‘So lift the prints off the biro and do a quick match, then you can go get official evidence.’
He barked out a laugh.
‘Quick match? Ruth, these things can take weeks.’
Ruth felt her patience snap.
‘For God’s sake, Fox, pull your damn finger out. Get someone to run it against computer software to get a probable match – something! We haven’t got weeks. Sophie Ellis’s life could be in danger here; I’m not asking for fun, you know.’
Fox looked at her, startled.
‘Bloody hell, Ruth. You can be fierce, you know that?’
He reluctantly picked up the biro with the plastic bag.
‘Not exactly a professional evidence collection, was it?’ he said doubtfully, then caught Ruth’s frown. ‘I have a friend at one of the borough fingerprint labs; I’ll get her to take a look off the books, okay? But it’s not going to be high priority.’
She wasn’t sure which bit she felt more piqued about. Her low-priority evidence or the mention of a female friend in the lab. She could picture the scene now. Fox and his pretty forensics officer, sexy in her glasses and white lab coat, flirting over an exhibit. He’d invite her for a drink and they’d end up back at her cosy cottage for a glass of Chablis in front of a roaring fire.
Stop it, she told herself. You’re a journalist, not a Mills and Boon author. But she could feel herself getting upset and she didn’t know why.
‘Look, Fox. I know you don’t take me seriously,’ she said. ‘I know you think I’m one of Dan Davis’s silly female hacks he keeps on a lead so he never has to buy a round. But I want this story. I need it. They’re closing down the bureau and this is all I have. My boyfriend has left me – shafted me actually, stolen one of my stories and used it to get his own promotion whilst I’ll probably be out of a job by Friday. So you might question my methods, but never question my commitment.’
Fox handed her a bowl of steaming pasta.
‘Nice speech,’ he smiled. ‘Now eat up before it gets cold.’
It smelt delicious, but suddenly she wasn’t hungry.
‘You know, we’ve got dark hair samples taken from the hotel suite,’ he said, as if he was thinking aloud. ‘And we could do a cell-site analysis too . . .’
‘What’s a cell site?’ said Ruth.
‘The geographical area of a phone when calls or texts are made or received. In cities, you can pinpoint it to within a few hundred feet.’
‘Can you do that retrospectively?’
He nodded. ‘Or we could just get her mobile phone records.’
Ruth felt a sliver of hope.
‘So you’re going to question her?’
Fox turned to look out at the river, glinting like black ice from the lights on the bank.
‘We’ve got to tread carefully,’ he said. ‘If she thinks she’s under suspicion, she might never come back from the South of France.’
‘And what if the prints match?’ she pressed. ‘Can’t you get Interpol to bring her in?’
‘Ruth, it’s illegally obtained evidence. I couldn’t think of getting an arrest warrant using it. You might have your standards, but I’ve got mine.’
Ruth jerked back as if she’d been slapped.
‘What’s that supposed to mean? That the police are all suddenly whiter than white? Bullshit!’
‘It means I’ve got to toe the line,’ said Fox, glaring at her. ‘You know the Met are under the microscope for corruption and collusion with the press.’
‘Well maybe if you paid a little more attention to—’