Intimate Strangers Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Susan Lewis

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Investigative journalist, Laurie Forbes, is planning her wedding to Elliot Russell, when she receives a tip-off that a group of illegally smuggled women is being held somewhere in the East End of London. During her search unexpected and devastating events begin throwing her own life into chaos, so fellow journalist, Sherry MacElvoy steps in to help. Taking on undercover roles to get to the heart of the ruthless gang of human-traffickers, neither reporter can even begin to imagine what dangers they are about to face.

  Neela is one of the helpless Indian girls being held in captivity. Her fear is not only for herself, but her six-year-old niece, Shaila. A disfiguring birthmark has so far saved Neela from the abuse, but she knows it is only a matter of time before she is sent for – and worse, before Shaila is taken. Her desperate bids to seek outside help are constantly thwarted, until finally she, and the women with her, agree there is only one way out …

  About the Author

  Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-seven novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day, a moving memoir of her childhood in Bristol. She lives in Gloucestershire. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com

  Also by Susan Lewis

  A Class Apart

  Dance While You Can

  Stolen Beginnings

  Darkest Longings

  Obsession

  Vengeance

  Summer Madness

  Last Resort

  Wildfire

  Chasing Dreams

  Taking Chances

  Cruel Venus

  Strange Allure

  Silent Truths

  Wicked Beauty

  The Hornbeam Tree

  The Mill House

  A French Affair

  Missing

  Out of the Shadows

  Lost Innocence

  Forgotten

  The Choice

  Stolen

  No Turning Back

  Just One More Day, A Memoir

  To Mum and Dad

  Acknowledgements

  An enormous thank you to Pallavi Sohonie for guiding and inspiring me through the Indian scenes, the characters and their plight. Rarely has anyone been so helpful or insightful. Thank you, Pallavi, thank you.

  Once again I thank my friends Andrew Solum and Stephen Kelly for their generous hospitality while I was researching the Docklands. Also Brian and Valerie Sidaway for all the help they gave me on the island of Hydra. And I’d like to thank Sarah Shelley for introducing me to Cinnabar Wharf – a great location.

  Love and thanks to my dear friend Chip Mitchell for the title, Intimate Strangers. And more love and thanks to Gene Franklin Smith, for unfailing support, friendship and advice, not just for this book, but for them all.

  Chapter One

  SOME SAID THERE was no such thing as coincidence, but even when viewed in the light of all that was about to happen, Sherry MacElvoy could find no other way of explaining it. A wedding invitation and a suicide note turning up on the same day. Neither sender knew the other, so if there was a hidden message in the timing, or even in the bizarre extremes of subject, it certainly wasn’t coming from them.

  It was the middle of the afternoon and Sherry, to whom both letters were addressed, had just popped downstairs to stretch her legs and pick up her mail. After a brief chat with Bob, the porter-cum-security guard, who was trying with small success to look more important than bored, she avoided the lift again and started back up the two flights of stairs to her river-view flat. As she reached the second landing, she tore open the large white envelope addressed in artful black script. The invitation was embossed in platinum and every bit as elegant as she might have expected.

  Melinda and Edward Forbes

  are happy to invite

  Miss Sheralyn MacElvoy

  to celebrate the wedding of

  their daughter

  Laurie Jane Forbes

  to

  Elliot Francis Russell

  at

  St John the Baptist Parish Church

  Tremmington, Nr Windsor

  on

  Saturday 12 th August

  at

  4.30 p.m.

  Reception to follow

  at

  The Gables House

  Tremmington

  She read it through, then closing the front door she returned to her desk, which was in front of the high counter that formed a bar between the neat, well-equipped kitchen and spacious sitting room. As she sat down she binned the small blue airmail letter, written in an all-too familiar hand, as though it were of no more importance than the accompanying bundle of junk mail. Today, the mystery and synchronicity of both turning up in the same delivery failed to make its mark. That would only come later.

  Going back to her computer Sherry finished the article she was writing for a new teen magazine, and after emailing it to the editor, she picked up the wedding invitation again and wondered what the emotions inside her were really saying, for they didn’t feel readily identifiable.

