23
Montmartre was every bit as beautiful as Sophie had imagined it would be. The sinking sun cast long shadows down the narrow cobbled streets, bathing everything in a warm orange glow. She gazed at the windows of the boulangeries and patisseries with the painted signs hanging over their doors, like a fragment of old Paris, the Paris of Renoir, Lautrec and Manet, when gentlemen would doff their top hats to ladies with muffs and bustles.
‘It makes you just want to drink pastis,’ said Josh as they walked across a small square with a cute little stationery shop on one side, an ironmonger’s on the other, its old fashioned brushes and shovels all piled out on the pavement.
‘I could do with a stiff drink,’ she said, wanting to get their visit to Le Cellar over and done with. She thought of their hotel suite at the Bristol and wished they were back there.
‘Well, Le Cellar is famous for it. You could even go the whole French hog and try absinthe.’
Josh had given her the impression that the club was packed with cut-throats and pimps, and despite her brave speech about taking things head on, she had no desire to spend any more time in a dark thieves’ den than was strictly essential.
‘We’re not there to try out the cocktail menu. I want to be in and out before it gets dangerous.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ smiled Josh. ‘It might not be one of those tourist traps that plays dinner jazz and charges for the nuts, but this early in the evening it will be quiet. Stay close and we’ll be fine, okay?’
Josh led her away from the main drag and into a maze of tiny side streets, finally stopping at a small doorway with an art deco-style sign reading ‘Le Cellar’.
‘Wait here,’ he said as he pulled open the heavy black door. ‘I’ll be two minutes, tops.’
Sophie looked around at this dank alleyway. That glorious sinking sun she had seen falling on the hill had left this part of Montmartre hours ago, if indeed it ever made it this far. She eyed the large industrial dumpster at the far end of the lane, imagining dog-sized rats and casually dumped bodies inside. She didn’t realise she had been holding her breath the whole time until Josh reappeared moments later.
‘Maurice will be back in “cinq minutes”,’ he said. ‘That’s Parisian for “at least an hour”. Let’s go and get fleeced with the rest of the tourists while we’re waiting, eh?’
Sophie followed him back the way they had come, stopping in a busy square with shutters and window boxes. A white picket fence marked the centre, inside of which was the chic French equivalent of the shopping mall food court. Tables, chairs and umbrellas were arranged in vague formation around a dozen or more cute little wooden food stalls. Sophie was immediately enveloped by a delicious combination of smells drifting from the booths: sizzling sausages, gamey stews and buttery crêpes. With the famous bulbous spires of the Sacré-Coeur behind it, Sophie felt she was on a film set.
‘Welcome to La Place du Tertre,’ said Josh. ‘It’s a total tourist trap, so be careful, there are people out to scam you at every street corner.’
Sophie almost laughed out loud. Only two minutes earlier, she had been standing alone in a dark alleyway next to a club frequented by gangsters, and here was Josh warning her about getting drawn in by the street artists with their overpriced views of Paris.
‘So why bring me somewhere so dodgy?’ she asked, as he led her towards a café at the far end of the square.
‘It’s worth the risk – this place does amazing soup.’
They sat at a table for two with a view of the square and all the trimmings: red and white checked tablecloth, wine bottle with melted-down candle, laminated menu with pictures and descriptions in four languages. Josh didn’t even glance at it, ordering soupe à l’oignon for both of them.
‘This stuff will change the way you feel about onions, I promise you,’ he said.
‘So tell me about Maurice,’ said Sophie.
‘I’ve told you all you need to know,’ he said quickly. ‘He’s a rat and a leech and you shouldn’t trust a word he says.’
‘Why are we going there to ask him questions, then?’
‘Because he’s all we have.’
Sophie nodded. Josh was never one to sugar the pill, but at least you got a straight answer with him.
‘So tell me about you, Sophie Ellis,’ he said finally, slugging at the beer the waitress had just brought over.
She felt suddenly on the spot. Josh hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her before now, and all of a sudden he was observing her as if she was the most fascinating creature on earth.
She shrugged quickly. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘Come on, don’t be modest,’ he grinned. His face looked quite different when he smiled. Mischievous rather than brooding. ‘I’m sure you won a few rosettes at gymkhanas when you were a cute ten-year-old.’
Sophie shook her head slowly.
‘Nope, nothing that interesting.’
‘Really?’
‘Seriously,’ she lamented. ‘If the last couple of days have any positives, it’s that I have come to realise that I haven’t really done anything with my life. I’m twenty-seven next month and I don’t have anything interesting to talk about, I haven’t really been anywhere off the beaten track, unless you include off-piste at Klosters. I don’t even do anything worth mentioning.’
