A Is for Apple (14 page)

“Where do you live?” I asked hopefully, even though I knew.

“Miles away, past the airport.”

My eyes must have lit up, because Amber started laughing.

“Someone wants a lift,” she sang.

“Well, I didn’t bring my car this morning.” I smiled hopefully at Marc. “I live right on the main road…”

Clara was glaring at me but I ignored her.

“And why didn’t you bring your car?” Marc asked.

“I, er, didn’t go home last night.”

“I knew it,” Amber breathed.

“Can I please have a lift?” I begged, and Marc shrugged.

“Your boyfriend won’t mind?”

“He’ll be at work,” I said. “And besides,” I added belatedly, “he doesn’t live at my house, so he won’t know, will he?”

Marc took a set of keys out of his pocket. “Come on, then.”

His car was behind the gym, where mine had been yesterday. An unremarkable ten-year-old Corsa in an unremarkable shade of blue. I wondered why, if his parents were so damn rich, he was driving a car like this.

Marc was silent as we got in the car, reversed out and waited at the crossing for the kids changing lessons to stream across the road. It couldn’t be good, I thought, to have a road like that in the middle of the school. Someone could get hurt.

I frowned. If Shapiro’s men turned up, someone probably would.

“So,” I said, as we eventually turned onto the main road, “how come you left Longford in the first year?”

“Second year,” he said. “My parents split up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you live with your mum or your dad?”

“Used to be my dad,” he said. “I went to boarding school and then over to his place in France in the holidays.” France, eh? I’d have to remember that.

“So why’d you come back here?”

“Got chucked out,” he said shortly.

“You really set someone on fire?”

A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “You know that thing where you flick a match on the box and set it on fire midair?” I nodded. I could hardly ever do it right, though. “Well, the match landed on someone.”

“Ah.”

“A teacher.”

“Oops.”

“And then I dropped my cigarette on him too…”

“Say no more.”
How to put this? So did you move back here because your dad was found floating in the Hudson, or was this a decision made before that?

I guess Harvey would find that out, but would he share?

But I left it too long, and Marc unexpectedly filled the gap with, “Why did you come here?”

“What? Oh. Closest sixth form to where I live, I suppose…”

“No, why’d you leave your old school?”

Shit, what was my reason?

“Company move,” I said. “Dad got relocated.” Phew.

“D’you miss your old school?”

I shrugged. “Miss my friends.”

“You seemed to have a few last night.”

Double shit!

“They’re Luke’s,” I said hastily. “His friends.”

“Right,” Marc said slowly. “And you met him…when?”

He was testing me, I realised. Dammit. People are always playing me at my own game. What did he suspect? Or was he just bored?

“At the airport,” I improvised wildly. “We were flying out to—Antigua, and the flight was horribly delayed. And he was the poor sod who had to hand out LRVs,” I said, warming to my subject. This was a job I despised.

“LRVs?” Marc asked.

“Light Refreshment Vouchers.” Oops. “For the delay. And people were being really horrible about only getting a voucher, and you could see he was totally out of his depth, it was like his second week or something—he says only newbies get that job—so I said I felt sorry for him, and we got chatting, and…when we came home he was meeting the plane and he remembered me, and we went back to Baggage together and he asked for my phone number…”

Damn, I should be a romantic novelist. It was certainly a hell of a lot better than the way we’d really met. At the airport, yes, but Luke had been undercover as an Italian called Luca and got me into all sorts of trouble before I found out who he really was, got first hired, then seduced by him.

“Like a movie,” Marc commented.

“Yeah, it was,” I said, thinking “movie” was an American word.

We were in Stansted now, and he slowed down a little. Not too much though. He
was
seventeen.

“Whereabouts are you?” he asked, and I thought, I can’t let him see I live in a flat by myself.

“Just pull into the pub car park,” I said, pointing. “You can’t park outside my house.” Besides which, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know I lived there. There was something about Marc that freaked me out.

