Perfect Strangers (16 page)

She glanced up at him in the low light and couldn’t help but notice how good his body was: tall and well defined, with firm pecs and biceps and a taut stomach. He was not someone who lived in the gym, though, she thought idly, just someone blessed with a strong, athletic body and who looked after it. He caught her looking at him and she turned away, made a show of drying her hair.

‘There’s a heater in the back, and a kettle too,’ he said quickly. ‘No milk. But you’ll have noticed it’s not the Ritz.’

Sophie opened her damp bag and starting rummaging through her possessions. They were soaked, her purse, her phone, everything apart from her plastic make-up case. Thank God she’d thought to put her passport book in there – not to mention her copy of
I Capture the Castle
. She couldn’t have stood losing that.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Josh.

‘It’s all soaked, Josh,’ she said, feeling herself begin to crumble. He must have heard the crack in her voice and gently took the bag from her. ‘All right, don’t rush,’ he said, guiding her to a plastic chair and draping his own towel over her shoulders. ‘Just take a few deep breaths. We’ve lost those guys, they won’t find us in here, okay? We’re safe now.’

Sophie looked at him, then gave a tight nod. She didn’t feel at all safe, but she knew that panicking wasn’t going to help.

‘Let’s see what I can find in here,’ he said gruffly. He flicked on a torch and moved off behind the shelves, leaving her in the semi-darkness.
God, what am I doing here?
she thought, feeling a sudden stab of longing for her old life. Not the Chelsea one, with the flat and the money and the rich boyfriend; no, her recent life, her normal one with her little flat and her tiny seedling of a business. Back then, she had thought it mundane and unexciting, but at least no one had forced her into the river. People were always criticising ordinary life, complaining about suburbia and the daily struggle to make ends meet, but it wasn’t until you had it taken away, like some trapdoor opening beneath you, that you realised just how happy you had been. Sure, Sophie had shared her dad’s dreams of adventure, of escaping to exotic places, but this? Shivering in a black puddle on a concrete floor, hiding from men who wanted to shoot her dead? She certainly didn’t want this. She stood up and peered around the shelves where Josh was digging in boxes.

‘Who’s after me, Josh?’ she asked.

He looked up and his face was earnest in the torchlight.

‘Whoever killed Nick, I’m guessing.’

‘But why?’

He tugged a handful of white T-shirts from a box, then pulled one over his own head.

‘Perhaps he had something they wanted. And now maybe they think you have it. Whatever it is, they must want it pretty badly. It’s the only explanation for getting shot at back there.’

She nodded, thinking.

‘So who was Nick, Josh?’

‘A businessman. Of sorts.’

‘Of sorts?’

He sat down on a crate and puffed out his cheeks.

‘He was a grifter, Sophie, a confidence trickster. You’d call him a con man.’

She looked at him wide-eyed.

‘A con man? Who did he con?’

‘People like you.’

‘
Me?
’ she squeaked.

‘Keep your bloody voice down,’ he snapped. ‘We don’t know if our trigger-happy friends have really gone.’

‘But what did he want from me?’ she pressed.

Josh paused for a moment and gave her a sympathetic look.

‘Money,’ he replied flatly.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Sophie, but deep down she knew that what Josh was saying could be true. Of course Nick thought she had money. They’d met at a £10,000-a-plate dinner, she’d let him believe she was some sort of health industry entrepreneur, and he had walked her back to ‘her’ £15 million home.

‘Oh God,’ she said.

‘What?’ He looked at her. ‘Tell me, Sophie. We were shot at earlier, or had you forgotten? I think you owe it to me to tell me everything.’

So slowly, haltingly, Sophie told Josh about house-sitting at Lana’s house, about the party invitations on the mantelpiece, the borrowed wardrobe and her nearly week-long act of playing the millionaire.

‘I have no money, Josh,’ she said, feeling wretched. ‘It was an illusion. I didn’t tell him I was a broke personal trainer because I knew he’d think I was a gold-digger.’

Josh gave a mirthless laugh.

‘Instead it turns out you were both playing the same game.’

She wished he would be compassionate, but then what did she expect from a man like Josh McCormack?

‘What was he going to do to me, Josh?’ she asked quietly.

‘At a guess, the Spanish Prisoner,’ he said finally.

