Perfect Strangers (22 page)

They travelled in silence until they passed a Monoprix store. Josh told the driver to stop, and ran inside the shop, leaving Sophie in the cab. Watching the street scene, she noticed that Paris seemed unsettlingly quiet.

‘
Les vacances
,’ explained the cab driver when she asked him in her schoolgirl French.

She was glad when Josh returned, carrying a small black rucksack.

‘What’s in there?’ she asked.

‘Toothpaste,’ he said flatly, sitting down next to her as the taxi took off.

‘Why don’t I believe you?’

Josh raised an eyebrow.

‘I’d say that was a common theme of our acquaintance.’

He was maddening, she thought, edging away from him on the black plastic taxi seat. Why couldn’t he converse with her for five minutes without tormenting her? Leave her to enjoy the view and forget about the last two terrible days, just for one moment?

‘So tell me about Nick’s mysterious apartment.’

‘I don’t want this to be difficult for you,’ said Josh, looking straight ahead.

‘Tell me,’ she pressed. ‘It can’t be any worse than everything else I’ve heard over the past couple of days.’

‘Okay,’ said Josh, letting out a long breath. ‘I guess you’ve grasped by now that Nick lived off women?’

Sophie felt her stomach turn over again. In her head, she knew it was true, but she supposed her heart hadn’t quite caught up yet. She gave a tight nod.

‘Last year, he spent the summer in Monte Carlo, where he met a woman. She was a countess, an older lady. Nick told me she lived in a suite in the Hotel de Paris – that’s in Monaco – and had properties around the world.’

‘She was “older”?’ Sophie asked, noticing his emphasis on that word. ‘How much older?’

‘Older,’ repeated Josh.

‘
How
old, Josh?’

He shrugged. ‘He showed me a photograph of her on his phone. She was well preserved. Sixties, maybe more.’

Sophie felt sick. Could it be true? It had to be.

‘You men,’ she said, her mouth turned down. ‘If a woman is rich, it doesn’t matter what she looks like, does it?’

‘Oh yes, and I suppose you’re telling me that women are so different? What do all your Chelsea girlfriends do for a career? They hang around nightclubs hoping to snag a banker or a minor royal. You saw them at the Chariot party: all those long-legged model types with their Birkin bags and their eyeball-sized diamonds. You think they care what their husbands
look
like?’

Sophie thought of beautiful Francesca and her tubby, red-faced fiancé. Josh was right, of course. He was always right.

‘Doesn’t make it okay, though, does it?’ she said.

Josh put a hand on her arm.

‘I know this is hard for you,’ he said quietly.

‘Thank you,’ she conceded.

There was a few seconds’ pause.

‘Were you in love with him?’

Sophie gave a half-laugh.

‘Can you really be in love with someone after a few days? I liked Nick a lot, I know that much. I liked being with him. I liked the way he made me feel. Happy, special, worthwhile. I hadn’t felt that in some time.’

She looked back at Josh.

‘But now I know that’s what he
did
. He made women feel special, that was his job. So now I feel pretty shitty and stupid.’

She saw the cab driver glance at them in his rear-view mirror. Did he speak English? Was he listening to them? Sophie found she didn’t really care; she wanted to know everything, however idiotic it made her look.

‘So what about this countess?’

‘She let Nick live in her apartment in Paris. I don’t think she’s been here for years.’

‘That was nice of her,’ Sophie said tartly.

‘Don’t be like that, Sophie.’

‘How am I
supposed
to be, Josh? Am I supposed to accept all this? Just shrug and think, “Ah well, so I’ve been taken in by a con man,
c’est la vie
”? Well I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.’

She turned back to the passing scenery, watching through misty eyes the crowds milling around the Louvre’s glass pyramid, the Seine with its long black barges and the island in the middle of the river. From a distance it looked like a fortress rearing up from the water with steep walls that plunged into the Seine.

‘Look at that,’ she said, her mood mellowing.

‘That’s where we’re going,’ replied Josh.

On the island itself, it was like stepping back in time. She saw a juggler and a mime artist, fishmongers serving crabs on beds of ice, cafés advertising
chocolat et digestifs
, bakeries displaying pastries and tarts loaded with redcurrants and blackberries, each shop window making her drool more than the one before.

‘This is fantastic,’ she said, desperate to step out of the cab and soak it all in.

