Perfect Strangers (18 page)

‘Josh, please,’ she stuttered. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

His eyes were cold as he looked at her. ‘Here are your choices,’ he replied flatly. ‘You can either come with me, or you can run off home to Daddy.’

‘My dad’s dead,’ said Sophie. ‘He died four weeks ago.’

Josh just shrugged.

‘I’m sorry, but it doesn’t change anything.’

He put his arm in the air as a black cab appeared around the bend in the road, its light glowing mercifully orange.

‘Your choice, Sophie,’ he said, opening the door.

He was right. She did have a choice. She could go back to Paddington Green, or she could go back to Wade House. But if Josh was right that the Russians could find out where she was through some corrupt policeman, then neither option seemed viable. Not if she wanted to stay alive.

She shivered at the thought of how close the bullet had come to hitting her.

‘I’m coming,’ she said.

Josh gave a slight nod, then looked at the driver.

‘St Pancras via Pimlico, please,’ he said.

Sophie waited until they were moving before she turned to Josh.

‘Pimlico?’ she whispered.

‘Passport,’ he said simply.

She frowned. ‘It’s in Pimlico?’

‘No.’ He sighed heavily. ‘It’s back on the boat.’

He didn’t need to say that it was not a good idea to return there. She wanted to ask more, but a look at his face told her that he wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk. Besides, the thrum of the cab’s diesel engine was soothing and her eyelids were feeling heavy.

She jolted awake when the taxi stopped, her head resting on Josh’s shoulder.

‘Sorry, I . . .’

Josh ignored her. ‘Wait here, okay? I won’t be long.’

She watched him cross the road to a long row of white stucco town houses, not immaculate like Lana’s Knightsbridge home, but rough around the edges, with peeling window frames and bikes chained to the railings. Flats, probably. Josh bent to speak into an intercom, and a tall, dark-haired man in a dressing gown appeared. His unkempt hair and scowl suggested he had been dragged out of bed – and wasn’t exactly overjoyed about it. It was, after all, only quarter past four in the morning.
I’d be angry too
, Sophie thought, as Josh went inside.

She rested her head back on the seat, watching the dawn send soft golden stripes of light rising up above the Mary Poppins chimneypots into the Prussian-blue sky. She could almost feel the city coming to life around her. The hum of a milk float, the grumble of the last night bus making the final trip south of the river, the rare twitter of a bird in the spindly trees.

On any other day she would have appreciated the beauty of the summer sunrise, but right now she just wanted to get to the train station.

She started as the door opened and Josh jumped in.

‘St Pancras, mate,’ he said to the driver. ‘Quick as you like.’

‘What kept you?’ said Sophie, as they set off again. ‘I thought you weren’t coming back.’

‘How could I tear myself away?’ he replied, almost smiling.

The concourse at St Pancras station was busier than Sophie had expected, especially considering it was barely five in the morning. The high hollow space was clanging with the voices and hurrying footsteps of early-bird tourists and business commuters on their way to meetings. Sophie tightened her grip on her bag and tried her best to look casual, but inside she was feeling more frightened than when they had jumped into the freezing waters of the Thames. Back then, she hadn’t had any choice – it was either jump or die – but here, every one of the people in front of her was a potential assassin, every one of them could be an undercover police officer. Not that she had done anything wrong – not yet, anyway. She guessed this was how it felt being a shoplifter when you had the clothes or jewellery stuffed inside your coat and you were heading for the exit; until she actually stepped on to the Eurostar, she was just another innocent citizen wandering about a train station.

She tried to make conversation to distract herself.

‘So all that fake stuff in the garage. Is it really yours or your friend’s?’ she asked, struggling to keep up with Josh’s fast pace.

He shot her a look.

‘It’s my friend’s.’

‘But you said it was your lock-up.’

‘So I’m a good friend. I help people out.’

‘You’re handling counterfeit goods, Josh. That’s illegal.’

‘Speaks she, a suspect in a murder investigation.’

Sophie looked around fretfully. ‘Be quiet!’ she hissed. ‘You don’t know who’s listening.’

Josh looked at the crowd moving around them: no one was paying the slightest attention to them.

