Perfect Strangers

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘I thought we had a deal,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Of course we do, darlin’,’ said Davis, holding the door open for her. ‘You’ll always be my number one, you know that.’

  Ruth took a deep breath. She knew she shouldn’t let her frustrations show; besides she should be grateful. Dan Davis was one of a handful of officers she had courted over the years, spending hours in coppers’ pubs listening to their war stories, putting up with their ham-fisted attempts at seducing her. It was the price she paid for getting phone calls like the one in the coffee shop. Well, that and all the fat envelopes filled with cash.

  The payola to the police wasn’t the part of her job she felt most proud of, but it was the way things got done, exchanging tips, incentives. And it was the way Ruth Boden had carved herself out an enviable position as one of the Met’s pet reporters; at least amongst the troops, where it counted. People like Dan Davis knew what she was after – anything juicy, particularly anything involving Americans, and on the phone this morning he had convinced her that he had something good.

  ‘Well I hope this isn’t going to be like that Canadian and his failed suicide attempt,’ muttered Ruth as Davis led her down a dark corridor and into a service elevator.

  ‘All a bit of a misunderstanding, that one,’ he said, standing a little too close to her. ‘Besides, I wanted to see you, didn’t I?’

  Ruth forced a smile. It wasn’t that Dan Davis was bad looking; in fact he had lovely green eyes and floppy dark hair: the sort of colouring they called Black Irish back home. But he was young; he couldn’t be more than about twenty-six, although it was always hard to tell their age with coppers. The ancient, grizzled ones with the bags under their eyes and the broken veins on their noses always turned out to be about forty. She supposed the job did that to you; it wasn’t as if journalists came out the other end looking particularly youthful either.

  ‘I’m always glad to see you too, Dan,’ said Ruth, truthfully. She had no intention of sleeping with him, but he was always good for an ego boost. ‘I just don’t like to have my time wasted.’

  ‘Well, you’ll like this one,’ he said. ‘There’s claret everywhere.’

  ‘Claret?’

  Davies rolled his eyes. ‘Blood. Fella had his head stoved in, didn’t he?’

  ‘So who is he?’ she asked, turning to him.

  Davis smiled, and Ruth could feel her heart rate increase. Just from the width of his grin, she could tell it was a big story.

  ‘American businessman,’ said Davis. ‘He must be worth a bit if he can afford one of the suites.’

  ‘Is that where he was found?’

  The detective nodded.

  ‘Told you it was worth your taxi fare. I hope you’re going to be grateful.’

  ‘You know I’m always grateful,’ said Ruth, making a mental note to put in an expenses claim. She was going to have to take Davis and his pals to one of those grubby table-dancing clubs they so enjoyed. At the very least.

  ‘Any idea about the doer?’

  ‘The girlfriend found him. Claims she left the hotel to go to work. Came back after she’d forgotten something and found him dead on the bathroom floor.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘She’s just some pretty posh girl. Not your average murderer, but a crime of passion? Maybe.’

  ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Ruth, come on.’

  ‘Please, Dan. I’ll find out another way, you’re just saving me time.’

  The detective sighed.

  ‘Sophie Ellis.’

  ‘Is she around?’

  ‘No, she’s just been taken to Paddington Green,’ he said, opening the lift and leading her into a small room filled with shelves stacked with bed linen. Ruth looked around; this clearly was not the crime scene. She turned to look at Davis. She hoped he wasn’t expecting her to become grateful right now.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing her a white forensics overall. ‘You’d better put that on. Don’t want you contaminating the scene, and besides, I’m taking a bloody great risk bringing you up here. At least if you’re dressed as a SOCO, my boss probably won’t notice you.’

  Awkwardly, Ruth climbed into the suit, knowing Davis was enjoying watching her. It’s the price you pay, she reminded herself, the excitement of being so close to such a juicy story overriding any annoyance.

  ‘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.

  ‘Darling, you know I have to stop fraternising with the enemy. If my editor knew . . .’

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said, making a note to increase that expenses claim. ‘You know it’ll be worth your while.’

  He sighed.

  ‘The name doesn’t ring any immediate bells. I’ll have a little nosy around. I prefer single malt, by the way. Scotch, not bourbon. You can give it to me over dinner at Scott’s.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ she smiled, knowing how much fun she had on her nights out with Robert and his partner Stephen.

  Ruth stood and snapped her phone shut, briskly walking back towards the road. Suddenly, she felt a lot better. Suddenly, she was back on the hunt.

  11

  The policewoman had been very nice. She had given Sophie a blanket for the ride in the car down to the station, and had even brought her a cup of tea.

  ‘Hot sweet tea,’ she had said cheerily, as if it was a panacea for all the ills in the world.

  The drink was nearly cold now, and had done little to make her feel better. Sophie picked up the polystyrene cup and ran her thumbnail across it, scoring lines into the material. When are they going to come? She had been sitting in this little room for an hour at least, just her, a table and an old plastic chair with cigarette burns on it.

  A policeman had interviewed her briefly at the hotel and asked her if she wouldn’t mind continuing the questioning at the station. She had agreed, coming down to the ugly concrete police station on Harrow Road with the WPC, where she was told to wait for the detective in charge. But where was he? The longer Sophie sat there, the more distressed she began to feel.

