Perfect Strangers Page 10

  ‘And had he been to your place?’ interrupted Fox.

  ‘No. He didn’t—’

  ‘So you’re boyfriend and girlfriend, but he’s never been to your flat. Why not?’

  ‘I never said we were boyfriend and girlfriend,’ said Sophie, her voice rising. ‘And I didn’t . . .’

  I didn’t want to take him back to my flat, she finished the sentence in her head, because then he would have known that I was just some ordinary girl, scraping a living as a gym instructor.

  ‘I didn’t take him home because I was house-sitting for a friend. It didn’t feel right to take him there without permission.’

  Fox made a note in his book.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m a personal trainer. Well, a gym instructor,’ she added with panic.

  ‘And where have you been house-sitting?’

  ‘Sixteen Egerton Row, Knightsbridge.’

  ‘Smart area. Who does the property belong to?’

  ‘Lana Goddard-Price. She’s out of the country.’

  ‘Do you have a contact number for her?’

  ‘In my phone. She’s one of my clients.’

  Fox fixed her with his hard gaze.

  ‘Do you think Nick was targeting the property?’

  Sophie glared at him.

  ‘He was not a thief,’ she said defensively. ‘Nick was smart and generous and rich . . .’

  ‘So is that why you were interested in him?’ asked Field flatly.

  ‘No. I was in love with him.’

  Tears welled in her eyes. She had a sudden urge to call her mother, but at the thought that she was still in Denmark she felt suddenly, frightening alone.

  ‘After five days?’

  Hostility prickled in the air. All she wanted to do was get out of the room.

  ‘Did you have sex with Nick this morning?’ pressed Fox.

  She felt her face flush.

  ‘We had sex a couple of times through the night. This morning we just fooled around. Kissed.’

  ‘There were fragments of a wine bottle on the floor. Do you know where that could have come from?’

  She paused to think.

  ‘Maybe from last night. We had a bath together and ordered some champagne. The bottle would have been left on the side.’

  ‘And where did you leave Nick this morning? In bed or in the shower?’

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘Did you argue?’

  ‘No.’

  Fox looked straight at her.

  ‘Did you hit him in the bathroom with a wine bottle?’

  ‘You think I did that?’ she croaked. ‘I told you I loved him.’

  ‘Please, Sophie, answer the question. Did you hit him?’ pressed Fox.

  She felt nauseous, faint. She gripped the sides of the chair, feeling the burns under her fingers.

  ‘I think I need a lawyer.’

  12

  Sophie was still shaking as she pushed out through the glass doors of Paddington Green station. She felt dirty and violated, but above all tired. She walked down the steps, filling her lungs. It wasn’t exactly fresh air – she could see cars rushing along the Marylebone flyover in front of her – but it felt good after the stale rooms and corridors of the police station. Police station, her mind repeated. How had she come to be here? She was a good girl, she’d never even been in trouble at school, despite Francesca’s best efforts.

  All she had done was walk into that hotel room and find Nick, her lover, lying on the floor. That was her only crime. And yet they were treating her as if she were some deranged killer. They had taken swabs from her mouth for DNA and they’d taken fingerprints and made rumbles about doing a police appeal in the Scotland Yard media suite within the next twenty-four hours.

  ‘Don’t worry. Hopefully you won’t see the inside of that place again for a little while.’

  Edward Gould put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He was one of her father’s old college friends and one of the top criminal defence solicitors in the country, or at least that was what her mother had told her on the phone, when Sophie had managed to contact her in Copenhagen.

  ‘Bear in mind they haven’t charged you and we have no date for another interview yet.’

  She found little comfort in his words.

  ‘Yet? You mean I’m going to have to go back?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he said guardedly.

  ‘You mean probably.’

  Gould raised his eyebrows.

  ‘The truth is that you are going to be on their suspect list until they get more information about Nick’s life. You’ll only be eliminated when they find another lead.’

  Panic swelled inside her. She couldn’t go back in there, she couldn’t.

  ‘But that’s not fair, I haven’t done anything!’

  Gould shrugged.

  ‘No, it’s not fair,’ he said brusquely. ‘Not if you’re innocent. But at the top of any suspect list at the beginning of an inquiry are partners, the person who finds the dead body and the person who last sees the victim alive. You’re unfortunate enough to be all three, Sophie. For now, you’re going to be the one under the microscope.’

  She was grateful to Edward Gould for arriving so quickly and for effectively forcing the police to release her, but he did not have a sympathetic bedside manner. She knew his type; most of her father’s friends had been like this, Oxbridge-educated and of a generation that kept a stiff upper lip no matter what.

  ‘But they think I’m innocent,’ protested Sophie. ‘They want me to do an appeal to ask for witnesses.’

