‘I think you mean APB: All Points Bulletin,’ he said. ‘And that’s America.’
‘Whatever,’ she replied haughtily, turning away. She was desperate for any information Josh had, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her beg for it.
‘And don’t fall in the river on your way out,’ he said, opening and closing his hand in mocking farewell.
‘Screw you,’ she hissed, slamming the little door behind her.
Her cheeks burned with anger. She didn’t need a cocky bastard like Josh McCormack helping her anyway, she told herself, struggling with her bag on the narrow walkway. She’d find out what she needed on her own.
Her defiance lasted just a couple of seconds. Inhaling the cool evening air, she felt completely alone and vulnerable. Inspector Fox would be waiting for her and she had nothing new to tell him. Nothing that would get her off the hook.
Glancing up, she noticed the dark shadow at the end of the street. A car? She was pretty sure it hadn’t been parked there earlier.
So what? she thought, trying to quash her nerves. It’s only a car. She forced herself to keep walking down the gantry and on to the wooden pier. She didn’t want Josh to think – no, to know – that she had nowhere else to go. Just as she was passing the ‘Fleet Reach’ sign, the car’s lights came on and Sophie threw up a hand, momentarily blinded. She heard the engine fire up, and the crunch of tyres on the roadway. They were driving towards her. Were they going to hit her? She suddenly understood that phrase ‘rabbit caught in the headlights’. She felt rooted to the spot, unable to move. One step to the right, and she might be hit by the car. One step the other way, she could end up in the Thames.
‘Move!’
Sophie felt a hand on her arm and she was pulled backwards. Suddenly the lights flicked off and Sophie could see again. She was irrationally glad to see Josh looking down at her, especially when she saw the black car parked across the road, blocking the entrance to the pier. There were two large men coming towards her, and they didn’t look at all friendly.
‘Keep quiet,’ hissed Josh. ‘Let me do the talking.’
He walked down to meet the men. Sophie could now see that one was huge, like a bouncer, with close-cropped grey hair, but it was his companion who disturbed her more. He was smaller, more wiry, but his eyes were hard, peering over at Sophie like he was examining her, looking for faults or weaknesses. For some reason, he reminded her of the crocodile from Peter Pan.
‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ asked Josh. He was back to the self-assured Josh McCormack she had met at the party, except this version was serious and unsmiling. And that gave her the sudden thought: maybe these gorillas were after Josh, not her. After all, he seemed like the type who might get into trouble with big men.
‘No, it’s the young lady we want to talk to,’ said the smaller man. ‘If that’s all right with you?’ He had a strange accent with an upwards glide. Eastern European? Polish or Russian, she thought.
‘Well, I’m afraid it’s not a good time at the moment,’ said Josh. ‘My wife and I were just in the middle of something.’ He smiled. ‘Bit of a domestic, if I’m honest. So if you could perhaps come back later . . .?’
The small man looked at Josh, then up at the bouncer type next to him.
‘A lovers’ tiff, that’s all it is,’ he said to the big man.
‘Exactly,’ said Josh. ‘You understand.’
The smaller man’s face was cold and expressionless.
‘Get rid of him, Tomas.’
The gorilla lunged forward but Josh was too quick; pivoting backwards and swinging his foot up, he caught the man mountain right between the legs.
‘Run, you silly cow!’ shouted Josh, grabbing her hand and yanking her along the road.
Sophie didn’t need telling twice; she kicked off her shoes and sprinted as fast as her legs would carry her, her bag banging against her hip. She didn’t know who those men were, but she had no doubt that they meant her harm. And she could be fairly sure that the one Josh had kicked in the balls would be pretty bloody angry if he ever caught up with them. She could see the end of the road and put on an extra burst of speed, trying to make the corner.
It was just then that she heard a deafening crack. As her body shook, she realised she’d been hit. She gasped and time seemed to stop. She closed her eyes and waited for it – a searing pain as her brain registered the wound from a bullet. But there was nothing. She tore her bag off her shoulder and saw a hole that had ripped through the fabric of the side pocket.