‘This is Île Saint-Louis,’ said Josh. ‘Not many tourists come here; they all pile on to the Île de la Cité and Notre-Dame cathedral instead.’

He signalled to the driver to pull over at the kerb.

‘Final stop,’ he said, as the car moved away. It was a small, traditional-looking café restaurant with a zinc-topped counter and bare floorboards. They took a table on the pavement, sitting in rickety rattan chairs, and Josh ordered ‘
deux cafés
’ while Sophie nervously glanced at the other patrons of the café. There was a couple hunched together, both wearing matching Ray-Bans, and a young man with uncombed hair scribbling into a notebook.

‘We’re surrounded by poets,’ whispered Sophie.

‘We’re surrounded by people who
look
like poets,’ corrected Josh as the waiter brought their drinks.

‘So what are we doing here?’ said Sophie, wincing at the strength of her espresso.

‘We’re looking for Nick’s apartment.’

‘The countess’s apartment, you mean.’

Josh ignored her.

‘When I was in Paris, Nick and I agreed to meet at this café because it was across the road from
la comtesse
’s place.’

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Sophie looked up at the smart grey building in front of them. It had a long row of balconies and shutters at the windows.

‘You don’t know which one? That’s an awful lot of apartments over there,’ she said.

‘Île Saint-Louis is like a little village. We might have some luck,’ said Josh, waving the waiter over. He was a short man, perhaps in his sixties, with grey hair and a white apron.

‘
L’addition
,’ said Josh, handing him a twenty euro note and waving away the change. ‘
Puis-je vous poser une question
?’

‘Of course. I speak English, monsieur.’

‘Excellent,’ said Josh, smiling, ‘I wonder if you know my friend,
la comtesse
. I know she used to come to this café; she said it was her favourite.’

The man’s chest visibly puffed out.

‘
Oui, la comtesse
, she lives across the street there,’ he said, pointing up to the corner balcony on the top floor of the building. ‘She would wave to me in the mornings. Always the same order:
tart tatin et chocolat chaud
, even in summer.’

His smile dimmed a little.

‘But she has not been to visit for many years. She is not ill, I hope?’

‘No, she is in fine health,’ said Josh. ‘And she asked me to send her regards.’

They finished their coffee and crossed the street.

‘I think you made his day,’ said Sophie, waving to the waiter.

‘I do try,’ said Josh. ‘I’m all about the public relations.’

‘But how are we going to get . . .’ she began, but Josh made a silencing motion as he craned his neck to look up at the building’s balconies.

‘Shh!’ he said. ‘I’m counting.’

He stopped at the building’s wooden door, where there was a line of buzzers. ‘Now, if I’ve got this right . . .’ he said, pressing the intercom button for apartment 3. They waited, but there was no reply. He tried again: still nothing.

‘No one’s home.’ He smiled.

‘What did you expect?’ said Sophie cynically. ‘We know where Nick is.’

‘Yes, but who knows if
la comtesse
has other gentlemen friends?’

Just then, the door opened and a well-dressed woman stepped out of the building. Josh didn’t hesitate.

‘Oh,
scusi moi
,’ he said to the woman in terrible French. ‘Is this Le Juno apartments?
Nous
. . . erm, we rent an apartment here?’ He pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket and waved it at her. ‘
Pour les vacances
?’

The woman was about forty, with glossy brown hair streaked with blonde, and she wore a plain blue shirt in the way only a stylish French woman can.

‘No,’ she said, slightly bemused. ‘There is no rental apartment in this building,’ she added in perfect English.

Josh pretended to consult his paper.

Sophie looked at him in bewilderment. What was he playing at? Where had his fluent French gone?

‘But this is Avenue Michel?’ he said, holding up a hand.

‘No, Avenue Michel is two streets that way,’ said the woman patiently.

‘Ah,
bien sûr, merci beaucoup
,’ said Josh. Sophie noticed the little smile the woman flashed him as she walked off. Did every woman in the world fall under his spell, even the terribly chic Parisian ones who really ought to know better? Then she noticed that Josh hadn’t moved and realised what his lost tourist act had been for.

‘Is your foot keeping the door open?’

‘Not big, not clever, but it works.’ He smiled.

