At the time he had seemed inconsequential; they had chatted for barely five minutes, she had not seen him for the rest of the night and Nick had not mentioned him since. And yet in the short time that Sophie had known her lover, Josh McCormack, horology consultant, was the only person she had met who had known Nick prior to his trip to London. He was the only person who might be able to tell her something about him that she didn’t know and who might have some information that could help solve his murder.
It suddenly seemed of vital importance to speak to him. She paused before dialling, and then punched the digits. Finally he answered. The voice sounded groggy, clotted with sleep.
‘Yeah. Hello.’
‘Is this Josh?’
‘That’s right.’
‘It’s Sophie Ellis. We met at the Chariot Dinner. I had a blue dress on. I was with Nick . . .’
‘I remember,’ he said flatly.
‘He’s dead, Josh. Someone has murdered Nick.’
She felt icy cold as she said the words. There was silence at the other end of the phone.
It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be the one to break the news to him. Surely he’d seen the Standard, watched the news . . .
‘What happened?’ he said finally.
‘I spent the night with him last night. I left first thing in the morning. When I returned, he was dead in the bathroom. He’d been attacked.’
She surprised herself with the flat, matter-of-fact way in which she told the story, as if it was a news report she had read, not a traumatic event she had experienced that morning and had had to keep reliving all day at the police station.
‘Are you a suspect?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ she said, rounding on him. ‘All I did was find his body. Josh, I need to talk to you. You’re the only person I know who knows Nick.’
‘Hang on, sweetheart, don’t drag me into this,’ he replied, his voice becoming more animated.
‘Josh, please.’
‘I talk to you. You talk to the police. The next thing I know, the police are sniffing around me for a witness statement. I’m sorry to hear about Nick, I really am, but I don’t need this. I’m leaving town tomorrow. Sorry.’
‘Did you know Nick Cooper isn’t his real name?’
‘No, I didn’t. I barely knew him.’
‘Josh. Please. I’m begging you. Just ten minutes of your time.’
‘I said I’m busy.’
‘Please,’ she repeated, her fingers gripping the phone.
There was another long pause.
‘Ten minutes. No longer,’ he said finally. ‘And get some beers on the way over. Stella.’
‘I’m not Ocado,’ she said impatiently.
‘I thought I was the one doing you a favour?’
‘I have to be back home in an hour. Where should we meet?’
‘Do you know Fleet Reach, by Stamford Wharf?’
It rang a bell. If she got a taxi there and back, she could make her meeting with Fox.