Perfect Strangers (19 page)

‘The escort thing?’ he asked, yawning.

She frowned, for a moment unsure what he was talking about. ‘Oh, not that one – I’m on a new thing now. I mean the murder at the Riverton Hotel.’

‘I saw the headlines about that. American bloke, wasn’t it?’

Briefly she filled him in on the story as far as she knew.

‘Anyway, that’s where I was last night. Meeting the inspector in charge of the case.’

David folded up his paper and dropped it on the table.

‘I love the way when I meet a business contact, you think I’m having some sort of affair, but when you’re out socialising with the cops, it’s strictly business.’

Ruth tried not to react, reminding herself that this was all new to her. She was forty-one years old and until now had always lived alone. She’d always had whatever she wanted for breakfast and she wasn’t used to answering for her movements. If she was going to make this work, she had to learn to bend a little.

‘This is my job, David,’ she said evenly. ‘You understand that.’

‘All right,’ he said, stretching. ‘Don’t get all jumpy on me. I was just saying. So the dead bloke – who was he?’

Ruth nodded, her mind flashing back to that bathroom in the hotel.

‘I saw him, David,’ she said quietly.

‘What? Dead?’

‘Dead. On the floor. It was horrible.’

‘Bloody hell, Ruth,’ said David, looking at her more carefully. ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded quickly. ‘It wasn’t pleasant, but it’s part of the job, isn’t it?’

‘Not mine, I’m glad to say. I’d much rather be looking at stock charts than dead bodies.’

Ruth poured herself some juice and told David about the incident with Sophie Ellis by the river.

‘God, no wonder you were in late,’ he said. ‘It was quite a day.’

‘I felt like someone off
CSI
. They just appeared from nowhere, started shouting in Russian and began shooting.’

David nodded thoughtfully. ‘Jamie on the news desk was telling me about that the other day. Apparently there are various Eastern European gangs fighting over control of the river.’

‘Control of the river? Why would they need that?’

‘There’s a surprising amount of trade that goes on along the Thames. A lot of cargo still gets shifted that way, so whoever controls the flow of traffic can take a cut of each transaction. It’s quite creative, actually.’

‘But I’ve seen police boats going up and down.’

David nodded. ‘Apparently there aren’t many of them, and the river patrol spends most of its time dragging bodies from the water – suicides and so on. Besides, according to Jamie, the gangsters don’t work
on
the water. They wait until the traders come ashore, then twist their arms.’

Ruth pouted.

‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘I wonder if the two are connected.’

David grinned.

‘There you go, I’ve given you a lead. Don’t ever say I don’t give you anything.’

Ruth ran her hand down his chest. ‘I never said that, did I?’ she smiled.

‘So you’re not doing the escort story?’ He said it casually. So casually that it put Ruth on immediate alert.

‘Not at the moment, why?’

‘Oh, I was thinking I might have a little poke around.’

‘Poke around what?’ said Ruth, her back stiffening.

‘Well, Sebastian Watson was the number two at his bank, and his resignation is quite a big business story for us. If it’s part of a sting involving other people, then that’s even bigger.’

‘Wait a minute, David,’ she said tightly. ‘This is my story.’

‘And I thought you said you weren’t following it up.’

‘I said I wasn’t chasing it at this moment,’ she said, placing her hands on her hips. ‘The second they charge someone with the Riverton murder, that story is pretty much over for me and I’ll be moving back on to the escort thing.’

He held his hands in the air.

‘All right, all right. Fine.’

‘What do you mean, “fine”?’

‘Well, I just think it’s a bit selfish of you, that’s all.’

‘David, I dug this story up all on my own.’

‘Yes, but with this Riverton case, there’s a chance you’re not going to follow up the escort story for weeks, by which time Seb Watson will be old news and no one will be interested any more.’

‘So?’

‘So poor Watson’s career is wrecked, so is Bill Danson’s. I just think they should be given a chance to find out what really happened.’

‘Yeah, like you care,’ she scoffed.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I mean don’t go pretending to be some great crusader fighting for justice when you’ve just sniffed an exclusive –
my
exclusive, in fact.’

‘Oh come on, Ruth, it’s not just your story, is it? Everyone’s been writing about Watson. You’ve just found a slightly different angle.’

