‘It was my business. I’m into watches now.’
‘So Maurice makes counterfeit goods?’
‘Never did anything like that himself, but he always knew a man who could.’
‘So let’s go see him,’ said Sophie, hoping to sound more enthusiastic than she felt.
‘No,’ said Josh, shaking his head. ‘I don’t want you going there and meeting these people. They’re dangerous.’
‘I’m not fifteen, Josh,’ she smiled. ‘And in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re already involved with dangerous people whether I like it or not.’
‘Sophie, you don’t understand . . .’
‘I do, Josh. Believe me, I do. People want to kill me, or get information from me or whatever the hell is going on. But sitting around waiting for them to sneak up behind me doesn’t seem like much of an option. So thanks for the warning, but I’d rather face this head on.’
He looked at her for a long moment.
‘I was wrong about you.’
‘Wrong?’
‘You can be a feisty little something.’
‘You’re a bad influence,’ she said, putting the Cellar number in her pocket.
‘But you like it.’ He grinned.
She felt her cheeks begin to prickle. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, turning away and not looking back at him until they were on the street.
22
Ruth didn’t think she would ever sleep again. Her eyes were wide open and her foot was constantly jiggling. That’s what happens when you drink five cups of coffee in quick succession, she thought. But she’d had to do something, she’d needed an alibi. She’d been sitting in the same scratchy armchair in the nondescript lobby – dusty potted palms, broken vending machine – of the Horizon Hotel in Paddington for two hours, trying to look inconspicuous, which wasn’t easy. It wasn’t the sort of hotel where you’d linger in the foyer admiring the architecture.
Still, despite a few odd looks from the duty manager, no one had asked her why she was sitting there in the one chair that put her in eavesdropping distance of both the front desk and the concierge. And Ruth had finally been rewarded for her patience. A little after three o’clock, an attractive woman carrying a small suitcase announced herself as Barbara Beddingfield, superior room for one.
Ruth had swivelled slightly to take a good look at Nick’s mother. Although she was at least sixty, she looked good. The ash-blond hair piled up on top of her head, with the stray wisps falling carelessly over her face, gave her a sexy, bohemian air. Her jeans were fitted and her dark blue peasant blouse was something that Ruth would quite happily have had in her own wardrobe. It was the off-duty look of someone two decades younger, but she had that quiet confidence of an attractive woman who had once been truly beautiful.
You can see where lover boy got it from, thought Ruth as Mrs Beddingfield wheeled her case into the lift.
Ruth counted to a hundred, her caffeine-wired foot still tapping away impatiently. She desperately wanted to follow the woman, but she had to give her a little time to settle in. Who wanted a journalist knocking on the door the moment you arrived in the country? Barbara could well bolt, and Ruth couldn’t risk losing this interview, which could well make all the difference to a story that was frankly Swiss cheese at the moment. If she was honest with herself, Ruth knew she had nothing she could take to Jim Keane, let alone Isaac Grey just yet. An American businessman had been killed in a posh hotel, the girlfriend had been burgled then shot at . . . and that was about it. The Michael Asner angle was intriguing – she had asked Chuck Dean in the office to research Asner’s connection with Peter Ellis in more depth – but right now this was just a short news item, not the big splash that Isaac was after. Still, there it was in her head, her dad whispering, ‘Instinct, Ruthie, instinct’ – and Ruth’s instinct was telling her that this was a good story, a big story, one worth pursuing, even if the facts so far did little to support her gut feeling.
She looked back towards the lift doors, weighing up her options, but then her mind was abruptly made up for her. Detective Inspector Ian Fox and DC Dan Davis walked into the lobby. Ruth froze, but they didn’t see her. Instead, they walked up to the front desk, showed their warrant cards and asked for Mrs Beddingfield’s room. Ruth held her breath until they were both in the lift, then let it out in one long stream. Damn. If Fox had turned to the left instead of the right for the lifts, he would literally have stumbled over her.
Of course they would come here to see Barbara Beddingfield instead of the other way around, she thought, mentally kicking herself. As a source of potential information, Nick’s mother would have been jumpy enough having to come to officially identify the body, so dragging her into the police station would certainly not have helped them in their enquiries. Besides, Paddington Green was only a short walk away for Fox and Davis.
Ruth quickly paid for her coffee and walked out into the sunshine; she couldn’t risk them seeing her on the way out. Crossing the road, she went into a burger joint and grabbed the cheapest thing on the illuminated menu, then took a plastic booth by the window, giving her a commanding view of the hotel’s entrance. Fox and Davis emerged thirty minutes later, heading back towards Paddington Green without so much as a glance in her direction. Ruth was just gathering her things when she saw Barbara Beddingfield walk out, turning in the opposite direction.
‘Shit,’ muttered Ruth, leaving her tray on the table and pushing out through the door as fast as she could. Her heart jumped as she searched the crowd. She couldn’t lose her now. Then she spotted her: already a few hundred yards ahead of her down Bayswater Road. Ruth had to trot to catch up, her heels click-clacking on the pavement. Panting and hot, she finally caught sight of Nick’s mother as she entered Patisserie Valerie behind Selfridges. Ruth didn’t pause this time: she followed her straight in. The café was packed, full of chattering tourists and mothers with pushchairs. Barbara sat at a table for two by the window, and Ruth walked over.
‘You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?’
Barbara looked as if she minded a great deal but was too polite to say so.
‘Sorry, but it’s the only seat left,’ said Ruth.
‘Hey, be my guest,’ said Barbara, her tanned face crinkling like leather as she smiled. Up close, her skin gave away her true age, dry and lined from years in the sun, with deep scoring around the mouth that told of a lifetime of heavy smoking.
‘You’re American?’ said Ruth as she ordered a mint tea from the waitress: no more caffeine today. ‘Are you on holiday?’