13
Ruth had been waiting in her car outside Sophie’s flat for over an hour. She had spent the last twenty minutes cursing herself: what if the girl had gone straight to her mother’s or to stay with a friend? She tried to convince herself it would have been better to catch her as she was leaving the police station, but experience had taught Ruth that was usually a waste of time: the suspect was invariably with a protective family member or legal adviser and was certainly not in the mood to talk. No, it was best to catch them alone when they were vulnerable, and her flat seemed like the best bet; with the Tribune’s resources, it had not been hard to find out where she lived.
It was getting dark. Ruth looked up at the Battersea mansion block, which was a bit run-down for a socialising Chelsea girl; on the wrong side of the river, too. Then again, when Robert ‘Squirrel’ Sykes had called to say that he had tracked Sophie Ellis down, he did mention that she had disappeared off the social scene after her family had run into financial difficulties. Ruth wondered whether the police had heard about the Ellis family money problems. It would certainly strengthen their case against her. After all, the victim had been a rich man – had he been killed after some struggle over money or an attempted theft? But Ruth’s gut told her different. She’d looked at Sophie’s Facebook page: lots of pictures of her and her friends drinking cocktails or going out to fashionable nightclubs. This girl didn’t seem the type to steal a chocolate bar, let alone kill anyone.
‘That’s her,’ she whispered, sliding down in her seat. She recognised the girl walking up the street from her photographs; it was definitely Sophie Ellis – and she was alone. That was good. Ruth would wait for her to get inside, then ring the bell. She guessed Sophie would be too polite, too British to slam the door in her face. So that was their best suspect? Seeing her in the flesh only reinforced Ruth’s feeling about Sophie: an ordinary preppy girl who had got mixed up in something terrible, not some murderous, Machiavellian gold-digger. In many ways, the blonde was exactly as she’d imagined. Tall and slender, with long tousled hair; she looked as if she’d walked straight off a catwalk, not out of Paddington Green interrogation room.
Ruth looked at her watch: she’d give her ten minutes. She popped a piece of nicotine gum in her mouth. Giving up smoking was proving to be an uphill struggle. She’d tried an electric cigarette but felt as if she was smoking a tampon. As for the gum, she was popping so many they were starting to give her the shakes.
She was about to go to Sophie’s flat when she saw her leaving.
‘Shit,’ she mumbled, grabbing her handbag from the front seat of her Ford Fiesta.
Slamming the car door, she darted across the road, a moped beeping furiously as it nearly ran over her.
‘Miss Ellis, wait . . .’ she said, waving at Sophie.
The young woman hovered on the pavement as if she was undecided whether to wave back or sprint in the other direction.
‘Sophie, please, I need to talk to you.’
Her wide eyes looked startled, afraid, although up close, her pale face was even more beautiful. Ruth extended her hand.
‘My name is Ruth Boden. I’m a journalist with—’
Sophie was already shaking her head.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, beginning to walk away. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk to you.’
But Ruth was used to getting knocked back.
‘Sophie, please, I’m not a grubby tabloid hack. I’m with the Washington Tribune. I know the police have questioned you, but I believe you are innocent and I thought I could help with the American side of the investigation.’
Sophie’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the word ‘innocent’ – it was one of the tricks Ruth used to get a subject on side. But she seemed to bristle at the mention of America.
‘American side of the investigation?’ she said bitterly. ‘How do I know Nick was even from Houston? He could have been from Timbuktu for all I know.’
Ruth was storing all the information in her mental database. The police had released the name of the deceased as Nick Beddingfield, but she’d had no idea he was from Houston or indeed that there were any question marks about his origins. This was good – she felt her instincts tingling – there was a good story here, she could feel it. She pulled out her business card and pushed it into Sophie’s hand.
‘Seriously, Sophie, if you want to find out where Nick really is from, why don’t you let me help you?’
For a moment Sophie looked tempted, but then swung her bag over her shoulder and turned towards the main road.
‘Sorry, I’m in a real hurry,’ she said, walking away as Ruth approached. ‘I’ve really got to go.’
‘Sophie, listen to me. Everyone in this city, from the commissioner of the Met to the general manager of the Riverton Hotel, wants an arrest on this case, and right now you are the nearest thing the police have to a suspect. I can help you if you tell me your side of the story.’
Sophie stopped suddenly and turned to face her. Up close, Ruth could see how weary she looked. There were sooty black smudges under her eyes; either she was very bad at putting eyeliner on, or she had been crying.
‘My side of the story?’ replied Sophie. ‘My side of the story is that I have done nothing wrong – nothing – and yet the police might charge me with murder because it makes things easier for them. And now someone has broken into my flat and you’re hassling me in the street. So all in all, I’d say my side of the story is that I want to be left alone.’
Her voice was wobbling now.
‘Someone broke into your flat?’ said Ruth, looking back up at the building. ‘What happened?’
‘They tore the place apart, that’s what happened.’
‘But why? What for?’
‘You’re the reporter. You probably have more idea than I do, because right now, I don’t know what the hell is going on or why I am in the middle of it.’
They had reached the main road now and Sophie put her hand up to wave a taxi down. Ruth clasped her arm.
‘Don’t go, please. I can help, I really can.’
Sophie shrugged her away.
‘I have to go,’ she said, shaking her head. She climbed into the taxi, and as it pulled away, she looked suddenly terribly young and afraid.
‘Damn it,’ muttered Ruth, running back to her car as fast as her heels would allow. ‘Come on, come on,’ she hissed, fumbling the keys into the ignition, then gunned the engine, just turning into traffic as she saw the cab disappear down Prince of Wales Drive towards Battersea Bridge. There were a few cars ahead of her, but she could see the black roof of the cab above them. The cab turned left onto Chelsea Embankment. That made sense, she thought, cursing the darkness that was cloaking the city. She beeped her horn and overtook a minivan. Now there was only one car between her and Sophie’s taxi. Chewing her nicotine gum furiously, she grinned to herself. She was back in the chase.