31
The somewhat ordinary address on the invitation – 134 Rue de Rivoli – hadn’t prepared Sophie for what she saw as the taxi drove through the iron gates.
‘Bloody hell,’ she gasped, looking towards the end of the palm-tree-lined drive where the Villa Polieux stood like a glorious neoclassical full stop. ‘It’s like something out of Tender is the Night.’
‘I think that was set at the Hotel du Cap down the road,’ smiled Josh. ‘But you’re right. It’s pretty incredible.’
Painted a shimmering white, with wings either side of the main house, the villa had pale grey shutters at every window and was surrounded by sculpted hedges and neatly trimmed flower beds.
‘Who owns a place like this?’
‘It belongs to the Polieux family; it’s their summer retreat,’ said Josh. ‘They’re one of the oldest and most prestigious wine merchants in France, and I’m not talking about selling a few bottles of plonk to rich Russians here. I mean these guys are into wholesale distribution, wine bottling and retail; they’ve got a grape merchant division as well as owning some of the top estates in Bordeaux. If you drink a bottle of wine in France, there’s a decent chance the Polieuxs have had something to do with it.’
‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ said Sophie, giving Josh a sidelong glance.
‘You have a suspicious nature, Sophie Ellis,’ said Josh. ‘I haven’t been sunbathing while you were getting your hair done. It pays to know where you’re going and who you’re likely to bump into.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just thought . . .’
‘I know what you thought. Anyway, you can see why Nick got involved with this world, can’t you?’
They were met at their car by a uniformed waiter who handed them flutes of champagne and wordlessly led them into the house. The high entrance hall was lit by dozens of the tallest candles Sophie had ever seen. Even in the flickering light, she could see that the floor was intricately patterned with marble and the furniture was gold and ornate. As the waiter turned to the left, they could hear music and excited chatter. They walked out into a ballroom that made Sophie gasp, despite herself. It was the size of a tennis court and was brilliantly lit by three dazzling chandeliers. As she looked up in wonder, she saw that the entire ceiling was painted in one vast depiction of the heavens: the Holy Mother surrounded by angels, and at the centre, a half-clothed figure she suspected was Marie Antoinette.
‘Try to close your mouth,’ said Josh with a smirk. ‘Sophisticated people like us aren’t impressed by things like that, remember?’
‘Sorry,’ she hissed, and tried to look more regal. It wasn’t easy when she was clearly surrounded by some of the most elegant people in France. The ladies were all wearing flowing gowns – every colour from shimmering silver to peacock blue – the men, beautifully cut dinner suits. Sophie was glad Josh had been shopping; if she had worn her day dress purloined from Josh’s garage, people would have been handing her their empty glasses.
But the more she looked at the women here, the more Sophie began to despair of ever finding the elusive A. If everything she had been hearing about Nick was true, it could be any one of them: young, old, glamorous or even elderly and wizened. Nick’s modus operandi suggested he went wherever the money was; and this party was dripping in money.
‘How the hell are we going to find this woman, Josh?’ she whispered.
Josh looked irritated.
‘I’m working on it, okay?’ he hissed.
‘Seriously, we don’t know anything about her except she’s been invited to this party and her name begins with A,’ pressed Sophie. ‘It’s not exactly much to go on, is it? What are we going to do, get our clipboards out and question everyone here if they’ve seen or heard of Nick Beddingfield, otherwise known as Nick Cooper, or maybe even something else?’
‘I’ll think of something, stop worrying.’
They followed the flow of the party out on to the terrace overlooking the lights of Antibes harbour. The sky was mottled pink and purple, and the Mediterranean shimmered like mercury in the dusk. It was as if they were in their own private world, just the two of them, where everything was good and safe and happy.
‘Can you smell that?’ she said, touching Josh’s arm. ‘It’s roses and pine trees. Oh Josh, I could live here.’
