by Kate Johnson
‘Yes, but I knew MI5 was involved.’
‘Irene Shepherd was a Supreme Court Judge. And you must have seen the cop movies,’ Jack picked up his coffee again, ‘these guys forget which order they’re supposed to put the shooting and the asking of questions in.’
I made a face and went back to my search. And, I don’t know, maybe Google doesn’t like me, because I found nothing.
Luke, on the other hand, had been luckier.
‘So who’s this guy you’ve been spending all your time with?’ was his greeting when I answered my phone.
‘What, Jack? Oh, just some good-looking young bounty hunter I picked up in France.’ I leaned back and sipped my coffee. ‘Very good in bed. You’d like him.’
‘You’re not half as funny as you think you are.’ There was real bitterness in his voice. I took pity on him.
‘I couldn’t be. Look, he’s Maria’s little brother, all right? We’re in the same boat, we might as well, um, paddle it together.’
‘I don’t like him,’ said Luke stubbornly.
‘This time yesterday you’d no idea he existed.’
‘Still don’t like him.’
‘Jealous,’ I scoffed, with no small measure of delight.
‘Damn right. Should be me spending every hour, every minute with you, Soph. Not some bloody lunatic bounty hunter on the run.’
‘It’s fine, Luke. Really. He’s just helping me out. Don’t you trust me?’
A pause, then he sighed and said, ‘Of course I trust you. I love you. I’m just a bit stressed here, all right?’
I let that one slide, in light of the L-word and all. ‘Did you find out anything about Jack and this Judge Shepherd?’
‘Yes, and I want you to appreciate that it wasn’t easy. The FBI have leapt on this just like 5 have over here.’
‘You have friends in the FBI?’ I asked.
‘No, I hacked in,’ he said distractedly.
‘Yeah, ’cos that’s not hard,’ I mocked.
‘Not for me. Okay, here we go. I have to tell you, Soph, it doesn’t look good.’ I heard paper rustling. ‘Basically, there’s evidence of him all over. Fingerprints, saliva on a coffee cup, a couple of hairs on the carpet. The external camera has him arriving and leaving a few hours later. Internal cameras have been, of course, wiped.’
‘When was she killed?’
‘Not a hundred percent sure, she wasn’t found until the next morning, but it was likely while your friend was there.’
‘But Luke, come on. This is ridiculous. The gun was still there, for God’s sake. They might as well have scrawled, It was me, I dunnit all over the walls in blood and signed it at the bottom.’
Luke was silent a few seconds, digesting this. ‘I don’t know where your mind has been the last week,’ he said. ‘And besides, are we talking about you or Jack here?’
I looked around to make sure Jack was still in the shower and hadn’t crept up behind me.
‘Both. Luke, it’s all so fake.’
‘MI5 don’t seem to think so.’
‘Great.’ I slumped in my chair. ‘Okay, look. What do you have on Irene Shepherd?’
He sighed and I could hear him flicking through papers. ‘Irene Shepherd. Aged 63, never married, no children. Lived alone in a great big McMansion in Hartford, Connecticut. Found by her daily maid who came as usual at eight in the morning. Appointed seven years ago after ten years’ legal practice in New York and five in England … Harvard educated, fourteen honorary doctorates … when not on duty at the Bar, lectured at Harvard. Great respect, good reputation, excellent lawyer and judge … yada yada yada …’
Fourteen doctorates. I have five A levels and I think that makes me smart. Okay, so half of them are essentially all from the same drama course, but I thought it was pretty clever of me to figure out the loophole that let me do that.
‘So no enemies?’
‘None that anyone can come up with. And believe me, these guys have everything. They have the addresses of all her friends, ex-boyfriends, employers and employees. Half of them have been pulled in for interviews and some are even being tailed.’
I sighed. ‘But … I mean, if she was a judge, she must have passed sentence a few times, right?’
‘You’d think so.’
‘So, I don’t know, there must be a few ex-cons who don’t like her?’ I drummed my fingers. ‘How long does a Supreme Court Judge serve for? Is it a lifetime position?’
