Page 41 of Perfect Strangers

‘They tore the place apart, that’s what happened.’

‘But why? What for?’

‘You’re the reporter. You probably have more idea than I do, because right now, I don’t know what the hell is going on or why I am in the middle of it.’

They had reached the main road now and Sophie put her hand up to wave a taxi down. Ruth clasped her arm.

‘Don’t go, please. I can help, I really can.’

Sophie shrugged her away.

‘I have to go,’ she said, shaking her head. She climbed into the taxi, and as it pulled away, she looked suddenly terribly young and afraid.

‘Damn it,’ muttered Ruth, running back to her car as fast as her heels would allow. ‘Come on, come on,’ she hissed, fumbling the keys into the ignition, then gunned the engine, just turning into traffic as she saw the cab disappear d

own Prince of Wales Drive towards Battersea Bridge. There were a few cars ahead of her, but she could see the black roof of the cab above them. The cab turned left onto Chelsea Embankment. That made sense, she thought, cursing the darkness that was cloaking the city. She beeped her horn and overtook a minivan. Now there was only one car between her and Sophie’s taxi. Chewing her nicotine gum furiously, she grinned to herself. She was back in the chase.

14

Sophie had expected the Nancy Blue to be a pub. Instead the taxi had dropped her off on a desolate stretch of the Thames close to Chelsea Harbour. No pubs, no shops, nothing. She looked around uncertainly and turned up the collar of her coat. The sun had set and a chill was in the air. This was certainly not the Chelsea that she knew and loved. There were no chic boutiques or trendy bars. Out here, where the far reaches of Chelsea met what remained of the docks, there were no street lights or houses, only abandoned wharves and industrial units, everything closed for the night – if these neglected yards and corrugated-iron gates ever opened.

She walked along the darkening road. On one side of her, faceless warehouses; on the other, the dark churning waters of the Thames. It might sparkle in the sunshine, but at night, the river looked foreboding and bone-chillingly cold. She turned to see the taxi’s brake lights blinking once, twice, then disappearing around the corner. Too late, Sophie had the overwhelming sense that she was wrong to come here. She didn’t know Josh from Adam. Maybe she should have told that reporter where she was going; at least then someone might be able to find her body.

And yet what was the alternative? Should she wait at home for the intruders to return? Wait for Fox? Ruth Boden was right: he could arrest her at any moment – and he had certainly given her the impression he thought she was hiding something. Anyway, why should he care whether she was innocent? All he cared about was getting a result, a conviction. No, the truth was Sophie had nowhere to turn, and until she could find out what exactly was happening to her, there was a good chance she might end up getting the blame for Nick’s death. The first thing she needed to know was who Nick was – and where he had come from.

But where – and what – was the Nancy Blue? Was it a club or a business? There was nothing that fitted any such description out here. She heard a dog bark and she jumped, one hand to her chest.

She pulled Ruth Boden’s card from her pocket and punched the reporter’s number into speed-dial; that way she could call her if there was a sniff of trouble. She had reached the end of the road now. There was nothing except a wooden ramp towards a small pier.

Nancy Blue: a boat! she thought, the penny dropping. Her dad would have laughed at her – that would have been his first thought. She passed a weathered sign reading ‘Fleet Reach – Strictly Private’. Very welcoming, thought Sophie as she walked carefully over the boards.

Moored along one side of the wharf were half a dozen houseboats. The smallest was closest to the jetty, swaying gently against the upright piles. It was deep navy with tyres festooned around its outer rim and the words Nancy Blue stencilled on the hull. Sophie bent down to peer in through the window.

‘You probably shouldn’t be wearing those shoes,’ said a voice, making her stumble and grab for the handrail. Josh emerged from the shadows, stepping on to the gangplank between the pier and his barge.

‘Bloody hell, you scared me,’ she said, looking up at his tall physique, quite menacing in the dark.

‘Where’s my beer?’

‘I didn’t have time,’ said Sophie briskly. ‘I haven’t had the easiest day, as you can imagine.’

He gave a slow, steady tut. ‘I don’t know, turning up here without a bottle of wine or a scented candle. I thought you posh girls had impeccable manners.’

‘Somehow I don’t see you as the scented candle type,’ she said.

‘You don’t say.’

She could feel him looking her up and down.

‘Can we go inside?’ she said uncomfortably.

Josh nodded and swept his hand towards the small door. ‘Entrez.’

It was surprisingly cosy inside. From the weather-beaten exterior, Sophie had been expecting something more, well, nautical. But there was a small seating area, a table and a galley kitchen towards the far end, all lit by the soft glow of hurricane lamps. It was comfortable but small and basic – clearly business wasn’t that good for Joshua McCormack’s horology consultancy.

‘Interesting place,’ said Sophie, looking around. ‘Where do you sleep on this thing?’

He lifted a brow. ‘It usually takes women more than two minutes to ask me that question. But if you want to know, that sofa pulls out into a futon.’