‘Come on, Sophie, focus,’ said Josh impatiently, putting the sheet back in the drawer. ‘We’re not here to snoop, we’re here to find out about Nick.’
‘Well there’s nothing about him in this desk,’ said Sophie defiantly. She looked down at the empty space where a laptop might have sat. ‘Wouldn’t he have had a computer?’
Josh shook his head. ‘Yes, but most likely he took it to London.’
‘So why are we here, then?’
‘Because we’re not trying to find evidence, we’re trying to find traces of his life. The places he went, the people he spoke to.’
He looked around the apartment thoughtfully.
‘Just look around,’ he said. ‘There’s wine on the side in the kitchen, there are clothes hanging in the wardrobe; Nick didn’t leave in a hurry and he was clearly planning on coming back. So he’ll have left something – somewhere – which can point us in the right direction.’
Sophie walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up a lacquered photo frame.
‘Is this her?’ she said.
It was an old picture, in colour, but that oversaturated and slightly faded colour you saw in photographs from the sixties and seventies. The woman in the picture was undeniably beautiful. But more than that, proud and upright, somehow. Sophie didn’t need Josh to tell her this was the countess.
‘Hey,’ said Josh softly, taking the picture from her. ‘Make it easy on yourself, okay? It was just a transaction for him, believe me.’
‘Not exactly reassuring,’ she said sadly. ‘I’m sure he’d have said the same about me if you’d asked.’
They went back to work, Josh taking the bedroom, Sophie going through the bookshelves in the living room and the bathroom cabinets. She found nothing; in fact, beyond a razor sitting by the sink, there was little to show that Nick had ever been here.
‘Come through to the bedroom,’ called Josh. ‘I’ve got a job for you.’
He was standing at the open wardrobe going through Nick’s suits.
‘Can you sort through those?’ he said, nodding towards the bed. It was covered with receipts, business cards, random bits of paper Josh had found in the pockets of Nick’s clothes.
Sophie sat cross-legged on the bed and went through them. There were ticket stubs, restaurant bills, scribbled notes; she read each one out loud.
‘One from Monte Carlo, Avignon, Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Cannes . . .’ she read. ‘A load from Paris. Look, there’s even an invoice for a “diamond necklace, 2,400 euros”.’
‘Obviously trying to keep the countess sweet,’ said Josh, looking up.
‘Or someone else,’ said Sophie.
There was nothing specific, but Josh was right, it did begin to paint a picture of where Nick had been over the past few months, the sort of places he had been visiting.
‘So we know he’s been to the South of France a lot, and not just to visit the countess in Monaco,’ said Josh. ‘And we can tell he’s had money. A lot of Michelin stars in those restaurants, no McDonald’s Happy Meals for Nick.’
‘But isn’t that the way he always operated? I mean, he had the nicest clothes, the suite at the Riverton, he didn’t live in a tent.’
Josh shook his head.
‘It’s boom or bust in the con game. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down. Yes, he had to maintain the appearance of being a wealthy oil trader, that’s true. But according to these receipts, it looks like he actually was flush.’
‘So?’
‘So whatever he was doing was working. Maybe he didn’t need your money after all . . . Or I could be completely wrong, I really don’t know.’
He rubbed his eyes.
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’
‘I saw some wine in the wardrobe.’ She smiled.