Perfect Strangers (14 page)

‘That’s her,’ she whispered, sliding down in her seat. She recognised the girl walking up the street from her photographs; it was definitely Sophie Ellis – and she was alone. That was good. Ruth would wait for her to get inside, then ring the bell. She guessed Sophie would be too polite, too British to slam the door in her face. So that was their best suspect? Seeing her in the flesh only reinforced Ruth’s feeling about Sophie: an ordinary preppy girl who had got mixed up in something terrible, not some murderous, Machiavellian gold-digger. In many ways, the blonde was exactly as she’d imagined. Tall and slender, with long tousled hair; she looked as if she’d walked straight off a catwalk, not out of Paddington Green interrogation room.

Ruth looked at her watch: she’d give her ten minutes. She popped a piece of nicotine gum in her mouth. Giving up smoking was proving to be an uphill struggle. She’d tried an electric cigarette but felt as if she was smoking a tampon. As for the gum, she was popping so many they were starting to give her the shakes.

She was about to go to Sophie’s flat when she saw her leaving.

‘Shit,’ she mumbled, grabbing her handbag from the front seat of her Ford Fiesta.

Slamming the car door, she darted across the road, a moped beeping furiously as it nearly ran over her.

‘Miss Ellis, wait . . .’ she said, waving at Sophie.

The young woman hovered on the pavement as if she was undecided whether to wave back or sprint in the other direction.

‘Sophie, please, I need to talk to you.’

Her wide eyes looked startled, afraid, although up close, her pale face was even more beautiful. Ruth extended her hand.

‘My name is Ruth Boden. I’m a journalist with—’

Sophie was already shaking her head.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, beginning to walk away. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk to you.’

But Ruth was used to getting knocked back.

‘Sophie, please, I’m not a grubby tabloid hack. I’m with the
Washington Tribune
. I know the police have questioned you, but I believe you are innocent and I thought I could help with the American side of the investigation.’

Sophie’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the word ‘innocent’ – it was one of the tricks Ruth used to get a subject on side. But she seemed to bristle at the mention of America.

‘
American
side of the investigation?’ she said bitterly. ‘How do I know Nick was even from Houston? He could have been from Timbuktu for all I know.’

Ruth was storing all the information in her mental database. The police had released the name of the deceased as Nick Beddingfield, but she’d had no idea he was from Houston or indeed that there were any question marks about his origins. This was good – she felt her instincts tingling – there was a good story here, she could feel it. She pulled out her business card and pushed it into Sophie’s hand.

‘Seriously, Sophie, if you want to find out where Nick really is from, why don’t you let me help you?’

For a moment Sophie looked tempted, but then swung her bag over her shoulder and turned towards the main road.

‘Sorry, I’m in a real hurry,’ she said, walking away as Ruth approached. ‘I’ve really got to go.’

‘Sophie, listen to me. Everyone in this city, from the commissioner of the Met to the general manager of the Riverton Hotel, wants an arrest on this case, and right now you are the nearest thing the police have to a suspect. I can help you if you tell me your side of the story.’

Sophie stopped suddenly and turned to face her. Up close, Ruth could see how weary she looked. There were sooty black smudges under her eyes; either she was very bad at putting eyeliner on, or she had been crying.

‘My side of the story?’ replied Sophie. ‘My side of the story is that I have done nothing wrong –
nothing
– and yet the police might charge me with murder because it makes things easier for them. And now someone has broken into my flat and you’re hassling me in the street. So all in all, I’d say my side of the story is that I want to be left alone.’

Her voice was wobbling now.

‘Someone broke into your flat?’ said Ruth, looking back up at the building. ‘What happened?’

‘They tore the place apart, that’s what happened.’

‘But why? What for?’

‘You’re the reporter. You probably have more idea than I do, because right now, I don’t know what the hell is going on or why I am in the middle of it.’

They had reached the main road now and Sophie put her hand up to wave a taxi down. Ruth clasped her arm.

‘Don’t go, please. I can help, I really can.’

Sophie shrugged her away.

‘I have to go,’ she said, shaking her head. She climbed into the taxi, and as it pulled away, she looked suddenly terribly young and afraid.

