Forget Me Never

was no way in hell she would normally be up this early.
    ‘Reece?’ There was a steady chugging in the background. It was hard to make her out. ‘I’m about to—’
    ‘This train is for Kennington via Charing Cross,’ said an announcement in the background. Suddenly knowing what all this meant, I yelled, ‘Sophie, you—’
    And then the call cut out.

SOPHIE
    It was 7.25 when the tube pulled in at the station for Heathrow Terminals 1, 2 and 3, all the way out in southwest London. It was busier than I’d expected, but then there were lots of early flights. As I followed people with suitcases up the escalators I heard an announcement saying that the Piccadilly line was experiencing ‘severe delays’. I hurried along the travelators to the terminal, coming out into a large modern area with benches, a departure board and lots of people milling around. In front of us was Terminal 3 itself – a long glass-fronted building, yellow signs everywhere.
    I had no idea what my plan was. I’d never been less prepared for anything in my life. And I had to admit I was afraid. It felt like I didn’t know what I was doing any more. Maybe Reece was right and I was obsessed. When I’d left him last night I really had intended to go to the police. But what could I tell them? If I gave a witness account of what I’d seen in the car park, I would have to explain why I’d been there in the first place, and I didn’t care what Reece said – they’d think I was crazy and obsessed, and then Julie would get dragged in, probably my social worker too . . .
    But Reece! There’d been so much I’d wanted – planned – to say to him yesterday, but it hadn’t worked out.
    Stop it, I told myself. I was on my own now and I’d just have to deal with it. Maybe it was easier that way. I took the escalator to the second floor – the downstairs was just the check-in foyer, which presumably Aiden would have no need to use. I realized quickly that the place was nowhere near as big as I’d imagined. The map of Terminal 3 showed that there was only a Costa, a Pret a Manger and one restaurant, and no lounges. Hope surged through me. Aiden couldn’t be too hard to hunt down – if he was here . . .
    The building was L-shaped. I headed along the wing where Costa was, but it was only small and a glance told me he wasn’t there. Beginning to feel anxious, I hurried to Pret. What if I was wrong? He might be at another terminal, or even another airport, or, worse, this might be nothing to do with the formula.
    Pret was busy. Families, a big group that looked like a hen party – but there was also a man wearing a mac sitting by himself, a big umbrella propped against the table. He looked a little edgy – and like he was waiting for something. Maybe Aiden was late or had got cold feet . . .
    And then I saw Aiden – sitting at a table at the back, a coffee cup and a laptop in front of him. He looked an absolute wreck – unshaven, with dark circles below his eyes. I could tell from his body language that he was tense. Was that because he’d run Cherie down and she’d survived? Or because he was afraid someone would do the same to him?
    Sitting opposite him was a man I’d never seen before, casually dressed, sleeves rolled up. A backpack was on the floor beside him, a travel label hanging off it, and he also had a laptop out. He and Aiden looked like two random travellers simply sharing a table in a busy cafe – which no doubt was what they wanted people to think.
    The HJP contact! I thought. I wondered if I could get close enough to see what was going on. Pret wasn’t large – there was no real way I could hide, though I was wearing a top with a hood and I had sunglasses. Aiden and the man had chosen a table in a position that made it difficult for me to see their screens. The best bet seemed to be to get behind Aiden – if I craned my neck, I might be able to make out what he was doing.
    I entered, taking care to keep out of Aiden’s eyeline. Even from this distance I could see that he had a web page open. Praying he wouldn’t turn round, I moved closer, trying to look as though I was waiting for someone.
    Aiden’s browser showed a site I didn’t recognize. He wasn’t typing or scrolling – the flicker of the screen told me he was pressing refresh, over and over again. Why on earth . . . And then I realized what the site reminded me of. Internet banking. I’d seen Julie do it at home. The logo didn’t look like one of the