Fox was looking at the pictures, deep in thought. At least he’s considering it, thought Ruth.
‘But Lana was married to a hugely wealthy man,’ he said. ‘What did she need Peter for?’
Ruth shrugged. ‘Maybe he was just a really good screw. Or maybe she wanted something from him. Apparently Lana and Simon’s marriage is on the rocks; maybe it was her escape plan.’
‘But then Peter had no money, remember?’ said Fox. ‘He lost it all in that American investment thingy.’
Ruth pulled a face, frustrated. She knew that, taken on their own, none of these points held much weight, but she was hoping that putting them all together would sway Fox enough to at least question Lana.
He picked up the still pictures of the CCTV footage.
‘Have you got any more of these?’ he asked.
‘Loads,’ said Ruth, opening the file and handing him the pile of printouts she’d picked up at Chuck’s. He stood there examining them carefully, comparing them with the photographs of Lana.
‘I don’t know, Ruth. It could be her, but what do you expect me to do with this – get Interpol to put out a red notice and haul her in from her St-Tropez sunlounger?’
She threw the file down in frustration.
‘What do you mean, I don’t know, Ruth? What sort of evidence are you after?’
‘Something more tangible than a few fuzzy photos looking a bit like a few fizzy party pictures.’
‘You mean like fingerprints?’ she said slowly, a light bulb coming on in her head. ‘Do you have a sandwich bag around the kitchen?’
‘What?’ asked Fox, looking utterly perplexed.
‘A sandwich bag.’
Shaking his head, he retrieved a small plastic freezer bag from the cupboard.
‘You found fingerprints on the fragments of champagne bottle in Nick Beddingfield’s bathroom, didn’t you?’
Fox nodded. ‘They’ve already been sent to New Scotland Yard’s Scenes of Crime branch. There was no match on the system.’
‘But you search against your database, don’t you? Fingerprints that are already in the system.’
Ruth already knew the answer; she’d spoken to enough SOC officers to know how it worked. Once prints had been retrieved, they were searched against the police national computer, which collated possible matches with the prints of known offenders.
‘Yes,’ said Fox. ‘And against any local suspects. As we’d guessed, we found Sophie Ellis’s fingerprints on the glass fragments, but then she told us she’d been drinking the champagne with Beddingfield the previous evening. It doesn’t point to much.’
‘But what if I asked you to run a match between the champagne bottle fingerprints and another sample?’
Ruth delved into her handbag and pulled out the biro she had taken from Lana’s bedside cabinet. She’d only used it to write down her phone details for Cherry, but somehow she’d absently put it in her handbag with her notebook.
‘Exhibit A. One biro belonging to Lana Goddard-Price,’ she said, putting it in the freezer bag.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘There’ll be prints on the pen’s outer casing. Can you check them against the fingerprints you found at the crime scene?’
Fox looked at her aghast.
‘You’re unbelievable, you know that?’
‘Look,’ said Ruth defensively, ‘I know you won’t be able to use them in court, but just trust me. Lana Goddard-Price is the doer, Ian. I can feel it.’
‘Where – in your waters?’ he said sarcastically. ‘I’m not sure that will stand up as evidence in front of the CPS.’