She laughed ruefully. The truth was, Sophie was a nothing. She had led such a predictable middle-class life, she didn’t really know who she was.
‘You must do something,’ said Josh, his grey eyes glistening. ‘Catalogue modelling? International assassin?’
‘When I met Nick, I had just started a personal training business.’
‘There you go,’ said Josh. ‘And did you enjoy it?’
‘It was good to have a project and to start making some money.’
‘I asked if you enjoyed it?’
She reflected on it for a moment. It all seemed so long ago. She had enjoyed doing something she was good at and she had felt she was helping people – even if it was only getting pampered women into smaller and smaller bikinis.
‘I suppose it’s not exactly what I would choose to do in an ideal world.’
‘So what is?’
The waiter put two bowls of French onion soup in front of them. It had a thick crust of bread and stringy cheese floating across the oily surface. It smelled absolutely delicious.
Sophie stuck her spoon through the cheese, and smiled slowly. ‘You know, I’d love to live somewhere like this. Maybe not this place exactly but the place it’s pretending to be. A pretty village where I’m surrounded by creative people.’
‘And what would you do there? Make them all do squat thrusts?’
Sophie laughed.
‘No, I’d paint or write, I suppose. Or at least try to.’
Josh cocked his head.
‘So why don’t you?’
‘Well I did, sort of. I spent six months in Florence once. It was wonderful.’ She almost sighed at the memory. Maybe she was looking at it with rose-tinted spectacles, but it represented the one time in Sophie’s life when she had really felt alive. But that had been her old life, back when she had money. She hadn’t realised it at the time, but it wasn’t the money she’d liked. She had liked the experiences, the things money had allowed her to do: a really cold glass of wine at a beautiful beach café, a view over a stunning snowy mountain range, a ride in a speedboat over the bluest waters imaginable.
‘But you need money for those sorts of things. In the past year I haven’t had a whole lot of it.’
Josh gave a short laugh.
‘Bollocks,’ he said. ‘You could get a cheap flight to Pisa, catch a bus to Florence, then find a room somewhere. Maybe not a smart little apartment by Il Duomo, but just a cute place where some warm sunlight comes through your window. And if you like it? Stay. Find a job, be a waitress, bar-tend. Someone as beautiful as you could easily find work.’
Sophie felt herself blush. If anyone else had said it, she knew she would have thought it sounded foolish, even irresponsible, but Josh made it sound like a real adventure. When she had been dating Will or hanging out with Francesca – even that long week with Nick, if she was honest – she had always felt that you needed money for anything worthwhile: that idea that you got what you paid for. But Josh was different. In his version, it was as if having money could make you lose sight of what was really important, the things that really made you happy.
As if he had read her thoughts, he put down his spoon. ‘It’s a good feeling finding something you love,’ he said. ‘Especially if you might even be able to make a little money out of it. Like me. I really do love watches. I love finding an old Omega at an antique fair and getting it repaired, polished, brought back to life. And along the way, I get to talk to interesting, successful people, but mainly I just love the elegance and the minute intricacy of a timepiece, that’s what gets me up in the morning.’ He smiled, that cheeky, naughty smile. ‘Well, that and the chance of making a big profit without working too hard.’
Sophie bent over her soup, suddenly aware that Josh was watching her. What was he thinking? What did he see when he looked at her? Did he really think she was beautiful? Her blush deepened as she realised she wanted him to, because the truth was he was very sexy. Not good-looking in a smooth, movie-star kind of way like Nick, but everything about Josh crackled with naughtiness. And there was something else, a vulnerability beneath that brash facade that was maddeningly elusive.
‘We should go,’ said Sophie quickly, but Josh didn’t move.
‘Did you do it?’ he asked quietly.
‘Did I do what?’ She felt the colour drain from her face. ‘You mean Nick?’ It upset her that he could even ask the question.
He didn’t take his eyes off hers.
‘No, I did not kill Nick,’ she said, holding his gaze. Josh looked back at her for a long moment.
‘Okay,’ he said finally.
‘Okay? That’s it?’
‘I believe you,’ he said frankly. ‘I just had to ask.’
He stood up, placing some euros under his plate.
‘Now let’s go and meet Maurice. Clearly you’ve got a life out there that you need to be living. And you can’t start until we find out who really did kill Nick.’
Le Cellar was not actually in a cellar at all, but on the first floor.
‘French sense of humour,’ said Josh as they went up a rickety wooden staircase. At the top, a fat man in a T-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘So What?’ was sprawled in a chair cleaning his nails with what looked like a knife. If he was supposed to be Le Cellar’s security, they needed to have an urgent review, thought Sophie. He didn’t even look up as they walked into the bar.