‘Damn it,’ muttered Ruth, running back to her car as fast as her heels would allow. ‘Come on, come on,’ she hissed, fumbling the keys into the ignition, then gunned the engine, just turning into traffic as she saw the cab disappear down Prince of Wales Drive towards Battersea Bridge. There were a few cars ahead of her, but she could see the black roof of the cab above them. The cab turned left onto Chelsea Embankment. That made sense, she thought, cursing the darkness that was cloaking the city. She beeped her horn and overtook a minivan. Now there was only one car between her and Sophie’s taxi. Chewing her nicotine gum furiously, she grinned to herself. She was back in the chase.

14

Sophie had expected the Nancy Blue to be a pub. Instead the taxi had dropped her off on a desolate stretch of the Thames close to Chelsea Harbour. No pubs, no shops, nothing. She looked around uncertainly and turned up the collar of her coat. The sun had set and a chill was in the air. This was certainly not the Chelsea that she knew and loved. There were no chic boutiques or trendy bars. Out here, where the far reaches of Chelsea met what remained of the docks, there were no street lights or houses, only abandoned wharves and industrial units, everything closed for the night – if these neglected yards and corrugated-iron gates ever opened.

She walked along the darkening road. On one side of her, faceless warehouses; on the other, the dark churning waters of the Thames. It might sparkle in the sunshine, but at night, the river looked foreboding and bone-chillingly cold. She turned to see the taxi’s brake lights blinking once, twice, then disappearing around the corner. Too late, Sophie had the overwhelming sense that she was wrong to come here. She didn’t know Josh from Adam. Maybe she should have told that reporter where she was going; at least then someone might be able to find her body.

And yet what was the alternative? Should she wait at home for the intruders to return? Wait for Fox? Ruth Boden was right: he could arrest her at any moment – and he had certainly given her the impression he thought she was hiding something. Anyway, why should he care whether she was innocent? All he cared about was getting a result, a conviction. No, the truth was Sophie had nowhere to turn, and until she could find out what exactly was happening to her, there was a good chance she might end up getting the blame for Nick’s death. The first thing she needed to know was who Nick was – and where he had come from.

But where – and what – was the Nancy Blue? Was it a club or a business? There was nothing that fitted any such description out here. She heard a dog bark and she jumped, one hand to her chest.

She pulled Ruth Boden’s card from her pocket and punched the reporter’s number into speed-dial; that way she could call her if there was a sniff of trouble. She had reached the end of the road now. There was nothing except a wooden ramp towards a small pier.

Nancy Blue: a boat!
she thought, the penny dropping. Her dad would have laughed at her – that would have been his first thought. She passed a weathered sign reading ‘Fleet Reach – Strictly Private’.
Very welcoming
, thought Sophie as she walked carefully over the boards.

Moored along one side of the wharf were half a dozen houseboats. The smallest was closest to the jetty, swaying gently against the upright piles. It was deep navy with tyres festooned around its outer rim and the words
Nancy Blue
stencilled on the hull. Sophie bent down to peer in through the window.

‘You probably shouldn’t be wearing those shoes,’ said a voice, making her stumble and grab for the handrail. Josh emerged from the shadows, stepping on to the gangplank between the pier and his barge.

‘Bloody hell, you scared me,’ she said, looking up at his tall physique, quite menacing in the dark.

‘Where’s my beer?’

‘I didn’t have time,’ said Sophie briskly. ‘I haven’t had the easiest day, as you can imagine.’

He gave a slow, steady tut. ‘I don’t know, turning up here without a bottle of wine or a scented candle. I thought you posh girls had impeccable manners.’

‘Somehow I don’t see you as the scented candle type,’ she said.

‘You don’t say.’

She could feel him looking her up and down.

‘Can we go inside?’ she said uncomfortably.

Josh nodded and swept his hand towards the small door. ‘
Entrez
.’

It was surprisingly cosy inside. From the weather-beaten exterior, Sophie had been expecting something more, well, nautical. But there was a small seating area, a table and a galley kitchen towards the far end, all lit by the soft glow of hurricane lamps. It was comfortable but small and basic – clearly business wasn’t that good for Joshua McCormack’s horology consultancy.

‘Interesting place,’ said Sophie, looking around. ‘Where do you sleep on this thing?’

