Perfect Strangers (49 page)

‘Very well,’ said Lana. ‘There is somewhere we can stay just past Lairg. We’ll start for the mountain at sunrise.’

They turned off the main road and on to a low single-track road, skirting the dark waters of Loch Shin, so wide it looked like an inland sea. Finally they pulled up at a grey stone building; from what Sophie could see, it looked like an old hunting lodge.

‘This belongs to Edward, one of Simon’s friends,’ said Lana as they got out. ‘I told him I might be stopping by. I think you’ll find it comfortable enough.’

Sophie stepped out of the car. The rain had stopped at least. Circling her shoulders to relieve knots of tension, she breathed in the cold Highland air. It was gone nine, although her body clock was telling her it was mid-afternoon. Still, she felt dog tired. Lana went round the side of the building and returned brandishing a large brass key. As she pushed it into the lock of the heavy oak door, they were met by a gush of warm air.

‘Wow,’ said Sophie. She had been expecting some spartan shack with musty carpets and no electricity. Instead it was like a ski chalet imagined by Ralph Lauren. There was a moose head over a huge fireplace, dark wooden floorboards and sumptuous leather furniture. It even smelt good – of heather and hollyhocks and cinnamon, like drawing up close to a rich man wearing really expensive cologne.

Lana went over to the wall, where there was a framed map of the area.

‘We’re here,’ she said, pointing to the southern tip of the loch. ‘Ben Grear is here, beyond the north-west side, but there’s a direct road around the loch.’

‘Yeah, it’s maybe forty minutes away, weather permitting,’ said Josh, looking over her shoulder.

‘We leave as soon as it’s light,’ said Lana briskly. ‘I’ll take the master suite in the attic; you can have the double at the top of the stairs.’

Shrugging, Josh took their bags and went upstairs.

‘Drink?’ said Lana to Sophie, crossing to a well-stocked bar next to the fireplace. ‘I’m sure Edward has some rather fine whiskies.’

‘No thank you,’ said Sophie, tight-lipped.

Lana shrugged, pouring herself a tumbler of the amber spirit.

‘You hate me, don’t you?’ she said over the rim of the glass.

‘Not really,’ replied Sophie wearily. ‘I blame you for turning my life upside down, for putting me through so much. But hate? No.’

She wanted to tell Lana the truth, of course: that she loathed her for everything she had done, for playing with her life in such a cavalier fashion, for making her fall in love with a man who wasn’t even real, for putting her life in danger again and again. But what would that achieve? What was it Josh always said? Give them the story they want to hear. Until she could see how the game was going to play out, she needed to keep Lana on side.

‘But then if it wasn’t for you,’ she added, ‘maybe I’d be dead already. Sergei’s men would have found me first and I might have ended up like Nick. And for that I’m grateful.’

Lana nodded. ‘Nick did care for you, you know.’

Sophie flinched at that. Days earlier, they were words that she would have given anything to hear. She had felt so used and betrayed that even the glimmer of hope that Nick had really felt anything for her would have been a lifeline, something to grasp with both hands. But now she didn’t want to hear it, because it made her feel cheap and guilty. Yes, her affair with Nick Beddingfield had been a fabrication, a lie he had created, just another job, but Sophie had really liked him – or so she had thought. And yet now, only days later, she had slipped into a relationship with someone else. Josh.
A relationship with Josh?
She almost laughed out loud. Tomorrow this would all be finished. Tomorrow they would find the money and this crazy roller-coaster ride would be over. Could she really expect Josh to be there for her? In that dark motel room in Miami as he had held her, their skin still slick from lovemaking, he had talked about them going to some exotic island together, of running away and leaving the world behind, just the two of them. But had that been the post-coital endorphins in his bloodstream, or maybe even just the romance of the situation? Had it just been the words of two people bound together in an extraordinary situation by excitement, danger and adrenalin? She just didn’t know and it made her heart ache to think of it.

She looked at Lana for a long moment.

‘What are you going to do with the money, Lana?’

She surprised herself by asking the question. The old Sophie Ellis of a month ago, maybe even a week ago, would never have dared be so direct. Nice girls didn’t – it wasn’t polite. But the past few days had hardened her. You couldn’t do what she had done, see what she had seen, without coming out the other side a different person.

