StillWaters:Book4oftheSophieGreenMysteries (10 page)

“Getting wasted.”

All right, maybe it was a stupid question. “Is this really constructive?”

“Why do you give a fuck? You knew we were all gonna be out on our arses, and you never said anything.”

Half a dozen hours ago I was kissing this man amongst Dark Age ruins on a cliff top. And now he’s slumped over a bar, mainlining vodka and chain-smoking bad roll-ups. I doubted they were having much effect on him: more tobacco was falling out than being smoked. Still, I guess it was the principle of the thing.

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I knew about me, not anyone else. Figured if she cut away the dead wood the rest of you would be okay.”

Call me a masochist. Luke’s depression was infectious.

“Yeah, well, we’re not. Christ, Soph, that was four years I gave them. Four fucking years. I left the SAS for that…”

“Voice down, Luke.”

“Oh, who gives a fuck? Hey, everyone.” He raised his voice. “I used to be a spy until they closed my fucking operation.”

Nothing. No one even turned to look. Ah, the English pub.

“See, no one cares.”

Uh-oh. Were those tears in his eyes?

“No one fucking cares. That was my
job
, Sophie. That was my
life
. I
lived
for that sodding operation.”

Yep. Tears.

Fuck.

I’ve never been very good with people crying. I just don’t know what to do. Even if I want to help I can never think of anything to say.

“You’ll get another job,” I suggested pathetically.

“Fuck off,” Luke snarled, shoving back his stool and losing his balance. I leapt up to steady him and spilled vodka all over myself. Great. Now I was flammable.

“Uh, Luke, how about we go outside,” I said, taking his arm. He fought me off like a child. A six foot one child with biceps I need both hands to wrap around.

He stumbled off towards the door and I gave the landlord an apologetic smile, picked up my bag, and pushed through the crowd.

Luke was standing outside, swaying gently in the cold, still air. His usually sure face looked vulnerable and there were goose bumps on his bare arms. I realised, rather belatedly, that he was only wearing a T-shirt.

“Where’s your jacket?” I asked.

He looked down at me, blinking, confused.

“I, uh…”

“Is it inside?”

He frowned. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “No!” he cried as I went back in. “Car.”

I wheeled around and went over to the Vectra. “Keys?”

Luke checked every pocket of his jeans, shivering. I almost suggested I help him, but putting my hand in Luke’s pockets was never going to be a good idea. Not now, anyway.

Eventually he produced a key and bleeped the car open. I reached in and got the fleece that was resting on the passenger seat, handed it to him, then bleeped the car shut for him.

“You want a lift home?” I gestured to the Corsa.

“Where’s Ted?”

“Cornwall. Remember?”

“I miss Ted.”

Oh, dear.

“Come on,” I held out my hand, but he shook his head so rapidly I was afraid he was going to be sick.

“No. Wanna walk.”

Honestly, it was like looking after a child.

“Okay,” I sighed. “Just let me get my scarf, okay?”

Luke leaned against his car, watching me. I’ve teased him about that car so much. Someone as hot as Luke should be driving an Aston at the very least, but he trudges around in a three-year-old Vectra. He says it’s the most invisible car he could find. Not quite what Vauxhall was aiming for, I’m sure, but anyway. Maybe now that he’s not a spy anymore he’ll get a new car. Something cooler.

Scarf located and wound around my neck, I locked up the Corsa and held out my arm to Luke. Even when we were together we were never very hand-holdy in public, but tonight I had the feeling I’d need to keep him on his feet. If he fell over, I was not up to carrying him.

His flat, above a roofer’s yard, was not very far, but it involved going down a hill, then back up. The pavements were starting to ice over and it would have been slow going even if I’d been on my own. With Luke clinging to me it seemed to take forever, but eventually we made it into the yard, the security light clicked on, and I dragged him up the icy steps to his front door.

And then I stopped and looked at him expectantly. He had a keypad lock on the outside and another keypad for an alarm inside. I used to know the codes, but then I also used to know he changed them every month or so.

“Luke?” I prompted, and he prodded the keypad. “Maybe you should tell me what the code is.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “No. S’secret.”

I leaned against the railing and watched him try to put the code in twice. Once more and it would set off a siren. I saw him glare at it and go in for a third try, and I snatched his hand away.

