Perfect Strangers (17 page)

Tap-tap-tap! The knocking was more insistent now, and she could hear a muffled voice through the window.

‘Ruth Boden, are you in there? It’s Detective Inspector Fox.’

Fox?
Inspector
Fox?

‘Hallelujah,’ she muttered, and uncurled her body, throwing off the coat. Everything ached, one leg had pins and needles, yet somehow she managed to reach out to unlock the door.

‘What on
earth
are you doing?’ said a gruff voice.

‘Hiding, what does it look like?’ she said grumpily as she clambered out of the car. ‘What took you? I’ve been in there hours.’

She looked up to see amused eyes – and her heart sank. She recognised the face, the sharp suit instantly. It was one of the detectives who had been at the Riverton. Standing on the pavement, she kicked out her legs, one at a time, trying to get the feeling back.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said finally.

‘Dan Davis called me as soon as you rang him. I was on my way to Battersea and came straight here.’

He paused.

‘So do you want to tell me how you’ve come to be hiding in the footwell of your car?’

She looked up at him.

‘How about I tell you over a beer?’ she said. ‘I’ve been under that coat for almost an hour, and if I don’t get some liquid down my throat, I think I might just melt here on the sidewalk.’

‘Okay. Give me one minute,’ he said, before walking to a squad car that had pulled up behind Ruth’s Fiesta. He had a word with a uniformed officer before beckoning Ruth into the passenger seat of his own vehicle.

Ruth suggested the Cross Keys, a popular pub just behind Cheyne Walk, and on the way filled him in on her evening: her visit to Sophie Ellis’s Battersea apartment and how she had followed her to this lonely stretch of the Thames.

‘I was just doing my job,’ she said, glancing across at Fox’s face, unsmiling in the driver’s seat.

‘How do you know this Sophie Ellis is connected to the Riverton murder?’ he said, indicating left off the main road.

‘I’m a reporter,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Anyway, I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you were going over to Battersea. To see her – she told me she’d had her flat broken into.’

Fox said nothing as he pulled into a parking space.

‘Let’s just get a drink.’

The pub was busy, full of loud Chelsea twenty-somethings. DI Ian Fox didn’t look at all comfortable, so she sent him to the bar while she found a chesterfield sofa in the corner.

She watched him weave back through the crowds, holding aloft two overflowing pint pots. He was scrupulous in not letting the amber liquid spill on to his suit.

‘So are you going to tell me what you told Dan?’ Fox handed her a glass of lager, then rubbed his wet fingers with a tissue. ‘You can start with why you were actually following Miss Ellis to the wharf. I assume that’s what happened. You were tailing her, right?’

He had a gruffness that made Ruth feel reprimanded.

‘I bumped into her outside her house,’ she replied with mock haughtiness. She watched Fox nod cynically. ‘She said she was going to meet someone, so as a reporter, interested in the same thing as you are – who killed Nick Beddingfield – I followed her.’

‘I get the feeling you’re the sort of writer who’s prepared to go above and beyond in the name of a story. Like sneaking into hotel rooms that happen to be a crime scene, for example?’

‘Ah,’ said Ruth, feeling her cheeks flush a little. ‘So you recognised me.’

Fox waved a hand as if it was nothing, but it was hard to read his expression. He had dark, brooding features that easily looked cross or impatient. She shifted position to look at him more directly.

‘Sophie got a taxi from her apartment to the wharf. I parked about fifty metres from the jetty because I didn’t want her to see me,’ said Ruth, taking a sip of her beer. ‘I was still close enough to see her disappear into one of those houseboats, and I was debating whether to go follow her when a black SUV came and parked opposite the wharf.’

‘Was Sophie still in the houseboat?’

Ruth nodded. ‘She was in there maybe ten minutes. When she came out, she seemed angry about something. The next thing I know, two knuckleheads had got out of the car and were blocking her way.’

‘Could you hear what they were saying?’

She felt foam on her lip and wiped it off.

‘No, I was too far away. And I was glad of it too. When the black SUV arrived, I thought it was creepy. I locked my car doors and was ready to speed off at any second.’

‘But you stayed?’