‘The Spanish what?’

‘It’s one of the oldest cons in the book. Basically, he would convice you he was rich, pay for everything, shower you with presents, until you completely trusted him. Then he would suddenly need money: some investment gone bad, a bridging loan on a building development – it doesn’t really matter. In the old days, the con would need a ransom for a wealthy nobleman captured by the Spanish, hence the name. Anyway, you would offer the money, he would reluctantly accept – and then he’d disappear.’

‘So everything he said to me was a lie?’ she croaked.

Josh gave her that sympathetic look again, and Sophie began to hate him for it.

‘Sophie, you’re a beautiful woman.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe what you two had together wasn’t just work, I can’t say. But that was what Nick did; he used rich women, conned them, lived off them. You asked me what his business was. That’s what he did.’

For a few moments Sophie couldn’t speak.

‘But how come . . .’ she began, but Josh held up a hand.

‘Later, Sophie. If you don’t get some clothes on soon, you’re going to do that hit man’s job for him.’

He pulled something out of a box.

‘Here, try these. I can’t see much, so forgive me if it’s not exactly colour co-ordinated.’

He handed Sophie an armful of clothes, all seemingly brand new and covered with crinkly cellophane. Sophie held up a dress on a hanger. It had an elaborate blue and gold print she recognised.

‘Versace?’ she said. ‘It’s this season, too. How did you . . .?’

‘Don’t ask,’ said Josh, handing her a pair of black patent pumps. ‘I’ve guessed the size, but there are most sizes back there. Just shout if the coat’s too much as well.’

Sophie looked at her new wardrobe with disbelief. Either Josh’s friend spent his weekends ram-raiding Bond Street, or he was very connected in Milan, though Sophie seriously doubted whether the top fashion houses would be happy to store their valuable stock in some run-down garage clinging to the side of the Thames.

‘Josh, are these fakes?’

‘At this moment in time, I thought you’d be grateful to wear anything. Fake or authentic.’

‘I am, but . . .’ The thing was, her knickers were still soaking, but she didn’t want to point that out.

He threw her a pair of Calvin Klein men’s trunks.

‘Best I can do. Sorry,’ he said with a half-smile.

He gave her privacy as she dried off properly and got into the clothes. He was right, she didn’t care what sort they were, especially when she pulled on the heavy wool coat and wrapped her arms about herself. Finally the chill was starting to leave her bones, at least. Still, she was far from comfortable being here, stranded in some Fagin’s hideout, with unknown assailants – possibly killers – on her trail. She didn’t know where she was going to go next, she just knew she wanted to get out of there.

‘We need to get to a phone and call Inspector Fox,’ she said.

‘No, Sophie,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe to talk to the police.’

‘Why not?’

‘Number one,’ he said, ‘you said it yourself, you’re the prime suspect in Nick’s murder. After you called me, I went straight on the net – and Nick’s death is the top news story. Number two, you say a Met inspector is going to your flat? That saves him getting a warrant. Now maybe this guy is as straight as a die, but what if he’s not? He could be planting any sort of evidence in your knicker drawer. My bet is that they’ll arrest you within twenty-four hours even if it’s just to be seen to be doing something. And then it’s in their interest to find something to make it stick. No one wants to look stupid, especially with the media watching.’

‘But they’re the police, they can’t do that.’

He turned round and peeled off his wet boxer shorts. She tried to look away, but she couldn’t resist sneaking a peek before he pulled on his own Calvins.

‘Number three,’ he added, oblivious. ‘Even if they’re not planning on pinning this on you, we really don’t want the police to know where we are in any case.’

He put on a suit which Sophie noticed had a Gucci tag hanging from it.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she frowned.

‘Okay. You read the papers, right? You know how they’re always going on about institutionalised racism in the police force?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, it’s crap. “Racism” is actually just a euphemism for “corruption”. There’s corruption right through the force, but no one will admit it, because frankly, there’s nothing anyone can do about it. In fact, if you ask me, it’s the only way they can do a decent job.’

Sophie shook her head.

‘I don’t understand. You’re saying that all policemen are corrupt?’

‘Not all, no. But some are. Tip-offs, bribes, kick-backs, it all goes on. Somebody gets killed, it’s on the news within minutes. I bet there were reporters at Nick’s hotel when they took you out, yeah?’

