Perfect Strangers

Ruth leant forward, fascinated: it was grainy and washed-out, but it was film of the hotel’s lobby, shot from above the main door. And according to the time code in one corner, it was from the morning of the murder.

‘How the hell did you get this?’

‘Money,’ said Chuck matter-of-factly.

‘But isn’t this in police evidence?’

Chuck shook his head.

‘No, that’s the beauty of modern technology – no tapes. The hotel just made a copy for the police.’

‘This is brilliant,’ said Ruth, feeling a rush of excitement as she watched the scene.

‘Here,’ said Chuck finally, touching the screen. ‘This is Sophie Ellis leaving the hotel.’

They watched as the girl, evidently flustered, rushed through the lobby and out of sight. Chuck pointed to the time counter: 7:19. He let the film run on; there were a few people in hotel uniforms crossing back and forth and around a dozen people getting into and out of the lifts.

‘So do we see anyone going up to Nick’s room?’

Chuck pulled a face.

‘Nope, only people getting into the lift, and there’s no way to prove which floor they go to after that, let alone which room. Which is presumably why the police weren’t that interested in this.’ He froze the film at 7:32 and tapped the screen.

Ruth leant forward: it was too grainy to make much out, but it was a tall woman with long hair.

‘That isn’t . . .?’

‘Lana Goddard-Price?’ said Chuck. ‘It did cross my mind.’

He handed Ruth a folder. Inside were pictures cut from the party pages of glossy magazines: Lana Goddard-Price and her husband Simon at the David Cornish fund-raiser, Lana Goddard-Price attending the Cartier polo, Lana Goddard-Price laughs with designer Roman LeFey. It was impressive work considering she’d only given Chuck the brief twenty-four hours ago.

She held one of the pictures up to compare it with the image on the screen. It could be her. They both had dark wavy hair and a slim build, but she was facing the lift, away from the camera.

‘Dammit,’ said Ruth. ‘I wish we had a better view of her.’

‘Wait,’ said Chuck, fast-forwarding the footage until the time code read 7:59. ‘Watch the lifts.’

And there was the woman again, exiting the lift and hurrying through the lobby. She was wearing dark glasses and carrying a bag, but just as she was about to pass directly in front of the camera, a man in hotel uniform entered the building, blocking the shot. Ruth swore.

‘There’s no way Fox is going to arrest her on that evidence,’ she sighed. ‘We just can’t see her face well enough.’

‘Well don’t look at her face then,’ said Chuck.

‘What do you mean?’

He pulled out another file and spread some printouts on the desk.

‘These are stills from the footage you’ve just seen,’ he said. ‘I used some software to enlarge the images.’

Ruth looked: they were a little clearer, but they still had the same problem – the woman was facing away from the camera.

‘All right, forget her face and look at her handbag.’

In the enlarged version, Ruth could see the bag was dark, textured, possibly woven.

‘Sorry, I can’t really enhance the image,’ said Chuck. ‘But it’s obvious enough that it’s a Nicholas Diaz bag, right?’

‘How do you know that?’ frowned Ruth, secretly impressed. Ruth knew nothing about designer labels and carried all her stuff around in a large Muji tote bag.