Perfect Strangers

The silence in the room indicated that everybody agreed with the statement.

‘And by “return it to the proper authorities”, you mean after you’ve taken a big slice,’ said Josh with a twisted smile.

‘I only want what’s mine!’ snapped Lana. ‘I only want justice.’

Josh and Lana began bickering between themselves, but their voices faded into the background as a vague thought sharpened into focus.

‘My book,’ said Sophie quietly.

Josh and Lana both looked at her.

‘What book?’ said Lana.

She looked over at Josh for reassurance.

‘Lana, you said that Nick’s brief was to find out if my father had given me any information, maybe a bank account number or something? Dad gave me a book for my birthday, this second-hand copy of I Capture the Castle – it was an in joke between us.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Lana. ‘How does this get us the bank details?’

‘This book, it’s old, a bit worn, and the name of the previous owner is written in it. There’s a number in it too. I assumed it was a phone number or a date of birth, but . . . You think it could be an account number?’

‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’ snapped Josh. ‘We’ve been running around all this time risking our necks, and all along we had the bloody thing with us? Sophie, why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I didn’t know it was relevant!’ she shouted back. ‘And you said I was in danger because of something Nick gave to me, not my dad.’

‘I’m not bloody psychic!’ he replied.

‘All right, all right,’ said Lana, holding up her hands. ‘Where is this book now? Do you have it with you?’

‘It’s in my bag, back at the hotel in Cannes.’

‘In the least secure hotel in France,’ scoffed Josh.

‘Then we must go there immediately.’

Lana stood up, grabbed the manila file and headed for the door. ‘Well?’ she said, turning back, her hand on the doorknob. ‘What are you waiting for?’

33

‘So do you really think Sophie killed this American?’ asked Francesca Manning, peering over the top of her skinny macchiato. ‘I tried to get it out of that dishy police inspector, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.’

‘I kind of wanted to know what you thought,’ said Ruth, glancing at her wristwatch. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and she was still feeling terrible. Her blood felt like glue, she had a thumping headache, and she was trapped in Starbucks with the Sloane from hell. This morning, she had been quite pleased with herself that she had tracked down Sophie Ellis’s best friend through Facebook, but ten minutes in Francesca’s company and Ruth was beginning to wonder how good a friend she actually was. Instead of concern for her missing friend, Francesca seemed to be revelling in the drama of Sophie’s misfortune, as if she was watching some soap opera with ringside seats.

‘Twelve months ago I’d have said there was absolutely no way she could do something like that,’ continued Francesca, spooning the froth off her drink. ‘But after the year that Sophie’s had, you know, losing all her money, well, you just don’t know how that sort of stress affects people, do you? Take the night she met Nick. Left me high and dry to make my own way to my boyfriend Charlie’s apartment, just so she could stay and pull one of the Chariot party guest list. Very selfish,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Entrez nous, I think she’s just totes jealous that I’m getting married to someone as successful as Charlie. For all we know, perhaps this Nick character told Soph he wasn’t interested in anything more than a shag and then she killed him.’

Ruth turned on her Dictaphone, sensing something interesting.

‘So what’s the Chariot party?’

‘The party where she met Nick,’ said Francesca, rolling her eyes. She flicked her hair over one shoulder and leant into the tape-recording device. ‘Basically she was house-sitting for some woman at the gym who said that Sophie could have all of her party invitations for the season. The Chariot party was a real high-rollers’ shindig at Waterloo station the other day.’

‘Who was the woman who owned the house? Do you know?’

‘Lana Goddard-Price,’ said Francesca confidently. ‘I googled her; she’s married to a Sunday Times Rich-List banker – you would not believe the labels in that woman’s wardrobe.’

‘So you’ve been to the house?’ asked Ruth, her interest going up another notch.

Francesca nodded. ‘It’s this amazing place just off Brompton Road. I was telling Charlie only yesterday that he’d better start getting some bigger bonuses, because I want a place just like it when we’re married.’