Ruth could barely believe her ears.

‘Bullshit, David!’ she snapped. ‘If it was only a “slightly different angle”, you wouldn’t be so desperate to swipe it from under my nose.’

‘Why not let me have it?’ His tone softened, but she realised he was just changing tack. ‘Don’t you want me to get off the business pages? It would be good for me. Good for us.’

‘Good for us is if I keep my job in London. And the only way I’ve got a chance of doing that is if I keep generating stories between now and September. I need to hold on to the escort story, David. It’s my back-up.’

‘Which you might never need!’

She roared with frustration.

‘Ruth Boden is only ever interested in what Ruth Boden is doing,’ continued David evenly. ‘But if we are going to make this work,
us
work, you are going to have to start thinking about someone other than yourself.’

Her mind was reeling; she knew the argument was escalating out of control. She knew that she should stop it right there, but the touchpaper had been lit and she felt incapable of stopping the situation from exploding.

‘I’m not listening to this,’ she said, standing up and fuming.

‘Domestic bliss,’ he muttered as his knife and fork clattered noisily to the plate.

‘You were the one who suggested it.’

She could hear herself, like an echo in the background, and it was a voice she did not recognise. Spiteful, unhappy and destructive.
Stop this, Ruth. Stop this
, she ordered herself, but pride and anger would not let her.

‘Maybe you should go back to your own flat tonight,’ David suggested.

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ she said, slamming the kitchen door behind her and feeling suddenly overwhelmingly sad.

19

‘What’s the matter?’

Sophie couldn’t help smiling as she stepped on to the platform at the Gare de Nord.

‘Nothing,’ she said, swinging her bag on to her shoulder. ‘Nothing at all.’

She didn’t just feel safer on French soil; she felt liberated. She was in Paris, and she felt free. For the first time in her life, she had no responsibilities, nowhere to be – in fact, right at this moment no one apart from Josh knew where she was. At the back of her mind, she knew that her world had fallen apart and that her life was in danger. The two and a half hours on the Eurostar had been nerve-fraying hell – she had been convinced that she was going to be attacked or arrested at any moment – but now she was here in the City of Light, Sophie was overwhelmed with relief and something more: a sense of adventure, perhaps? She had been travelling in Australia and Asia, but she had never been to Paris before, and she felt thrilled at the whole, well, Frenchness of it all. The chatter of passers-by, the echoing announcements over the tannoy, even the clothes on the women seemed more sophisticated somehow.

‘Wait here a minute,’ said Josh, pulling his mobile out of his pocket. ‘I’ve got to make some calls.’

‘You’ve brought your mobile?’

‘It’s Christopher’s. On loan. Mine’s on the boat.’

She nodded. ‘With the passport.’

‘Which I need to get back,’ he mused. ‘We got through passport control this time, but who knows how easy it might be next time.’

‘What were you planning? A world tour?’ she frowned.

He had already stepped away from her and she did not take her eyes off him; the last thing she wanted to do was lose him.

‘Let’s go,’ he said when he returned a few minutes later. Taking her elbow, he steered her through the high stone arch and out on to the bustling street.

‘Everyone’s so well dressed,’ she whispered as a woman brushed past in a Missoni knitted dress, a Goyard vanity case in one hand, a miniature poodle in the other.

‘Welcome to Paris,’ smiled Josh, leading her towards the taxi queue. At the front was a red-faced gent in a crumpled suit, and Josh went straight up to him and began talking to him in French.

Sophie listened to his fluency in astonishment. Josh McCormack seemed rough around the edges, street-smart for sure but not a cosmopolitan sophisticate.

She felt faint embarrassment that her own French wasn’t better, especially compared to Josh’s linguistic skills. Then she had to admit she hadn’t been the greatest student, being more interested in what parties there were to go to rather than revision to be done. The only teacher who had made any impression on her was Mr Damon, her sixth-form English teacher, who had recognised a creative flair in her and encouraged her to write short stories and poems. Not that she could ever tell Francesca or any of the other girls about it, but secretly she had harboured a desire to become a journalist or a writer.
I’d certainly have some material now
, she thought.

The ruddy-faced gentleman gestured towards the white Lada pulling up next to them.

‘
Bien sûr
. Please take it,’ he said, stepping forward to open the door for Sophie. She gave him a wan smile as Josh spoke to the driver and they clambered inside.

