Perfect Strangers

‘So all that fake stuff in the garage. Is it really yours or your friend’s?’ she asked, struggling to keep up with Josh’s fast pace.

He shot her a look.

‘It’s my friend’s.’

‘But you said it was your lock-up.’

‘So I’m a good friend. I help people out.’

‘You’re handling counterfeit goods, Josh. That’s illegal.’

‘Speaks she, a suspect in a murder investigation.’

Sophie looked around fretfully. ‘Be quiet!’ she hissed. ‘You don’t know who’s listening.’

Josh looked at the crowd moving around them: no one was paying the slightest attention to them.

‘Why is all this so important to you anyway?’ he asked.

‘Because I’m about to leave the country with you,’ said Sophie. ‘I usually like to know who I go travelling with.’

He smiled and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a passport.

‘Here, take a look.’

Frowning, Sophie opened it.

‘Christopher Barnard?’ she said, reading the name inside. She did a double-take at the photograph, then gasped as the penny dropped.

‘It’s your friend from Pimlico . . .’

It was uncanny: the same dark eyes, the same thick floppy hair and brooding good looks; the two men could be brothers.

‘People always say we look alike. I’m a lot more handsome, of course, but the bloke on passport control won’t be looking for that.’

Sophie shook her head at him, open-mouthed.

‘Josh, you can’t go through passport control with someone else’s passport!’

‘Well unless you want to go back to the boat, we don’t have much choice,’ he whispered urgently, before giving her the slightest smile. ‘And they won’t notice, so long as you start calling me Christopher from here on in.’

‘Josh,’ she said. ‘I’m serious!’

‘Christopher,’ he corrected. ‘Come on, princess, just give me your passport.’

‘Will you stop calling me princess! I’m not some spoilt prima donna, you know.’

‘Passport. Now,’ he said holding out his hand.

It was inside her plastic make-up case in her small nylon backpack. Reluctantly she unzipped it and handed the document over. She watched, her heart sinking as Josh walked towards the ticket desk, asking herself again why she was trusting this man. For all she knew he could just disappear into the crowd, taking her passport and her only chance of escape. She hopped from one foot to the other nervously, trying to look inconspicuous as Josh went up to the ticket agent and flashed her a smile. The twenty-something girl behind the desk looked sullen – who could blame her this early in the morning? – but when Josh launched into his patter, her face lit up, her head tipping to one side, and she laughed. Sophie turned away. Another bloody slick, charming liar. Just like his friend Nick.

She cursed herself; she knew she shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But the truth was, her grief about Nick’s death – and her feelings for him – had been tainted. It was hard not to feel bitter about the lies he had told her, not to mention the mess he had dragged her into. And now she was about to leave the country, leaving her family and friends far behind, for how long, she had no idea – and all because of Nick and whatever sordid schemes he was tangled up in. Was Josh McCormack any better, any more reliable than his friend? Probably not, but then what choice did she have but to trust another stranger?

‘Here you go,’ said Josh, sauntering back waving an envelope. ‘Business class.’ He slipped an arm across her shoulders.

‘Hey!’ said Sophie, shrugging him off, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Relax,’ he whispered. ‘Try and look natural. We’re a young couple off to Paris, we have to play the part, okay?’