‘I’m a reporter,’ she said with a small smile. ‘Anyway, I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you were going over to Battersea. To see her – she told me she’d had her flat broken into.’
Fox said nothing as he pulled into a parking space.
‘Let’s just get a drink.’
The pub was busy, full of loud Chelsea twenty-somethings. DI Ian Fox didn’t look at all comfortable, so she sent him to the bar while she found a chesterfield sofa in the corner.
She watched him weave back through the crowds, holding aloft two overflowing pint pots. He was scrupulous in not letting the amber liquid spill on to his suit.
‘So are you going to tell me what you told Dan?’ Fox handed her a glass of lager, then rubbed his wet fingers with a tissue. ‘You can start with why you were actually following Miss Ellis to the wharf. I assume that’s what happened. You were tailing her, right?’
He had a gruffness that made Ruth feel reprimanded.
‘I bumped into her outside her house,’ she replied with mock haughtiness. She watched Fox nod cynically. ‘She said she was going to meet someone, so as a reporter, interested in the same thing as you are – who killed Nick Beddingfield – I followed her.’
‘I get the feeling you’re the sort of writer who’s prepared to go above and beyond in the name of a story. Like sneaking into hotel rooms that happen to be a crime scene, for example?’
‘Ah,’ said Ruth, feeling her cheeks flush a little. ‘So you recognised me.’
Fox waved a hand as if it was nothing, but it was hard to read his expression. He had dark, brooding features that easily looked cross or impatient. She shifted position to look at him more directly.
‘Sophie got a taxi from her apartment to the wharf. I parked about fifty metres from the jetty because I didn’t want her to see me,’ said Ruth, taking a sip of her beer. ‘I was still close enough to see her disappear into one of those houseboats, and I was debating whether to go follow her when a black SUV came and parked opposite the wharf.’
‘Was Sophie still in the houseboat?’
Ruth nodded. ‘She was in there maybe ten minutes. When she came out, she seemed angry about something. The next thing I know, two knuckleheads had got out of the car and were blocking her way.’
‘Could you hear what they were saying?’
She felt foam on her lip and wiped it off.
‘No, I was too far away. And I was glad of it too. When the black SUV arrived, I thought it was creepy. I locked my car doors and was ready to speed off at any second.’
‘But you stayed?’
‘As you said, Detective, I go above and beyond in the name of a story.’ She popped another piece of nicotine gum. ‘So tell me, is Sophie Ellis your prime suspect? Do you have any other leads? And what else do you know about the victim other than the “Nick Beddingfield, businessman” statement crap you gave out earlier today?’
Fox’s expression remained neutral.
‘That’s a lot of questions.’
She wasn’t sure if he was suppressing a smile or was actually patronising her.
‘I’m a journalist.’
‘And you know all the press need to know for the time being. Surely you’ve got enough information to file your story.’
‘I don’t want a story. I want the story,’ she said quietly. ‘So come on, quid pro quo. I’m telling you what happened at the wharf; you need to tell me something.’
For a moment he didn’t react.
‘Okay, get back to the wharf and I’ll tell you what you want to know. Within reason.’
She clasped her hands together and leant
forward. ‘So this guy comes out of the houseboat and joins Sophie. Thirty-something, good-looking. He might have held her hand.’
‘You think it was another boyfriend?’ asked Fox.