33
‘So do you really think Sophie killed this American?’ asked Francesca Manning, peering over the top of her skinny macchiato. ‘I tried to get it out of that dishy police inspector, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.’
‘I kind of wanted to know what you thought,’ said Ruth, glancing at her wristwatch. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and she was still feeling terrible. Her blood felt like glue, she had a thumping headache, and she was trapped in Starbucks with the Sloane from hell. This morning, she had been quite pleased with herself that she had tracked down Sophie Ellis’s best friend through Facebook, but ten minutes in Francesca’s company and Ruth was beginning to wonder how good a friend she actually was. Instead of concern for her missing friend, Francesca seemed to be revelling in the drama of Sophie’s misfortune, as if she was watching some soap opera with ringside seats.
‘Twelve months ago I’d have said there was absolutely no way she could do something like that,’ continued Francesca, spooning the froth off her drink. ‘But after the year that Sophie’s had, you know, losing all her money, well, you just don’t know how that sort of stress affects people, do you? Take the night she met Nick. Left me high and dry to make my own way to my boyfriend Charlie’s apartment, just so she could stay and pull one of the Chariot party guest list. Very selfish,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Entrez nous, I think she’s just totes jealous that I’m getting married to someone as successful as Charlie. For all we know, perhaps this Nick character told Soph he wasn’t interested in anything more than a shag and then she killed him.’
Ruth turned on her Dictaphone, sensing something interesting.
‘So what’s the Chariot party?’
‘The party where she met Nick,’ said Francesca, rolling her eyes. She flicked her hair over one shoulder and leant into the tape-recording device. ‘Basically she was house-sitting for some woman at the gym who said that Sophie could have all of her party invitations for the season. The Chariot party was a real high-rollers’ shindig at Waterloo station the other day.’
‘Who was the woman who owned the house? Do you know?’
‘Lana Goddard-Price,’ said Francesca confidently. ‘I googled her; she’s married to a Sunday Times Rich-List banker – you would not believe the labels in that woman’s wardrobe.’
‘So you’ve been to the house?’ asked Ruth, her interest going up another notch.
Francesca nodded. ‘It’s this amazing place just off Brompton Road. I was telling Charlie only yesterday that he’d better start getting some bigger bonuses, because I want a place just like it when we’re married.’
Ruth pulled out her notebook. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have the address, would you?’
‘It’s about a twenty-minute walk from here,’ said Francesca, writing down the Egerton Row address. ‘And don’t forget, if you ever need any financial experts for the Tribune’s business section, my Charlie is the man for the job. He’s going to have to raise his profile internationally if he’s ever going to get a promotion.’
Ruth was glad to get out of the café and breathe in some fresh air. She took a paracetamol out of her bag and washed it down with a vitamin C drink the bottle insisted would ‘get you feeling your old self’. Ruth had drunk two bottles of the stuff already and was prepared to swear in court that it wasn’t true. She still felt as bad as she did when she crawled out of bed that morning, although there was something other than alcohol poisoning that was making her feel unwell. She grimaced at the memory of her predatory lunge at poor Chuck Dean outside the Frontline Club. What an ass she’d made of herself, she thought, wondering if she could avoid the Tribune office for the rest of the day.
She shook her head and powered down Pelham Street, mulling over the Nick Beddingfield story in her head. Despite her hangover, Ruth was never happier than when she was chasing down leads, putting clues together. The past few months she had felt quite frustrated on the job, but the truth was, she couldn’t imagine herself doing anything else. Trapped in some dingy office thinking up marketing slogans for breakfast cereal? Ringing up strangers persuading them to take out life insurance? The very idea gave her the shivers. She loved being out there alone, left to her own devices. You could disappear for weeks on end and your editor would understand, your friends wouldn’t get pissy – because that was your job. You were the job.
Of course, that was the old days, back when spending the night in a bombed-out house or watching mortars fly over your head still felt romantic. Here in London, buzzing and energetic though the city was, there were precious few stories that made Ruth feel as engaged, as excited as this one. Which was why she had to crack it – she couldn’t let Nick Beddingfield get away from her.
