Perfect Strangers

She went to her top drawer, where she kept her valuables. It had clearly been rifled through, but her small bag of sentimental jewellery was still there. Feeling a sense of relief, she saw her passport too, and the key fob which gave internet access to her bank account. Instinctively she grabbed everything and stuffed it into her bag, then got out of the flat, not wanting to spend another second in there.

She tried to regulate her breathing with deep yoga inhalations, but she was fighting a losing battle and a sob stuttered from her throat, slow at first, before the dam burst and her body released some of the tension and hurt she had been bottling up since that moment she had walked into Nick’s hotel room.

‘What do you want from me?’ she screamed, slumping down to the landing floor, holding her knees tightly as tears plopped on to her jeans. She sat there for a minute, letting the fraught emotion drain from her body. When she had finished, she blew her nose and looked at the destruction of her flat again.

Without thinking, she pulled DI Fox’s business card from her pocket and used her mobile to dial his number.

‘Fox,’ said a tired voice finally.

‘Mr Fox, it’s Sophie Ellis. I’ve just got home.’

The policeman evidently heard the wobble in Sophie’s voice.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Someone’s broken into my flat, torn it apart.’

‘A burglary?’

‘Yes, I suppose,’ she said uncertainly, looking around. ‘The front door was open.’

‘It was open?’ said Fox. ‘Was anything taken?’

He sounded genuinely concerned, the hostility from their earlier encounter gone.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ said Sophie, her voice shaking. ‘I mean, there’s stuff everywhere, I can’t really see . . .’

‘I’ll try and pop by later, or I can send a colleague over.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Sophie, are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’

She hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve just found a dead body and your flat has been ransacked. Maybe now is the time to tell us everything you know.’

‘I’ve told you everything,’ she said, immediately regretting the call.

‘Are you sure? Even the smallest detail might be important. Your flat has been turned over for some reason—’

‘I’ve told you everything. Please come. I’m afraid. What if they’re still watching the building?’

‘I need to finish some things at the station, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. If you d

on’t want to stay there alone, go to the nearest public place. Is there a local pub or Starbucks you could sit in for an hour or so?’

‘Yes, I suppose.’

‘Go there. Call me again to tell me where, okay?’

She put the phone down and tried to stuff Fox’s business card back into her purse. She felt some resistance in the notes compartment. She had never been good at detoxing her wallet; it was constantly fit to burst with tube tickets, old receipts and business cards. She pulled them out and they fell on to her lap like confetti.

One small white card stared at her.

Joshua McCormack, Bespoke Horologist.

It took a second to place him, and then she remembered. The cocky charmer at the Chariot Dinner.