StillWaters:Book4oftheSophieGreenMysteries (9 page)

Maria smiled and flirted a little bit more with the pilots while Luke took the luggage out, and I tried to calm Norma Jean down. She is a dog for whom the word “diva” was invented. She can’t bear attention to be focused on anyone but herself, she hates loud noises, she’s picky about her food, and she doesn’t like to be dirty.

Eventually the helicopter took off, and I realised we were in the field behind the Stansted airport business park. Which is where the SO17 office is. Maria found a hole in the fence, and we dragged our stuff through, suitcases and dog basket and bags of food and beach towels, and Luke set off towards the office to get Karen’s car for everything.

Maria hugged her coat around her slim body and raised her eyebrows at me.

I ignored her.

“Sophie…” she said.

“Maria,” I replied.

“Oh come on, tell me.”

“Tell you what?” I asked pleasantly.

“You and Luke! Juicy details!”

“There are no juicy details. He’s spent most of the time since Monday having a go at me for being a stupid cow.”

“What about at Tintagel?”

I sniffed. “He was being mostly neutral there,” I lied.

“I saw you kissing.”

“Must have been someone else.”

“There wasn’t anyone else there. Sophie, I know it was you two—”

“How did you know where we were?”

“Luke left a note at the cottage,” she said.

“When did you get back?”

“I don’t know, some time this morning.”

“Good night?”

She narrowed her eyes. “This is an interrogation about your love life, not mine.”

I wrinkled up my nose. I wanted to think about it a bit more before I started trying to explain it to anyone.

Thankfully at that point Karen’s dark blue Saab swung up to us, and conversation was diverted as Luke and Maria—I wasn’t allowed to lift heavy things—put everything into the big boot. I spread out an old doggy towel for Norma Jean to sit on the back seat with me, and Luke drove the car back around to the office, which is in a ramshackle hut bearing the legend Flight Services, Inc. Maria swiped us in and we went through to Karen’s office, which was neater and nicer than the outside of the hut suggested.

She was sitting behind her desk, poised and elegant, dark hair in a chignon, designer suit perfectly pressed. Sitting in the only other chair was Macbeth.

“What are you doing here?”

He gestured to Karen. “Lady wants me for a meeting, I’m here.”

“As you all are,” Karen said, looking us over, slightly startled to see Norma Jean had joined the party.

“It’s okay, she’s very discreet,” I assured her.

Karen blinked her hard blue eyes at me, then shuffled some papers. Then she handed Maria, Luke and Macbeth each a white envelope. It was like being in Tutorial at school and watching the naughty kids get their DT slips.

“I’m impressed at the speed with which you got here,” Karen said.

“Maria flirted with some army guys,” Luke grinned.

“I asked a professional favour,” Maria corrected, rolling her eyes. “And they were Navy guys. I was posted there for a couple of weeks once.”

“Good use of initiative,” Karen nodded. “Sadly, that will be your last chance to use it.”

I closed my eyes, a sort of tightness filling me. Oh God, not this. Please don’t tell me it was this.

“The letters I have given you all are the bearers of bad news. For the last two months SO17 has been under government review and while our progress has been commended, all funding has been withdrawn. We are simply too small and too expensive to be allowed to continue. You will each receive three months’ pay, and I have written all of you excellent references, should you require them.”

I had a feeling that last bit was aimed at Macbeth, who was recruited by Maria when she found him nicking car stereos in Brixton.

He was nodding as if he’d seen this coming. Not a lot fazes Macbeth. But Luke and Maria looked like they’d been winded.

“What about Sophie?” Maria croaked eventually. “She doesn’t have a letter.”

Karen looked directly at me, and I suddenly spotted a burr in Norma Jean’s coat that really needed digging out. Head down, I mumbled, “I already knew.”

This time they all stared at me, except Karen, who said quietly, “To begin with, it was suggested that we might reduce our number of agents. Sophie is—was—our most junior agent. I explained the situation to her two weeks ago. I didn’t think it would come to this.”

Still the staring. I adjusted Norma’s collar.

“You knew?” Luke asked in a low voice.

I nodded.

“You knew we were all going to lose our jobs—”

“I knew I was.” I snapped my head up so fast my neck cricked. “I didn’t know about you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Maria said.