“Okay, you know what? Maybe you should sleep at my place. No alarms there.”

Luke turned and pinned me to the railing with his hard body. I gulped. “Or maybe not. Luke, get off me. I’m not going to sleep with you.” With any luck, he’d pass out as soon as he got horizontal. “Just tell me the damn code.”

He started stroking my cold face. “Only if you promise.”

“Promise what?”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Okay, I promise.”

“And come in and shag me.”

“That would be a no.”

“But you already promised!”

“I didn’t promise that.”

“Yeah, you did.” He pouted beautifully.

“No, I—look.” I sighed. “We could be out here all night. And I for one do not want to add frostbite to my catalogue of recent woes. Will you just tell me the damn code, or I’ll go away and leave you here.”

Luke sulked, but he moved away from me and muttered a four digit code.

“And the inside one?”

“’S the same.”

Unlike him. Must be getting lazy. I put the first code in, turned the key, and then quickly pressed four buttons on the internal alarm.

Which didn’t work. It started screaming and wailing at us. Luke put his hands over his ears and fled to the leather chesterfield in the middle of the room, while I jumped up and down, my head pounding under the noise, yelling, “How do I stop it?”

There was a keyhole at the bottom of the alarm. Frantically, I started trying to fit keys into it, but none of them worked. My head felt like it was about to explode. Someone would probably be calling Neighbourhood Watch on us.

I remembered a drawer in the kitchen where I’d once found the key to Luke’s gun cabinet, and raced to it, took out every key I could find, and tried every one until the noise finally stopped and I slumped against the wall, my head swimming.

When the noise in my ears had subsided and the silence was no longer so deafening, I glanced over at Luke, and at the same time became aware of a sound below the silence.

He was crying.

Oh, Jesus.

Pushing the door firmly shut, I went over to the chesterfield. “Luke?”

Nothing. He was curled up in a ball. I touched his shoulder, and he looked up, wretched and miserable. My heart wrenched. He reached out to me, pulled me to him, and I held him as he cried silently, tears running down my fake leather coat.

I had no idea SO17 meant so much to him.

“Luke?” I said gently, when he was quieter. “Do you want to go to bed?”

He looked up and nodded. “’M sorry, Soph.”

“It’s okay. How many times have I cried on you?”

“S’not the same.”

“Sure it is. Come on, stand up.”

I pulled him to his feet and took him through to the bedroom, pulled back the covers and took off his shoes. I made a very short, half-hearted attempt at taking off his T-shirt, figured trying to get his jeans off him would not be a wise idea, and left him as he was.

“Now go to sleep,” I said, feeling more maternal than I ever have done.

He caught my hand. “Stay?”

“I really should go home. I have things to do,” I lied.

“Don’t go. You always leave me,” he mumbled sleepily.

I suppose there was something to be proud of in that. But I just felt wretched. I fetched him a bottle of water and found a tankard with a handle—easier to pick up—and sat beside him, stroking his hair until he fell asleep, thinking how bloody unfair it was that he looked so beautiful, even when he was totally wrecked.

Chapter Six

I didn’t sleep well, and when I did I dreamed of my own bed. Waking on Luke’s chesterfield, I stared up at the high apex of the ceiling, counting the beams that crossed it. It was eight a.m., and I really should be going home to feed Tammy and walk Norma.

I heaved myself to my feet and checked on Luke. Still asleep, covers thrashed to the floor, T-shirt ridden up to show his lovely back.

I took his keys and made sure the alarm was switched off as I left the house and walked back to the pub. The windscreen of the Corsa was iced over, and I spent five minutes freezing my fingers off before I could even get into the car. Norma Jean was waiting for me, whining anxiously because she’d been alone all night. Tammy was sulking by her food bowl. I walked the dog around the frozen field at the back of the house, changed my clothes and fed both creatures, then went back to Luke’s.

He was still asleep. I made coffee and placed a cup by his bed.

“Hey. Wake up.”

He moaned and put his arm over his face.

“Did you drink any water?”

Luke mumbled something that I think was an enquiry about the time.

“Just after nine.”

This time he spoke clearer. “Fuck off.”

Charming.

