I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

Chalker you get to recognise quality audio equipment). It was just after ten.
    Which gave me a couple of hours to look for a spare gun, figure out how to use it, get my bearings and—somehow—get home.
    I know, I know. How stupid was I? There were so many things wrong with that plan. But I was on severe painkillers, in some kind of shock, tired and hurt and in a very confused state about Luke, and I really had to go and check that Ted and the flat were okay.
    I was so glad Tammy was at my parents’ house. When this was all over, she was getting a whole tin of tuna to herself. No, stuff that, a whole actual tuna.
    And then I caught myself. This might never be over. I had to get used to the fact that Tammy was never going to be safe. That people might try to kill me all the time. And I had to get used to the fact that I might never figure out who they were.
    Too fuzzy to try and think of anything sensible about who it might have been, I started looking around the living room. The bedroom I’d searched quite comprehensively when I was looking for clothes. I found Top Gear magazines, ski goggles, condoms and a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo (in English, thank God—I don’t think I could have coped if he was smart enough to read it in French) by his bed, but no gun and no bullets. He had to keep that box of .40 Smith & Wesson rounds somewhere.
    He had CDs and DVDs and videos in oak furniture by the TV and under the coffee table. He had books in large quantity and great variety on shelves that covered the wall by the bedroom. He had fairly decent taste—I mean, there had to be some horribly embarrassing Christmas singles or self-help books somewhere, but he’d hidden them well. There were skis and a bike and walking boots and what looked like diving equipment in a large walk-in cupboard by the kitchen, but no bullets.
    And then I saw it, almost hidden in the panelling of the wall behind the big TV. A secret cupboard. I’d found some keys in the kitchen—not very well hidden, Luke—and one of them fit.
    Hey presto, who da man?
    I da man .
    Well, you know.
    I opened the cupboard, almost afraid of what I’d find, and stared for quite a while at the things I saw. An ancient, scruffy teddy bear, shoe boxes full of photos, an RAF cap, and lots and lots of guns.
    Hello.
    I felt like I’d opened the Pandora’s box of Luke’s personality. I itched to look through the photos, but after one or two I realised they weren’t going to mean anything to me. Family, maybe. Friends. Comrades, even. All strangers. Although there were a few of Luke in RAF uniform, looking completely one hundred percent edible, that I thought I might like copies of. And one, very old and rather faded, of a man and woman with seventies hair. She was sitting up in bed, holding a tiny baby, and he was beaming like the top of his head was going to fall off. She was gorgeous, blonde model good looks, and he was the spit of Luke, with darker hair.
    His parents. Tears pricked my eyes, and I blamed the medication for my unstable emotional state. They looked so proud with their baby. Was it him, or did he have a brother or sister? I couldn’t tell. There were no more photos of anyone with a baby, although there were a few of a very cute little blond boy messing with paddling pools and a black Labrador. Damn Luke, he’d been irresistible even then.
    The family photos stopped when the little boy was about five or six. No more pictures of his parents—not even a graduation photo. Surely being in the RAF involved some sort of graduation, ceremony—something?
    I frowned, and carefully put the photos back in their box, in the order I’d found them, and turned my attention to the other things in the cupboard. A few trophies and badges, all rather dusty. Hmm, a military medal, although I didn’t know what it was for or even if it was Luke’s. It might have been his dad’s or something.
    The RAF cap with its little silver wings was cool. The teddy bear was downright adorable. The guns…
    Oh, baby. The guns.
    The thing was, I had no idea what ammo went with what piece. There were boxes and boxes of bullets, all labelled, but the labels meant nothing to me. What did .40 Smith & Wesson mean, anyway?
    Eventually I opened up the magazine of a revolver and found five little bullets nestling in place. The sixth, a dredged-up memory told me, was a safety chamber.
    I found a shoulder holster and eventually figured out how to strap myself into it (I was on