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—’
Brrring-riiing.
Fox’s mobile was vibrating angrily on the breakfast bar.
‘Are you going to answer that?’ said Ruth. ‘Or do you need me to show you how to do that too?’
‘Ruth, I—’
‘Oh, answer the damn phone!’
He snatched it up and walked away from her, over to the window.
‘Fox,’ he said, putting the phone to his ear. He listened for a long moment, then glanced back at Ruth. His whole demeanour had changed; Ruth was instantly on alert. Who was he talking to?
‘Where are you?’ said Fox, striding back over to the breakfast bar, urgently mouthing the word ‘pen’ to her. She pulled one out of her handbag and Fox began scribbling on the back of one of her printouts. ‘What time?’ he said; he paused, then, ‘We’ll be there.’ Ruth could see him thinking, his face serious, as he put his phone down.
‘Who was that?’
Fox looked at her.
‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ he said, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. ‘The pasta will have to wait.’
‘On the way to where?’ she said, quickly stuffing her papers into her bag.
‘Scotland. We’ve got until sunrise to get there, and if you want your story, I suggest you come with me.’