Page 143 of Perfect Strangers

Ruth acted as if there was nothing wrong with finding a random journalist ferreting around the mistress of the house’s bedroom.

‘If Mrs G comes back home, I want you to contact me immediately.’ She rooted around her purse, but she had given her last business card to Mike at the gym. There was a biro on the cabinet top. She took it and scribbled her contact details on a page she ripped out of her notebook.

Cherry looked wary.

‘I promise I won’t tell Lana about your boyfriend being here, but you must co-operate with me, okay?’

‘Please, go,’ said the housekeeper, almost wailing.

Ruth nodded. She knew she was beaten. For now. But she wasn’t finished looking into Lana Goddard-Price.

40

Sunny Isles, a barrier island just off the coast of Miami, had the right name, thought Sophie as their car crossed the long bridge from the mainland. The late afternoon sky was bright blue, the air rushing in through the window tasted tropical and the beach circling the island was like a golden halo. But around Miami, Sunny Isles had another name: Little Moscow, and as they turned into the maze of pastel-painted condominiums, hotels and shops crowded around the foot of the bridge, Sophie could see why: Eastern European delis and restaurants advertising borscht and blinis, some even written in the angular Cyrillic script. But there were signs too of the modern Russia in the expensive fashion boutiques, the low rumbling sports cars and the body-beautiful women strolling the streets in tiny shorts and bikini tops. She caught Josh watching two model-grade beauties cross the street and nudged his arm. He turned to look at her, and gave her a surprised smile.

‘What’s up?’ he grinned as the cab pulled up outside the Steppes steak restaurant.

‘Are you sure this is the right place?’

‘Not exactly, no. But it’s a good guess.’

Arriving in Miami from Fort Lauderdale, they had checked into a cheap motel in the touristy Coconut Grove area and split up. Sophie’s job was to go shopping: a razor for Josh, some clean underwear and new shoes – hers had been ruined in their off-road chase two days ago. Josh meanwhile went to an internet café, where he had found a Miami Herald story documenting the rise of the Russian mob in the south Florida area. In the story, the Steppes steakhouse in Sunny Isles had been linked to ‘noted Russian mobster’ Uri Kaskov, which was why they were sitting outside it now. The Steppes was where they were hoping to find Uri’s son, Sergei.

‘Look, if our boy’s not here, we’ll just share a chateaubriand and soak up the sun.’ He smiled, but she could see the nervousness in his eyes.

‘It’s not too late to turn back,’ she said quietly.

‘Do you trust me?’ he asked.

Sophie didn’t have to think; she simply nodded.

‘Then let’s go in.’

They walked up the steps and on to a large open-air terrace overlooking the ocean. The waiters wore the embroidered waistcoats and high leather boots of traditional Russian dress, but the menu was typical Florida: steaks, seafood and elaborate cocktails.

Sophie had been expecting the place to be full of Tony Soprano lookalikes in silk suits and chunky gold jewellery, but she was relieved to find it was packed by well-heeled tourists and smart-looking business people, all chatting and laughing. Josh seemed in the mood to join in, because when their waiter came by, he immediately ordered champagne and lobster for two.

‘What’s this? The Last Supper?’ said Sophie.

‘Come on, princess, lighten up,’ said Josh. ‘This is Miami – you’re supposed to get a tan, but you look absolutely white.’

‘Is it any wonder?’ she muttered. ‘I feel like I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.’

‘Hey, for all we know, this Little Moscow thing could be something they cooked up for the tourists. Have a cocktail and relax.’

But Sophie couldn’t relax. In the taxi outside Ty’s place, she had said it was the end of the trail, and she still felt that way. They had started on this journey as a way of finding out who had killed her boyfriend and to clear her name. But along the way, she had discovered that nothing – her boyfriend, her life, even her father – was as it seemed. And now they knew who was chasing them, it seemed they were giving up, surrendering themselves to whatever fate the Russians chose for them: for the first time since they had started running, on th

at cold back street by the Thames a lifetime ago, it felt as if it was out of their hands.

‘Is this really such a good idea?’ said Sophie.

‘The lobster?’

‘No, Josh,’ she said. ‘Handing ourselves in to this Sergei, Uri’s son.’

Josh let out a long breath.

‘Sophie, we just don’t have a choice,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Yes, we could keep running, keep looking for the money, but what then? What if we found it?’