Ruth looked up, realising she was at her destination. Nice place, she thought at she studied the glorious white stucco-fronted house in front of her. Francesca had been right when she had described it, rather enviously, as one of the most beautiful houses in London. Ruth took a second to imagine herself as its owner, and quickly decided she had no desire to ever live in something this grand. A girl could get lost just going to the bathroom, she smiled to herself.
She went up the front steps and pressed the bell, knocking on the door for good measure. Finally, the door opened a crack and a housekeeper in a black and white uniform peered out, her expression one of faint irritation.
‘I’m looking for Lana Goddard-Price,’ said Ruth, trying to see past the woman into the house.
‘No here. South of France,’ the woman said, beginning to shut the door.
Ruth made a guess that the housekeeper was Filipino. She had no command of the Tagalog language, but she knew of one currency that was understood the world over. She rooted around in her purse, drew out three twenty-pound notes and held them through the gap like a fan.
‘Could I ask you a couple of questions?’ she said with a winning smile. ‘Five minutes of your time. Please?’
The housekeeper hesitated for a moment, then opened the door just enough for Ruth to slip through.
‘Thank you,’ said Ruth as the woman folded the money into her pocket. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Cherry,’ she said warily.
‘Okay, Cherry, nothing to worry about,’ she said soothingly. ‘No one’s in trouble. I just wanted to asked about the girl who stayed here. Sophie Ellis? She house-sat for Mrs Goddard-Price.’
‘I see her only one time. Thursday. I let her in, then leave for holiday.’
‘So she arrived last Thursday?’ said Ruth, glancing around the entrance hall, craning her head into the living room, trying to take in as much as she could.
‘Girl gone. She bad girl. She go in Mrs G’s wardrobe.’
Ruth nodded sympathetically. Francesca had told her, without any apparent remorse, how she and Sophie had borrowed ‘a few nice things’ for the Chariot party.
‘Did she leave any of her own things?’
Cherry shook her head.
‘Can I just look at Sophie’s room, where she slept, where she kept her belongings?’
‘Police take everything,’ said Cherry. She clearly hadn’t enjoyed their visit. Ruth wondered if the woman had a proper work permit.
‘Well could I at least speak to Mrs Goddard-Price?’
‘I say, she in France.’
‘And who is she in France with? Mr Goddard-Price?’
There was a glint in Cherry’s eye.
‘Husband in Switzerland,’ she said with a hint of smile. ‘Maybe she with other man.’
‘Other man?’ frowned Ruth. ‘What other man?’
The maid’s mouth opened and closed like a fish and she began backing Ruth towards the door.
‘No more questions; I know nothing,’ she said.
‘Cherry, please. Who is Mrs G with?’ But she could see that the housekeeper would say nothing else.
‘All right, okay. But couldn’t you at least give me Mrs Goddard-Price’s number so that if I have any more questions later, I can call her?’
She smoothly produced another crisp twenty, which immediately disappeared into Cherry’s pocket. Sucking her teeth, the housekeeper walked over to a closet in the hallway. It was full of brushes and cleaning products, and was where Cherry apparently stored her coat and her handbag.
She took a blue plastic pen out of a pen pot, scribbled down the number and handed it to Ruth.
‘You go now.’
Ruth was bundled out on to the steps and heard the front door being locked behind her. She looked down at the number in her hand.
‘What have you been up to, Mrs G?’ she wondered to herself.
Ruth sighed. There were so many missing parts of the puzzle, she didn’t know where to start. If only she had access to the information Detective Inspector Fox and his team had. They would be investigating Nick’s movements and business transactions, maybe getting access to his bank accounts. And if Nick had ‘form’, as they said in the force, then there was a good chance Fox knew about his potential enemies. If Sophie Ellis was still a suspect, they’d have built up a profile of her too by now.
‘All right, Ian Fox,’ said Ruth, pulling her mobile out of her pocket. ‘Let’s see what you know.’
She quickly tapped in a text message:
Fox, it’s Ruth. Can you call me? We need to meet. Important.
She looked down at it for a moment, then added an ‘x’ at the end. Not very professional, perhaps, but hey, she was a woman in a man’s world – she had to use whatever weapons were to hand.
Feeling a spot of rain, she pulled up the collar of her jacket and hurried to her next meeting.