‘Dealer, perhaps?’ she said, ignoring the insult. ‘Possible, I guess. Seems that Sophie Ellis was a bit of a party girl and she met Beddingfield at some fancy do. It’s not a stretch to think they both did drugs. Then again, if Mr Houseboat was her dealer, it might even account for the shooting. They could have been after him, nothing to do with the Riverton murder.’
Ruth traced a fingernail through the condensation on the outside of her glass, weighing it all up. Yes, Sophie Ellis had pictures of herself on the internet waving champagne glasses, but she still couldn’t see her as a cold-blooded killer – or some coked-up club hag for that matter. In her head, she could hear her dad again: ‘Instinct, Ruthie.’ And right now her instinct was telling her that Sophie was innocent, but she needed Fox if she was going to be able to prove it.
‘So what now, Inspector?’ she asked casually.
Fox finished his beer and put down the glass.
‘Well I’d better get back to the river. I’ve got two officers scouring the streets for Ellis. I take it you’re all right to get home yourself.’
‘No, I mean, what about us?’
‘Us?’ he replied, as if she was Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
Ruth was undeterred. ‘I think we can help each other, Fox. We both want to get a result on this, and if we work together . . .’
‘Nice try,’ he said, standing up.
Ruth sat forward, putting her hand on his arm.
‘Seriously, Fox, it makes sense. Nick Beddingfield is American, right? You know that makes things difficult for you. The cops across the pond don’t exactly have a reputation for being forthcoming with information to foreigners, do they? On the other hand, I work for an American newspaper – we can move things along for you.’
He looked at her for a moment, then sighed.
‘Okay, give me your card. Maybe I’ll call you tomorrow.’
She watched him walk out.
I hope you do, she thought to herself. I hope you do.
17
The garage door squealed as Josh pushed it up. Sophie winced at the grinding metal-upon-metal sound. She blinked at the grey light of dawn and peered at the empty parking lot, half expecting to see the men in the Range Rover just waiting for them to walk into their trap. But the car park was empty: they were alone.
‘Come on, princess,’ said Josh, heading for the road. ‘It’s a long way to St Pancras.’
There really had been no option but to spend the night in the garage. At least they were hidden and out of the cold – and where else could they go anyway? The first Eurostar wouldn’t leave until five thirty at the earliest and they would have been too conspicuous on the streets, so Sophie had spent an uncomfortable night propped up between two plastic chairs, a pile of cellophane-covered coats serving as a blanket.
Josh had made a similar makeshift bed on some cardboard boxes and, if his steady breathing was anything to go by, had gone straight to sleep. Untroubled slumber was the mark of a clear conscience, wasn’t that what her dad used to say? Sophie wasn’t so sure about Josh. He could be a murderer for all she knew – he certainly wasn’t the legitimate businessman he had portrayed at the Chariot party. But then neither was Nick. No, Sophie still had little idea who Josh was or what his motivation was for helping her. She knew she should be grateful – he had saved her life after all – but even so, through those long sleepless hours she had spent shivering under rustling plastic, her tired, paranoid mind had jumped to every conclusion possible: Josh was a con man after her money just like Nick (but what money exactly?); Josh was in league with the Russians (but then why didn’t he just hand her over?). It had even occurred to her that he might be an undercover policeman, but what on earth for? To extract a confession that they hadn’t been able to get at the police station?
By the time Josh had stirred and they had stepped out into the industrial estate, Sophie had finally come to the inevitable conclusion that she simply had no choice but to follow his lead. The bitter truth was that she had no one else to turn to. The police had been hostile, suspicious in their line of questioning, her mother was in Copenhagen, and her friends? Francesca would have had a breakdown about the fake Louboutins alone.
Sophie glanced across at Josh as they walked through the dark estate, his wary eyes searching every corner, every doorway. In the end, it didn’t matter who he was or what he had done; right now Josh McCormack was her best chance of getting away from this nightmare and finding a little breathing space to decide what to do next.
As they turned a corner, she saw the black outline of the North Thames Gas Works framed against the lightening sky. They were still near the river, then. She shivered at the memory.
‘You okay?’ said Josh.
‘I’m not at all sure about this, Josh,’ she said hesitantly.
He stopped and turned to look at her.
‘Fine,’ he said, holding up a hand to indicate the empty road ahead of them. ‘Be my guest. You want to go home, off you go.’
‘I’m just not sure about Paris.’
‘You’re not sure about Paris?’ he snapped. ‘It’s not exactly the way I planned on spending the day either, but as I don’t fancy an early morning visit from the Russians, I think I’ll keep moving. Personally, I wouldn’t mind getting out of London for a couple of days, but if you want to stay, then be my guest.’
‘Josh, please,’ she stuttered. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’