He let me out and I walked down the hill to my building. I wasn’t lying when I said you can’t park outside it—well, not really. Docherty once left the Vanquish there, but the traffic flowed around it like people around a beautiful sculpture. The car park is down a narrow lane at the back of the building, and my flat opens onto a little courtyard off this lane. It’s nice. I have my own outside door, and in summer I guess I could sunbathe out there, if there were ever any sun. Or have barbecues, if indeed I owned such a piece of equipment.

Tammy was sunning herself in the three-by-five patch of light by the door. She squeaked eagerly at me, obviously hoping I’d feed her. Must be nice being a cat. Eat, sleep, be adored. Don’t worry about money or relationships or sex—and if someone starts neglecting you, run off and find someone else.

Actually, that part’s not true. Tammy’s feeding pattern is somewhat erratic—she wasn’t fed this morning, for instance—but she still comes back. Because I tell her how beautiful she is and cuddle her. And then give her tuna and a big bowl of milk.

When I got in there was a note from Luke stuck to the mirror by the door (first and last place I check. Cheeky bugger).
Tammy fed 9.30. How did you get home? L x
Wow, I merited a kiss.

I hauled out my phone and called him.

“Haven’t I been a clever girl?” I said.

“I don’t know, have you? More literary discussions?”

“Not quite. I got to sit with the cool kids, though.”

“Well done! How?”

By being cool, I almost said, but had to admit, “By turning up fifteen minutes late in yesterday’s clothes, smelling of you.”

He laughed. “Excellent. Damn, I wish you’d been at my school.”

“Would they let a girl within fifty paces of Eton?”

“Not to my recollection. Are you at home?”

“Yes. Marc gave me a lift on his way home.”

“Nice one. You talk to him?”

“Yeah, a little bit.” I was curious about where he lived, though. “Luke, you fancy going out tonight?”

“More teen thrills?”

“No, just a quiet drink.”

I could tell he was suspicious, but he agreed to come with me.

I needed to take a shower—which quickly became a long bath—and eat something, since my insides were hollow, so I arranged to meet him at his place and go out for a drink in Green Roding, which, coincidentally, was where Marc lived.

I drove to the Rodings, of which there are about half a dozen. They’re all small hamlets about twenty minutes’ drive from me down tiny twisty lanes. These sort of lanes make me sick as a parrot when I’m a passenger, but I’m better in the driving seat, so Luke didn’t ask me too many questions. Of course, investigating Marc’s house was not an unreasonable thing to want to do, but I couldn’t quite think of an explanation as to why I wanted to do it.

The Spotted Dog in Green Roding was the sort of old, low, dark pub that could be smoke free for generations and still be perfumed with Eau de Marlboro. I actually love the smell of old pubs, the smoke and the beer. It reminds me of my childhood, which probably says something about me.

“So how was your day?” Luke asked me cutely as he paid for the drinks.

I shrugged. “The cool kids like me. Well, actually,” honesty forced me to admit, “they like you.”

He grinned. “Excellent. Always nice to know I’m useful.”

We took a table in a far corner. I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew here, but then again, anyone at all could be listening in.

“Any news about Doyle and Maretti?”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “How do you know their names?”

“I’ve been clever again. Is there any news?”

He sipped his Guinness and put it down with a shrug. “None whatsoever. No bodies, no shootings, no attempted hit’n’runs… How’s your leg, by the way?”

I shrugged. “No better, no worse. An interesting mixture of shades.”

He smirked. “I remember.”

“Yes, and did you have to keep squeezing it?” Seeing him grin and lean back in his chair, I lowered my voice. “I was in pain this morning.”

“I’ll kiss it better later. How did you know about Doyle and Maretti?”

I took my time having a drink. When I put my glass down, I said obliquely, “I met my new art teacher today.”

Luke blinked. “That’s nice.”

“Yes. So is he.” I took another sip.

“Sophie…” Luke said warningly.

“He’s so nice I was thinking of setting him up with someone. Say, Angel, maybe?”

Luke was quicker on the uptake than I’d ever be.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said, bouncing forwards in his chair.

I shook my head.

“The son of a bitch! I’ll bloody skin him.”

“Direct orders,” I said. “Higher powers.”

Luke got out his phone and tapped out a furious text. Then he glared at me.

