Perfect Strangers

She couldn’t help smiling. She was a journalist, so she was genetically predisposed to being nosy about the way people lived, but this had blown all her preconceptions about Fox out of the water. If she was honest, she had expected him to live in some scruffy apartment in Stockwell with a full sink and a clothes horse in the bath. But this, this had turned her image of the inspector completely on its head.

She walked over to examine a group of photographs tastefully framed on a nearby wall. Family photos, a couple of Fox in various energetic poses: skiing, sailing with a group of friends. In one he was running with a rugby ball, surrounded by the distinctive dark and light blue shirts of an Oxford–Cambridge Varsity match.

‘Oxford?’ she said, surprised.

‘I was sporty,’ he replied. ‘Of course, I’ve let all that slide now.’

‘But you were a rugby blue.’

‘Very observant for a journalist.’

Ruth slapped her forehead.

‘Fox – you’re a trust-fund babe! Oxford, this apartment? How did I miss it?’

‘My family aren’t filthy rich, if that’s what you mean,’ he said, embarrassed now. ‘The deposit for this place came from an inheritance, and yes, I went to Oxford. You think because I’ve got a northern accent I should be living in a bedsit? Looks can be deceiving.’

‘So you’re rich. You’re clever. In fact I bet you’re one of those fast-tracked inspectors. You know, I might have to start calling you Sherlock Holmes.’ She smiled, giving him a long, lingering look.

Ruth had never been materialistic. She preferred the company of the newsagent to most newspaper editors. But Fox had more layers than she had at first thought and she wouldn’t mind getting to unpeel them.

She lifted an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it. Fox observed her and laughed.

‘Well, I suppose I should be flattered that you feel so at home already.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Ruth. She realised she hadn’t eaten anything all day.

He went back to the fridge and pulled out a bag of fresh pasta.

‘Now this takes five minutes,’ he said, reading the label. ‘Do you think you can wait that long?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said, suddenly ravenous. She watched closely as Fox set to work, pulling out shiny pans and expensive-looking knives. He was ordered and meticulous, even when he was making pasta sauce: the onions were diced like a pro.

‘So what’s so urgent, Ruth?’ he asked as he added them to the pan. ‘You sounded pretty excited when you rang.’

Ruth hesitated, not sure how to play it. She didn’t want to come on too strong, yelling about how she had cracked the case, but then she desperately needed his help and he wasn’t going to do what she asked without proof.

She pushed her glass to one side and picked up her bag, pulling out a file.

‘Look at this,’ she said, taking out a print and putting it on the counter. ‘This is a still from CCTV footage of the Riverton lobby,’ she said, stabbing her finger against the photo. ‘This woman with the bag is getting into the lift at 7.32.

‘Now look at

these pictures of Lana Goddard-Price. Same bag, same blouse, same build, right?’

She slapped down another sheet.

‘This is the same woman leaving the hotel twenty-five minutes later. And look at the shape of her bag. It’s fatter. What’s the betting it’s got the other half of a smashed champagne bottle in it? Maybe even Nick Beddingfield’s laptop.’

Fox was about to respond, but Ruth held up a hand.

‘There’s more,’ she said, putting down another photograph. ‘Here – a picture of Sophie’s dad. Lana Goddard-Price’s housekeeper identified Peter Ellis as Lana’s lover.’

‘What?’ said Fox. ‘How did you . . .?’

But Ruth ploughed on, holding up a picture printed from the Red Heart gym website.

‘This is Mike, he worked with Sophie. He told me he felt Lana was targeting Sophie, lavishing her with attention, asking her to house-sit; he thought she had deliberately sought Sophie out. Now doesn’t that sound suspicious when you know her connection to Sophie’s father?’