‘Why is all this so important to you anyway?’ he asked.

‘Because I’m about to leave the country with you,’ said Sophie. ‘I usually like to know who I go travelling with.’

He smiled and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a passport.

‘Here, take a look.’

Frowning, Sophie opened it.

‘Christopher Barnard?’ she said, reading the name inside. She did a double-take at the photograph, then gasped as the penny dropped.

‘It’s your friend from Pimlico . . .’

It was uncanny: the same dark eyes, the same thick floppy hair and brooding good looks; the two men could be brothers.

‘People always say we look alike. I’m a lot more handsome, of course, but the bloke on passport control won’t be looking for that.’

Sophie shook her head at him, open-mouthed.

‘Josh, you
can’t
go through passport control with someone else’s passport!’

‘Well unless you want to go back to the boat, we don’t have much choice,’ he whispered urgently, before giving her the slightest smile. ‘And they won’t notice, so long as you start calling me Christopher from here on in.’

‘
Josh
,’ she said. ‘I’m serious!’

‘Christopher,’ he corrected. ‘Come on, princess, just give me your passport.’

‘Will you stop calling me princess! I’m not some spoilt prima donna, you know.’

‘Passport. Now,’ he said holding out his hand.

It was inside her plastic make-up case in her small nylon backpack. Reluctantly she unzipped it and handed the document over. She watched, her heart sinking as Josh walked towards the ticket desk, asking herself again why she was trusting this man. For all she knew he could just disappear into the crowd, taking her passport and her only chance of escape. She hopped from one foot to the other nervously, trying to look inconspicuous as Josh went up to the ticket agent and flashed her a smile. The twenty-something girl behind the desk looked sullen – who could blame her this early in the morning? – but when Josh launched into his patter, her face lit up, her head tipping to one side, and she laughed. Sophie turned away.
Another bloody slick, charming liar. Just like his friend Nick
.

She cursed herself; she knew she shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But the truth was, her grief about Nick’s death – and her feelings for him – had been tainted. It was hard not to feel bitter about the lies he had told her, not to mention the mess he had dragged her into. And now she was about to leave the country, leaving her family and friends far behind, for how long, she had no idea – and all because of Nick and whatever sordid schemes he was tangled up in. Was Josh McCormack any better, any more reliable than his friend? Probably not, but then what choice did she have but to trust another stranger?

‘Here you go,’ said Josh, sauntering back waving an envelope. ‘Business class.’ He slipped an arm across her shoulders.

‘Hey!’ said Sophie, shrugging him off, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Relax,’ he whispered. ‘Try and look natural. We’re a young couple off to Paris, we have to play the part, okay?’

Sophie forced a smile. ‘Okay,’ she said, but she wasn’t sure how natural she could look with her shoulders tensed and her stomach churning. She just wanted to get on the train and out of London. Her legs felt weak too as Josh steered her towards the security check. They were going to stop her, she was sure of it, glancing up at the roof, looking for CCTV cameras. Inspector Fox would certainly be wondering where the hell she was after her phone call yesterday. Surely he’d have sent out an alert to be on the lookout for a woman meeting her description.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Josh, drawing her to one side. ‘You’re walking like a waxwork.’

‘What do you think’s the bloody matter? We’re about to go through security and Fox will have alerted the airports, the railway stations, everywhere. They’re going to arrest us, Josh.’

Josh gave a slight smile which riled her enormously.

‘Sophie, the police have questioned you, that’s all. You haven’t been accused or charged with anything. You’re hardly the outlaw Josey Wales.’

‘It’s not funny, Josh,’ she said, glancing towards the security gate. ‘Look, I’m turning back.’

He gripped her arm and pulled her into an alcove in front of a bureau de change booth, his grey eyes searching hers.

‘Listen to me, Sophie. You’re not on any Interpol “most wanted” list. The police almost never put out a port stop, unless it’s a particularly high-profile case or they think someone’s going to get killed. It’s too much hassle and it costs too much money.’

Sophie’s brow creased.

‘You’re telling me . . . I’m not wanted?’

‘I doubt it very much. Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Disappoint me? You think I’m enjoying this?’ she snapped, pulling away from him.

