‘What am I looking at?’ she asked.
‘Look at the date,’ said Mike. ‘This Lana Goddard-Price had only been a member of the gym for a week when she met Sophie, and see here’ – he pointed at a box with an ‘X’ in it – ‘that means she had been offered a discounted trial session with our best trainer when she joined. It’s standard procedure when you sign up. But she turned it down. Why would she do that, then ask Sophie to train her a few days later?’
Ruth shrugged. ‘Maybe she was cheaper.’
Mike shook his head.
‘Soph said Lana was paying her a fortune. I wasn’t surprised. This woman used to bring a Chanel handbag into the gym to carry her water bottle.’
‘So why do you think Lana Goddard-Price asked Sophie to be her trainer?’
Mike looked at her thoughtfully, as if he was weighing up whether he could confide in her. ‘To be honest, I thought she was after her.’
‘After her?’
‘You know,’ he replied, looking awkward. ‘I thought Lana might be a lesbian. Believe me, I’ve seen a few things in the changing rooms. It doesn’t matter if these rich housewives are married. They get bored, ignored by their husbands, they want a bit of a thrill.’
‘And you think that’s what happened with Sophie?’
Mike shrugged, his face pinking a little. ‘I thought it was a bit full-on to be anything else. Getting Sophie to train with her, inviting her to live at her house all in the space of a fortnight . . . It was a bit odd unless there was an ulterior motive.’
He looked at Ruth, his eyes wide.
‘Hey, I haven’t got her into any trouble, have I? I mean, it’s only a guess.’
‘Not at all,’ said Ruth. ‘And you’ve been very helpful.’
Mike smiled proudly, as if Ruth had just handed him a certificate for first prize in the obstacle race.
‘Have I really?’
Yes, thought Ruth truthfully. And if nothing else, you’ve given me something to talk about with Detective Inspector Fox later.
He was late, of course. Very late. Ruth looked up at the clock above the bar: less than an hour till last orders. She wasn’t surprised; she had spent enough time with coppers to know that they rarely punched out on the dot like factory workers. If they had been unlucky enough to stumble on an international terrorist cell at ten minutes to the end of their shift, they couldn’t very well wave them on their way with a cheery ‘mind how you go, sir’. Plus she had chosen her local – a quiet pub in the back streets of Barnsbury – as the venue for their ‘date’, and even with the decent traffic, it would take Fox a good half hour to get there from Paddington. But Ruth didn’t mind; it gave her time to think over the information Mike at the Red Heart gym had given her. Not his theory about Lana Goddard-Price’s seduction tactics, but his point of ‘why Sophie?’ It was a question that had been bothering Ruth too. So what would make Lana Goddard-Price welcome Sophie into her life with such open arms? Had she taken pity on her? These women did like to be seen to be involved with charity. But Sophie Ellis was hardly a starving African baby. Was Lana an old friend of the family? No, Sophie would have mentioned a detail like that to Mike and her mother. Mike was right, there had to be an ulterior motive. The question was what?
‘Someone’s deep in thought.’
She looked up and saw Fox. She felt a flutter of surprise – or was it pleasure? – and smiled.
‘Sorry, miles away,’ she said, slightly flustered. ‘I was thinking about the case. You know me, I find it hard to switch off.’
‘In which case, I think you need another drink,’ said Fox, taking the chair opposite and pushing a glass of red wine across to her. ‘The barman told me you were on Rioja.’
‘Thanks. To switching off,’ said Ruth, raising her glass, chinking it against the policeman’s pint. Fox looked around at the pub’s cosy interior and unbuttoned his suit jacket.
‘So I take it this is your local? I sort of imagined you hanging out in sophisticated nightclubs with lots of neon and expensive cocktails,’ he said, his narrow eyes glinting under heavy brows.
‘Well, Elton John did call me, begging me to come out. But I said I was meeting my friend Ian who’s much more important.’
‘Oh it’s Ian again, is it?’ smiled Fox, taking a sip of his pint. ‘You must want something. I thought you were going to give me information.’
She searched his face, trying to guess what was going on in his mind. He had come out to meet her, after all – that must mean something. In her experience, police only co-operated with a journalist when they wanted something: some detail on the case, even a name-check on an article to boost their profile. And then there were officers like Dan Davis who were in it for the money or bragging rights in the canteen after they’d got into a reporter’s panties. She was sure Ian Fox was not one of those detectives . . . or was he?
‘Just making conversation,’ she said. ‘Not that it would do any harm to compare notes.’
‘I’m not sure how well that would go down with the Met Commissioner,’ he smiled.