18
Ruth wandered into David’s kitchen still half asleep. He was sitting at the table reading the Financial Times and absentmindedly sticking a fork into a salmon fillet. Ruth opened a cabinet at random, finding only tea bags and a bottle of expensive-looking olive oil.
‘Have you got any cornflakes?’ she said, rubbing sleep from the corner of her eye.
‘Don’t do carbs in the morning, remember?’ said David, not looking up from his paper.
At her own apartment, Ruth made sure she had a stash of croissants and pains au chocolat, and for a fleeting moment she wished she was back there.
‘I don’t know how you can eat a great big chunk of fish in the morning,’ she said, turning to watch him in fascination.
‘Eating eighty per cent protein in the morning cuts out the insulin spikes throughout the day,’ said David knowingly. ‘The spikes are what make you feel peckish and lead to snacking. It might be worth taking on board,’ he said, glancing at her thighs.
As he returned to the business news, Ruth pulled a face behind his back. Ever since David had started training for the London Marathon, he had become a food bore. And while she couldn’t complain about his increased stamina – the sex lately had been abundant and sensational – she wasn’t sure if she could face his-and-hers salmon fillets every morning.
‘Well, if I’m going to move in here, we need a stash of carbs. I’m talking Cheerios, waffle mix, the works,’ she grinned, bending down to get the orange juice from the fridge. As she moved, her T-shirt lifted right up over her buttocks.
‘Nice view,’ he said.
‘Look away,’ she smiled, walking over to sit on his lap and planting a long kiss on his lips.
‘So where were you last night?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t even hear you come in.’
‘Working,’ she shrugged, picking a flake of fish from his plate. It was true, wasn’t it? Yes, she’d gone for a drink with DI Fox, but that was all there was to it. It was work. Although Ruth had to admit she’d enjoyed it – it was rare she got the opportunity to screw so much information from the police. She spotted a blob of shaving foam behind David’s ear and wiped it off.
‘See? You need me first thing in the morning.’
He slipped his hand up her T-shirt and rubbed his palm over her nipple.
‘I won’t argue with you there,’ he growled. Ruth giggled and pushed him away. She knew where that was headed, and she needed an early start at the office to work on last night’s leads.
‘Save that for later, hey?’ she smiled, dancing out of his grasp. ‘I’ve got to get to work. It’s all gone crazy on my story.’
‘The escort thing?’ he asked, yawning.
She frowned, for a moment unsure what he was talking about. ‘Oh, not that one – I’m on a new thing now. I mean the murder at the Riverton Hotel.’
‘I saw the headlines about that. American bloke, wasn’t it?’
Briefly she filled him in on the story as far as she knew.
‘Anyway, that’s where I was last night. Meeting the inspector in charge of the case.’
David folded up his paper and dropped it on the table.
‘I love the way when I meet a business contact, you think I’m having some sort of affair, but when you’re out socialising with the cops, it’s strictly business.’
Ruth tried not to react, reminding herself that this was all new to her. She was forty-one years old and until now had always lived alone. She’d always had whatever she wanted for breakfast and she wasn’t used to answering for her movements. If she was going to make this work, she had to learn to bend a little.
‘This is my job, David,’ she said evenly. ‘You understand that.’
‘All right,’ he said, stretching. ‘Don’t get all jumpy on me. I was just saying. So the dead bloke – who was he?’
Ruth nodded, her mind flashing back to that bathroom in the hotel.
‘I saw him, David,’ she said quietly.
‘What? Dead?’
‘Dead. On the floor. It was horrible.’
‘Bloody hell, Ruth,’ said David, looking at her more carefully. ‘Are you okay?’
She nodded quickly. ‘It wasn’t pleasant, but it’s part of the job, isn’t it?’
‘Not mine, I’m glad to say. I’d much rather be looking at stock charts than dead bodies.’
Ruth poured herself some juice and told David about the incident with Sophie Ellis by the river.
‘God, no wonder you were in late,’ he said. ‘It was quite a day.’