Josh grabbed her wrist again. Her hands were shaking but she knew she had to keep moving.
‘This way,’ he ordered, pulling her into an alleyway blocked by an old iron bollard. At least the men wouldn’t be able to drive down here, thought Sophie. She didn’t dare turn around to check whether they were still chasing; she just concentrated on running, her bare feet slapping against the cobbles, her lungs gasping. Left, right, she followed Josh through the passageways of what looked like a disused warehouse complex, her bare feet stinging on the concrete. She couldn’t keep going much longer, but she knew she had to. At the end of the alleyway, Josh pulled her into another narrow passage, which ended in a locked gate. Sophie looked around desperately: there was no way out, only the alley they had just run down and, on closer inspection, the gate appeared to be rusted solid.
‘Where are we going?’ she panted. ‘Josh, they’re coming!’
‘I know that,’ he snapped.
‘And he’s got a gun.’
He flashed her a look. ‘You’ve worked that out, have you?’ he said sarcastically. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her bag up above her head.
‘What are you doing?’ she objected.
‘Put your foot in here,’ he said, pointing to the bars on the front of the gate. ‘We’re going over.’
Sophie looked upwards just as Josh tossed her bag up and over the brickwork arch at the top of the gate. She quickly hoisted herself up, scrabbling for handholds, her toes slipping.
‘I can’t . . .’ she said desperately as she began to wobble.
‘Yes, you can,’ he said, giving her a shove in the backside which sent her toppling over the arch and sliding down the other side, the stone scraping the skin on her right-hand side. She barely had time to draw a breath before Josh landed on top of her.
‘Ouch,’ she squealed.
He scrambled to his feet, pulled her up against him and clamped his hand over her mouth. Her cheek pressed against his chest and she could hardly move.
It was then that she heard thumping footsteps. There was no mistaking the sound: the men were pounding into the alley. Sophie froze, every last nerve ending tingling, ears straining, not daring to breathe, hoping against hope that the shadows would hide them.
And suddenly the footsteps were receding in the other direction. Josh didn’t waste any time. He was up on his feet, dragging her along the short alleyway, but they didn’t have very far to go. Sophie looked at him, her eyes wide. The alleyway ended in a flight of stone steps which disappeared under the black waters of the Thames.
‘Don’t think about it, just go,’ hissed Josh. ‘It’s our only way out.’
‘You are joking?’ she whispered.
‘Do I look like I’m joking?’
He grasped her arm, hard, and his eyes locked with hers.
‘Listen to me, Sophie,’ he commanded. ‘Those men will kill you. Do you understand me?’
She began to speak, but he shook her arm again.
‘Do you understand me?’
She nodded, remembering how close she had come to being shot.
‘Then it’s the only way. In about thirty seconds they’re going to realise that we didn’t go the other way and kick in that gate. And I don’t want to be here when they do, do you?’
Sophie shook her head.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
Holding hands, they waded into the water. It was shockingly cold, like plunging into an icy b
ath. By the time they were up to their necks, Sophie’s teeth started to rattle. She had looped her bag around her arm, and at least that was floating a little, like a makeshift buoyancy aid. It was not her robust waterproof Prada backpack – that had ended up at the dress agency – but it was nylon, and despite the bullet hole in the side pocket, she hoped it wouldn’t spring a leak.
‘Keep moving,’ whispered Josh, his voice shaking, but his grip on her hand reassuringly strong. ‘It’s not far, just down to the next pier.’
Sophie felt as if her whole body had seized up in the numbing cold. It was an effort to move her legs forward, and without Josh there, she was sure she would have gone under. Just a little further, she told herself. Just keep going. But it was so hard. Her feet were sore from the gravelly river bed, and her sodden clothes were impossibly heavy, dragging at her every move.
‘That’s it,’ said Josh. ‘Good girl, almost there.’
And then she could see the dark outline of the pier, the black wooden uprights looming out of the water ahead of them. She redoubled her efforts, reaching out and clinging to the struts.
