Perfect Strangers

‘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.’