  Tilting her head out of the rogue ray of sunlight that was falling through the window, Sherry let her gaze drift from the card and felt the pleasure of receiving it stealing quietly through her. She hadn’t known Laurie for more than a few months, so it was quite an honour to be a part of the big day, even though Laurie had already told her she would be. Almost as soon as they’d been introduced, by the flamboyant and delightful Rhona, Laurie’s best friend, and Sherry’s next-door neighbour, Sherry had sensed a kind of connection between them that Laurie herself had actually given voice to, just a few weeks ago. They didn’t see each other often, Laurie was always so busy, but whenever they did get together it felt as though they’d known each other for years.

  Returning her eyes to the card she allowed them to focus, then defocus, first on Laurie’s name, then on Elliot’s. It was easy to picture them, vibrant, ambitious and unstoppably successful in their exclusive world of investigative reporting. Laurie was blonde and feminine, with intensely intelligent eyes and a wonderfully infectious laugh, while Elliot was tall, dour, impatient, his dark eyes lancing their subject in a way that could reduce even the most powerful to nervous incompetence – and frequently did. He wasn’t an easy man, nor, unlike Laurie, was he blessed with any obvious charm or good looks, but professionally he stood head and shoulders above almost anyone else in the field.

  Resting her head on one hand, Sherry slid her fingers into the crinkly mass of her dark bobbed hair. Thanks to the girlishness of a small, upturned nose and the shrewdly playful light of forget-me-not eyes, her large, almost sloppily arranged mouth was an attractive imperfection. The freshness of her pale skin and crimson-smudged cheeks was accentuated by the cool white
of her smile. She was neither tall, nor exquisitely shaped, though her breasts were delectably full and her waist quite tight. Her hips were undeniably round, which might not have mattered so much had her legs been just a few inches longer. In a couple of months she would be thirty-one – thirty-one and still as single as her first bed.

  How fortunate Laurie was, she reflected. Not only did she have her own TV documentary programme, but she had managed to find someone like Elliot, who inspired in Sherry a deep-rooted sense of what a man should be, supportive, respectful, attentive, powerful and loving. When thinking of him she slipped with ease into her uniquely private game of comparisons, where she saw him, in a musical sense, as Wagnerian, full of passion, mystery and high drama. The rugged planes of an unknown African land also came to mind, with the uncompromising angles of modern structures and cubist art. His colours were darkly purple and blue and grey. He was the sun around which his own world turned; the storm that wreaked havoc on abusers of power and the masters of crime.

  And Laurie? How did she see Laurie? That was easy too, for Laurie was morning sunshine streaming through trees; birds singing at the start of spring. She was a Puccini aria; a crisp white wine on a hot summer’s day. If she were a city she’d be Paris. As a flower she’d be a stargazer lily, elegant and fragrant, and leaving a mark on anyone who touched her.

  Sherry hadn’t often come across two people who seemed in such contrast to each other, yet who were in fact so right for each other. It was, she had to confess, how she’d once felt about her and Nick. In their case she’d turned out to be wrong. She wasn’t this time though, for no-one could ever mistake how much Laurie and Elliot loved each other. Though they both fascinated her, it was Elliot’s type of success Sherry coveted more, and even dared, on occasion, to dream of achieving, for she was much more interested in the lengthy and often dangerous undercover investigations he and his skilled team of researchers undertook than she was in the flashy TV fame that Laurie enjoyed and handled so well. On a few occasions Laurie had invited Sherry to join the programme that she and her partner Rose produced, but Sherry had always shied away. Elliot’s covert operations held much more appeal. She’d actually visited his offices, just along the river in Canary Wharf, with Laurie a couple of times, but she hadn’t yet summoned the nerve to admit how interested she was in joining the team – which was just as well, for considering the kind of journalism she was involved in now, they’d probably laugh.

  Sighing, as much with frustration as with fatigue, she propped the invitation against a small stack of filing trays, and was about to go and pour herself another coffee when the telephone rang.