  Gould’s head gave a short shake.

  ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean they think you’re innocent. Sometimes they use a press conference to put suspects under the spotlight. They’ll have a criminal profiler watch it, analyse your responses, your behaviour under pressure. It’s a useful psychological tool for creating a suspect profile.’

  ‘A suspect profile. So you think they might arrest me?’

  ‘The police will certainly be gathering as much evidence as they can: witness statements, forensics, whatever background they can find on the victim. They won’t be idle, you can be sure of that, and as soon as they feel they have enough to prosecute, they will.’

  ‘But what about me?’ she repeated with panic.

  Gould hesitated.

  ‘Sophie, the British justice system is founded on the strongest principle: innocent until proven guilty, and it will be the police and the Crown Prosecution Service’s task to produce evidence which proves who did this. And clearly, as you did not, they will certainly struggle to find a case against you.’

  She wondered whether her solicitor actually believed in her innocence.

  ‘But they’re going to pin it on someone, aren’t they?’ she said, with an air of resignation. She’d had plenty of time to think about it while the police sorted out her paperwork. A murder at the Riverton was high profile. ‘It’s not good for the Met, it’s not good for the hotel. Not good for London tourists.’

  ‘Of course the police and the CPS are going to want a successful conviction. But they don’t want to go round throwing innocent young women in jail either.’

  Gould glanced at his watch.

  ‘Look, I have to get back to the office. When your mother called, I came down immediately, but I’m in the middle of a trial at the Old Bailey, you understand?’

  She nodded, glad that her mother had arranged for him to come. It wasn’t as if she had a criminal solicitor on speed dial. Before today, the only thing she’d ever done wrong was exceed the speed limit.

  Oh yes? said a mocking voice in her head. You’ve spent the last week lying through your teeth.

  She closed her eyes. Uncomfortable as it was, it was true. She’d taken on another woman’s home, her clothes, lied her way into a party, then told her new boyfriend a string of lies about who she was, where she lived, what she did for a living. Perhaps that was what had brought her to this horrible concrete police station
in the middle of London, dried blood under her fingernails. Maybe it was all karma.

  A taxi had pulled up to the kerb.

  ‘Go home, Sophie,’ said Gould. ‘Get some rest. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’

  She nodded sadly and watched the car drive away, suddenly feeling very alone.

  Where was home, exactly? Where should she go? She thought of Lana’s stuccoed townhouse and shivered. A week ago she thought it had been the answer to her prayers, but now it was like an empty shell, filled with her own guilt and echoes of Nick’s footsteps on the pavement outside. Returning to her parents’ place held even less appeal; Wade House would be empty and somehow even more sad than the last time she had been there for the funeral. Julia Ellis had agreed to come back from Copenhagen but would not be home until morning.

  Sophie threw her bag over her shoulder and crossed the road towards the Edgware Road tube station. It was packed with rush-hour crowds, and being surrounded by the swell of people going about their ordinary lives somehow made her feel better. She got off at Sloane Square and walked the rest of the way home to Battersea, wanting some early evening air to clear her mind. She had been at the police station all day, and the sun was beginning to fade, sending smudged ribbons of peach and lilac across the sky. The heat of the day was still coming up from the sun-warmed pavements, and the summer smells of cut flowers and fresh tarmac mingled with the fumes of the cars rushing past. As she approached Albert Bridge Road, she could even hear a few birds still singing in the park, but none of it made her feel at home. She felt alien, and disconnected. Nothing seemed to make sense any more, nothing looked as it should. Only a few days ago, she had been so sure of everything. It had really felt as if her life had finally turned a corner: a new job, a new exciting life in London – a new boyfriend. The last image of Nick jumped into her mind and she shivered. It was horrible, truly horrible. Who could have done such a thing? She genuinely had no idea: DI Fox was right, she didn’t know much about this man she had professed to love. But she had felt so sure of the connection between them, and you couldn’t fake that, could you?

  She shook her head. All she wanted to do was sleep. Her eyes were heavy and her mind was so foggy that she could hardly think. Her body, usually so strong and vital, felt weak and depleted.

  She came to her building and fumbled in her bag for her keys. The policeman – or had it been the woman? She couldn’t remember; the whole thing was a terrible blur – had made a big deal about how Sophie had never invited Nick back here. She supposed she could understand that, given the circumstances. But that was just dating, wasn’t it? Who really told a new partner everything about themselves in the first week? ‘Hi, my name’s Sophie, I’ve had my heart broken twice, I’m still hung up on my ex and I once thought I’d caught an STD, but it was only thrush.’ People only revealed the best version of themselves in the early days of a relationship, because if everybody was that honest, nobody would get beyond the first drink.

