‘Sexy,’ said Davis as she tucked her hair inside the suit’s hood.
‘I try,’ she said, pulling up the mouth mask.
His expression turned serious.
‘All right, here’s the rules. I’ll walk in, you wait a few seconds and follow me inside. Try and look busy, like you’re looking for fingerprints or something, have a butcher’s at the scene, then back out the same way. Don’t hang around, but don’t make it look obvious. We clear?’
Ruth nodded. ‘Crystal.’
She shuffled along behind him, the swish-swish of her suit making her feel extremely conspicuous, but at the same time, her heart was beating with excitement. Police had allowed her on to crime scenes before, but never a murder like this. Clearly, Davis sensed that linking his name to this in the press could be very good for his career, or else he expected a fat wodge of cash; otherwise he would never take such a risk. They ducked under some police tape – the whole corridor had been sealed off – and walked towards the only room which was open. Ruth hung back at the door as instructed, then stepped inside. There was one uniformed policeman by the door, three scene of crime officers and two plainclothes detectives talking to Davis, but they all completely ignored her.
She quickly took in the hotel suite: it was clearly an expensive room. The bed was unmade, and there were some scattered papers and clothes, perhaps enough to suggest a disturbance but not enough to think that there had been a fight.
‘Are you looking for Pete?’
Ruth turned towards the voice, but hampered by her suit, she almost stumbled over a table, and a hand shot out to steady her.
‘Careful, we don’t want any more casualties today,’ the voice said gruffly.
Ruth pulled down her mask and saw a forty-something detective; he was better dressed than most coppers – a well-cut grey two-button suit with a plain navy tie – but she could still tell he was ‘on the job’.
‘No, yes,’ she stuttered. ‘I mean yes, I’m looking for Pete. Have you seen him?’
The detective inclined his head toward the bathroom. ‘In there, but watch your step, okay? The floor’s wet.’
Ruth nodded and put up her mask, hoping she had just come across as some green graduate on her first crime scene. A little old for that, aren’t you? mocked a voice in her head. Come on, concentrate. Taking a deep breath, she walked over to the bathroom and peered around the door. It was a good job Davis had prepared her. Most of the white tile floor was covered in blood, smeared with footprints. Two more scene of crime officers were kneeling down, bent over the body. Ruth couldn’t see the body’s face, but the bare upturned foot, its heel surrounded by congealed blood, was enough for her. She turned and walked straight out of the room, holding her breath all the way. She ducked back under the tape and strode down the corridor, almost stumbling into the linen room, where she tore off the suit and shoved it in her tote bag.
Calm, calm, she told herself, inhaling deeply. Ruth had been a reporter for twenty years and she considered herself to be quite hardened – she’d covered road accidents, natural disasters, she’d even been to a refugee camp in Somalia, all in the line of duty. It was not the first time she had seen a dead body either. In Kosovo and Congo she had seen some terrible things, but still, nothing could prepare you for the sight of a murder victim. She trembled, feeling disturbed and upset, and almost ran to the service elevator, focused only on getting outside. Pushing out through the door, she gulped in the fresh air, glad to see the trees, the walls, the rushing traffic. She turned into a side street and sank on to the steps of a red-brick town house to collect her thoughts. There was one image fixed in her
mind: the man lying there on the cold tiles, his toes pointing up towards the ceiling. Who was he? How had he been killed, and had posh, pretty Sophie Ellis done it?
But now Ruth could feel her journalistic instincts taking over. A dead American in a top London hotel wasn’t exactly Watergate. It wasn’t even as potentially explosive as her escort story, not for the Washington Tribune, which liked its stories to have a political spin. But she was here, now, in the thick of it. She had seen the body and had the name of the suspect.
She reached into her bag and pulled out her mobile, quickly scrolling to the entry marked ‘Squirrel’.
‘Robbie, it’s Ruth,’ she said quickly. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Really?’ said a weary voice. ‘And here was I thinking you’d called to wish me a happy birthday.’
Robert Sykes was the society editor of Class magazine, the ritziest glossy on the newsstand. He had been to school with one of the royals, and thanks to a brother who had done time for drugs, knew everyone from criminals to the highest-ranking aristos in the country. Ruth had met him years ago on a press junket to Budapest, and ever since, he had been the man she called whenever she needed the skinny on anyone wealthy and British. Robbie always knew where the nuts were – hence Ruth’s affectionate nickname.
‘Jeez, is it really today?’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘See?’ he said. ‘A real friend would have known my birthday is in November.’
She gave a low laugh. ‘Robbie, this is important.’
‘It always is,’ he said, then paused, obviously catching something in her voice. ‘Ruth, are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I just need some info on one Sophie Ellis. Ring any bells? Rich girl with a wealthy boyfriend?’
‘I think you’ll find there are roughly a zillion rich girls called Sophie in London, darling.’
‘Can you get me details?’
‘And what has this Sophie Ellis done?’
‘And have you steal my exclusive?’ she smiled.