  ‘Sherry Mac,’ she answered.

  ‘He called!’ the voice at the other end announced. ‘Last night, about ten o’clock. You’re amazing. How do you always get these things right?’ It was Anita Gruber, a successful psychotherapist and good friend, though not in that order. It was impossible not to warm to Anita, mainly because she was so disarmingly honest about her own faults, and so shockingly inept when it came to navigating her way through love’s cruel tricks and extremely bad jokes. There was a certain comfort, Sherry often thought, in knowing that someone who got it so right for others could still be human enough to get it so wrong for herself. And Anita could be quite spectacular when it came to getting it wrong.

  ‘So what did he say?’ Sherry asked, dismayed by the envy stirring inside her, for it was utterly misplaced in this context, since she had zero desire to be involved with a man less than half her age, which was no bad thing in her case as it would be illegal. In Anita’s it was just plain weird, for she was an attractive, intelligent woman of forty-two, and the boy who hadn’t yet got the key to the door was a silver-spoon-fed jerk who emanated from the elite world of Chelsea Mondays-to-Fridays and Gloucestershire at the weekends. ‘No, don’t tell me, he needed his nappy changed,’ she quipped.

  ‘Funny,’ Anita responded drily. ‘Actually, he said he was missing me. Did you write his script, by any chance?’

  ‘I come up with better lines,’ Sherry countered.

  As Anita laughed, Sherry could easily picture her small dark features, as spritely as a Gluck sonata, alive with happiness and relief that the boy had finally picked up the phone to call her. Dear, kind-hearted Anita, she just got walked over every time. ‘So what was his excuse for not calling for two weeks?’ Sherry enquired.

  ‘He’s been to France and Germany, on a buying trip. Apparently he picked up some fantastic bargains …’

  ‘Spare me,’ Sherry interrupted. ‘If there’s one thing I’m less interested in than the boy himself, it’s his tawdry antiques.’

  Again, Anita only laughed. ‘That’s what I love about you, Sherry,’ she responded, ‘you always say what you think. If only more of us had your courage. Anyway, holding out, not calling at all, just as you advised, definitely worked. He’s absolutely dying to see me, he said, so do you think it’s OK if I just give in, and go?’

  ‘If you haven’t already said yes, you’re not the Anita I know.’

  More delighted laughter. ‘You know, he might be young and a bit lacking in finesse when it comes to seduction,’ Anita chirruped on, ‘but he’s something else between the sheets. So firm, and eager to learn. I’m just afraid, when he’s not with me, that he’s out there teaching his own generation.’

  ‘Do you care?’

  ‘Of course. I’m extremely fond of him. If it weren’t for the age thing I could get serious.’

  ‘There’s always an excuse,’ Sherry reminded her. ‘They’re either too young, too old, too married …’

  ‘I know, I know, and it’s all down to a fear of intimacy and a lack of self-worth. I’m the therapist, remember. I just wish I didn’t feel as though he’s managed to get the upper hand in our relationship so soon. He should be the one waiting for my calls, not the other way round.’

  ‘He would be, if you weren’t so keen to play the victim. You can’t stand it if anyone treats you well. I swear you actually get off on insults and abuse.’

  ‘Text-book MO for someone with no self-worth,’ Anita responded chirpily. ‘You see how well we both understand me? Anyway, as I said, you were absolutely right about when he’d call. It’s no wonder we all come to you with our relationship problems.’

  ‘Anita, any idiot knows that as soon as you stop calling a man he’ll get straight on the phone,’ Sherry retorted. ‘I just wish you’d take the rest of my advice and dump the creep, because I can’t imagine why you’d want to spend even another minute with someone who tells you outright that he doesn’t want to be seen in public with you because you’re too old.’

  ‘It was a joke. You had to be there,’ Anita informed her.

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘OK. OK. You’re right, I should have more willpower …’

  ‘Self-respect,’ Sherry corrected, and quickly added, ‘Oh sorry, there goes my other line, I’ll get back to you later.’