‘I thought you wanted to find Nick’s mystery woman and then leave immediately,’ said Josh sharply. Sophie glanced at him, desperately wishing she could read his mind. He was definitely pissed off about something. Was he simply being his usual moody self, or was he really upset because she wanted to go home? Did he want to stay with her in this strange limbo for ever? She could ask herself the same question. Of course she wanted all this to be over; she hated the constant anxiety of not knowing what was happening, the prospect of prison, while the idea that someone might want to kill her was alien and terrifying. And yet despite the danger, the threats and the fear, there had been something quite exhilarating about the past few days.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
He looked at her in surprise.
‘Thank you? For what?’
She gestured around the terrace.
‘All this, Josh. Not just for the dress and the shoes and the hair, which by the way are all absolutely amazing, but thank you for helping me. I don’t know where I’d be without you; in a jail cell or at the bottom of the Thames most likely. You’ve saved my life, you helped me when you really didn’t have to, and I’ve been such a thoughtless cow to not stop and tell you how grateful I am. There’s no excuse, so I don’t blame you for being in such a bad mood with me.’
‘I know you haven’t got a very high opinion of me, but I just did what any decent bloke would do. I wasn’t going to stand back and let you get killed. Besides, I’m not in a bad mood with you,’ he said, avoiding her eyes.
‘You are. I can tell. You’re all sniffy and huffy and your brows knit together a bit like this,’ she said, doing an impression of a grumpy person.
She wanted to make him laugh, but instead he remained serious. His eyes locked with hers, and she felt a charge run between them so that she could almost see the sparks on the night air.
‘Listen, Sophie, I know this has all been a nightmare for you and that you’d rather be anywhere else – with anyone else.’
She was about to object, but he held up a hand to stop her.
‘No one wants to be on the run from the police and whoever the hell else is after us,’ he continued softly. ‘But look around, look where we are. We’re in one of the most amazing houses in one of the most beautiful parts of the whole world. No matter what happens tomorrow, or the next day, we’re here now. Why not enjoy it? Why not pretend to be a real princess? Why not drink the champagne and dance the polka? For one night, let’s have fun, just me and you, okay?’
They were only inches apart. It wasn’t just the warm, scented gardens she could smell now, but Josh; the soft suggestion of soap and aftershave on his skin, the hint of champagne on his lips.
The tension between them was so electric it almost made her tremble. For the last three days – had it really only been three days? – she and Josh had barely been apart. And yet if they discovered who had killed Nick and returned to their lives in London, would she ever see him again? And would he care if she walked out of his life?
‘Well, if we’re planning to dance the night away, I’m going to put this scarf in the cloakroom,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘We wouldn’t want to lose it.’
She walked away from him towards the house, and when she glanced back, she saw that he was still watching her. She puffed out her cheeks, uncertain of the emotions she was experiencing, aware that there was more at stake from the evening than just discovering the identity of A.
The cloakroom had been roped off and was being manned by two beautiful young women dressed as cigarette girls. In their little hats and tiny scarlet uniforms they were clearly struggling with the volume of furs, capelets and jackets.
‘Could I leave this scarf?’ asked Sophie, gesticulating to make up for her lack of French.
One of the girls flashed her a helpless expression.
‘Je regrette, mademoiselle, we have no tickets left.’
‘Oh,’ said Sophie. She really didn’t want to lose it, not when it was a gift from Josh. The girl saw her disappointed expression and held up a finger.
‘Un moment, s’il vous pla?t,’ she said, taking Sophie’s pashmina. Sophie watched as the girl pulled two white stickers from a roll and wrote the same number on each, handing one to Sophie. ‘We improvise, I think,’ she smiled.
‘Thank you,’ said Sophie, ‘But what number is this?’ She held up the ticket.
‘Seven zero one,’ said the cloakroom girl, pointing to each numeral.
‘Merci,’ grinned Sophie. ‘Merci beaucoup.’