He lifted a brow. ‘It usually takes women more than two minutes to ask me that question. But if you want to know, that sofa pulls out into a futon.’

Sophie looked away, feeling embarrassed.

‘You get one cup of tea, then you’re out of here,’ he said, squeezing past her into the kitchen area and taking down a copper milk pan. He filled it with water and lit the gas hob.

‘No kettle?’

‘Electricity’s out. Sorry, princess.’

He looked at her through the low light. The stubble on his chin was longer since they last met, as if he had not shaved since.

‘So start talking.’

‘No small talk?’ asked Sophie.

‘Not my style.’

‘Suits me, I have to be back home for the police in fifty minutes,’ she replied, sitting down at the narrow table.

Slowly, she began to tell her tale, from that first night with Nick, through their dates, to discovering the body, being grilled by the police and finally finding her flat ransacked. When she had finished, Josh came over and placed a mug of tea in front of her.

‘Right,’ he said, sitting opposite her. ‘I’ll assume for the moment you’re telling the truth.’

Sophie began to object, but he held up a hand to stop her.

‘Don’t interrupt,’ he said, his wide mouth fixed in an unsmiling line. ‘My friend is dead and someone killed him. Excuse me if I’m suspicious of strangers.’

Sophie frowned. The anxiety she had first felt at being here in this small enclosed space had turned to annoyance.

‘So Nick’s a friend now,’ she said tartly. ‘I thought you barely knew him.’

Josh paused a beat.

‘Figure of speech.’

‘Really? If I was a policeman, I’d say you were hiding something.’

‘I don’t have anything to hide from you,’ he said wearily. Something in the way he said it made her look at him more closely, reminding her of the way he had reacted to the news of Nick’s death.

‘You knew Nick Cooper wasn’t his real name, didn’t you?’ she said slowly. ‘And I don’t think his death surprised you either, did it?’

‘Well done, Inspector Clouseau,’ he said. ‘But I think you should leave the amateur detective stuff for the TV. This is real life, you could get hurt. Stay out of it.’

She knew Josh was challenging her, but Sophie wasn’t afraid of him. He was cocky, maybe a little shifty; she had felt that at the Chariot party – such arrogant charmers were generally chancers and not to be trusted. But tonight that breezy confidence had been replaced by a guarded sullenness; she was sure he knew more than he was letting on, and she wasn’t going to let him scare her off.

‘I’m already in it, Josh,’ she said flatly. ‘According to my solicitor, I’m the prime suspect for Nick’s murder at the moment. I don’t see how it could get much worse. All I’m asking is for you to tell me what you know about Nick.’

‘Look, Sophie,’ he said, rubbing his eyes, ‘you seem like a nice girl and I really hope the police get off your back, but I don’t want to get involved in this.’

‘Why not? If he
was
your friend and
if
you’ve nothing to hide? Or are you afraid the police might start looking at you too closely?’

Josh barked out a laugh.

‘What are you suggesting? That I killed Nick?’ he said incredulously.

‘It had crossed my mind,’ she said quietly, wondering how dangerous it was to be here.

‘Well, as it happens, I have an alibi for this morning, a young lady with a flat in Camden. You, on the other hand, were right there. So if we’re going to start pointing the finger, take a look at yourself first.’

He got up and went to the tiny fridge. From this distance Sophie could see it was empty except for milk and a bottle of what she guessed was vodka. He took it out and poured a good measure into a glass, not offering any to Sophie, then knocked it back, grimacing.

‘So what did Nick tell you he did?’ he asked finally.

Sophie looked at him. ‘I didn’t really understand it. He said he was in oil and gas. Trading shares, buying companies, that sort of thing.’

Josh gave a gentle snort.

‘So that’s not true?’

Josh poured the rest of the bottle into his glass.

‘As I said, Nick wasn’t a good friend. He had a lot of business interests. So I couldn’t say.’

‘Please Josh, I can tell you know something.’ She could feel herself getting desperate.

He lifted his T-shirt and scratched his flat, tanned stomach. Then he shook his head slowly.

‘It’s time to leave, Sophie Ellis. I have things to do, and playing Nancy Drew with Little Miss Pony Club is not one of them.’

Sophie stood up and stretched her hand out to plead with him.