Just like last time.
Sophie Granton had torn him to shreds all over again. The burning in the pit of his stomach intensified, and so did the grim expression on his drawn features. He would find Sophie—find her, shake her like a rag, and get answers!
Damn her—damn her for doing this to me all over again! Taking me to heaven—then tossing me into hell. Damn her!
The drive to the location he’d been given took longer than he’d expected. From the plush Kazandros offices in the City the car wended its way north-west—but not to any of the prosperous areas of London that he would once have associated with Sophie Granton. But then these days Sophie Granton was no longer a Holland Park princess. As the car headed into more downmarket streets, Nikos glanced out through the smoked-glass windows, frowning. This area was not just downmarket, it was derelict!
His mobile sounded again, and he snapped it open.
‘Yes?’ His voice was curt.
‘The subject is now walking along the street designated as her home address,’ came the voice at the other end of the connection.
‘Just keep her under surveillance,’ said Nikos, before relaying the information to his driver.
His frown darkened as he looked about him. Then he saw her. She was some way ahead of the car, trudging along the pavement. There was something about the way she was walking that stung in his memory. He’d seen her walking like that once before, her head bowed, only just managing to put one foot in front of another. It had been the night he’d set eyes on her trudging through the rain in her tawdry finery, escaping from Cosmo Dimistris.
Defeated. Exhausted. Broken.
For a split second emotion knifed in him like a blade in his heart, twisting it painfully. Then a more predominant emotion surged again.
‘Stop the car!’
The chauffeur did not need telling twice. He slowed to a halt and Nikos leapt from the car, striding along the pavement, past pedestrians, with a heavy, rapid tread. She was right ahead of him.
He clamped his hand on her shoulder and spun her round. She gave half a cry, her face suddenly shot with terror. Then she saw who it was.
She went white.
‘Nikos.’ Her voi
ce was a breath, her skin taut over her cheekbones.
‘Yes, Nikos!’ he snarled. ‘And now you can tell me what the hell you think you’re playing at!’
Her expression blanked—completely blanked. For a second Nikos felt fury shoot through him, and then he realised that she was not deliberately blanking him, not deigning to shut him out. She was blank because she couldn’t answer him. It was the same beaten, broken look she had had when he’d scooped her up, soaking wet, off the street.
The pressure of his hand on her shoulder slackened. He had to talk to her, get answers. But not here—not on the street.
‘Where do you live, Sophie?’ His eyes glanced around—surely she didn’t live here? It might not be officially a slum, but the whole place was seedy and malodorous, with litter in the street, and graffiti, and clearly vandalised buildings.
She pointed vaguely to a building a few metres away. The lower storey was a boarded-up shop, and at the side was a door, inset with chipped and peeling paint.
‘You live there?’ The shock in Nikos’s voice was open. What the hell is going on? Why is she reduced to this total dump?
Well, he would get answers to that, too. He would get all the answers he needed.
The car had drawn up alongside him now. It was drawing attention—it was not the kind of car that frequented an area like this. He crossed briefly to the driver and spoke to him, telling him to cruise around the block until he was called back. The car glided off, and Nikos turned his attention to Sophie. His hand was still on her shoulder.
He thought he could feel her trembling.
He walked her to the door she’d indicated, and waited while she fumblingly got out the keys and opened it. Inside, a smell of dirt, decay and stale urine hit him. There was no hallway, just a flight of stairs going straight up. At the top were several doors.
‘This one,’ said Sophie in a low voice, and opened it.
There was a single room beyond, and as he stepped inside Nikos realised that whatever had happened to Sophie Granton since he had severed all contact four years ago it had not been good. The room was some kind of bedsit, with half the space occupied by a narrow bed, and opposite, in an alcove flanked by a built-in cupboard, a sink, with a small fridge to one side, topped by a miniature cooker sporting a pair of cooking rings on which were stacked two saucepans. A small kettle was on the draining board, plugged into a loose socket on the wall. The floor covering was cracked vinyl, with a tiny rug beside the bed, and the curtains were faded around the window, which looked down into a cramped yard at the back of the house. The sole virtue of the room was that it was clean, tidy, and smelled of disinfectant.
‘You live here—’