Perfect Strangers

by Tasmina Perry

  Fox paused and took a sip of his beer.

  ‘Her story about the cabbie checks out, so she was out of the room for about thirty minutes; that’s plenty of time for someone to come in and batter her boyfriend to death.’

  ‘Does that match up with time of death?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘We’re talking half an hour, twenty minutes either way. Forensics aren’t miracle workers, they can only give a vague window. Then again, she could have shagged him, had some sort of row, whacked him and gone out to the cab, then come back and made a big dramatic show about finding the body.’

  ‘Does the glass have her fingerprints on it?’

  ‘Boden, I’ve told you enough.’

  Ruth nodded and looked at him for a moment.

  ‘You don’t believe it’s her, I can tell,’ she said, lifting a determined finger into the air.

  ‘Because you know me so well,’ he said sarcastically.

  Ruth hid her annoyance. Clearly Ian Fox was going to be a much tougher nut to crack than Dan Davis, who would tell her anything if she just smiled at him the right way.

  ‘All right then, who owns the houseboat?’

  ‘That won’t be hard to turn up,’ said Fox, glancing at her. ‘Even for you.’

  ‘Dealer, perhaps?’ she said, ignoring the insult. ‘Possible, I guess. Seems that Sophie Ellis was a bit of a party girl and she met Beddingfield at some fancy do. It’s not a stretch to think they both did drugs. Then again, if Mr Houseboat was her dealer, it might even account for the shooting. They could have been after him, nothing to do with the Riverton murder.’

  Ruth traced a fingernail through the condensation on the outside of her glass, weighing it all up. Yes, Sophie Ellis had pictures of herself on the internet waving champagne glasses, but she still couldn’t see her as a cold-blooded killer – or some coked-up club hag for that matter. In her head, she could hear her dad again: ‘Instinct, Ruthie.’ And right now her instinct was telling her that Sophie was innocent, but she needed Fox if she was going to be able to prove it.

  ‘So what now, Inspector?’ she asked casually.

  Fox finished his beer and put down the glass.

  ‘Well I’d better get back to the river. I’ve got two officers scouring the streets for Ellis. I take it you’re all right to get home yourself.’

  ‘No, I mean, what about us?’

  ‘Us?’ he replied, as if she was Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

  Ruth was undeterred. ‘I think we can help each other, Fox. We both want to get a result on this, and if we work together . . .’

  ‘Nice try,’ he said, standing up.

  Ruth sat forward, putting her hand on his arm.

  ‘Seriously, Fox, it makes sense. Nick Beddingfield is American, right? You know that makes things difficult for you. The cops across the pond don’t exactly have a reputation for being forthcoming with information to foreigners, do they? On the other hand, I work for an American newspaper – we can move things along for you.’

  He looked at her for a moment, then sighed.

  ‘Okay, give me your card. Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  She watched him walk out.

  I hope you do, she thought to herself. I hope you do.

  17

  The garage door squealed as Josh pushed it up. Sophie winced at the grinding metal-upon-metal sound. She blinked at the grey light of dawn and peered at the empty parking lot, half expecting to see the men in the Range Rover just waiting for them to walk into their trap. But the car park was empty: they were alone.

  ‘Come on, princess,’ said Josh, heading for the road. ‘It’s a long way to St Pancras.’

  There really had been no option but to spend the night in the garage. At least they were hidden and out of the cold – and where else could they go anyway? The first Eurostar wouldn’t leave until five thirty at the earliest and they would have been too conspicuous on the streets, so Sophie had spent an uncomfortable night propped up between two plastic chairs, a pile of cellophane-covered coats serving as a blanket.

  Josh had made a similar makeshift bed on some cardboard boxes and, if his steady breathing was anything to go by, had gone straight to sleep. Untroubled slumber was the mark of a clear conscience, wasn’t that what her dad used to say? Sophie wasn’t so sure about Josh. He could be a murderer for all she knew – he certainly wasn’t the legitimate businessman he had portrayed at the Chariot party. But then neither was Nick. No, Sophie still had little idea who Josh was or what his motivation was for helping her. She knew she should be grateful – he had saved her life after all – but even so, through those long sleepless hours she had spent shivering under rustling plastic, her tired, paranoid mind had jumped to every conclusion possible: Josh was a con man after her money just like Nick (but what money exactly?); Josh was in league with the Russians (but then why didn’t he just hand her over?). It had even occurred to her that he might be an undercover policeman, but what on earth for? To extract a confession that they hadn’t been able to get at the police station?

  By the time Josh had stirred and they had stepped out into the industrial estate, Sophie had finally come to the inevitable conclusion that she simply had no choice but to follow his lead. The bitter truth was that she had no one else to turn to. The police had been hostile, suspicious in their line of questioning, her mother was in Copenhagen, and her friends? Francesca would have had a breakdown about the fake Louboutins alone.

  Sophie glanced across at Josh as they walked through the dark estate, his wary eyes searching every corner, every doorway. In the end, it didn’t matter who he was or what he had done; right now Josh McCormack was her best chance of getting away from this nightmare and finding a little breathing space to decide what to do next.

  As they turned a corner, she saw the black outline of the North Thames Gas Works framed against the lightening sky. They were still near the river, then. She shivered at the memory.

  ‘You okay?’ said Josh.

  ‘I’m not at all sure about this, Josh,’ she said hesitantly.

  He stopped and turned to look at her.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, holding up a hand to indicate the empty road ahead of them. ‘Be my guest. You want to go home, off you go.’

  ‘I’m just not sure about Paris.’

  ‘You’re not sure about Paris?’ he snapped. ‘It’s not exactly the way I planned on spending the day either, but as I don’t fancy an early morning visit from the Russians, I think I’ll keep moving. Personally, I wouldn’t mind getting out of London for a couple of days, but if you want to stay, then be my guest.’

  ‘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.