‘As you said, Detective, I go above and beyond in the name of a story.’ She popped another piece of nicotine gum. ‘So tell me, is Sophie Ellis your prime suspect? Do you have any other leads? And what else do you know about the victim other than the “Nick Beddingfield, businessman” statement crap you gave out earlier today?’

Fox’s expression remained neutral.

‘That’s a lot of questions.’

She wasn’t sure if he was suppressing a smile or was actually patronising her.

‘I’m a journalist.’

‘And you know all the press need to know for the time being. Surely you’ve got enough information to file your story.’

‘I don’t want a story. I want
the
story,’ she said quietly. ‘So come on, quid pro quo. I’m telling you what happened at the wharf; you need to tell me something.’

For a moment he didn’t react.

‘Okay, get back to the wharf and I’ll tell you what you want to know.
Within reason
.’

She clasped her hands together and leant forward. ‘So this guy comes out of the houseboat and joins Sophie. Thirty-something, good-looking. He might have held her hand.’

‘You think it was another boyfriend?’ asked Fox.

‘Hard to say.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, when one of the meatheads swings for the boat guy, he kicks him, grabs Sophie and they run.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know, somewhere off to my right. I didn’t exactly have stalls seats. It was dark by then and I was watching most of it in the rear-view mirror.

Now she had his full attention.

‘So why did you phone Dan Davis?’

‘Because I heard a gunshot. You may think I’m some hardhearted hack, but I was worried about the girl. You’d rather I hadn’t called you?’

Fox rubbed his chin.

‘Sorry, I’ve been on shift since six thirty this morning and I’ve had to deal with a body somewhere in the middle. I’d rather be at home right now – no offence.’

Ruth smiled.

‘None taken, Inspector Charmer.’

Fox sat forward, a serious look on his face.

‘Look, Ruth, this is my case, and tired or not, I want to find out who killed Nick Beddingfield. So to answer your question, yes, right now Sophie Ellis is our main lead, and when you called Davis and said you’d seen her at the wharf and someone was shooting at her, I considered it useful.’

‘Fair enough, but the clock’s ticking, Detective. I need to go and write my story. Quid pro quo, remember?’

Fox looked irritated.

‘We are not partners, Miss Boden. I am a police officer and you are a journalist. I need information from you, which you are legally obliged to give me. There is no reciprocal arrangement.’

Ruth bristled, but she could tell Fox was not the sort of man who would respond well to a shouting match in a public place.
Come on, Ruth
, she thought to herself,
use your feminine wiles
.

‘You’re the boss.’ She had very little cleavage to thrust at him, but she gave him a slow, practised smile – one meant to flatter the male ego.

‘You must have a theory about it all. There was dark green glass on the floor which looked like it came from a champagne bottle. The wound on the head. On paper, it looks like a crime of passion.’

Fox paused and took a sip of his beer.

‘Her story about the cabbie checks out, so she was out of the room for about thirty minutes; that’s plenty of time for someone to come in and batter her boyfriend to death.’

‘Does that match up with time of death?’

Fox shook his head. ‘We’re talking half an hour, twenty minutes either way. Forensics aren’t miracle workers, they can only give a vague window. Then again, she could have shagged him, had some sort of row, whacked him and gone out to the cab, then come back and made a big dramatic show about finding the body.’

‘Does the glass have her fingerprints on it?’

‘Boden, I’ve told you enough.’

Ruth nodded and looked at him for a moment.

‘You don’t believe it’s her, I can tell,’ she said, lifting a determined finger into the air.

‘Because you know me so well,’ he said sarcastically.

Ruth hid her annoyance. Clearly Ian Fox was going to be a much tougher nut to crack than Dan Davis, who would tell her anything if she just smiled at him the right way.

‘All right then, who owns the houseboat?’

‘That won’t be hard to turn up,’ said Fox, glancing at her. ‘Even for you.’

‘Dealer, perhaps?’ she said, ignoring the insult. ‘Possible, I guess. Seems that Sophie Ellis was a bit of a party girl and she met Beddingfield at some fancy do. It’s not a stretch to think they both did drugs. Then again, if Mr Houseboat was her dealer, it might even account for the shooting. They could have been after him, nothing to do with the Riverton murder.’

