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

Ace rarely cancelled flights but it had happened a few times. There were ATC strikes and delays. Little things, like an increase in the number of credit card payments that hadn’t gone through. The wrong flight booked by mistake. Passenger numbers gradually easing off. Last week’s Titan plane for Edinburgh, because ours was off tech.
    And it had all been happening since last November.
    I downloaded the interview and went back to Google. This time I searched for James Harvard. I got nothing—or rather, I got a lot of irrelevance. I tried James+Harvard+David+Wright. Still nothing.
    I stared moodily at the computer screen, but that didn’t help, either.
    I was halfway through looking up next week’s Buffy when my mobile rang. Not my Nokia, but my little old Siemens. I didn’t recognise the number.
    “Hello?”
    “Sophie?”
    The voice was familiar. “Yes?” I said doubtfully, trying to place it.
    “It’s Sven. From Ace?”
    Oh, yes, and there’s me thinking you’re the other Sven I know.
    “Sven! How—how did you get this number?”
    “From Angel. She said you’ve been ill.”
    “Erm, yes. Flu, or something.”
    “Are you all right?”
    Still the same grave tone of voice. “I’m better. Still not quite right,” I added hastily, in case I was expected to go back to work, “but getting better.”
    “I was thinking if you’re well enough maybe I could come and see you?”
    Jesus.
    It never rains but it pours.
    Sven? Sexy Sven? You know, with everything that had been going on I’d hardly even thought of him. And I used to, all the time, my idle brain bringing up an image of his Caribbean blue eyes or his white-toothed smile.
    My eyes travelled around the living room. There were videos all over the floor, plates and glasses piled up in the sink, the hole in the floorboards…
    “I tell you what,” I said, staring at the monitor which was starting to blur, “I think it’d do me good to get out for a while. Why don’t I meet you somewhere?”
    We arranged for Funky Joe’s in town in half an hour. I could get the train in and not worry about drinking and driving.
    Oh, though. What about my one a day? What about emergencies? What about my painkillers? I might pass out.
    So I’d not have much to drink. Just one unit. I’d tell Sven the truth. I’m on painkillers.
    Well, it’s part of the truth.
    I started to get dressed in something pretty, but then I remembered about my bruises and scratches and realised with a sinking heart that I’d have to cover up. I found a flimsy little cardigan in the back of my wardrobe and teamed it up with jeans and a strappy top. At least my hair was clean and being reasonably well behaved. And I could wear lipstick, if not eye make-up, because the bruise on my temple had broken to a cut and it hurt to touch that side of my face too much.
    I locked up with my new keys, set bits of tape on the door, and drove into town.
    Funky Joe’s was an American bar and pretty much the only decent place to drink in town. Mostly it was full of airport workers who went in at odd hours and paid no attention to weekday protocols. I spied a few people I knew on my way in. It was surprisingly full.
    And then I heard a burst of sound, and realised why. Sunday was Live Band Nite. And this Sunday, Chalker’s band was playing.
    I stood for a while, trying to remember if my parents were supposed to be coming to the gig. I didn’t think so, but then you never knew. I saw more and more people I knew, school friends, people who lived in the village, other mates of the band. The same people I saw at every gig. Plus airport people. The place was packed with people who knew me.
    And I had a massive bruise on my face. And one handcuffed wrist.
    Marvellous.
    I saw Sven by the bar, getting chatted up by the waitress, and stood for a while, taking in the beauty of the scene. This handsome man, glowing and gleaming like a golden god (can I alliterate, or what?) was waiting for me. Had asked me out.
    He saw me and waved. “Sophie!” he cried over the sound of the music. “Are you all right?”
    “I’m okay,” I said.
    He touched my face and I shied away, wincing. “What happened?”
    “Oh, I, er, I walked into a door. The flu. It made me dizzy.”
    He nodded sympathetically and handed me a pint of lager. I hate lager, but since the last time we all came out for a drink and I switched from halves of cider to pints, because it took so long to get served, I’ve been known as the Girl Who