‘Sophie, look up,’ Josh said, into her ear. There was an old iron ladder leading up on to the pier. He placed her hands on the first rung and pushed her up. Her legs and arms felt like stone – heavier, even – but she struggled up and lay sprawled on the wooden deck, Josh following right behind her.
‘We can’t stay here,’ he whispered urgently, his voice shaking from the cold. ‘It won’t take them long to work out where we are.’
He tugged at her jacket, pulling it over her shoulders.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, her teeth chattering.
‘Take it off, your jeans too,’ he said, pulling his own jumper over his head. ‘Wet clothes will slow us down and leave a trail for them to follow.’
Sophie did as she was told, stripping to her T-shirt and pants, shivering like one of those shaved dogs you saw tied up outside fancy boutiques on the King’s Road. Josh removed his own clothes, down to a pair of dark boxer shorts. He pulled a set of keys from his jeans pocket and pushed everything they had been wearing back into the water. He was just about to do the same with her bag but she stopped him.
‘No, not that,’ she said urgently. ‘I need my bag.’
‘Sophie, we haven’t got time . . .’
‘Give it to me. Now, Josh.’
She knew it didn’t make any sense, but at that moment, her bag was incredibly important to her. She’d abandoned her flat, her family and friends, she was stripped to her underwear. That bag was the only link to her old life, a link back to a time when anything made sense; she would rather face those men than leave it behind.
Josh clearly saw the determination in her face and handed the dripping sack to her.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, taking her hand again.
She flinched; standing in their underwear, the gesture felt too intimate, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it.
‘I said, let’s move it,’ he growled.
At first, Sophie almost fell to her knees. Her muscles had locked through the cold, but it was warmer to keep moving, warmer – and safer. She knew Josh was right about those men. They weren’t going to sit down and ask them reasonable questions, like the police. They were going to kill them and dump their bodies in the river – and that was the thing that made Sophie move. She never, ever wanted to get back into that dark water, alive or dead.
‘This way,’ said Josh, ducking as they crossed the road and took a tiny lane up the side of a warehouse. They skirted around the back and found themselves in an alleyway, turning to the right, away from Josh’s barge.
‘If we can just get to . . .’ he began, before immediately grabbing Sophie and pushing her into a doorway, as the dazzling glare of a pair of headlights swung into the lane.
Sophie felt sure they would have seen them, that the car would run them down. But suddenly it screeched to a halt and began reversing. In the distance she could hear the faint swell of police sirens.
‘Josh! It’s the police!’ she hissed, almost laughing with relief. ‘We have to go to them.’
‘No chance. The shooter is between us and them. Come on,’ said Josh, hauling her to her feet. ‘We need to get out of sight.’
Reluctantly she allowed him to lead her onwards, taking each turn blindly, trusting he knew where he was going. Eventually they found themselves in what looked like an abandoned parking area, surrounded on three sides by old-fashioned pebble-dashed garages, the kind with corrugated-iron doors. Josh led her to one and, fiddling around with his set of keys, pushing one key into the garage door lock.
‘This is yours?’
‘Get inside,’ he ordered, pulling the door out and upwards. Sophie ducked under his arm and stepped inside a dark, cramped space that smelled of petrol and Christmas trees. Josh closed the door with a clang and moved over to Sophie’s right.
‘What is this place?’ she whispered.
There was a rasping sound as he struck a match, then lit a lantern.
‘Welcome to my office, Sophie Ellis.’
15
The garage was crammed with industrial steel shelves, each loaded with boxes: TVs, DVD players, even some labelled with luxury fashion brands.
‘What is all this stuff?’ she asked.
‘Most of it belongs to a friend of mine,’ said Josh in a low voice. ‘Calls it his “rainy day fund”. And I guess days don’t get much more rainy than this.’
He reached into a box and pulled out a Ralph Lauren branded beach towel, wrapping it around Sophie’s shoulders. It was only then that she realised just how cold she was, and she began shaking hard.
