Perfect Strangers

‘Okay? That’s it?’

‘I believe you,’ he said frankly. ‘I just had to ask.’

He stood up, placing some euros under his plate.

‘Now let’s go and meet Maurice. Clearly you’ve got a life out there that you need to be living. And you can’t start until we find out who really did kill Nick.’

Le Cellar was not actually in a cellar at al

l, but on the first floor.

‘French sense of humour,’ said Josh as they went up a rickety wooden staircase. At the top, a fat man in a T-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘So What?’ was sprawled in a chair cleaning his nails with what looked like a knife. If he was supposed to be Le Cellar’s security, they needed to have an urgent review, thought Sophie. He didn’t even look up as they walked into the bar.

As Josh had predicted, the place was virtually empty: two men on stools, deep in conversation at the counter, and an old man and a very thin young woman slowly dancing to an old Sinatra tune. Sophie immediately guessed which one was Maurice; he was the very dark, short man at the counter with the slicked-back hair, who looked like a rat.

She was about to ask Josh, but when she turned to him, he had gone. Without a word he walked straight over to Maurice and kicked his chair. Immediately, the two men began shouting at each other and waving their hands in a threatening manner, while the dancers swayed on oblivious to it all. Sophie glanced over at the fat man by the door; he appeared to have dozed off. But then, just as she felt sure they were going to come to blows, Maurice’s mean face split into a grin and he threw his arms open.

‘Joshua,’ he cried, hugging him. Josh also embraced the other man, who looked like the Maltese Popeye, with tattooed ham-hock arms and a navy fisherman’s cap.

‘You should have given me more notice, my friend. I could have arranged a homecoming, got some of the old crowd down.’

So much for Josh’s claim of having only met Maurice a couple of times, thought Sophie, just as Maurice looked her way, his black eyes sizing her up. He immediately began talking to Nick in French; Sophie could not pick up any recognisable words except ‘bastard’. She hoped that was good. Josh beckoned to her.

‘Sophie, come and meet my friends Maurice and Panda.’

‘Bonjour,’ she said awkwardly. She didn’t like to see Josh so friendly with someone who was clearly as dodgy as hell.

‘Ah, tu parle Français aussi?’ said Maurice.

‘No, not really,’ said Sophie, flushing. ‘That’s about it, actually.’

Everyone laughed and Sophie relaxed a little.

‘Well, any friend of this old rogue is a friend of mine,’ said Maurice, grasping Josh’s arm, then banging the bar.

‘Johan, bring us all pastis,’ he called to the barman. ‘You remember Josh. A friend of Nicholas.’

Sophie watched nervously as the barman served the liquid into four glasses and Maurice added water from a jug on the bar, turning the drink milky.

‘Down ze ’atch, as you say in London, no?’ said Maurice, knocking his back. Sophie did the same and immediately began coughing. Gosh, it was strong.

‘I see your companion is more used to our champagne, huh, Joshua?’ laughed Maurice as Josh slapped her on the back.

‘Went down the wrong way,’ managed Sophie between gasps.

Maurice fixed her with that searching gaze again, nodding to himself. ‘Let’s go to my office where we can talk, yes?’

He raised his eyebrows to Panda, then led Sophie and Josh through a door behind the bar. Maurice’s office was no more an office than Le Cellar was underground; more like a cramped storage room with an old sofa and three chairs around a wonky table.

‘So tell me,’ he said, closing the door behind them. ‘What trouble are you in this time, my friend?’

‘No trouble of mine,’ said Josh, nodding towards Sophie.

‘Ah, so it is as I thought. You are the damsel in distress, no?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s just that . . .’

Josh flashed her a warning look and Sophie trailed off, embarrassed.