StillWaters:Book4oftheSophieGreenMysteries (3 page)

I made my decision and got up. I was not going to be tortured out of sleep by a bunch of cherubs and a cold, concrete floor. I gathered up the woefully thin duvet and my pillows and shuffled up the stairs to the living room. It was empty, so I dumped my stuff on the sofa and made myself a little bed there, Norma Jean coming over and climbing clumsily onto my legs.

I closed my eyes, more content now, and was just about to abandon myself to the prospect of a good night’s sleep when I heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open.

And I froze.
I never checked the bathroom
.

And who should come out but Luke, looking delicious in a faded Crowded House T-shirt and
pyjama
bottoms, yawning and stretching so I could see the muscles move under his clothes. I told you he was physically perfect: long and lean, not burly, but definitely well-defined.

I held my breath.

“Norma, get down,” he said, coming over, and I closed my eyes, wincing as Norma Jean skulked back to her basket, and Luke stood silently by the sofa, waiting.

I opened one eye.

“Why are you sleeping on the sofa?”

I scrunched up my nose. “My room is cold. And the cherubs are creepy.”

He nodded as if this made perfect sense. “You want to sleep in my room?”

I opened my mouth, but Luke cut in with a weary, “There are two beds.”

I closed my mouth. A single bed would be more comfortable than the sofa. And at least Luke was wearing something.

Even while I was telling myself it was a bad idea, I found my arms pushing back the duvet, my legs swinging out over the edge of the sofa, and my feet taking my weight. It seemed my body wanted the bed more than my brain wanted to resist.

And at least this way I’d be able to look at Luke, maybe, as he slept… Because he was beautiful when he slept…

And I’m actually disgusting myself here. I scowled at my reflection in the mirror at the foot of the stairs as I followed Luke’s luscious backside up the steep steps.

He took his holdall (why don’t men ever use suitcases?) off the bed by the window and gestured to it as he closed the door and dropped the latch so Norma couldn’t come nosing in. I pulled back the duvet and got into bed, all without looking at him, mumbled “Goodnight,” and lay back on the pillow.

And felt something cold and wet go
splat
on my forehead, right at the same time I realised the pillow was wet. I sat up and scrutinised the dark ceiling and made out a drop of water wobbling from a damp patch in the plaster.

“Great,” I said under my breath, and tried to figure out what would be better: sleeping downstairs on the sofa, in the basement with the cherubs, or up here where the ceiling leaked onto my pillow.

“What?” Luke sounded annoyed.

“Nothing.”

“
What
?” he asked again, sounding even more annoyed.

“It’s really nothing.” I decided to change ends and picked up the pillow.

“Sophie,” Luke said in his pissed off voice.

“There’s a drip—”

“Where?”

“Right above the pillow. It’s okay, I’m changing ends.”

“With a wet pillow.”

I felt the mattress. “Not just a wet pillow…”

Luke sighed. “Okay,” he said, and threw back his duvet.

I stared.

“Luke, I am not sleeping with you.”

“Where else are you going to sleep?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. “Sofa,” I said.

“The sofa that’s six inches shorter than you are? Come on.”

Okay, so on top of coming on holiday with the ex I am totally not over, I’m now considering getting into bed with him. But I’m really not going to let him do anything. Or let myself.

Really not.

“I—” I began helplessly.

“I’ll be a good boy,” Luke promised mockingly.

It wasn’t him I was worried about.

I sighed and got into the narrow bed beside him, trying not to touch. But three feet is not a lot of space for two wide-shouldered people (I’m tall, okay? I’m allowed wide shoulders) to lie in comfort, and it wasn’t long before Luke pulled me back against him, spoon style, his arm draped loosely over my waist.

Okay, now I have to suck my stomach in all night.

Chapter Two

Sleep was delicious, relaxed and warm and somehow right. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, but I found myself pretending we were still together. Stupid Sophie. Stupid, stupid Sophie.

Vaguely, I heard Norma Jean make her silly row-row-row noise downstairs, and I snuggled deeper under the duvet, deeper into Luke’s embrace.

Then the door opened, startling me awake.