‘All right,’ said Josh, holding his hands up. ‘Now calm down, you’re attracting attention. In fact that security guard is looking at you now – don’t turn around!’

‘But Josh—’

‘Shut up and pretend you’re enjoying this.’

Before she had time to grasp what was happening, Josh had grabbed her and pressed his lips on to hers. She gasped in surprise and resisted him, but when his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her in, she had no choice but to melt into the kiss. And as they pulled apart, she inhaled sharply. She was still only inches away from his face, still breathing the same air as he was, and could still smell him, taste him on her tongue. She stumbled back and he caught her arm.

‘That shut you up,’ he growled. ‘Now, we’ve got twenty-five minutes before the train leaves.’

He grabbed her hand and led her to passport control. She was still in shock and followed in mute silence as her bag was put through the metal detector, Josh joking with the security guard, who just glanced at their passports and waved them through.

‘You’d better be quick,’ he said.

Josh took her bag and quickened his pace, but Sophie held his sleeve to slow him down.

‘Don’t run,’ she hissed. ‘I feel like a fugitive.’

‘You
are
a fugitive,’ he whispered. ‘Come on, we’re about to miss the train and I just want to get out of here.’

He pulled her up the ramp, running along the length of the sleek silver train. It looked so good, like a bird that would pick them up and fly them to safety. Sophie’s heart was hammering now; she could hardly believe they had managed to get through security so easily. Maybe she was going to get away after all. She glanced back over her shoulder, half expecting to see dark uniforms or burly Russians chasing them, but apart from a guard with a flag, they were alone.

‘You coming?’ said Josh. He was on the steps of the train, his hand reaching out to her.

She had spent the past twelve hours feeling frightened, unsettled, anxious, but looking up and seeing the sign for Paris, a surge of exhilaration gripped her.

‘Try and stop me,’ she replied as she took his hand.

18

Ruth wandered into David’s kitchen still half asleep. He was sitting at the table reading the
Financial Times
and absentmindedly sticking a fork into a salmon fillet. Ruth opened a cabinet at random, finding only tea bags and a bottle of expensive-looking olive oil.

‘Have you got any cornflakes?’ she said, rubbing sleep from the corner of her eye.

‘Don’t do carbs in the morning, remember?’ said David, not looking up from his paper.

At her own apartment, Ruth made sure she had a stash of croissants and pains au chocolat, and for a fleeting moment she wished she was back there.

‘I don’t know how you can eat a great big chunk of fish in the morning,’ she said, turning to watch him in fascination.

‘Eating eighty per cent protein in the morning cuts out the insulin spikes throughout the day,’ said David knowingly. ‘The spikes are what make you feel peckish and lead to snacking. It might be worth taking on board,’ he said, glancing at her thighs.

As he returned to the business news, Ruth pulled a face behind his back. Ever since David had started training for the London Marathon, he had become a food bore. And while she couldn’t complain about his increased stamina – the sex lately had been abundant and sensational – she wasn’t sure if she could face his-and-hers salmon fillets every morning.

‘Well, if I’m going to move in here, we need a stash of carbs. I’m talking Cheerios, waffle mix, the works,’ she grinned, bending down to get the orange juice from the fridge. As she moved, her T-shirt lifted right up over her buttocks.

‘Nice view,’ he said.

‘Look away,’ she smiled, walking over to sit on his lap and planting a long kiss on his lips.

‘So where were you last night?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t even hear you come in.’

‘Working,’ she shrugged, picking a flake of fish from his plate. It was true, wasn’t it? Yes, she’d gone for a drink with DI Fox, but that was all there was to it. It
was
work. Although Ruth had to admit she’d enjoyed it – it was rare she got the opportunity to screw so much information from the police. She spotted a blob of shaving foam behind David’s ear and wiped it off.

‘See? You need me first thing in the morning.’

He slipped his hand up her T-shirt and rubbed his palm over her nipple.

‘I won’t argue with you there,’ he growled. Ruth giggled and pushed him away. She knew where that was headed, and she needed an early start at the office to work on last night’s leads.

‘Save that for later, hey?’ she smiled, dancing out of his grasp. ‘I’ve got to get to work. It’s all gone crazy on my story.’