She glanced up at him in the low light and couldn’t help but notice how good his body was: tall and well defined, with firm pecs and biceps and a taut stomach. He was not someone who lived in the gym, though, she thought idly, just someone blessed with a strong, athletic body and who looked after it. He caught her looking at him and she turned away, made a show of drying her hair.
‘There’s a heater in the back, and a kettle too,’ he said quickly. ‘No milk. But you’ll have noticed it’s not the Ritz.’
Sophie opened her damp bag and starting rummaging through her possessions. They were soaked, her purse, her phone, everything apart from her plastic make-up case. Thank God she’d thought to put her passport book in there – not to mention her copy of I Capture the Castle. She couldn’t have stood losing that.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Josh.
‘It’s all soaked, Josh,’ she said, feeling herself begin to crumble. He must have heard the crack in her voice and gently took the bag from her. ‘All right, don’t rush,’ he said, guiding her to a plastic chair and draping his own towel over her shoulders. ‘Just take a few deep breaths. We’ve lost those guys, they won’t find us in here, okay? We’re safe now.’
Sophie looked at him, then gave a tight nod. She didn’t feel at all safe, but she knew that panicking wasn’t going to help.
‘Let’s see what I can find in here,’ he said gruffly. He flicked on a torch and moved off behind the shelves, leaving her in the semi-darkness. God, what am I doing here? she thought, feeling a sudden stab of longing for her old life. Not the Chelsea one, with the flat and the money and the rich boyfriend; no, her recent life, her normal one with her little flat and her tiny seedling of a business. Back then, she had thought it mundane and unexciting, but at least no one had forced her into the river. People were always criticising ordinary life, complaining about suburbia and the daily struggle to make ends meet, but it wasn’t until you had it taken away, like some trapdoor opening beneath you, that you realised just how happy you had been. Sure, Sophie had shared her dad’s dreams of adventure, of escaping to exotic places, but this? Shivering in a black puddle on a concrete floor, hiding from men who wanted to shoot her dead? She certainly didn’t want this. She stood up and peered around the shelves where Josh was digging in boxes.
‘Who’s afte
r me, Josh?’ she asked.
He looked up and his face was earnest in the torchlight.
‘Whoever killed Nick, I’m guessing.’
‘But why?’
He tugged a handful of white T-shirts from a box, then pulled one over his own head.
‘Perhaps he had something they wanted. And now maybe they think you have it. Whatever it is, they must want it pretty badly. It’s the only explanation for getting shot at back there.’
She nodded, thinking.
‘So who was Nick, Josh?’
‘A businessman. Of sorts.’
‘Of sorts?’
He sat down on a crate and puffed out his cheeks.
‘He was a grifter, Sophie, a confidence trickster. You’d call him a con man.’
She looked at him wide-eyed.
‘A con man? Who did he con?’
‘People like you.’
‘Me?’ she squeaked.
‘Keep your bloody voice down,’ he snapped. ‘We don’t know if our trigger-happy friends have really gone.’
‘But what did he want from me?’ she pressed.
Josh paused for a moment and gave her a sympathetic look.
‘Money,’ he replied flatly.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Sophie, but deep down she knew that what Josh was saying could be true. Of course Nick thought she had money. They’d met at a £10,000-a-plate dinner, she’d let him believe she was some sort of health industry entrepreneur, and he had walked her back to ‘her’ £15 million home.
‘Oh God,’ she said.
‘What?’ He looked at her. ‘Tell me, Sophie. We were shot at earlier, or had you forgotten? I think you owe it to me to tell me everything.’
So slowly, haltingly, Sophie told Josh about house-sitting at Lana’s house, about the party invitations on the mantelpiece, the borrowed wardrobe and her nearly week-long act of playing the millionaire.
‘I have no money, Josh,’ she said, feeling wretched. ‘It was an illusion. I didn’t tell him I was a broke personal trainer because I knew he’d think I was a gold-digger.’
Josh gave a mirthless laugh.
‘Instead it turns out you were both playing the same game.’
Perfect Strangers Page 12