“Luke, do you—”

Maria broke off and stared at me. I stared back, totally unable to think of anything to say. She backed away, closing the door behind her, and called as she fled, “I’m going out for a run. Norma’s coming with me…”

And about two seconds later the front door slammed, and there was silence.

I stayed right where I was, too shocked to think of anything to say or do. Now Maria would think we were back together, and she’d be all happy, and then I'd have to tell her…

“Luke?” I whispered.

“Mmm?” He sounded drowsy, hardly awake at all.

“She saw me!”

“Mmm.”

“But she’ll think—”

“Sophie.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Can you do me a favour? Either shut up or get up. I’m really tired here.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then realised I was still tired—the sky beyond the blind was very pale, it must be pretty early—and tried to get back to sleep.

I was damn glad it was winter and that despite Luke’s body heat and the duvet, the room was still cold. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been wearing so much to sleep in. Sweatpants and a camisole and a frayed, misshapen sweatshirt—am I sexy, or what?

Because if it had been warmer, I’d have been wearing less. And Luke—well, I don’t know. When we were sleeping together, it was summer, and even when it rained, all I needed to keep me warm was Luke. Who needed pyjamas? If we’d come here in the summer, he could have been sleeping naked. And that would
not
have been a good plan.

But his body felt good next to mine, warm and solid and still. I looked down at his arm, still unfairly golden although it was December, and gently stroked the blond hairs there.

This was stupid. I was getting cosy with him. Tonight I’d sleep on the sofa.

I pushed back the covers and got out of bed, and as I covered Luke over again he sighed and turned on his stomach. I had to fight the urge to stroke his hair. He really was lovely.

Right. This was too much.

I went downstairs and put the kettle on. Coffee would clear things up. Coffee was good.

The kettle clicked off, and I made a two-spoon cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, idly looking through some of the tourist literature Maria’s aunt had left at the cottage. It was rented for most of the year, as the aunt in question lived in France, but Maria and various other members of her vast, trans-European family often took it over for weeks at a time, cost free.

All right for some.

It had been Karen’s idea for us to take a break together. I think she’d been reading management books or something—she wanted us to do some team bonding. I tried to point out to her that Maria and I watch videos at each other’s houses all the time, and I’d done quite enough bonding with Luke to last me a lifetime, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted SO17 to be successful, and she wanted us to work together. Whatever.

Maybe she wanted to torture me. No, this couldn’t be all about me. Maybe she wanted to torture all of us.

I suppose I should explain that SO17 stands for Special Operations 17 and is a government organisation. A very small government organisation, but still. What we are, basically, is spies. We hunt out information and track down criminals who fall outside normal legal bounds. We all have firearms
licences
(although my little SIG-Sauer P-239 still scares the shit out of me) and military ID cards. I’ve never yet managed to save the world, because when the day comes that the world is in danger from someone who can only be stopped by a statuesque blonde chick who can’t remember how to load her gun, then we’re all in serious trouble.

Luke, Maria and Macbeth are all excellent spies. They’re smart, they’re discreet, and they’re all very skilled. Most of Macbeth’s skills are illegal, but that just makes them more useful. Luke was in the SAS; he can fly anything with wings or blades. Maria was in the SBS. She can pilot any kind of dinghy.

Me? I used to do check-in for Ace Airlines. I can tell you airport codes for all over Europe and judge the weight of a bag to the nearest kilo, just by picking it up. Are you impressed?

’Cos that’s about it.

I sighed into my coffee, drained the cup, and got up to make some more, just as I heard the front door open and Norma Jean come in, panting heavily. She’s not as young as she used to be (what a truly stupid phrase that is), and she has a very thick coat. I guess running up one-in-five hills in a fur coat would make me pant, too.

She dragged herself up the stairs and gave me a pleading look, so I filled up a bowl of water for her and watched her suck it down.

Maria appeared at the top of the steps, looking sweaty and flushed but very happy, and I felt a stab of jealousy. It must be the endorphins or something. Luke always said he felt great after a workout. I must be endorphin deficient. Anything more strenuous than a walk to the shops has me breaking out in a sweat and clutching my lungs in case they explode.

“Hey,” she said brightly.

“Hey,” I replied guardedly.

“I’m just going to take a shower, ’kay?”