“This bloody place has no signal.”

As if it was my fault.

“That’s because it’s in a time warp. Luke, don’t take it out on Harvey.”

“I was texting Karen. You’re supposed to be doing this on your own—”

“Yes, and if it wasn’t for—” I glanced around “—Harvey’s boss, then I would be. He said she’s really mad.”

“Insane, I should think.” Luke thumped his phone down and sat back, fuming.

“Well, look at it this way. Harvey has four classes a week with him. I have twelve. Plus Registrations. Study periods—”

“When you do so much studying,” Luke said sarcastically.

“No, I do work, Luke. I already got a lift with him. I asked him about his parents.”

“And?”

“Unforthcoming.”

“That’s not even a word.”

“It is in my dictionary. Why are you so bad moody?”

“Pissed off with Harvey. What if someone makes the link between him and Xander?”

“They won’t. It’ll be okay.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“I looked up Marc’s address,” I told him as a distraction. “It’s just down the road from here.”

“Ah. I did wonder why the change of venue.”

“It’s called Mont House. I looked it up on Google Earth, it looks pretty big.” I frowned.

“And…?”

“Well. Marc was driving a ten-year-old Corsa. Why is he doing that if he lives in a huge house?”

“Maybe it’s a huge house that’s been subdivided. Maybe he just lives in a normal flat or something.”

I shrugged and picked up my drink. “Well, maybe.”

Luke cocked his head. “You’re not convinced.”

“I’m just curious,” I protested.

“It’s just a car, Sophie.”

“Just a car?” I said, voice rising slightly. “Just a car? Luke Sharpe, you know better than to say that to me.”

“Sorry,” he said, smiling a little.

“Cars are important.”

“Of course they are.”

“To your identity. Your car says something about you.”

“Of course it does.” He sipped his drink. “You’re not going to get into another Vectra rant, are you?”

I scowled. Just because I understood why Luke was driving such an invisible car, didn’t mean I approved of it.

I stabbed the straw into my drink a few times, and Luke watched.

“Sophie.”

“Luke.”

“Why are we here?”

“I want to go and see why he’s driving a Corsa.”

Luke paused. Then he said, “What?”

“I mean, he’s got to have a better car hiding away somewhere. I want to go and stake out his house.”

“Why?”

“Just…humour me.”

“Sophie,” Luke saluted me with his drink, “I always do.”

I’m not sure that’s particularly complimentary.

Mont House was set back from the road, up a steep drive it shared with a couple of other expensive residences. Mont was the oldest of them, a lot of the land having been sold off some time in the last half of the last century, leaving the big house with a drastically smaller garden.

It was in this garden that we crouched, half-hidden in the shrubbery, cold and wet from a recent watering by the sprinkler system.

“So why are we here?” Luke whispered, and I shh’d him loudly.

“I want to see his other car.”

“What makes you think he’ll have another car?”

“He will,” I said, and rolled up my sleeves and took off through the shrubbery towards the garage at the back of the house.

It was locked.

“Damn,” I said. “Damn and bugger.”

“Maybe next time,” Luke said, slinging an arm around my waist.

I frowned. “There must be a window or something.”

“Yes, because cars flourish in the natural light. Sophie. Someone could see us.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Yes, they will.” He pulled me back to him and the sensation was not unpleasant.

“Why are you here if you’re not going to spy this out with me?”

“Why?” He nuzzled my neck. “Can’t argue with spending some quality time in the bushes…”

I shrugged him off. “Later,” I said. “I want to see at least what kind of car his mother’s got.”

I found a window at the back of the garage, hidden by the fence holding in the rubbish bins. I peeked in and it took my eyes a while to adjust to the gloom inside.

“I can’t see anything.”

Luke joined me. “Well, that’s the Corsa,” he pointed to a familiar headlight cluster.

“What’s that? Old Beemer?”

We both squinted. “That,” Luke said, “is an old 7-Series. And that,” he pointed, “is a dead body.”

We both stared at it for a while.