‘That’s for me to negotiate with the authorities,’ said Lana briskly.

‘For
us
to negotiate,’ said Sophie firmly, meeting Lana’s gaze. ‘I have a stake in this too.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Lana. ‘And what exactly will you be asking for?’

‘I want all lines of investigation against me dropped and I want my mother to receive a lump sum that will make sure she doesn’t have to sell her house, plus a decent income for whatever time she has left.’

‘My, my,’ smiled Lana thinly. ‘Aren’t we the little Donald Trump?’

‘I’m getting there.’

Lana folded her arms and stepped towards Sophie.

‘So seeing as we’re playing twenty questions: did you kill him?’

‘Kill who? Nick?’ said Sophie incredulously. ‘No!’

‘So what was it?’ said Lana. ‘An accident whilst you were making whoopee in the bathtub?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘It was Sergei’s men.’

Lana raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? Did you ask him?’

Sophie frowned; she realised that they hadn’t.

‘No, but it’s the only thing that makes sense,’ she said. ‘The Russians came looking for me and found Nick instead.’

Lana gave a cruel laugh. ‘Do you really think Nick Beddingfield protected you? He would have told them everything he knew to save his skin.’

‘And maybe he told them about you. Maybe they knew about you all along.’

She was pleased to see a momentary look of concern pass over the other woman’s face.

‘Why the surprise?’ said Sophie. ‘Nick would do anything for money, you knew that. Why wouldn’t he have sold you out to another interested party if they paid slightly better?’

‘So why kill him?’ said Lana, recovering her composure.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘Maybe he asked for too much money, maybe he screwed Sergei’s wife, who knows? There’re a lot of things I don’t know, and I’ll be honest with you, Lana, I’m sick of asking questions.’

She gave a weary shrug.

‘I’m going to bed. I’ll see you at sunrise.’

Stupid
, thought Sophie as she climbed the stairs. So much for keeping Lana on side. But she’d been so smug, so condescending, Sophie hadn’t been able to stop herself.
Standing up for yourself now? Another new side to mousy little Sophie Ellis
, she thought with a smile. She wanted to talk to Josh about it, but as soon as she entered their room, she could tell he was already asleep, his back turned towards her.

Suddenly Sophie was filled with sadness. Were the barriers already up? Would she ever share a room with him after tonight? They had barely known each other more than a handful of days, and yet already she felt this man was a part of her. She stood there for a minute watching his chest rise and fall, then slowly pulled off her jeans and slid in next to him. She leant forward to kiss the back of his neck. He twitched but he did not waken, and Sophie lay there listening to the rain on the glass.

44

‘You’re pretty determined not to let me have a day off, aren’t you?’ Fox stood at the door of his Albert Embankment flat wearing a navy polo shirt, jeans and a mischievous smile.

‘Well, are you going to let me in or aren’t you?’ said Ruth, wedging her shoe in the door.

‘Are you always this forward?’ he said, standing back to let her pass.

‘Only when I want something,’ she replied. She was about to say something more, but her mouth fell open. ‘I don’t believe this place, you lucky sonofabitch.’

She walked through the flat’s spotless open-plan living room, her eyes wide. Ahead of her were floor-to-ceiling windows giving an uninterrupted view of the Houses of Parliament silhouetted against the sunset.

‘Fox! Why didn’t you tell me you were loaded?’ she said, looking back at him with amazement.

Fox smiled.

‘Not loaded,’ he said. ‘No kids, no wife, not many vices and an interest-only mortgage. Plus I don’t have any free time to spend my vast income.’

Ruth was too busy looking at the view to listen properly. She walked right up to the window, where dusk was falling over the city. It was magnificent.

‘Do you need a lodger?’ she asked, peeking into the other rooms, each equally neat.

‘We’ll work up to it,’ said Fox. ‘Could we start with a drink?’

‘I think I need a big one after this shock,’ she laughed.

‘How about a glass of wine?’

Fox went over to his chrome fridge – of
course
he had a chrome fridge – and got out a bottle of white wine, quickly opening it and pouring Ruth a glass.

She leant against the breakfast bar and giggled.

‘You are a dark horse, Fox.’