As Josh had predicted, the place was virtually empty: two men on stools, deep in conversation at the counter, and an old man and a very thin young woman slowly dancing to an old Sinatra tune. Sophie immediately guessed which one was Maurice; he was the very dark, short man at the counter with the slicked-back hair, who looked like a rat.
She was about to ask Josh, but when she turned to him, he had gone. Without a word he walked straight over to Maurice and kicked his chair. Immediately, the two men began shouting at each other and waving their hands in a threatening manner, while the dancers swayed on oblivious to it all. Sophie glanced over at the fat man by the door; he appeared to have dozed off. But then, just as she felt sure they were going to come to blows, Maurice’s mean face split into a grin and he threw his arms open.
‘Joshua,’ he cried, hugging him. Josh also embraced the other man, who looked like the Maltese Popeye, with tattooed ham-hock arms and a navy fisherman’s cap.
‘You should have given me more notice, my friend. I could have arranged a homecoming, got some of the old crowd down.’
So much for Josh’s claim of having only met Maurice a couple of times, thought Sophie, just as Maurice looked her way, his black eyes sizing her up. He immediately began talking to Nick in French; Sophie could not pick up any recognisable words except ‘bastard’. She hoped that was good. Josh beckoned to her.
‘Sophie, come and meet my friends Maurice and Panda.’
‘Bonjour,’ she said awkwardly. She didn’t like to see Josh so friendly with someone who was clearly as dodgy as hell.
‘Ah, tu parle Fran?ais aussi?’ said Maurice.
‘No, not really,’ said Sophie, flushing. ‘That’s about it, actually.’
Everyone laughed and Sophie relaxed a little.
‘Well, any friend of this old rogue is a friend of mine,’ said Maurice, grasping Josh’s arm, then banging the bar.
‘Johan, bring us all pastis,’ he called to the barman. ‘You remember Josh. A friend of Nicholas.’
Sophie watched nervously as the barman served the liquid into four glasses and Maurice added water from a jug on the bar, turning the drink milky.
‘Down ze ’atch, as you say in London, no?’ said Maurice, knocking his back. Sophie did the same and immediately began coughing. Gosh, it was strong.
‘I see your companion is more used to our champagne, huh, Joshua?’ laughed Maurice as Josh slapped her on the back.
‘Went down the wrong way,’ managed Sophie between gasps.
Maurice fixed her with that searching gaze again, nodding to himself. ‘Let’s go to my office where we can talk, yes?’
He raised his eyebrows to Panda, then led Sophie and Josh through a door behind the bar. Maurice’s office was no more an office than Le Cellar was underground; more like a cramped storage room with an old sofa and three chairs around a wonky table.
‘So tell me,’ he said, closing the door behind them. ‘What trouble are you in this time, my friend?’
‘No trouble of mine,’ said Josh, nodding towards Sophie.
‘Ah, so it is as I thought. You are the damsel in distress, no?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s just that . . .’
Josh flashed her a warning look and Sophie trailed off, embarrassed.
‘Sophie is in trouble, yes,’ he said, ‘but it’s Nick who has got her there.’
Maurice’s face clouded over.
‘Nick?’ he said. ‘What has that old gigolo been up to this time?’
‘You tell me.’
Maurice shrugged. ‘I have not seen Nick for months.’
‘Why do I think you are lying?’ said Josh with a nasty smile. ‘And I suppose you know nothing about his wine scam, either?’
‘Wine? What wine?’ said Maurice, taking a step backwards. ‘Why don’t you call him up and ask him? Nick will tell you the same thing.’
‘I would,’ said Josh, backing him into a corner. ‘Except he’s dead, Maurice.’
‘Dead?’ He frowned as he absorbed the information.
‘Murdered yesterday in London. And of course you wouldn’t know about that.’
Maurice held up a hand. ‘That is nothing to do with me, I swear. I loved him like a brother, you know that.’
‘Well, I want to find out who killed him,’ said Josh, bringing his face just inches away from Maurice’s. ‘He told me that you and he had worked together recently, so I want you to tell me everything you know. And if you don’t tell me, don’t bet against Scotland Yard knocking on your door. They sure want to find out who killed him too.’
Maurice’s expression changed.
‘You come here to my bar and threaten me with the police?’ he said angrily. ‘Fuck you, rosbif.’
Josh grabbed him by the front of his shirt.
‘I’m not sure I’m making myself clear here.’
Maurice didn’t flinch.