They waited a minute until the woman had disappeared and the waiter across the road was back inside the café, then walked into the cool lobby, unsurprisingly empty at that time of day.

Sophie felt nervous as they went inside. She could still hear the crack of the bullet and never wanted to experience anything like that again. If Josh knew where Nick’s secret apartment was, then maybe the Russians did too. After all, they had tracked him down to the Riverton.

There was an old-fashioned cage-style elevator at the end of the hall, but Josh turned towards the stairs. ‘Less likely to meet anyone this way,’ he said. ‘Can you make it to the top?’

Sophie rolled her eyes.

‘Oh, I think I’ll manage.’

‘That’s right, I’ve seen you run,’ he smiled.

‘Right, why don’t you go and wait by the door to apartment three,’ he said when they had reached the top floor.

‘Where are you going?’

He pointed up a further narrow flight of stairs.

‘The roof.’

He opened the black rucksack and took out a screwdriver and a short crowbar.

‘What are they for?’

‘Look,’ he said, indicating the glass dome illuminating the stairwell. ‘If they have skylights here, they’ve probably got them over the apartments too.’

‘Josh, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m serious. You’ll break your neck.’

‘I’m more nimble than you think,’ he said sarcastically.

‘But what if it’s alarmed?’

‘Then we’re fucked,’ he replied with a straight face. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes. Just wait by the door.’

‘No,’ said Sophie fiercely. ‘I’m coming with you.’

She could see he was about to object, but then he changed his mind.

‘All right,’ he said, handing her the rucksack. ‘You can carry the bag, then.’

The roof was gently pitched, but hidden from the street by a parapet that ran all the way around the building.

‘Just be careful,’ hissed Sophie as Josh set off towards the far end. She allowed herself a peek over the edge and felt sick. The block backed straight on to the Seine, and it was at least a two-hundred-foot drop down into the water. She quickly pulled her head back in.

‘Josh, wait for me,’ she called, tiptoeing along a foot-wide pathway, both arms spread out for balance. She found him at the far end of the building, leaning over a two-foot-square window that was set into the sloping tile roof.

‘Assuming we’re got the right apartment, this goes down into the
comtesse
’s living room,’ he said, pulling out the screwdriver. ‘I think I can lever this open.’

‘Josh, this is trespassing. This is
burglary
.’

‘Look, Sophie, if you’ve got any better ideas, I’m all ears,’ he said. ‘As far as I know, this was Nick’s main base for the past six months, so it’s our best chance of finding any clues about what he was up to or who he was dealing with.’

‘Who had him killed, you mean.’

He wedged the crowbar into the gap between the window and the frame and heaved, but instead of popping the skylight open, the iron bar slipped and trapped Josh’s hand, making him drop it with a clang.

‘Shit!’ he hissed, waggling his hand in pain.

‘Well, maybe that’s because it’s locked,’ Sophie said.

‘I
know
it’s locked,’ he said irritably.

‘Can’t you just pick the lock?’ she asked, her voice getting lost in the wind.

Josh gave a laugh.

‘I know you think I’m some sort of criminal mastermind, but I sell watches for a living, remember?’

‘You mean you’ve never done this before?’

‘No, Sophie, I haven’t. Have you?’

Sophie bent to look closer at the skylight’s fastening. It had a hefty iron padlock, but the latch was badly rusted and the wood around it hadn’t been painted in decades.

‘Hand me the screwdriver,’ she said.

Reluctantly, Josh gave it to her and watched as she slotted it behind the hinge and pulled. With a creak, the wood splintered and the hinge swung free.

He raised his brows in surprise.

‘Who’s the criminal mastermind now? Try the other one.’

With a little waggling and yanking, the second hinge also cracked and Josh was able to lift the whole window free. Sophie peered down; it seemed a long drop.

‘How are we going to do this?’ she said, but Josh was already in motion, swinging his legs over the edge and letting himself down slowly.

‘Go back to the front door,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

When Josh opened the apartment door, he was grimacing.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked, stepping inside.

‘Not exactly a soft landing,’ he grumbled.

‘Do you want me to fetch a stretcher?’ She grinned.

He swatted her on the arm as she looked around the apartment. It was exquisite, all gold leaf, velvet and polished wood – even the dust sent swirling up from the antique rug from Josh’s fall seemed to dance and sparkle in the sunlight coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.