Perfect Strangers

‘Just what?’

She looked at Fox, hesitating. Ah, what the hell, she thought. She was feeling a little giddy from the red wine she’d drunk waiting for him. Plus if anyone would understand, it was him.

‘Look, I know this sounds mad and probably a little bit sad, but I don’t really have anything much in my life right now apart from this job.’

She blushed. Does he think I’m mental? Probably. Still, she ploughed on.

‘So when I get a story like this one, a story my gut’s telling me is something special, I can’t seem to leave it alone. I keep picking at it, pick, pick, pick. In fact, this morning I actually called in sick so I could sit at home drawing a big flow chart on my living room wall, trying to fit all the pieces of the story together.’

She thought it best not to tell him about poor Chuck Dean. She wasn’t that close to Ian Fox, yet. Besides, avoiding the office all day had given her the chance to brainstorm at home.

‘You think I’m a saddo,’ she added, looking up.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Fox. ‘But you’re only describing the average copper. Well, perhaps not the average copper, but there are plenty of us who eat, sleep and dream their cases.’

She looked down at his left hand for a wedding ring and he caught her.

‘Forty-three and never married,’ he smiled. ‘Beats being a divorced, alcoholic police cliché.’

He paused. ‘Do you want to show me?’

‘Show you what?’ she asked distractedly.

‘Your flow chart,’ said Fox.

She started to laugh nervously.

‘Listen, I’m not Dan Davis,’ he replied quickly. ‘You said you wanted to compare notes, so here’s your chance.’

‘Is that allowed?’ she teased, aware that she was being flirty.

‘I’m not offering to log you on to the police database, Ruth,’ said Fox with irritation.

Oh cra

p, she thought. He was offering to do exactly what I wanted and now I’ve scared him off.

Fox took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, long day,’ he said. ‘Look, quid pro quo here. You’ve told me about your life, here’s mine: being a detective really isn’t like it is on the telly. Whenever you see a cop drama, they have a murder or whatever and they spend weeks working on that one case. In real life, we’d have that case and a dozen others heaped on us all at once. And even if we don’t, we’ve got piles of paperwork or court appearances from stuff we worked on a year before, then there’s our superiors hassling us about targets and budgets . . .’ He gave a wry smile. ‘It’s like having a real job. So actually, it’d be nice to just focus on one thing.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘If the offer’s still on, of course.’

Ruth stood up.

‘I’ll get some bottles from the bar.’

As Ruth turned the key in the lock to her Islington apartment, she offered up a prayer of thanks. At least the flat was tidy. Well, tidy-ish. Given that she so rarely had visitors and only had herself to please, she had spent the past few years living in happy disarray: she had a place for everything, and that place was often on the floor or draped over a chair. But as she had so recently moved much of her stuff over to David’s, her little flat was unusually free of clutter. As long as Fox didn’t look in the kitchen, she might just get away with it.

‘Where shall I put these?’ He held up the bottles of beer they had bought at the pub.

‘I’ll take them,’ said Ruth. ‘Why don’t you go into the living room, make yourself at home.’

She winced. Did that sound like a come-on? Was it a come-on? The truth was the three large glasses of wine she’d consumed on top of the alcohol still in her system from the previous night’s binge had made her a little tipsy. She slipped into the bathroom and checked her make-up. It’s not a date, Ruth, she scolded herself. But a girl had to look her best at all times, didn’t she? There was no harm checking your hair wasn’t sticking up like a gonk, especially when you had an attractive police detective in the house.

Satisfied, she went back into the kitchen and poured some nachos into a bowl – ah, the domestic goddess – and took them through with the beer and her wine.

Fox was standing at the window looking down at the street.

‘Nice place, this, must have cost a packet.’

‘I wish,’ said Ruth. ‘It’s rented, but I still love it.’