And she was already in the bathroom, the door locked. So she wasn’t going to say anything about me and Luke. Excellent. I do like Maria.

The door opened and her head came out.

“And then you’re going to tell me everything,” she winked, and pulled her head back in.

I hate Maria.

I drank more coffee and stared at more tourist leaflets, blindly, trying to work out what I’d say to her. But everything sounded like an excuse. Maria was always wailing that she wanted to get me and Luke back together. She said we were miserable buggers since we split up. But I reckon we’re allowed.

Besides, it’s been four months, and we were together, um, four months… Which, by all dating/breakup rules, means I should have been over him, what, two months ago…

Oh, sod off. Those rules are bollocks. And they don’t apply to someone as hot as Luke.

The clock ticked over. Norma Jean stopped panting when she realised I was ignoring her, and eventually Maria emerged, wearing one white towel around her body and another around her head.

“Five seconds for me to get dressed,” she warned, “then I want to know.”

I considered running away. But I’d never get anywhere up those hills.

Maria ran up the stairs and came back down about a minute later,
towelling
her hair, dressed in a cropped sweater and low slung combats that showed off her toned stomach, and, of course, the bullet scar just above her hipbone.

“Right,” she said, “I—”

And then she paused, cocked her head to the window, and put her finger to her lips.

Fine by me.

“…One of the boats coming back in,” a woman’s voice was saying. “Just hanging there in the pub cave. Ooh, it gave me the willies.”

I stifled laughter at this silly turn of phrase. I have a very childish mind sometimes.

“Who was she?” asked another woman.

“Dunno. Tourist.”

“At this time of year?”

“Christmas break, I suppose. Who hangs themselves a week before Christmas?”

Maria’s eyes met mine, and I was already standing up and going for my bag and shoes.

“You’re not dressed,” she pointed out.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I’ll go like this.”

“Where?”

“Where d’you think?”

“How do you know where she is?”

“The pub cave.” Maria gave me a blank look as I shoved my bare feet into trainers, something I usually hate. “In the menu,” I explained, checking through my wallet for my ID card. “Last night. There was some bumf about the pub history. They said how there was a tunnel from the pub cellar to one of the caves in the harbour, for smugglers or something. There are only a couple on that side, it shouldn’t be hard to find. Just follow the red tape.”

I tore a page off my notebook and scribbled “Gone out, back soon S&M” on it, and was just about to prop it by the kettle for Luke when I realised how I’d signed it.

Hmm.

I grabbed my coat from the peg by the door and ran into my room for gloves and hat. Then I followed Maria out of the house, and we set off past the pub to the harbour.

Even if I hadn’t known the body was in one of the caves, I’d have figured it out from the crowd of townspeople on the harbour wall, watching policemen in a bobbing boat by the cliff. The tide was in and halfway up the wall of the cave, but with all the activity in front of it I could see no body.

Maria pushed her way to the front of the crowd where there was a young policeman looking a bit nervous. Seeing your first body can do that.

She badged him and asked, “What’s going on?”

He looked her up and down. “Who are you?”

She flashed her ID again. “Pay attention,” she snapped, and even I did. “What happened?”

He fidgeted. “Local fisherman spotted her,” he said, pointing to the cave. “About an hour ago.”

“Hanged?”

He nodded. “The water wasn’t far enough up to drown her. They’re photographing it then she’ll be off for an autopsy.”

“Any idea who she is?”

“None of the locals seem to know her. We reckon she’s a tourist.”

“Why would a tourist hang herself?” I wondered aloud, and the policeman looked me over.

“Who are you?”

“I’m with her,” I pointed to Maria and reached for my wallet.

“Are you wearing pyjamas?”

I scowled. “I’m going to go back. It’s cold.”

Maria nodded. “I think I want to go and see.”

“You’re twisted.”

“Yep.” She smiled charmingly at the copper. “So can I get a ride out there?”

I walked the short, and mercifully mostly flat, distance back up to the cottage and let myself in. Norma Jean howled comfortingly as I kicked off my trainers, ripping out the insoles by accident, and trudged upstairs. Luke was up and dressed, his hair wet as he lounged at the kitchen table, picking at a plate of toast and flicking through the local paper.