‘Ten years,’ Jack said, coming silently out of the bathroom and making me jump. I hadn’t even heard the shower stop. I looked up and he was wearing a white towel – just a towel – that made his skin look very dark. And wet. And …
I have a boyfriend. I love Luke. Very much. And I really need to stop looking at Jack’s abs.
‘Listen,’ I said to Luke in a slightly shaky voice, ‘I’m going to go and look some of this up online.’
‘You think you can get better out of Google than I did from the Bureau?’
‘Talk to Harvey. See what he can find out. Access Ohio records or something.’
‘Ten-Four, kemosabe.’
‘What does that even mean?’ I asked, smiling.
‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you. I’ll speak to you later, okay?’
‘Okay. Bye,’ I said, and ended the call before I got all mushy in front of Jack.
‘Ohio?’ Jack asked, still standing there looking hot in his towel.
‘I’m checking you out,’ I said, and immediately wished I’d said something else. ‘Your record. Irene Shepherd.’
‘You won’t find anything,’ Jack said, looking through his bag for clothes.
‘Already have,’ I replied smugly.
‘On me?’
‘No, her.’
‘You won’t get anything on me.’
‘That’s not the same as having nothing to get, is it, Jack?’
Jack said nothing.
Chapter Six
Are you going to marry her?
He’d never before considered that he might ever marry anyone. In his entire life, Luke had never had anything that might be termed a relationship with anyone. He had affairs with women that were purely about sex, and he had professional acquaintances, but he didn’t have friends and the less said about his family the better.
A few months ago the thought of marrying anyone, even Sophie, would have been laughable. But then she’d left him and the ache he’d felt for her was unbearable. She’d said she wanted to focus on her career, and Luke couldn’t find a good enough argument against that. After all, wasn’t that what he’d spent his own life focusing on?
But he’d missed her. Missed her terribly. And when she’d confessed to him how ill she’d been after those bloody kids tried to OD her, his heart had stopped beating for a moment. She was hurt and I wasn’t there. She could have died and I wasn’t there.
He stared at the ceiling, sleep utterly evading him. Are you going to marry her?
She wore his ring already. Wore it every day, and apparently had no idea he’d bought it as an engagement ring. In the rush of terrifying emotion that followed ‘I love Sophie,’ he’d got so caught up in ridiculous fantasies that when he saw the ring and knew it would be perfect for her, he’d bought it and got as far as planning his proposal before he realised what he was doing.
Three months’ absence had him doing foolish things. And now a week’s absence had him going down the same path. He couldn’t ask Sophie to marry him. Not really. Much as he hated to admit it, Evelyn was right, and he couldn’t have a personal life. Neither could Sophie, if she was going to stay in the same game as him.
Except it wasn’t that. Not really.
‘You,’ Sophie had said to him once, ‘have all the interpersonal skills of a speeding bullet.’ And he’d been angry at the time, but she was right. He’d spent his life ruthlessly repressing every emotion that came his way, and thanks to his family, the one he’d been most successful with was love. And now Sophie had prised tha
t out of him, and he didn’t know how to control it.
He’d already jeopardised his career in the name of love. Pretty soon the rest of his life would career out of control. Rashly falling to one knee might seem like the right thing to do now, but it would be like making decisions while drunk. He couldn’t trust his own judgement.
Luke lay awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his feelings to go away.
I hugged myself under the thin duvet, imagining Luke’s arms around me as I slept, his body warming me, his breath on my neck. I felt complete when he held me. Revoltingly, sappily, disgustingly complete. I imagined his long, clever fingers stroking my arms, his warm lips brushing my neck, and I turned in his embrace, feeling the heat of his body against mine. He held me close and lifted his mouth from my neck and kissed me, and then I knew.
I knew I wasn’t dreaming it, and I knew it wasn’t Luke.
I yanked my head back so quickly I almost got whiplash. Eyes suddenly wide open, I stared at Jack.
‘You’re not Luke,’ I said, and the sleepy look on his face vanished.
‘No, I’m really not.’
