sell and downsize would be a worst-case scenario. An admission of defeat, and an end — even if only temporarily — to her plan, to the goals she had set herself.

Perching on her Standard Class seat — the first time in years she’d not travelled First — she was feeling a slight sense of panic that she was going to have to start making economies. She decided the first thing she would do when she got back home was sift through all the replies from the internet dating agencies that would be in her inbox, and contact a few of the most promising ones.

She slumped back and picked up an abandoned copy of the paper on the seat next to her, which had been left open part way through. She liked to keep updated on local Brighton and Sussex news — and especially anything that might refer or relate directly or indirectly to her.

The page seven headline of the Argus read:

She scanned it. A gang was operating in Brighton and Hove, breaking into houses not to burgle their contents but to get the keys to high-end cars, particularly Range Rovers and top of the range sports cars.

She thought back to the break-in at her home. Was that what the thief had been after? Her Mercedes?

She turned a few pages and saw another, smaller headline.

She speed-read the article, which said that the police were mounting a series of spot checks in the city to catch people still over the drink-drive limit the following morning. She flipped through a few more pages then closed the paper, and immediately the front page splash caught her eye.

She looked at the photograph of the man, read the article, then looked back at his photograph again; not that she really cared what he looked like. She was thinking to herself, OK, I could shag you for seventeen billion dollars. Not a problem. I could definitely be the love of your life. For the short amount you have left of it!

She actually found him quite sexy. And, she noted, the Argus said Cornel would be in Brighton for just a few days before returning to California to tie up his affairs there. Shit, she was going to have to strike fast to catch him while he was here. She read on, avidly.

So how many hotels in this city would I go to ground in? she wondered. The Hotel du Vin? The Hilton Metropole? The Grand? One of the other smaller boutique hotels?

A rather grand hotel.

Oh, you wonderfully clever bitch of a reporter!