  As she disconnected Sherry felt her spirits take a sudden downturn, and deciding to let the other call go through to the machine she put the phone down and stared glumly at the window. Sometimes, she was thinking, it was hard to deal with how much time she spent alone, working here at her computer, most of her contact with the outside world coming only through email or by phone. She longed to get out there more, perhaps then she’d have a love life to talk about, even if it was as disastrous as Anita’s. She might even have a partner to take to Laurie and Elliot’s wedding. Just think how wonderful it would be if she were able to take Nick. But that was never going to happen, so she quickly closed off the thought, and tried not to mind that Laurie hadn’t even thought to ask if she’d like to bring someone along. Why would she? She’d never known Sherry to have a partner, didn’t even know Nick van Zant existed, at least not as a part of Sherry MacElvoy’s life. Anita did, but they’d never discussed him in any detail. What was the point? It was over now, and nothing was ever going to change that.

  Feeling slightly more in
need of a fortifying vodka than a mere mug of Nescaff, she got up and wandered into the kitchen. It was only four in the afternoon. Resorting to alcohol now, to buoy herself up, would be like offering an oar to a drowning man – it might keep him afloat for a while, but with no boat or land in sight, what was the point? A chocolate biscuit? There were, of course, none in the cupboard, she didn’t dare to allow such malicious hip-inflaters into her supermarket trolley, never mind into the flat. In fact, there was nothing in her cupboards at all to offer even a moment’s bodily delight, with the exception of a vibrator, and she definitely wasn’t in the mood for that.

  After making yet another coffee, she carried it into the sitting room where the week’s newspapers were strewn about the carpet and sofas, and a startlingly garish collection of paintings flashed around the walls. They were her own work, created several years ago, when she’d first come back to England. They’d been a release of sorts, a way of expressing what she’d felt inside when she’d been unable – or perhaps unwilling – to find the words. She wondered idly what Anita would make of their shapes and colours, were she to admit the works were hers, but even though Anita was a therapist, not an analyst, she still wasn’t about to invite any kind of probing into a part of her past that had been buried a long time ago. It might be like exhuming a body and finding it wasn’t actually dead – or worse, discovering it had now acquired an agenda.

  Remembering the blue airmail letter that had arrived with the invitation she grabbed up the waste basket and took it out into the hall to empty down the chute. She hadn’t even opened the envelope. There was no need; she knew who it was from, and more or less what it would say. She wished Aunt Jude would stop forwarding the letters, but since her aunt didn’t feel she had the right to discard someone else’s mail, it was left to Sherry to do it instead. She hadn’t read one in a long time, and had no intention of doing so ever again – unless the person sending them was finally prepared to tell the truth, and if that happened she’d find out soon enough, without reading the letters.

  During the next ten minutes her phone rang at least as many times, bringing a flurry of requests from editors who’d left vital column inches to the last minute and were now looking to the ever-resourceful Sherry Mac, or, more accurately, one of her many aliases, to fill the gap. She usually obliged, occasionally with an original concoction of her own, or just as often with an adroitly reworded piece of scuttlebutt that she’d accessed from the Web. The ethics of it didn’t bother her particularly – after all, journalists were writing the same stories day in day out, the world over, and invariably got their information from each other, which meant that someone, somewhere, was no doubt recycling her material too. The Chinese whispers element of it might be an interesting aspect to pursue were any of it related to serious news, but since none of it was, she preferred to focus what spare time she had on writing a follow-up novel to the one she’d had published – under a pseudonym – a year ago. The book hadn’t been a success, so she was still dependent on her journalistic skills for an income. Not that she was complaining, for under a variety of pseudonyms she was much in demand, since she was fast, witty, reliable and could turn her hand to almost anything. She even had her own columns in a couple of magazines – Dear Molly in one of the glossies, and Helena’s Beauty Tips in a teen weekly – as well as a regular commitment as a TV reviewer for one of the tabloids. Occasionally she even contributed to the arts pages of a Sunday supplement and an upmarket monthly, and in the past couple of years she’d become a much-sought-after holiday relief for three named columnists whose style she could easily mimic.