Perfect Strangers

‘A biker. Small-time hood, big-time meth dealer. This man shared a ten-by-ten cell with Michael Asner for months. You spend that much time together, you’re going to get close. If you want to find out who Benedict Grear is, maybe Ty got to hear about him.’

‘How do we speak to an inmate?’ asked Sophie.

‘Ty was released six weeks ago.’

‘Do you have contact details for him?’

Sayer sighed and flipped her Rolodex.

‘He’s living in Fort Lauderdale. I warn you, though, he’s intimidating. Not a nice man.’

She scribbled down the details and held out the note. As Sophie reached for it, Sayer pulled it back, fluttering in mid-air.

‘If you find out anything, anything at all, you have to tell me,’ she said, holding Sophie’s gaze. ‘That’s the deal, Ms Ellis.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Sophie, feeling the top of her neck begin to flush.

‘This is serious, Sophie. The SEC, the FBI – they don’t fuck around. And if they find out you’ve been withholding information from a major fraud inquiry, believe me, they will find a way to hurt you.’

37

Robert ‘Squirrel’ Sykes, society editor of Class magazine, looked at Ruth with a sly smile.

‘So tell me again,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘You’re there in the hallway, your hair perfectly back-lit by the bathroom cabinet, and the sexy policeman says in a deep voice, “My pleasure”? Why didn’t you just grab him and take him right there?’

Ruth slapped his arm.

‘I only split up with David three days ago. What sort of girl do you take me for?’

‘The sort who should be gagging for a bit of saucy rebound sex, that’s who.’

She flipped her napkin at him and tried not to smile. Ostensibly, her Saturday afternoon lunch with Robbie at Scott’s was to pick his brains about Lana Goddard-Price, but they’d spent the first twenty minutes huddled at their corner table talking about Fox, or ‘your dirty detective’ as Squirrel insisted on referring to him. The truth was, since their intimate night brainstorming over Chi

nese, Ruth hadn’t been able to get him out of her head, and in a way that wasn’t a million miles from what Robert was suggesting.

Fox was infuriatingly bullish and patronising and he clearly didn’t trust her enough to give her the information she needed, although she had to admit she reciprocated on that score. But there was something aloof and elusive about him that was as sexy as hell. However, the last thing she needed right now was any more inappropriate liaisons; the prospect of having to face poor Chuck Dean was embarrassing enough, and she and Fox had a potentially useful working relationship.

‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about my non-existent love life,’ said Ruth. ‘I’ve got a story to write, remember?’

‘Oh, I know and it sounds so exciting. Honestly, you’re wasted on the Trib. You should so come over to Class. You know Cate Balcon loves you.’

The idea of approaching Class’s glamorous editor had of course crossed Ruth’s mind more than once. Class was a respected stylish glossy and one of the few magazines left which actually ran in-depth features on crime, political intrigue and the back-stabbing antics of the upper classes. Plus it would be a joy to spend the day in the energetic slipstream of Robbie Sykes. But Ruth wasn’t quite ready to leave the cut-and-thrust deadline hell of newspapers, especially when the prospect of bureau chief was still on the table.

‘It’s flattering to be considered,’ she said, ‘but I’m gunning for a Pulitzer, which isn’t going to happen unless I finish this story.’

She smiled at the thought of American journalism’s highest accolade; the prize she had always dreamed of winning. Two friends from college now had them and she had been a more promising journalist than both of them. But so far she had never really got the killer break. Never had that right-place-at-the-right-time story. She knew she had not yet fulfilled her potential.

‘Well it’s your loss,’ said Robbie with mock affront. ‘You’re missing out on some fabulous parties.’

He poured her some more wine and looked around the restaurant with its chic twenties decor and crisp white tablecloths, the diners a mix of edgy media types and old money.

‘Although I could do with coming here more often,’ said Robbie. ‘Darling, this is a treat. I only hope I can earn it.’

‘So come on then, tell me what you know about Lana Goddard-Price.’

Since her visits to the gym and Lana’s house, Ruth had become convinced there was more to Mrs Goddard-Price than met the eye. She was particularly intrigued by Mike’s suggestion that Lana had somehow targeted Sophie. She wasn’t entirely sure how it would help her solve Nick Beddingfield’s murder, but she had been a journalist long enough to know that random leads often led you in interesting directions.

And who better to find out a little bit more about Lana Goddard-Price than Mr Social Intrigue himself, the Squirrel? Even if a quick glance at the wine list had told her that she’d be paying for it for months to come.