Josh was not out on the terrace, so Sophie rushed back inside, searching the ballroom for his face. She spotted him on the far side, talking to a pretty girl in a violet gown. Catching his eye, she clumsily signalled to meet her on the terrace. Josh’s expression was concerned as he walked out.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said, glancing around. ‘Trouble?’
‘No, no, the opposite actually. Do you have the number that Sandrine gave you? The number of Nick’s other lover.’
‘Sure, but why?’ he said, pulling out his wallet to retrieve the Post-it note.
‘Look at this,’ said Sophie, pointing at the number the cloakroom girl had written. ‘How did you read the last four digits of Sandrine’s number?’
‘0627,’ said Josh, holding up the Post-it.
‘Me too. That’s what I dialled in the hotel this morning – and that’s why we couldn’t get through.’
She could see he wasn’t getting it.
‘It’s not a seven, Josh. It’s a one; the French write it differently, with a long sweep at the front so it looks like a seven – and they cross their sevens to make the distinction.’
‘Shit. We’ve been phoning the wrong number,’ muttered Josh.
‘Yes, but that’s good, don’t you see?’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘Let’s call it now. If Nick’s girlfriend is here, she will pick it up and we can identify her.’
Josh smiled and pulled out his mobile.
‘I’ll take the ballroom; you wait out here and listen for anyone answering their phone. I’ll keep ringing. If I get them, I’ll ask them to meet me by the terrace steps.’
Sophie walked to the edge of the terrace, her pulse quickening. It was a long shot, of course. Maybe Nick’s lover hadn’t brought her phone; maybe she wouldn’t hear it ring. But there was always a chance, wasn’t there? And by Sophie’s reckoning, they were due a little bit of luck. She weaved through the crowd, her ears peeled, willing herself to pick up a noise, but all she could hear was the clinking of glasses and the gentle hum of conversation and laughter. And then she heard it; the faint but persistent chirp of a mobile phone. There were dozens of people out on the terrace, even more milling around the gardens below; it could be anywhere. Sophie looked from left to right, desperately watching for movement, someone lifting a cell phone to their ear.
There, she thought. It was coming from the area down by the infinity pool, she was sure of it. She moved across to the stone steps and, gathering up her dress to expose her silver shoes, followed the sound as quickly as she could. The pool was surrounded by dark slate, and its clear turquoise water was shimmering in the darkness. As she walked around it, Sophie could see a group of three women, evidently come down here to smoke. The one with her back to Sophie reached for her clutch – the ringing was definitely coming from there. It could be a coincidence, of course, so Sophie hung back in the shadows. She could not see the woman’s face, just her graceful neck, her long dark hair, and the full skirt of what was obviously a very beautiful gown.
Sophie turned and looked back towards the house, where she could make out Josh’s tall silhouette against the double doors.
She beckoned to him and then walked towards the woman, who was pulling the phone away from her ear. Her heart was thumping loudly as the woman turned, her profile illuminated by the silvery moonlight.
‘All??’ said the woman into her phone. There was a pause, then she turned again – towards the terrace steps.
‘You?’ whispered Sophie, her hand going to her mouth. ‘Lana?’
There was no mistake: the woman’s face was illuminated by the yellow light from the house. Lana Goddard-Price, the woman who had asked her to house-sit, the woman who had told her to help herself to anything in her Knightsbridge home: the woman who had set everything in motion.
‘Sophie,’ said Lana, moving away from her friends. There was no surprise in her voice, only a matter-of-fact statement, as if she had just bumped into a vague acquaintance she didn’t see all that often. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘So I take it you two know each other?’ said Josh, walking up behind them. Sophie kept her gaze on Lana. She couldn’t think of anything to say except the obvious truth.
‘Nick’s dead, Lana,’ she said in the most level voice she could manage.
If Sophie had expected the woman to crumble, to weep, to betray her distress, then she was disappointed. Lana simply closed her eyes and nodded sadly.
‘Collect your coat, then we should leave. I think we had better find somewhere quieter to talk.’