“I didn’t know anything to say! I thought you’d all be fine.”

“I mean about you. You never said…”

“I was going to,” I mumbled. “I sort of had other priorities.”

“I heard about that,” Macbeth rumbled. “You okay?”

I nodded, head down again.

“I’m sorry to spoil your holiday,” Karen said, and for the first time since I’d met her she sounded uncertain. Apologetic. Human.

Luke shoved back his chair. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Sophie already did that.”

He strode out of the room, and I went after him, Norma Jean trotting along reluctantly after me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If I’d known I was going to lose my job, I’d have spent more time surfing and drinking and less time playing nurse to you.”

“Hey, I never asked you to—”

Luke spread his hands. “I never asked you to get yourself hit over the head and nearly drowned,” he said nastily, “but you did.”

I stood very still. My nostrils flared. I was determined not to yell at him for that.

Instead I went back into the office and asked Karen for her car keys so I could get my things and go home.

“How will you get there?”

“I don’t know. Bus.”

“The bus only goes from here to the terminal.”

“Then I’ll get another bus from there. Or the train.”

“That goes through Stansted—”

“I don’t care,” I yelled. “I’m going bloody home!”

Calmly, Karen stood up. “I’ll give you a lift,” she said, and I mumbled thanks. “Anyone else?”

“I have my car,” Macbeth said. “Maria, you’re on my route.”

“Thanks.”

“Luke?” Karen asked.

He looked sullen at the thought of sharing a car with me, but he gave a little nod. I guess that tells you something about the public transport around here.

I sat in the back again with Norma Jean and her manky towel and reflected on the idiocy of wearing a black top when I had a long-haired, blonde dog in my custody.

Karen took me to my parents’ house, where I was staying so that Norma wouldn’t be alone or in my unfamiliar flat, and I unloaded my stuff onto the driveway.

“Will you be all right?” Karen asked. Two traces of humanity in one day. She must be really shaken.

I nodded. “Not the first time I’ve lost a job,” I lied, and went inside before she drove away.

For a while after September 11
^th
, I thought I was going to lose my job at the airport. I’d been there two years, checking baggage for Ace Airlines. Two and a half years, by the time I handed in my notice in September. I’d been two-timing them for a while, working for SO17 but still popping up occasionally at the airport. It had its uses. It was where I met Luke, undercover as a sexy Italian. He hired me for SO17 after I chased a criminal down the baggage belt and killed one of the airside cars by smashing it to bits so I could stop the bad guy.

Four months ago, after my latest triumphant capture, I quit the airport job. I didn’t need the pay, the hours were appalling, I was quite sick, and I wanted to concentrate on being a spy.

Ha!

Whatever I gave up for this job never seemed to be enough, I thought as I went around watering plants and checking the answer machine. I gave up my job and I gave up my relationship with Luke. No, I sabotaged my relationship with Luke. To be a better spy.

And now I’m not a spy any more, and he’s not talking to me. Figures.

I bustled around, making sure Norma Jean had food and water, emptying my hastily packed suitcase, chucking a load of clothes straight in the washing machine, making a list of things I needed from Tesco, emptying the dishwasher of the things I’d put in before I left, doing all the sort of housewifey things I never ever did at home. I tended to wash underwear every now and then, so I didn’t run out, but as far as actual clothes went… I just waited until I had nothing clean to wear, shoved so much into the machine that the drum couldn’t turn, then yelled at myself when it all came out pink. Or grey. Or, as in one instance, a peculiar khaki colour that reminded me of when Norma Jean ate bad chicken…

Housework done, post sorted into five piles (Mum, Dad, my brother Chalker, flyers, people who used to live here), I found Mum’s car keys and went out to her Corsa. Tammy, my little baby tabby cat, was still at my flat on the other side of the village, being fed once a day by my friend Evie. She hated being moved around, but I was damned if I was going to shuttle back and forth all the time for her.

As I drove past the pub at the top of the hill, about a hundred yards from my flat, I saw a familiar silver Vectra in the car park. Nah. Couldn’t be Luke’s. For one thing, he lived almost as close to the pub as I did, and for another, there were millions of silver Vectras out there.