  She pushed open the door and walked into the communal hallway, a large if rather shabby room dominated by the wide staircase. For some reason, Sophie’s mind flashed on to the memory of her first visit here, walking through the hallway with the letting agent and her dad. Peter Ellis had sniffed the musty air and whispered in his daughter’s ear: ‘I think I can smell the last tenant.’ Sophie had giggled then. Her dad had made her laugh a lot; it was one of the things she missed most about him. After his financial troubles, he always seemed preoccupied, but he always had time for a joke, even if it was just something corny. Back then, she hadn’t really tried to understand how he must have been feeling; struggling to keep everything together, fighting to keep his family afloat. Had he felt as wretched, as helpless, as she did now? At least he had faced it with a smile.

  After checking her pigeonhole for mail – nothing, why would there be? – she began to climb the stairs.

  She stopped on the second landing, holding her breath. Somehow, she knew something was wrong. She walked slowly down the corridor towards her flat, all her senses jangling, ready to run at any moment. She tried to dismiss the feeling, believing it was just the tensions of the day making her nervous. But she stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her front door. It was open, the wood splintered around the lock.

  She hesitated and then crept inside, every nerve ending jangling.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called. ‘If there’s anybody in there, I’ve already called the police.’

  She edged forward and ducked her head around the door frame, expecting to see – what? A burglar in a black balaclava and stripy jumper? There was nobody there, but the place was a mess. A complete and utter mess. Someone had been there, pulling out drawers, turning over chairs; they’d even upended her bookcase. There were clothes everywhere, and her duvet had been torn open. Why? What do I have that anyone would want? I don’t even own a TV.

  Had it been the police? But surely they weren’t allowed to tear down curtains or slash pillows open? This was trespass, vandalism. There were laws against that whether you were the police or not.

  Another thought hit her that turned her cold. Had it been Nick’s killer? But why? What on earth could they have been looking for? Did they think she had something of his? Whatever Nick had done to get himself killed, perhaps they thought she knew about it.

  Her heart was pumping fiercely. ‘What do you want?’ she yelled out loud, her voice trembling.

  She went to her top drawer, where she kept her valuables. It had clearly been rifled through, but her small bag of sentimental jewellery was still there. Feeling a sense of relief, she saw her passport too, and the key fob which gave internet access to her bank account. Instinctively she grabbed everything and stuffed it into her bag, then got out of the flat, not wanting to spend another second in there.

  She tried to regulate her breathing with deep yoga inhalations, but she was fighting a losing battle and a sob stuttered from her throat, slow at first, before the dam burst and her body released some of the tension and hurt she had been bottling up since that moment she had walked into Nick’s hotel room.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she screamed, slumping down to the landing floor, holding her knees tightly as tears plopped on to her jeans. She sat there for a minute, letting the fraught emotion drain from her body. When she had finished, she blew her nose and looked at the destruction of her flat again.

  Without thinking, she pulled DI Fox’s business card from her pocket and used her mobile to dial his number.

  ‘Fox,’ said a tired voice finally.

  ‘Mr Fox, it’s Sophie Ellis. I’ve just got home.’

  The policeman evidently heard the wobble in Sophie’s voice.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Someone’s broken into my flat, torn it apart.’

  ‘A burglary?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ she said uncertainly, looking around. ‘The front door was open.’

  ‘It was open?’ said Fox. ‘Was anything taken?’

  He sounded genuinely concerned, the hostility from their earlier encounter gone.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ said Sophie, her voice shaking. ‘I mean, there’s stuff everywhere, I can’t really see . . .’

  ‘I’ll try and pop by later, or I can send a colleague over.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Sophie, are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’

  She hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve just found a dead body and your flat has been ransacked. Maybe now is the time to tell us everything you know.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything,’ she said, immediately regretting the call.

  ‘Are you sure? Even the smallest detail might be important. Your flat has been turned over for some reason—’

  ‘I’ve told you everything. Please come. I’m afraid. What if they’re still watching the building?’

  ‘I need to finish some things at the station, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. If you d
on’t want to stay there alone, go to the nearest public place. Is there a local pub or Starbucks you could sit in for an hour or so?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  ‘Go there. Call me again to tell me where, okay?’

  She put the phone down and tried to stuff Fox’s business card back into her purse. She felt some resistance in the notes compartment. She had never been good at detoxing her wallet; it was constantly fit to burst with tube tickets, old receipts and business cards. She pulled them out and they fell on to her lap like confetti.

  One small white card stared at her.

  Joshua McCormack, Bespoke Horologist.

  It took a second to place him, and then she remembered. The cocky charmer at the Chariot Dinner.

  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.