  At the hotel she had been bewildered and in shock, but now, sitting in this empty, soulless interview room, the reality of what had happened was beginning to sink in. Nick was dead. Dead. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing the image of his lifeless body, the blood from his wounds colouring the water on the wet bathroom floor. She felt numb, confused and just needed to talk to somebody to try and make sense out of what had happened. Who would want to kill Nick? And what for? Was it an ex-girlfriend, jealous of his relationship with Sophie? A business associate? Somebody he owed money to? She knew that she had had a deep and intimate connection with Nick over the last few days, but there was so much she didn’t know about his life. She’d watched enough cop dramas, though, to know that people were most often killed by someone they knew. Someone like you, you mean? she thought with a chill.

  Just then the door was pushed open and a tall man in his early forties walked in. His smart dark suit did nothing to detract from the tired, unhappy look about him. A slightly older woman carrying an armful of folders came in behind him.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Ian Fox,’ said the man as they both sat down opposite her. ‘This is DS Sheila Field. Sorry to keep you waiting so long,’ he added. The tone of his voice – firm and serious – scared her.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Sophie, anxiously looking from one to the other. ‘Have you any idea who might have done this?’

  The two police officers exchanged a look.

  ‘That’s what we’re hoping to work out, Sophie,’ said Fox.

  The woman passed the inspector a blue file and he opened it, taking a pen out of his inside pocket.

  ‘Okay, first of all, we’d like to ask you some questions. Is that okay?’

  Sophie was immediately on her guard. The way he’d said it sounded carefully phrased. Did they suspect her of anything? At the hotel, when she had first seen Nick on the bathroom floor, her immediate, instinctive response had been to cradle him. Her hands had tried to knit his wound back together, although even in her distraught state she had known that the gesture was useless. But in the police car over to the station she realised the dangerous position she was now in. She was Nick’s lover. She had found him dead. Her fingerprints were all over the suite and now his body. Even she could see that looked suspicious.

  ‘Should I have a lawyer?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘That’s your right. Would you like one?’ said the policewoman flatly.

  Sophie hesitated, then shook her head. Lawyers were for people who had something to hide; that’s what her mother had always said. She just wanted to tell them the truth, and the truth was that she loved Nick and had been devastated to find him dead.

  ‘I’m just here to help you find whoever hurt Nick,’ she said in the most controlled voice she could manage.

  Fox nodded.

  ‘So let’s start with everything you know about Nick and what happened to him.’

  Sophie took a minute to compose herself before she had to relive those moments again.

  ‘It started off a perfect day,’ she said, puffing out her cheeks as she tried to contain her emotion. ‘We woke up at about six forty. He wanted us to spend the day together, but I had to leave early for a meeting. I had a shower and left his suite at about seven twenty and got a cab to High Street Ken. But I had forgotten my phone so I asked the cabbie to take me back to retrieve it.’

  She wiped at her cheek, feeling a tear trickle down.

  ‘I was gone, maybe thirty minutes,’ she said, her voice trembling now. ‘That’s all. When I returned to the hotel room, he was like that.’

  Fox looked at her for a moment before he spoke.

  ‘Why don’t we go back a bit? Tell me how you met, what was the nature of your relationship?’

  She watched as Fox turned on a tape recorder. Slowly, haltingly, Sophie told them how she had met Nick at the party, how they had spent the week together, the places they had been, anything she could remember. The woman sergeant was scribbling down notes in one of her files as she unfurled the story. When she had finished, Fox folded his hands.

  ‘What was Nick’s full name?’

  It seemed a strange question to ask.

  ‘Nick Cooper.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘
Sophie, do you know why Nick gave you a false name?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.’

  ‘We opened the safe in the hotel suite. His passport was inside and the name on this passport was Nick Beddingfield.’

  Sophie shook her head vigorously.

  ‘You’re mistaken. His name was Nick Cooper.’

  Fox shrugged.

  ‘His passport said otherwise.’

  ‘Maybe it was . . . maybe he had changed his name or something. People do, don’t they? For legal reasons, sometimes?’ She looked from Fox to Field and back again. ‘Why would he lie to me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sophie. But we’d like to know why too.’

  ‘Nick Beddingfield,’ she repeated slowly, staring at the grainy wood of the tabletop. Her head was beginning to swim. She felt dizzy now. Sick, wounded. Could it be true? But why would the police lie? So what else had he been lying about? She made a mental trawl of the last few days, looking for clues, contradictions, inconsistencies in what they had talked about. Had it all been lies? Even his feelings?

  ‘Is he really from Houston?’ she said, feeling her eyes cloud with tears.

  ‘We’re making enquiries.’

  The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room and her tongue was dry.

  ‘Could I have a drink, please?’

  DS Field got up and returned with a plastic cup of water. It didn’t seem to make much difference; it still hurt to swallow.

  ‘Here’s the problem I have, Sophie,’ said Fox. ‘You claim that you have only known this man, what is it? Five days? You also claim you don’t know anything about him – you don’t really know where he’s from beyond perhaps Texas, you’ve never met any of his friends or family, you don’t even really know what he does for a job. And yet, you’re basically living together.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Sophie. ‘I mean, I stayed in his room a few times . . .’

  ‘All a bit quick, isn’t it?’ said DS Field.

  ‘Quick?’

  ‘Well, you meet him on the Thursday, by the Monday you’re shacked up together.’

  ‘We weren’t shacked up,’ protested Sophie. ‘I’d just been seeing him—’