She couldn’t help smiling. She was a journalist, so she was genetically predisposed to being nosy about the way people lived, but this had blown all her preconceptions about Fox out of the water. If she was honest, she had expected him to live in some scruffy apartment in Stockwell with a full sink and a clothes horse in the bath. But this, this had turned her image of the inspector completely on its head.

She walked over to examine a group of photographs tastefully framed on a nearby wall. Family photos, a couple of Fox in various energetic poses: skiing, sailing with a group of friends. In one he was running with a rugby ball, surrounded by the distinctive dark and light blue shirts of an Oxford–Cambridge Varsity match.

‘Oxford?’ she said, surprised.

‘I was sporty,’ he replied. ‘Of course, I’ve let all that slide now.’

‘But you were a rugby blue.’

‘Very observant for a journalist.’

Ruth slapped her forehead.

‘Fox – you’re a trust-fund babe! Oxford, this apartment? How did I miss it?’

‘My family aren’t filthy rich, if that’s what you mean,’ he said, embarrassed now. ‘The deposit for this place came from an inheritance, and yes, I went to Oxford. You think because I’ve got a northern accent I should be living in a bedsit? Looks can be deceiving.’

‘So you’re rich. You’re clever. In fact I bet you’re one of those fast-tracked inspectors. You know, I might have to start calling you Sherlock Holmes.’ She smiled, giving him a long, lingering look.

Ruth had never been materialistic. She preferred the company of the newsagent to most newspaper editors. But Fox had more layers than she had at first thought and she wouldn’t mind getting to unpeel them.

She lifted an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it. Fox observed her and laughed.

‘Well, I suppose I should be flattered that you feel so at home already.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Ruth. She realised she hadn’t eaten anything all day.

He went back to the fridge and pulled out a bag of fresh pasta.

‘Now this takes five minutes,’ he said, reading the label. ‘Do you think you can wait that long?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said, suddenly ravenous. She watched closely as Fox set to work, pulling out shiny pans and expensive-looking knives. He was ordered and meticulous, even when he was making pasta sauce: the onions were diced like a pro.

‘So what’s so urgent, Ruth?’ he asked as he added them to the pan. ‘You sounded pretty excited when you rang.’

Ruth hesitated, not sure how to play it. She didn’t want to come on too strong, yelling about how she had cracked the case, but then she desperately needed his help and he wasn’t going to do what she asked without proof.

She pushed her glass to one side and picked up her bag, pulling out a file.

‘Look at this,’ she said, taking out a print and putting it on the counter. ‘This is a still from CCTV footage of the Riverton lobby,’ she said, stabbing her finger against the photo. ‘This woman with the bag is getting into the lift at 7.32.

‘Now look at these pictures of Lana Goddard-Price. Same bag, same blouse, same build, right?’

She slapped down another sheet.

‘This is the same woman leaving the hotel twenty-five minutes later. And look at the shape of her bag. It’s fatter. What’s the betting it’s got the other half of a smashed champagne bottle in it? Maybe even Nick Beddingfield’s laptop.’

Fox was about to respond, but Ruth held up a hand.

‘There’s more,’ she said, putting down another photograph. ‘Here – a picture of Sophie’s dad. Lana Goddard-Price’s housekeeper identified Peter Ellis as Lana’s lover.’

‘What?’ said Fox. ‘How did you . . .?’

But Ruth ploughed on, holding up a picture printed from the Red Heart gym website.

‘This is Mike, he worked with Sophie. He told me he felt Lana was targeting Sophie, lavishing her with attention, asking her to house-sit; he thought she had deliberately sought Sophie out. Now doesn’t that sound suspicious when you know her connection to Sophie’s father?’

Fox was looking at the pictures, deep in thought.
At least he’s considering it
, thought Ruth.

‘But Lana was married to a hugely wealthy man,’ he said. ‘What did she need Peter for?’

Ruth shrugged. ‘Maybe he was just a really good screw. Or maybe she wanted something from him. Apparently Lana and Simon’s marriage is on the rocks; maybe it was her escape plan.’

‘But then Peter had no money, remember?’ said Fox. ‘He lost it all in that American investment thingy.’

Ruth pulled a face, frustrated. She knew that, taken on their own, none of these points held much weight, but she was hoping that putting them all together would sway Fox enough to at least question Lana.

He picked up the still pictures of the CCTV footage.

‘Have you got any more of these?’ he asked.