“This is not good,” I said, suddenly feeling rather cold. The more my eyes got used to it, the more I could see, clearly, that it was a man in a suit, lying on his side. I wasn’t sure, but I thought there might have been a big dark bloodstain on his back.

“This is really not good,” Luke said.

“What do we do?”

He looked at the body again.

“Go,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“Because I’ve just seen a light come on in the house. Go.”

I scurried away, towards the bushes, and skirted my way around the garden to the drive, my heart pounding. Where was Luke? He wasn’t following me!

God, what if he got caught!

I knew the police couldn’t do too much to us, but it surely couldn’t be a good thing for us to be caught snooping round someone’s garden late at night, especially when there was a body involved.

I made it down to the road and leaned against the wall by the drive, panting, worried, adrenaline pumping through me. I waited one minute, two, my active imagination inventing all sorts of awful things to have happened to Luke.

When he eventually came sauntering down the drive, I launched myself at him.

“Where were you? I was so worried…”

He put his arms around me, sounding puzzled. “I was right where you left me. Mrs. Shapiro came to put some bottles out. Boy, is she a faded glory.”

I pulled back and looked at him. “You saw her?”

“Yeah. Pickled. Satin robe, airborne hair, three wine bottles.”

“Maybe she had company.”

“No lights on. Drinking alone and in the dark.”

You had to feel sorry for Marc. Dead gangster father and alcoholic mother.

“Jesus.”

“He won’t help you.” Luke put a hand on my thumping heart which was, conveniently for him, right under my left boob. “But I could think of a way to pass the evening…”

I woke up in the middle of the night, parched, and stumbled to the kitchen for a glass and lots of water. When I came back, I stood in the doorway and looked at Luke for a while, lying there looking unutterably beautiful in the slight light from the street light outside. Still a little bit drunk, I started to wonder why on earth he was in my bed, why he’d chosen me out of all the sleek, sexy girls out there. Why funny old me? Or young, as the case may be—surely I was too young, too curvy, too silly, too useless for a man like Luke?

What did he see in me?

Sighing, feeling sorry for myself without quite knowing why, I crawled back into bed and let Luke enfold me in his arms again. He didn’t wake up, just held me.

If I wasn’t a spy, would he be with me? Did he love me?
Could
he love me? When we’d first got involved, Maria had warned me the only thing Luke had ever formed an emotional attachment to was his SIG. I’d figured all we’d ever have together would be sex. And yet here he was, cuddling me as he slept, meeting my parents and being nice to my friends.

I guess that made me lucky. I closed my eyes, and tried not to think of it.

Next time I woke up it was to the tuneless twitter of my alarm clock, grabbing me out of sleep at what felt like an unearthly hour.

I looked at the clock. Seven-thirty.

Completely unearthly.

Sighing, I pulled myself upright. At least I was in my own bed this morning. And I had loads of time.

Luke, lying on his stomach beside me, reached out with one hand and slammed the top of the alarm clock with his fist until it shut up.

“Good morning to you too,” I said.

“Are you going to school again?”

“Yep. Apparently I didn’t learn enough before.”

He didn’t seem to think this was funny.

Rolling onto his back, he squinted up at me and said, “Soph? Did I dream it or did we find a dead body last night?”

I pulled a face. “God. I’d forgotten.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to have to go and sort that out, aren’t I?”

“What do you mean? We just left it there last night.” Something occurred to me. “Marc or his mother are going to find it, aren’t they?”

“In all probability. Unless one of them put it there.”

I stared at him. “You think one of them killed him?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“He’s seventeen!”

“And you were never murderous at seventeen?”

“I never killed anyone. Well, not when I was seventeen,” I amended guiltily. I didn’t like to think about the shots I’d fired since I joined SO17. I considered them a form of pest control and tried to leave it at that.

Luke swung out of bed, and for a few seconds I was stopped by the beauty of him. Then I shook myself. I should have got over that by now.

“Got any spare bullets?” he asked, pulling clothes on.

“Why? Who are you going to shoot?”

“No one.” He chucked me under the chin. “Just protection is all. Whoever got the guy in the garage could still be out there.”

