Barbara shook her head sadly as the waitress brought their drinks.
‘I only wish they served something stronger here,’ she said, stirring three packets of sugar into her drink.
‘Are you okay?’ Ruth asked.
Barbara Beddingfield puffed out her cheeks as her eyes welled with tears.
‘It’s my son. He was in London on business for a few days and he got killed yesterday. I’ve just had to fly out from LA to deal with things. Why, I wouldn’t mind some liquor,’ she said with a shrug.
Ruth looked at this woman, this grieving mother, and realised she couldn’t keep up her deception. She knew she was supposed to be a hard-nosed news-hound whose job it was to get informatio
n by any means necessary – God knew she’d intruded on people’s grief plenty of times in the past. But this time, she just couldn’t do it.
‘I know,’ she said, feeling her cheeks colour.
‘You . . . you know?’ said Barbara, looking up, confusion on her face. Ruth knew she had to tell her the unvarnished truth.
‘I’m a journalist,’ she said quickly. ‘My name is Ruth Boden. I work for the Washington Tribune.’
Ruth saw Barbara Beddingfield’s expression change from bewilderment to anger and finally contempt.
‘You followed me here?’
‘Yes, and I can imagine what you think of me, but I have been covering Nick’s story and I thought I might be able to help.’
‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Miss Boden,’ said Barbara. ‘Helping me is the last thing on your mind.’
‘I can see you have no reason to believe me, I understand that. But I do want to get this story out there and I do want to help catch whoever did this to Nick. Whatever you think about the press, we can sometimes be useful in cases like this.’
‘This is not “a case”,’ said Barbara, her eyes flashing. ‘This is my son.’
‘I know, Mrs Beddingfield, and believe me, you have my deepest sympathies, but if I’m right, this is bigger than Nick’s death. I think other people could get hurt too.’
Ruth expected Barbara Beddingfield to laugh at her, or at the very least stand up and walk away. But instead, she stared down at her coffee cup, her hands trembling.
‘Tell me what you know,’ she said quietly.
‘The girl who found Nick? Her name is Sophie Ellis,’ said Ruth. ‘She has been questioned in connection with the murder, but I don’t believe she did it. In fact, I think this girl is now in serious danger.’
Barbara looked up at her, her eyes red.
‘I met with Inspector Fox, and he mentioned her.’
‘What did he tell you?’ asked Ruth, fishing around.
‘Not much. I don’t think they know much. He seemed impressive enough, but we both know that people literally get away with murder.’
Ruth nodded.
‘Fox is a good detective,’ she said. ‘But he’s a busy man and it’s my job to know everything. And I always get my story.’
She could tell from her expression that Barbara understood exactly what she was saying. Perhaps Ian Fox and his team would have this wrapped up by tomorrow, but what if they didn’t? It was just another case to them, another question mark in the unsolved file. And tomorrow, they would certainly be swamped by new crimes to solve and the difficult and dead-end mysteries would be pushed to the side. Ruth, on the other hand, could keep investigating the story for as long as necessary – some scandals took months, even years of dogged and painstaking research and determination before they were revealed. If Barbara wanted to know what had happened to her son, she needed Ruth on her side. Their eyes met and Nick’s mother gave her a nod.
‘So tell me about Nick,’ said Ruth gently.
Barbara gave a laugh. ‘Where do I start? He was a good boy, always ate his greens? Star of the high school baseball team?’
‘Start with the last time you spoke.’