No. Just a coincidence.

I let myself into my little flat, stumbled over a mountain of junk mail, and found Tammy curled up into an impossibly tiny ball in the middle of my bed, a nest of multicoloured tabby hair and snagged duvet.

“Hello, baby!”

She looked up in alarm. She’s a rescue cat and, although she’s had nothing but the most adoring care and attention from me for years, she’s still a little edgy. But I was prepared.

“Look what I brought you,” I said. I’d wanted to get her some Cornish clotted cream (but she never, ever gets fat, grr), but in the hurry to leave hadn’t had the chance. So she had some squirty cream from Mum’s fridge instead. The
pshh
of the can made her jump, but the cream won her over and she licked it off my finger.

I felt a wave of love. Aww. My tiny, little baby. She really is little: helpless and unbelievably beautiful, fine boned, petite, glossy haired. The sort of female I always wanted to be.

I felt mean for scooping her up and wrestling her into her little travelling cage, like putting a battery chicken in its cell. But she’d be there for five minutes, tops, while I drove home. I could walk it—two miles isn’t that far—but you’d be amazed at how heavy a four pound cat can be when she wants to be.

I threw a few more clothes and things into the back of the car, put Tammy carefully on the passenger seat, and we set off. Traffic was slow going back up the hill, and I idly glanced at the Vectra in the pub car park.

Luke’s registration plate.

What was he doing there? It was an okay pub, but not one I thought he frequented. Hmm.

I got back to my parents’ house and quickly fed Tammy so she wouldn’t run away immediately. She’d been here before, but little Tammy only has a minuscule brain and there’s not much room in it for memory.

I checked the news headlines and the weather, paying no attention to them. I booted up Chalker’s computer and read my emails—all spam. I drummed my fingers and looked out of the window at the dark night.

And then I got up and drove to the pub.

I was fully prepared to walk in and see him enjoying a meal with my replacement, Caro, and there was a half-formed plan in my mind to march up there and tell her Luke had kissed me twice—actually, three times—in the last week, hard, proper kisses, and we’d slept together (no need to tell her it was literal), and I’d spent every night in his bed.

Poor Caro. And poor me. Luke was obviously now a cheater, and I could easily have let him cheat on me.

I pushed open the door to the pub, looking around. It was full and noisy and it took me a while to locate Luke, sitting in a corner of the bar, alone, no other chairs near him. No girlie coats or handbags. No Caro.

Phew.

I made my way over and tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, his eyes unsteady, and that was when I noticed the shot glass in front of him, sitting in a corrosive puddle of its own contents.

“Oh, fuck,” he said when he saw me.

“Hello to you too.”

“No,” he said, as I snagged a high stool and pulled it over. “Go away. Fuck off.”

“That’s another twenty pee in the swear jar,” the landlord said, glancing over.

“Shut up,” Luke commanded, “and gimme some more.” He waved a Rizla wrapper, and the landlord silently handed him a new pack. Luke concentrated on filling the paper with tobacco—I hoped it was tobacco—and rolled it up with the carefulness of one who is very drunk.

“You smoke now?” I asked.

“Damn right I do.” He propped the roll-up between his lips and waved his glass at the landlord who was, I was very glad to realise, totally unfamiliar to me. Usually when I went into any of village’s pubs, I saw someone I knew, either behind the bar or in front of it. “And don’t tell me not to.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

“Isn’t me with the blood poisoning.”

“My blood is fine.”

“So have a drink.”

“I’m driving. Luke, what are you even smoking?”

He waved a Golden Virginia wrapper at me. “It’s legal,” he mocked. “Policeman Sophie.”

I looked at the landlord in despair. “How many has he had?”

He shrugged. “Drinks? That’ll be the sixth.”

“In how long?”

“Hour, hour and a half.”

Jesus. That wasn’t enough to get him this drunk. I wondered how much he’d had at home before he ran out and came here.

“And a whole packet of Rizlas?”

“Nah, he brought one with him. You drinking?”

“Diet Coke.”

Luke snorted.

“Hey, some of us have responsibilities. How are you getting your car home?”

“Come back for it tomorrow.”

I paid for my drink and waited for the landlord to serve someone else before asking Luke, “What are you doing?”