“I made you coffee…”

“’S too early.”

“You’re an ungrateful sod.”

Luke moved his arm and looked up at me with bleary eyes. “I nursed you for three days,” he said.

“Yes. Thank you. Now get up.”

He turned over.

“Luke, I know you’re hung over, but we have work to do.”

“Go ’way.”

Was I this belligerent when I was hung over?

“Can you just tell me how to get in touch with Dr. Lucy?”

Nothing.

“Luke Sharpe, tell me or I’ll pour coffee over your head.”

“You wouldn’t waste it.”

“It’s only instant,” I lied. “I mean it. Get up. I’m picking up the cup…”

He didn’t move. He thought I was bluffing.

Nuts to that.

I picked up the cup and poured the contents over his head. Luke sprang out of bed like a scalded—well, man, I suppose—and glared at me incredulously, dripping with coffee.

“You evil cow!”

“I warned you.”

“You couldn’t let me sleep?”

“I’d have let you sleep all day if you gave me her number.” A thought occurred to me. I wasn’t a very kind person when I’d been denied sleep. “Actually, if you’d let me go home and sleep, I wouldn’t have woken up so early. So I’d have let you sleep.”

Luke stared at me like I was mad. “I didn’t make you stay.”

“Yes, you did. You begged me,” I said shortly. “And besides, you were so drunk you would probably have shot yourself in the middle of the night.”

Luke glared at me, then clenched his head in his hands. “Vicious bitch,” he spat, swiping coffee out of his eyes.

“You’re welcome. Give me the number.”

“I don’t have it.” He stomped past me into the bathroom and locked the door.

“Hey!” I banged on the door but was ignored. The shower started up. Bastard.

I’d spent most of the night thinking about Molly Stanton. Someone had clubbed her over the head, strung her up—but not so she’d die—and then left her to drown. And someone had hit me over the head and left me in the same place. Not strung up, though. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to drown. Maybe they hadn’t meant to hit me. Maybe it was all coincidental.

Maybe the answer would come to me in a dream.

I switched on Luke’s TV and stared, glassy-eyed, at the news. Again. I really can’t take in news or weather reports. I want to listen, but my mind sort of fogs over, and the next thing I know the theme music is sounding and those air ballet people are twirling around on their red sashes.

I was annoyed about Luke. Okay, so maybe I could have been a little bit more sensitive; how many times had I got staggeringly drunk and hibernated in my room until I felt well enough to crawl out and eat something fried, some time the next evening? But I’m just not good at sympathy. Sick people are as unfathomable to me as crying people. I just don’t know what to do. And in Luke’s case, where the sickness had been entirely self-wrought, I just wanted to shake him and tell him to pull himself together.

Florence Nightingale? You betcha.

The shower stopped drumming and I waited for Luke to emerge. After ten minutes he still hadn’t left the bedroom, so I pushed open the door and saw him sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, hair wet, wearing a towel.

“You want more coffee?” I asked sweetly.

Luke stuck a finger up at me.

“Just give me her number. Or how you got in touch.”

“Call 9-9-9,” Luke said, eyes still closed.

“Maybe I will. ‘Help, Police, I’ve just shot my ex-boyfriend for being an annoying twat.’ I helped you last night—”

“And I’m very grateful; now could you please fuck off and let me sleep off my hangover?”

“You really don’t have a number for her?”

“No! Why is it so bloody important?”

“Because there’s a very strong possibility that whoever killed Molly Stanton tried to kill me and I want to find out who did it!”

Luke turned on his side. “Directory Enquiries,” he mumbled, and I could tell that was all I was going to get out of him.

I drove up to Tesco for vital supplies, making a swift call to my friend Evie, who’d been feeding Tammy for me, and letting her know I was home early. Evie, in return, wanted to know all the juicy gossip about my trip with Luke, which made me wish I’d never let slip about it. Of course, she thought we both still worked at the airport and were just holidaying with other colleagues. She didn’t know about SO17.

Feeling awful for lying to my friend—again—I told her it had been tense and dull and I was glad to be home. Well, two out of three wasn’t a total lie.

Back home, I made a lot of coffee, dragged the phone through to the sofa and settled down with notepad, pen and packet of mini muffins.