‘I felt like someone off CSI. They just appeared from nowhere, started shouting in Russian and began shooting.’
David nodded thoughtfully. ‘Jamie on the news desk was telling me about that the other day. Apparently there are various Eastern European gangs fighting over control of the river.’
‘Control of the river? Why would they need that?’
‘There’s a surprising amount of trade that goes on along the Thames. A lot of cargo still gets shifted that way, so whoever controls the flow of traffic can take a cut of each transaction. It’s quite creative, actually.’
‘But I’ve seen police boats going up and down.’
David nodded. ‘Apparently there aren’t many of them, and the river patrol spends most of its time dragging bodies from the water – suicides and so on. Besides, according to Jamie, the gangsters don’t work on the water. They wait until the traders come ashore, then twist their arms.’
Ruth pouted.
‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘I wonder if the two are connected.’
David grinned.
‘There you go, I’ve given you a lead. Don’t ever say I don’t give you anything.’
Ruth ran her hand down his chest. ‘I never said that, did I?’ she smiled.
‘So you’re not doing the escort story?’ He said it casually. So casually that it put Ruth on immediate alert.
‘Not at the moment, why?’
‘Oh, I was thinking I might have a little poke around.’
‘Poke around what?’ said Ruth, her back stiffening.
‘Well, Sebastian Watson was the number two at his bank, and his resignation is quite a big business story for us. If it’s part of a sting involving other people, then that’s even bigger.’
‘Wait a minute, David,’ she said tightly. ‘This is my story.’
‘And I thought you said you weren’t following it up.’
‘I said I wasn’t chasing it at this moment,’ she said, placing her hands on her hips. ‘The second they charge someone with the Riverton murder, that story is pretty much over for me and I’ll be moving back on to the escort thing.’
He held his hands in the air.
‘All right, all right. Fine.’
‘What do you mean, “fine”?’
‘Well, I just think it’s a bit selfish of you, that’s all.’
‘David, I dug this story up all on my own.’
‘Yes, but with this Riverton case, there’s a chance you’re not going to follow up the escort story for weeks, by which time Seb Watson will be old news and no one will be interested any more.’
‘So?’
‘So poor Watson’s career is wrecked, so is Bill Danson’s. I just think they should be given a chance to find out what really happened.’
‘Yeah, like you care,’ she scoffed.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean don’t go pretending to be some great crusader fighting for justice when you’ve just sniffed an exclusive – my exclusive, in fact.’
‘Oh come on, Ruth, it’s not just your story, is it? Everyone’s been writing about Watson. You’ve just found a slightly different angle.’
Ruth could barely believe her ears.
‘Bullshit, David!’ she snapped. ‘If it was only a “slightly different angle”, you wouldn’t be so desperate to swipe it from under my nose.’
‘Why not let me have it?’ His tone softened, but she realised he was just changing tack. ‘Don’t you want me to get off the business pages? It would be good for me. Good for us.’
‘Good for us is if I keep my job in London. And the only way I’ve got a chance of doing that is if I keep generating stories between now and September. I need to hold on to the escort story, David. It’s my back-up.’
‘Which you might never need!’
She roared with frustration.
‘Ruth Boden is only ever interested in what Ruth Boden is doing,’ continued David evenly. ‘But if we are going to make this work, us work, you are going to have to start thinking about someone other than yourself.’
Her mind was reeling; she knew the argument was escalating out of control. She knew that she should stop it right there, but the touchpaper had been lit and she felt incapable of stopping the situation from exploding.
‘I’m not listening to this,’ she said, standing up and fuming.
‘Domestic bliss,’ he muttered as his knife and fork clattered noisily to the plate.
‘You were the one who suggested it.’
She could hear herself, like an echo in the background, and it was a voice she did not recognise. Spiteful, unhappy and destructive. Stop this, Ruth. Stop this, she ordered herself, but pride and anger would not let her.
‘Maybe you should go back to your own flat tonight,’ David suggested.
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ she said, slamming the kitchen door behind her and feeling suddenly overwhelmingly sad.