She had to nod; it had been horrible – shoving cameras up against the glass of the car, shouting out questions; she had felt like a criminal.

‘Sophie, right now, you have thugs on your trail who have killed and will kill again. At a push, I’d say they are gangsters. Albanian, Kosovan. Russian. People like that have power, connections, even inside the police. All it will take is a call to the right person, the appropriate amount of cash – and bingo, they’ve found you.’

‘You’re beginning to make jail sound like an appealing option.’

‘You’re not safe there either; in fact you could be a sitting target.’

She wondered briefly if Josh was saying this from personal experience; whether he had ever seen the inside of a prison cell.

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘We?’ replied Josh quickly.

‘Sorry,’ stuttered Sophie. ‘I just assumed . . .’

‘I’ve saved you from armed thugs and given you the best counterfeit Versace on the market already,’ he said. ‘What more to do you expect from me?’

It was true; he’d already done so much for her, but she couldn’t go home, she couldn’t go to the police. She had nowhere else to go.

‘Please, Josh,’ she said softly. ‘I need . . . I need a friend right now.’

‘Spare me the emotional blackmail.’

‘Josh, I need you.’

He paused, rubbing the stubble on his chin.

‘You didn’t even bring me those beers,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘So you’ll help me?’ she said, feeling a dart of hope.

‘I can’t exactly go back to my houseboat, can I?’ he said, looking at her. ‘Thanks to you, whoever those shooters are now know where I live.’

‘Exactly, so we need to find out who they are and what they want.’

He frowned, his dark brows knitting together.

‘Now listen to me, this isn’t a game. If I’m going to help you, you’ve got to tell me everything – leave nothing out, however small or embarrassing, okay?’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said, her shoulders slumping in relief.

Josh grunted.

‘And you do exactly what I say, when I say, we clear on that?’

‘Perfectly.’

Josh pulled a face. ‘If only I could believe that were true.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘All right, first things first. Did Nick give you anything? A file, a computer disk, anything?’

Sophie looked down at the floor. She had been over and over this in her head.

‘Nothing. I almost wish he had,’ she said. ‘Then it would make some sort of sense.’

‘Well, it doesn’t really matter. It’s enough that they think you have something.’

‘But what is it?’ said Sophie, her voice rising. ‘What was Nick mixed up in?’

‘I told you we weren’t good friends, not lately anyway,’ said Josh carefully. ‘But we go way back; once or twice we’ve even worked together. So when we did meet, we’d talk about stuff. The last time I saw him, I was in Paris, at a watch expo, he was in the city on business and we bumped into each other at a fashion party. He told me he’d been working in Paris and the South of France on a job, a big job. Lucrative.’

‘He said he’d spent the last few months in Paris but wasn’t specific about what he was doing there.’

Josh shrugged. ‘Nick was never specific.’

‘So you don’t know what the job was either?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you think it might have something to do with his death?’

‘Who knows. But money is always a strong motive for murder. Money and women,’ he added, looking straight at her.

She ignored the jibe.

‘Well, he did tell me he was going back to Houston, which suggests maybe the job was finished,’ she said hopefully.

‘He
said
he was going back to Houston,’ said Josh, raising his eyebrows. ‘He was a con man, remember.’

She cupped her hands in front of her face in frustration. ‘This is useless, Josh. We don’t know anything, we can’t tell anyone where we are and we can’t trust anyone! What the hell are we going to do?’

She looked up and saw the beginnings of a smile on his face.

‘I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,’ said Josh in a low, conspiratorial voice. ‘We’re going to go to Paris.’

16

Ruth had been curled up in the footwell behind the driver’s seat of her Fiesta for nearly half an hour. She had cramp in both legs, and as she’d had a coat over her head the entire time, she was finding it hard to breathe. This wasn’t how she had planned to spend her evening. She’d pictured herself unpacking her suitcase at David’s, maybe ordering Chinese in and celebrating having taken their relationship to the next level. But no, she was cowering like a wild animal in a parked car somewhere in a Chelsea wasteland.

She tensed as she heard a sharp rap on the car’s window.
Don’t move, don’t move
, she thought, imagining an armed assassin looming over the car.