‘
Merci beaucoup
,’ she managed before they pulled away.

‘What did you say to that man?’ she asked, turning to Josh as they moved into traffic. Her French was rusty, but she was fairly sure he’d said something untrue. Josh tapped one finger against his lips and looked meaningfully at the driver, an overweight Middle Eastern man in a flat cap.

‘I told him you were ill and pregnant,’ said Josh.

‘But that’s a lie.’

‘So? I’m glad we didn’t have to stand around in that busy street, aren’t you?’

‘But you . . .’

Josh tapped her leg and she fell silent.

‘Just watch Paris,’ he ordered.

She did as he said and was glad of it, wondering why she had never been to the French capital before. It had always been so close, yet she had somehow never made it to this icon of chic. Unless you were connected enough to attend the fashion shows, Paris wasn’t on the Chelsea-girl list of places to go: Sardinia, Switzerland, Barbados, New York. Besides, when she had travelled with Will, it was always to destination hotels rather than cities or places – in their two years together, they had chalked up stays at Leading Hotels of the World like notches on a bedpost. But this? She took a deep breath, as if to soak up the essence of Paris in one gulp. It was all just as she had pictured: the elegant grey stone buildings, the roaring traffic; even the light seemed different here.

Parked on a street corner was a black van. Standing around it were three gendarmes, machine guns strapped to their chests, and Sophie’s buoyant feeling immediately left her. However inviting Paris looked, she wasn’t on holiday, she wasn’t here to soak up the culture and visit the Louvre. Suddenly all of the things that had seemed exotic only a moment ago became sinister and loaded with negative possibilities. The elegant women with their high heels and paper shopping bags, the news vendor in his funny little orange castle covered with foreign magazines – they were all alien, they all spoke a different language, they could all be watching, passing on information.

‘I didn’t know you spoke French,’ she said.

‘
Un petit peu
,’ said Josh. ‘I had a French girlfriend once. I just picked it up.’

She wanted to ask him about her. Not because she was
interested
in what Josh McCormack’s girlfriends were like, but because he intrigued her, because here she was, on the run with him, and yet she knew almost nothing about him.

‘
Nous sommes ici, monsieur
.’

Sophie had been so wrapped up in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that the taxi had stopped outside a grand white building with wrought-iron balconies at every window. She almost gasped as she clambered out of the taxi and saw the hotel’s facade.

‘Where are we?’

‘Le Bristol,’ said Josh. ‘The best hotel in Paris.’ Then added in a whispered aside, ‘Although don’t tell that to the Ritz and the Four Seasons.’

‘We can’t afford this, Josh,’ hissed Sophie. She had about sixty pounds in her purse – probably still damp from their dip in the Thames – and had no intention of using her credit card.

‘We need to stay somewhere good with a helpful concierge,’ said Josh, nodding to the doorman as they pushed through the doors. ‘We’re not going to find that in some fleapit in the Bastille, are we?’

‘And we don’t even have reservations.’

‘Yes we do, Miss Aniston,’ he smiled.

Miss Aniston? What the hell was he on about?
she thought with alarm as Josh strode confidently up to the reception desk. Hovering behind him, anxious not to say the wrong thing, she could hear Josh talking in French to a middle-aged man with half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He had a rather severe look, but he was nodding sympathetically as Josh spoke.

‘Mademoiselle Aniston,
bienvenue
.’ Sophie turned to see a pretty young girl in a receptionist’s uniform.

Miss Aniston – again. What on earth had Josh told them?

‘Would you and your manager like to follow me up to your suite?’ she asked cordially in her heavy accent. Sophie smiled weakly and tried to catch Josh’s eye, but he was now on the phone barking instructions about a film premiere in an American accent.

‘Suite?’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course.’

They had a
suite
? What had Josh done? But she had no real option but to follow the girl, who led her to the lifts and up five floors, where they stepped into a corridor, with the deepest carpets Sophie had ever felt under her feet. At the end of the corridor, the girl stopped at a large wooden door and, opening it with a pass key, held it open for Sophie to step inside. It was stunning, stately and yet intimate, decorated in cool ivory with rich mahogany antiques and pale citron drapes. Surely this couldn’t be their room?