Perfect Strangers

‘How the hell did they find us?’ Josh hissed in the dark. ‘Damn Maurice; he was the only person who knew we were coming down here. You can bet he would have squealed if the Russians offered him some roubles.’

‘Russians?’ whispered Sophie. She remembered the man swearing as she had kicked him; it hadn’t been French, that was for sure. Had it been the same men as the night by the river? Had they followed them all this way? Somehow that was all the more terrifying – whatever they thought she had, they must really want it badly.

‘Russians, Germans, I don’t bloody know who they are,’ growled Josh. ‘All I know is they were waiting for us – they must have known we were on the train.’

Sophie felt a sudden wave of guilt.

‘It could have been me,’ she said quietly.

She waited for Josh to reply, but he didn’t say anything.

‘I’m so sorry, Josh,’ she whispered. ‘When you were buying the tickets, I phoned my mother. I thought it would be okay because we were leaving the city,’ she said, her words quickening up as she tried to explain herself. ‘As I was talking, there was a tannoy announcement about the departure to Nice and I said “I’ve got to go”. So stupid, it must have been obvious.’

‘But that would mean they’ve been bugging your mum’s phone,’ said Josh.

‘She did say she had been burgled. Maybe—’

‘You stupid bloody idiot,’ he growled, his voice rising. ‘You could have got us both killed, do you realise that? In fact you still might – why can’t you do anything I ask?’

‘Shh!’ she hissed. ‘Calm down, the driver will hear us.’

‘Fuck the driver!’ he snapped.

‘Look, it was a mistake, Josh. I’m sorry.’

‘The mistake was getting involved with you in the first place,’ he barked. ‘I could have been sitting on my boat right now, drinking a beer, enjoying the sunshine. But no, I got sucked in by a damsel in distress. I took pity on you and look where it’s got me! In the back of a bloody van hiding from an entire team of well-organised goons who all seem to want to kill you. I’m starting to think they’ve got a bloody point!’

‘Josh, please! None of this is my fault . . .’

‘Yeah? Well, those Russians or whatever they are seem to think differently. What is it they want from you, Sophie? You’ve clearly got something if they’re going to the effort of bugging your mother and following you to France. What do you know? Because I’m starting to think there’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘I don’t know anything!’ she shouted, but then was thrown backwards against the side of the van as it screeched to a halt. They heard footsteps on the pavement and then the back of the van opened, blinding them with the sudden light.

‘Mon Dieu!’

Calmly Josh stood up, ducking his head under the roof of the van.

‘Bonjour,’ he said to the flabbergasted driver. ‘Excusez-moi. Je pense que nous sommes perdus.’

Sophie crawled out from under the boxes and sheepishly followed Josh on to the street. The driver just stood there, his mouth open, watching as they walked away.

They were in a high part of the city, looking down over the terracotta rooftops of Nice, and beyond that the glistening silver of the Mediterranean. If she squinted, Sophie could just about make out the station and the train tracks that snaked out east and west. There was a bang behind them and they turned to see the van pull away.

‘There goes our ride,’ said Josh. He didn’t look angry any more, just shaken and resigned.

‘What did you say to him?’ asked Sophie.

‘I’m sorry, I think we are lost.’

Sophie couldn’t help it: she burst out laughing.

25

It hadn’t been a productive day at the Washington Tribune’s London bureau. Ruth rubbed her eyes and gave her piece one last read before submitting it. Looking radiant in a scarlet Issa dress, Kate held her husband’s hand and waved to the small crowd . . . She smiled ruefully; a story on the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge visiting the American Embassy for a tea party wasn’t exactly Watergate, was it? Normally Ruth would have passed something like this on to Jim’s PA Rebecca – she seemed to love these kind of assignments – but as Rebecca had called in sick with a bout of menstrual cramps, Ruth had been forced to bite the bullet. Jim wanted 750 upbeat, smiley words about the royals meeting the ambassador, and Ruth needed to keep him sweet while she worked on the Riverton murder.

Clicking the ‘send’ button on her computer, she pulled out her earplugs, sat back in her chair and took a swig of her coffee. Eww – stone cold. She desperately needed a caffeine hit if she was going to make it to the end of the day; she’d been pulling too many late nights recently.

‘Hey, Chuck,’ she said, waving her paper cup at her colleague across the office. ‘Any chance of doing a coffee run?’