This was not a comforting thought, and I almost threw myself at his legs and begged him to stay as he downed some coffee and left. Instead I sipped my own black nectar and silently wished the angels on his side, then told myself off for being so sentimental. Luke was good at what he did. He rarely got shot at.

Generally, that was my job.

I got showered and dressed and fed Tammy, who was always grumpy with me whenever Luke had stayed over, because she wasn’t allowed in my room. Well, I didn’t want to corrupt her. Then I checked I had everything—billions of books and folders and crap, God knows how I was supposed to carry it all without getting a hernia. Did I have this much to carry when I was at school? Or did I just never bother with most of it?

I just never bothered with most of it.

Harvey had obtained for me a proper copy of my timetable and his extension number in the art department, should I need him. I was due to see him fourth lesson today, after English first and Drama second.

I drove up to school, desperately telling myself that Luke would be okay, he knew what he was doing—even if I didn’t—that there was probably a perfectly ordinary explanation for there being a body in the garage of the son of the person who’d been found dead in the apartment of my friend five days ago. My friend, whose identical twin was doing the same job as me. Probably doing surveillance on me. I was never sure whether I could professionally trust Harvey. And as M said, knowing who to trust
is
everything in this business.

How the hell had I survived? I barely even trusted myself.

I walked into Registration and was greeted with a smile from Amber and Lucy. Clara was ignoring me. Marc wasn’t there.

Uh-oh.

“Hi,” I said, going over.

“Wow, new clothes,” Amber teased. “Wet hair…you stayed at home last night, huh?”

“Yes,” I said, unable to resist (and wanting an alibi besides), “but not alone.”

Their eyes widened. “Don’t your parents mind?”

Shit, crap. I forgot I’m supposed to be living with them.

“Oh, it’s a big house,” I said. “We’re at opposite ends.” Of the
village
.

Evidently they were impressed, although Devvo wasn’t, when he called me over and asked where I’d been yesterday morning.

“Your Art teacher wasn’t impressed,” he said.

“I overslept,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

“Next time sign the late book,” he said. “Three signatures and you get a warning. Two warnings and you get a detention.”

I stared. Not much of an incentive to sign the book then, eh? “You can still put me in detention?”

He nodded.

Jesus. I’ve faced people with guns who’ve wanted to kill me or at least maim me, I've been shot at and nearly blown up and threatened with much more violent things, but the thought of detention still scares the shit out of me.

The bell rang and I looked down at the register. “Is Marc not in?”

He shook his head. “If you see him—”

“I’ll tell him to sign the—late book.” I nearly said “bloody late book”, but swiftly judged that it wouldn’t be a particularly wise thing to do.

I followed the girls up to English, hanging back and texting Luke that Marc wasn’t there. We passed D Block and the Art department, and I so nearly rushed in there to tell Harvey everything. But I contented myself with a text to him, just to tell him Marc wasn’t there, and to call Luke if he dared.

Apparently he did dare, because partway through the lesson, with no appreciation for how hard it was to write an essay on Elizabeth Jennings with absolutely no preparation (i.e., reading any of her poems in the last four years), my phone started buzzing in my bag. Pink-faced, I reached in and cancelled the call, but not before I saw that it was Harvey.

Ten minutes later, Luke tried. I cancelled that, too.

I tried to listen to my voice mail on the way down to Drama (helpfully right at the other end of the school, over the road), but I saw the stern-faced head of English coming my way, and swiftly stowed my mobile in my bag. It would
not
do for him to confiscate my phone.

Ha! Although wouldn’t I love to see his face when he found out the numbers I had in there!

I itched my way through Drama, desperate to know what Harvey and Luke knew, and when the bell finally rang for break, I raced down behind the stage and hid in the grotty loos until I’d listened to my messages.

“You have…two…new messages.” God, could she speak any slower? “Message…One.” Before I get old. “Sent…today at Oh. Nine. Hundred. Hours. Twenty. Three. Minutes.”

I’d bitten all my nails off now, and was starting on my hand.

“Sophie, it’s Harvey. I got your message—what do you know about Marc? Or more to the point, what does Luke know? I’m gonna wait until you call me back before I call him. He never tells me anything anyway. Oh, shit, you’re probably in a lesson. Sorry. I’ll smooth it over later. Bye.”