‘I thought you were Luke,’ I stammered, lifting a hand to wipe his taste from my mouth and yelping when I realised where said hand had just been. And then I noticed that Jack’s hands were in even more inappropriate places, and I shoved him away, doing my best to leap out of Vallie’s sofa bed in an affronted manner and managing to scramble around, getting tangled up in my pyjamas, before hitting the TV in the corner and ricocheting onto the tiny square of floor space not covered by furniture.
Jack glared at me.
‘You thought I was him.’
‘Well, duh.’ I pushed my hair out of my eyes and fought to get upright. ‘Why else would I have been kissing you?’
‘You hardly kissed me,’ Jack said, and I nodded violently.
‘No. Right. I didn’t. No kissing went on. I want that in writing.’
‘Kissing sort of went on,’ Jack mumbled, flopping on his back and glowering at the ceiling.
‘You started it.’
‘I started it? You were the one getting all snuggly and, and touchy,’ he accused.
‘I’m sorry.’ I even had my hands on my hips at this point. ‘I’m not used to sleeping with men who aren’t Luke. I woke up with you and just sort of assumed –’
‘Oh, you assumed? Well, you can assume this. There’s a chair. Looks comfy, don’t it. Savvy?’
And with that he spread himself in the middle of the bed and closed his eyes determinedly.
Bastard.
I looked at the chair, which hadn’t even been comfortable to sit in. It was way too minuscule to actually sleep in.
I crawled into it and tried to make myself comfortable. Fat chance. It was like sleeping in a hamster-sized hammock.
Now that I was looking at the bed with only one person in it, it looked ridiculously big. Surely we could both sleep in it and not touch?
But hadn’t that been the plan last night? Even in my sleep, I was managing to get into trouble.
I sighed loudly, stretched my legs out on the sofa bed, kicking Jack as I did, and closed my eyes. It was a long time until morning.
He woke alone after about an hour’s sleep, and continued to stare at the ceiling.
The loft apartment had exposed beams and high apexes. Luke had painted the walls magnolia and exposed plain oak floorboards. His bedlinen was high quality and very plain, as was every other bit of furniture in the place. His clothes were hidden in bespoke wardrobes and drawers. His books, films and music were ordered and shelved in the living room. His open-plan kitchen was a symphony of oak and marble and steel.
It was calm, ordered, simple.
A few weeks ago he’d caught Sophie staring at the exposed beams with a calculating look in her eye. ‘I’d paint them,’ she said. ‘Did you know, the Tudors used to paint every available surface? All those stylised designs. You could have a frieze of roses or ivy all along there,’ she pointed to the beam above the bed, ‘or even real ivy – silk stuff anyway – and tiny little lights. And a tapestry on the wall. And a patchwork quilt on the bed.’
Luke had simply stared at her until a pink flush crept over her cheeks.
‘Well, that’s what I’d do, anyway.’
Her own bedroom was a riot of pink and purple, swags of fabric and trails of glittering fairy lights. Scented candles and half-used pots of moisturiser cluttered every surface. She’d painted a mural of giant mad daisies on the wall of her living room, and piled mounds of cushions everywhere. The kitchen was a 1970s’ nightmare of melamine and linoleum, the cupboards disorganised and half-full of food well past its sell-by date. Her bathroom was a demilitarised zone of towels and bottles and make-up, scattered everywhere, spilling over onto each other, barely a square inch of floor or shelf space visible.
Luke had carefully designed his apartment to be clean, calm and sleek. Sophie’s flat was what madness looked like.
He stared at the ceiling, and it was boring as hell.
It was Sunday morning, but that didn’t really make much difference to Luke any more. He didn’t have any hobbies and he didn’t go to church. He’d had his fill of shopping with Angel.
He’d spent the rest of Saturday researching Irene Shepherd, and trying to work out whether he was worried by Sophie telling him, ‘We’re safe.’ We. Sophie and Jack were not a ‘we’. Sophie and Luke weren’t even a ‘we’. Sophie hated ‘we’. She thought it was smug and annoying.
