I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)
tremble) and sawed off the dangling bracelet from Luke’s handcuffs. I was stuck with the other one for now, but maybe I could pretend it was a new line in jewellery.
The locksmith turned up, frowning. “I already came out here once today,” he said.
“Yes. Erm. Well, you see, my friend thought it would be great fun to get the locks changed on my flat. So I couldn’t get in.”
“So you shot the lock off? You’ve been watching too many American cop shows.”
“Can you repair it?”
“You’ll probably need a new door.”
“If I get a new door can you fit a damn lock?”
He appeared taken aback by this. “Well, yes, but—”
“But?”
“I can’t wait here while you go—”
“Yes,” I said, “you can. And you will. Because I still have the gun that made that hole and I’ve been having a really bad couple of days. So either you sit here and wait while I fetch a new door, or—”
He held up a hand. “I’ll wait! Only fifteen minutes to get to Homebase, anyway,” he added with a weak smile.
I was glad he’d interrupted, because I had a feeling if I’d finished that sentence, I might have called the police on me.
“Make yourself at home,” I mumbled, and rushed out to Ted. Lovely, solid, dependable Ted.
When I got to Homebase, I realised that there were a million different kinds of door and a million different sizes. Swearing, I called my home number and snarled at the answer phone until the locksmith picked up and told me what size I’d need.
I grabbed a solid wood door and commandeered an assistant to take it to the check-out and put it in my car. This spy stuff was costing me a fortune.
When I got back the locksmith was watching Sky News, but he hurriedly leapt to his feet and started to fit my new door.
“What happened to your floor?” he asked.
“What? Oh, firebomb,” I said, glancing at the TV and then double-taking. They were showing the Ace desks at Stansted. Ooh, Sven looking hot. I turned the volume up.
“…a massive dip in confidence for this airline, which has been steadily losing business since November. Passenger numbers are down and many people are trying to cancel their flights. But Ace’s policy, like that of most low-cost airlines, is not to offer refunds, which is further angering many worried passengers.”
I stared. What the hell had happened?
“You want the handle on th—” the locksmith began, and I waved a hand for him to shut up.
Then the TV started showing pictures of plane wreckage. Numbers scrolled across the screen—missing, injured, trapped. Dead. Times and places. Weeping relatives. Cardboardy executives.
Ace flight 128 to Glasgow had crashed in North Yorkshire, destroying a primary school and instantly killing seventy-eight children, five teachers, two pilots, three crew, and fifty-five passengers.
I watched it scroll across my TV. A hundred and forty-three people are dead, and it’s all your fault, Sophie Green.
“You got a letter box?” the locksmith called out, and I marched into the bedroom, retrieved the revolver and aimed it at him.
“Shut the fuck up,” I said. “This is important.”
I tried to digest the details but I couldn’t take it all in. Flight recorders, safety checks, radio transmissions. There were half a dozen survivors, all in ICU. I was finding it hard to breathe.
Eventually I managed to pick up my mobile, one hand still aiming the gun somewhere in the vicinity of the door, and dialled Luke.
“Have you seen the news?”
“Sophie?”
“ Have you seen the news? ”
“What? No, I’ve been—”
“Switch on the TV, or a radio or something. Go online.”
“What’s happened?”
I told him.
“Shit,” Luke whispered. “Seriously?”
“Yes, Luke, seriously. A hundred and forty-three people.”
“Jesus.”
“I know.”
Both of us were silent for a bit. Then Luke asked, “What the hell is that noise?”
The locksmith was drilling. Luke thought I was still at his place.
“I don't know,” I said sweetly, “if I look out of the window I’ll set off the lasers.”
“Sophie—”
“It’s okay. I’m all right. But, Luke, this crash. Don’t you think it’s suspicious?”
“You think Wright’s desperate enough to make a plane crash? You think he’s bright enough?”
“I think Wright is being manipulated,” I said. “I think he has someone very nasty in partnership.”
“Your friend Harvey?”
“Why do you think it’s Harvey?”
“He’s been wherever Wright’s
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