Perfect Strangers

‘Let’s not make this more difficult than it has to be, eh, Maurice?’ said Josh in a low, threatening voice. He had almost lifted the Frenchman off the ground, but Sophie didn’t fancy his chances against the more robust Panda.

Maurice spat in his face.

‘Fuck you,’ he hissed.

Josh drew his left fist back to throw a punch.

‘Don’t,’ screamed Sophie as Panda came up behind her and put his arm around her throat.

Josh glanced round. His teeth bared as he saw Panda, then he slammed Maurice harder against the wall.

‘A name, Maurice. Just give me a name and we’ll be out of here.’

Panda’s thick biceps were pushing down on Sophie’s throat and she could barely breathe. Finally Maurice said something in rapid-fire French and Panda let her go. As Josh released his grip on Maurice, the tension slowly dispersed.

Maurice pushed Josh away. ‘I can give you the name of the drop point, a wine wholesaler in Cannes. But I swear that’s all I know,’ he said

tersely.

‘What’s it called?’

‘He is a wine merchant called Jacques Durand. He has a shopfront in the old town, not far from the harbour. He took supplies from Nick and sold them on to rich Russians on the Riviera.’

‘Russians?’ queried Josh. Sophie knew he was thinking the same thing as she was.

‘Yes, Russians,’ repeated Maurice. ‘You know that’s who has all the money now.’

‘Thanks, Maurice, you’ve been very helpful,’ sneered Josh, leading Sophie towards the door.

‘Don’t ever come back here,’ said Maurice in a low, threatening voice. ‘If you come back, I will kill you.’

Josh turned back, his coolness returning.

‘That’s what I like about you, Maurice,’ he smiled. ‘You always did think big.’

He held Sophie’s hand in a firm, protective gesture and all she could do was squeeze back gratefully.

24

They arrived at Gare d’Austerlitz on the left bank of the Seine at a little after nine p.m. It was still busy with commuters heading home to the suburbs and the towns to the south.

‘What are we doing here?’ asked Sophie, puzzled.

‘The sleeper train leaves for Nice in thirty minutes. If we’re quick, we can make it.’

‘What about Le Bristol?’ she asked, dreaming of that comfortable emperor-sized bed.

‘Another time,’ he said, not looking at her.

‘Stay here,’ said Josh, at the entrance to the ticket office. ‘I’m going to buy the tickets. You go to that kiosk and get some water and food,’ he added, thrusting a fifty-euro note at her.

She nodded, thinking she would also buy a strong coffee. She could still taste the aniseed from the pastis in Le Cellar and didn’t want any reminders of that place.

Sophie bought what she needed from the small station shop and walked back out on to the concourse. Josh was still in the ticket queue. She looked at him for a moment, realising this was the first time they had been apart in over twenty-four hours. She still didn’t really know who this man was, but she did know he had defended her from that rat-faced pimp Maurice. Her face flushed as she thought of it. What if Josh hadn’t been there? Well, you wouldn’t have been in that godawful club for a start, said a voice in her head. But the thing was, she had to stay with Josh. Without him, she would be lost. She would almost certainly be in London, possibly in a police cell, maybe even dead.

She shivered, despite the heat. With a desperate need to hear a familiar voice, she realised she hadn’t yet contacted her mother, who would be back in London from Denmark. She would be frantic with worry and Sophie didn’t blame her. Her daughter had been questioned in connection with a high-profile murder and now she had disappeared without letting anybody know where she was, or what she was doing.

Defiantly, she went back into the kiosk and bought a five-euro phone card, then crossed to the bank of payphones near the ticket office. She felt a stab of guilt as she lifted the receiver. Josh would certainly be angry if he knew what she was doing; he’d drummed into her the need to stay off the phones and that the only way to contact the outside world was email – and even then, only from a public computer. But how was she supposed to find a bloody internet café in the middle of Paris while being chased by the police, hit men and now, probably, Maurice and his cronies? She would call her mother for just a few seconds. Just to let her know she was safe. And anyway, if by some miracle someone did trace the call, they’d be miles away from Paris.