He swung out of bed with a sigh. He hadn’t spoken to Sophie since yesterday and he’d exhausted all avenues of investigation last night. The only connection he’d found between Sir Theodore and Irene Shepherd was that they’d once worked at the same law firm, but it was highly tenuous and he didn’t really believe Sophie’s idea that the two murders were connected.
He didn’t believe she could trust Jack. Hell, look at the messes she’d made before, trusting the wrong men. She’d nearly been drugged and raped a year ago, all because she fancied some Norwegian tosser, and the less said about the fiasco concerning Docherty the better. The fact that she’d shot both of them didn’t make him feel any better.
Luke wasn’t entirely convinced that her judgement had improved when it came to himself.
He wandered into his living room and glanced out of the window. The silver Ford was gone. He looked up and down the street and registered every vehicle there.
Two hours later, they were all gone. Nothing parked outside his house for the rest of the day that shouldn’t be there.
He ought to have felt elated, but it was despair that overtook him.
He dialled Evelyn’s number. ‘Who have 5 got on Sophie’s case?’ he asked without preamble.
‘I’ll just look into that for you,’ she said in a smooth voice. He heard computer keys tapping and Sheila’s voice in the background. ‘Is it all right if I call you back with the information?’
She ended the call, and five minutes later his phone rang again.
‘She was right behind me,’ Evelyn said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Bloody marvellous,’ Luke said flatly. He didn’t bother to ask why Evelyn was in the office on a Sunday. Terrorists didn’t work office hours – which was just damn rude of them – which meant the security services often didn’t, either. ‘Who do 5 have on the case?’
Her voice dropped. ‘I’m not even supposed to know this,’ she said, ‘but a friend of mine is support staff there and –’
‘Evelyn.’
‘Harrington,’ she said.
His stomach dropped. ‘Robert Harrington?’
‘You know him?’
Luke punched the wall. The plaster cracked, his knuckles bled, but he didn’t feel pain in his hand. He felt it in sharp, icy spears through his heart and his gut.
He felt fear, barbed and spiky, eating him from the inside.
Robert Harrington, MI5’s pit-bull. He’d hunt Sophie down and then he’d snap her in his jaws and shake her
until she stopped screaming. He was a patriot, the kind who viewed any threat as a personal insult. He was so horrifyingly loyal to the Service that he truly didn’t understand the meaning of leniency.
He’d taken the surveillance away from Luke’s house. He thought Sophie was never coming back.
‘Luke?’
‘I know him,’ he said, surprised his voice came out so normal. Then, because even if Evelyn was hiding somewhere, somebody would still probably be listening in, he added, ‘He’s very good at what he does.’
He ended the call and his phone bounced on the floor.
Harrington.
Shit.
I don’t know what I did all night, except that it wasn’t sleep. I counted sheep and ran through times tables in my head (getting stuck at about seven; I blame the school system for allowing us calculators). I tried to get all of England’s monarchs in chronological order, with dates too, and sometimes even spouses (can anyone remember which one was Catherine Parr and which one was Catherine Howard? And how lazy was old Henners for marrying three women with the same damn name?). And then some time after the sky got light, I drifted away.
It seemed like about ten seconds before I felt someone touch my face, and I sleepily still thought it was Luke, smiling and snuggling up to his hand before I remembered, and opened my eyes, and saw Jack peering at me, looking stony.
‘Vallie’s up,’ he said. ‘I heard her go in the bathroom.’
‘So?’
‘So, next she’ll come in here, and if she sees you in that chair, she’ll know something’s up.’
Sighing, I remembered that there was a pretence to be kept up here. I crawled back into the bed and turned my back on Jack, facing the wall, as far away as I could be without falling off the edge.
‘Why is she even up so early, anyway?’
‘Sunday. Church.’
‘You don’t go?’
‘Not unless someone’s died.’
The sofa bed wasn’t the most comfortable mattress in the world, but after the chair it was heaven. It was warm and soft, and I was drifting away as Vallie opened the door, looked in and smiled at us. She waved and whispered, ‘Ciao,’ and then the front door clicked shut.