Ruth traced a fingernail through the condensation on the outside of her glass, weighing it all up. Yes, Sophie Ellis had pictures of herself on the internet waving champagne glasses, but she still couldn’t see her as a cold-blooded killer – or some coked-up club hag for that matter. In her head, she could hear her dad again: ‘Instinct, Ruthie.’ And right now her instinct was telling her that Sophie was innocent, but she needed Fox if she was going to be able to prove it.

‘So what now, Inspector?’ she asked casually.

Fox finished his beer and put down the glass.

‘Well I’d better get back to the river. I’ve got two officers scouring the streets for Ellis. I take it you’re all right to get home yourself.’

‘No, I mean, what about us?’

‘Us?’ he replied, as if she was Glenn Close in
Fatal Attraction
.

Ruth was undeterred. ‘I think we can help each other, Fox. We both want to get a result on this, and if we work together . . .’

‘Nice try,’ he said, standing up.

Ruth sat forward, putting her hand on his arm.

‘Seriously, Fox, it makes sense. Nick Beddingfield is American, right? You know that makes things difficult for you. The cops across the pond don’t exactly have a reputation for being forthcoming with information to foreigners, do they? On the other hand, I work for an American newspaper – we can move things along for you.’

He looked at her for a moment, then sighed.

‘Okay, give me your card. Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow.’

She watched him walk out.

I hope you do
, she thought to herself.
I hope you do
.

17

The garage door squealed as Josh pushed it up. Sophie winced at the grinding metal-upon-metal sound. She blinked at the grey light of dawn and peered at the empty parking lot, half expecting to see the men in the Range Rover just waiting for them to walk into their trap. But the car park was empty: they were alone.

‘Come on, princess,’ said Josh, heading for the road. ‘It’s a long way to St Pancras.’

There really had been no option but to spend the night in the garage. At least they were hidden and out of the cold – and where else could they go anyway? The first Eurostar wouldn’t leave until five thirty at the earliest and they would have been too conspicuous on the streets, so Sophie had spent an uncomfortable night propped up between two plastic chairs, a pile of cellophane-covered coats serving as a blanket.

Josh had made a similar makeshift bed on some cardboard boxes and, if his steady breathing was anything to go by, had gone straight to sleep. Untroubled slumber was the mark of a clear conscience, wasn’t that what her dad used to say? Sophie wasn’t so sure about Josh. He could be a murderer for all she knew – he certainly wasn’t the legitimate businessman he had portrayed at the Chariot party. But then neither was Nick. No, Sophie still had little idea who Josh was or what his motivation was for helping her. She knew she should be grateful – he had saved her life after all – but even so, through those long sleepless hours she had spent shivering under rustling plastic, her tired, paranoid mind had jumped to every conclusion possible: Josh was a con man after her money just like Nick (but what money exactly?); Josh was in league with the Russians (but then why didn’t he just hand her over?). It had even occurred to her that he might be an undercover policeman, but what on earth for? To extract a confession that they hadn’t been able to get at the police station?

By the time Josh had stirred and they had stepped out into the industrial estate, Sophie had finally come to the inevitable conclusion that she simply had no choice but to follow his lead. The bitter truth was that she had no one else to turn to. The police had been hostile, suspicious in their line of questioning, her mother was in Copenhagen, and her friends? Francesca would have had a breakdown about the fake Louboutins alone.

Sophie glanced across at Josh as they walked through the dark estate, his wary eyes searching every corner, every doorway. In the end, it didn’t matter who he was or what he had done; right now Josh McCormack was her best chance of getting away from this nightmare and finding a little breathing space to decide what to do next.

As they turned a corner, she saw the black outline of the North Thames Gas Works framed against the lightening sky. They were still near the river, then. She shivered at the memory.

‘You okay?’ said Josh.

‘I’m not at all sure about this, Josh,’ she said hesitantly.

He stopped and turned to look at her.

‘Fine,’ he said, holding up a hand to indicate the empty road ahead of them. ‘Be my guest. You want to go home, off you go.’

‘I’m just not sure about Paris.’

‘You’re not sure about Paris?’ he snapped. ‘It’s not exactly the way I planned on spending the day either, but as I don’t fancy an early morning visit from the Russians, I think I’ll keep moving. Personally, I wouldn’t mind getting out of London for a couple of days, but if you want to stay, then be my guest.’