Smooth it over? How?
Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Wilson, but I had to call one of your students on a private matter.
Yeah, like that wouldn’t get the both of us chucked out.

“Message…Two. Sent…today at Oh. Nine. Hundred. Hours. Thirty. Five. Minutes. Soph? You’re not going to like this. The body’s gone, and so is Marc’s car. I called the house phone and no one answered—I couldn’t see anyone. You’re definitely sure you saw that body too, right? I’m starting to think they’re all hallucinations. Anyway. I’m going up to the office. Call me.”

I did, straight away.

“What about her car? Was that gone?”

“Yeah.”

“’Cos she’d have to have driven over the—” I lowered my voice “—
it
to get it out.”

“Which means either she left after it was removed…”

“Or she removed it. Shit.”

“Yep. You can’t even do decent surveillance outside that house. There’s nowhere to park.”

“Did you try the pub car park?”

“Yeah. Can’t see the road over the wall. Look, I’m going to go back and check in a bit—keep calling them up and stuff. Let me know the second Marc walks in, right?”

“If he walks in,” I said gloomily. “Okay, speak to you later.”

I emerged, and I must have looked pretty pissed off, because Amber made a gesture of mock fear.

“Boyfriend,” I said, and she nodded.

“Yeah. They can be right bastards. Was it him who rang you in English?”

I nodded.

“Twice?”

“He’s persistent.”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t mind him being persistent around me,” Lucy said wistfully, and I laughed at that, breaking the tension a little.

She walked up to Art with me when the bell rang. “Have you seen Marc today?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Maybe he’s ill. You can never tell with him, he’s so quiet.”

I nodded. “Did you know him? Before—when he was here in the first year?”

She shrugged. “I knew of him. He was Clara’s friend. Like they came from the same primary school. I was in a different class. Didn’t see much of him. He grew up well though, huh?”

I nodded. “Yep. Great job.”

She came with me to fetch my portfolio—now slightly more organised than before—from Ted.

“This your car?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s kinda…kinda big.”

“Yeah. Well. So am I.”

“How do you park it?”

“Sort of aim for the space between the lines.”

Lucy seemed to think this was really funny. “I can’t park at all. It’s what I’m worst at. Well that and reversing around a corner.”

“You’re still learning?”

“Yeah. For about seven months.”

“Don’t worry. It took me a year. And I failed twice.”

She was frowning, not the usual hilarious response I get to this. “A year? When’s your birthday?”

Shit, this truth stuff is a bad habit. “Right at the beginning of September,” I said. “I passed a couple of weeks ago.” Shit shit shit.

“Wow. Did you already have the car?”

“Yeah. Been driving my parents around for ages. Well, driving them up the wall, anyway. Hey, look at that, five minutes late already.”

We went inside the block and I carried the heavy folder up the stairs.

“I meant to ask you,” Lucy said, “what did he want to speak to you about yesterday? Mr. Harvard. He looked well pissed off.”

It took me a second to realise what she meant. Harvey. Right. Must remember to
not
call him that.

“I, er, well, that I was late,” I said. “And had no work. Hence all this.”

“What’s your personal study?” Lucy asked, apparently satisfied with this explanation (which was slightly true, anyway).

“Erm.” Might as well use what I had. “It’s sort of a Dark Ages thing. Haven’t really narrowed it down yet.” Should I have? I really couldn’t remember that far back.

What was wrong with my brain? Was it the Guinness? I kept forgetting stuff. Maybe it was Luke, wiping out some brain cells with every orgasm. Maybe it was stress. Maybe I was getting too blonde.

I heaved my ‘folio onto a work bench and plonked myself down on a stool, which was nearly as high as the bench itself and guaranteed to give me backache. Oh well. Backache could take a number. Today and for the last three days I’d been wearing tops with sleeves long enough to cover the massive graze on my arm, which stung constantly in the background. I didn’t want to answer questions about it, and I really didn’t want anyone, like Doyle or Maretti, to see it and realise who I was.