Perfect Strangers

He pulled something out of a box.

‘Here, try these. I can’t see much, so forgive me if it’s not exactly colour co-ordinated.’

He handed Sophie an armful of clothes, all seemingly brand new and covered with crinkly cellophane. Sophie held up a dress on a hanger. It had an elaborate blue and gold print she recognised.

‘Versace?’ she said. ‘It’s this season, too. How did you . . .?’

‘Don’t ask,’ said Josh, handing her a pair of black patent pumps. ‘I’ve guessed the size, but there are most sizes back there. Just shout if the coat’s too much as well.’

Sophie looked at her new wardrobe with disbelief. Either Josh’s friend spent his weekends ram-raiding Bond Street, or he was very connected in Milan, though Sophie seriously doubted whether the top fashion houses would be happy to store their valuable stock in some run-down garage clinging to the side of the Thames.

‘Josh, are these fakes?’

‘At this moment in time, I thought you’d be grateful to wear anything. Fake or authentic.’

‘I am, but . . .’ The thing was, her knickers were still soaking, but she didn’t want to point that out.

He threw her a pair of Calvin Klein men’s trunks.

‘Best I can do. Sorry,’ he said with a half-smile.

He gave her privacy as she dried off properly and got into the clothes. He was right, she didn’t care what sort they were, especially when she pulled on the heavy wool coat and wrapped her arms about herself. Finally the chill was starting to leave her bones, at least. Still, she was far from comfortable being here, stranded in some Fagin’s hideout, with unknown assailants – possibly killers – on her trail. She didn’t know where she was going to go next, she just knew she wanted to get out of there.

‘We need to get to a phone and call Inspector Fox,’ she said.

‘No, Sophie,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe to talk to the police.’

‘Why not?’

‘Number one,’ he said, ‘you said it yourself, you’re the prime suspect in Nick’s murder. After you called me, I went straight on the net – and Nick’s death is the top news story. Number two, you say a Met inspector is going to your flat? That saves him getting a warrant. Now maybe this guy is as straight as a die, but what if he’s not? He could be planting any sort of evidence in your knicker drawer. My bet is that they’ll arrest you within twenty-four hours even if it’s just to be seen to be doing something. And then it’s in their interest to find something to make it stick. No one wants to look stupid, especially with the media watching.’

‘But they’re the police, they can’t do that.’

He turned round and peeled off his wet boxer shorts. She tried to look away, but she couldn’t resist sneaking a peek before he pulled on his own Calvins.

‘Number three,’ he added, oblivious. ‘Even if they’re not planning on pinning this on you, we really don’t want the police to know where we are in any case.’

He put on a suit which Sophie noticed had a Gucci tag hanging from it.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she frowned.

‘Okay. You read the papers, right? You know how they’re always going on about institutionalised racism in the police force?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, it’s crap. “Racism” is actually just a euphemism for “corruption”. There’s corruption right through the force, but no one will admit it, because frankly, there’s nothing anyone can do about it. In fact, if you ask me, it’s the only way they can do a decent job.’

Sophie shook her head.

‘I don’t understand. You’re saying that all policemen are corrupt?’

‘Not all, no. But some are. Tip-offs, bribes, kick-backs, it all goes on. Somebody gets killed, it’s on the news within minutes. I bet there were reporters at Nick’s hotel when they took you out, yeah?’

She had to nod; it had been horrible – shoving cameras up against the glass of the car, shouting out questions; she had felt like a criminal.

‘Sophie, right now, you have thugs on your trail who have killed and will kill again. At a push, I’d say they are gangsters. Albanian, Kosovan. Russian. People like that have power, connections, even inside the police. All it will take is a call to the right person, the appropriate amount of cash – and bingo, they’ve found you.’

‘You’re beginning to make jail sound like an appealing option.’