Chuck smiled and held up his own cup.
‘I went ten minutes ago,’ he said. ‘I did ask, but you had your headphones on and I didn’t want to disturb the master at work.’
Dammit. She dropped her coffee cup into the trash bin and looked across to Jim’s office; the lights were off. Chuck was right, Ruth had been ‘in the zone’, bent over her computer writing her royals story for the last hour – she hadn’t even noticed the bureau chief leave.
‘Where’s the boss man got to?’ she asked Chuck.
‘Pub, round of golf, shopping for shoes? Who knows – he never shares his plans with me.’
Ruth laughed. She liked Chuck. He was far too much of a company man to ever question Jim in an editorial meeting, but get him on his own and he could be sarcastic and funny.
‘Maybe he’s gone to help Rebecca with her women’s problems,’ he said with a knowing smile.
‘My money’s on that one,’ said Ruth playfully. Perhaps it wasn’t strictly professional to gossip about your boss behind his back, but it made the working day a little more fun. Jim’s relationship with his PA had been a running joke between the rest of the staff. It was pure speculation, and especially considering they were all hard news journalists, no one had a shred of evidence to back it up, but the two of them did seem particularly pally. Anyway, if it was true, Ruth could certainly have understood it. It was an occupational hazard of being a foreign correspondent that it was difficult to maintain relationships. There was a high turnover of staff and the particular stresses of the job tended to mean you were either absent, overworked or both; not ideal traits in a potential Mr or Miss Right – she knew that from personal experience. She was pulled from her thoughts by the insistent ringing of her desk phone. She grabbed it.
‘Miss Boden?’
The voice was American: Texan, Ruth guessed. Low slung and treacly.
‘Yes, this is Ruth Boden,’ she said.
‘This is Jeanne Parsons. I got a message from my ho
usekeeper to call you urgently.’
Ruth was surprised the woman had called back so promptly. Overnight, the Washington office had assisted in tracking down Nick Beddingfield’s girlfriend, providing her with a number first thing that morning. Ruth had indeed spoken to the housekeeper, who had rather tersely told her that ‘Mizz Jeanne is sleeping.’
‘Thank you for calling me back,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m phoning about your friend Nick Beddingfield.’
There was a pause, and Ruth could hear a door being closed.
‘Yes, Nick,’ said the woman finally. ‘How is he?’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. Nick Beddingfield is dead.’
Ruth clicked on to her computer and pulled up the photograph of Jeanne Parsons that the Washington office had sent over. It had clearly been taken at some sort of society function; she was wearing an off-the-shoulder ball gown and holding a flute of champagne. She was a perky, smiling forty-something blonde, with a tiny body and big breasts; the sort Ruth imagined to be the life and soul of any party, except she certainly wasn’t smiling now.
‘Oh no,’ she said, her voice trembling. Ruth heard the click and hiss of a cigarette being lit and imagined the hazy blue smoke being blown at the ceiling. God, I could do with one right now, she thought.
‘How did it happen?’ asked Jeanne.
‘He was found dead in a hotel room in London, the Riverton. The police are treating it as suspicious.’
‘And who are you, Miss Boden? Are you not a police officer?’
‘No, I’m a journalist.’
‘Ah, that figures,’ said the woman. ‘So if you’re a reporter, I guess you’ll know Nick was more than my friend.’
‘Yes. And I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.’
There was another pause.
‘So what do you want to know?’
Ruth flipped her notebook open.
‘I want to know who might have wanted to kill him. Did he have any enemies? Had any business deals gone wrong?’