Page 67 of Perfect Strangers

‘Just doing my job, unlike you.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he frowned, slamming his door.

‘Mrs Ellis has been burgled, Inspector.’

Fox looked up at the house, concern on his face.

‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it, both mother and daughter burgled within a day of each other?’

‘I’ll let you know when I’ve examined the evidence,’ he said, clearly annoyed to be arriving at the scene after a reporter.

‘So any more details on Nick Beddingfield?’

He moved to walk past her. ‘As you say, I’ve got a job to do.’

‘Come on, Fox,’ said Ruth, invading his personal space. Fox sighed and took a step back from her.

‘We’ve tracked down his mother in LA. She’s distraught, understandably. She’s on a flight out to London, not that she can collect the body just yet.’

‘Where’s she staying?’

‘Oh, give me a break, Boden.’

‘You know I’ll find out, so there’s no point in not telling me.’ She batted her eyelashes at him. ‘For me, Ian?’

Fox gave a hint of a smile.

‘That’s the first time you’ve called me by my Christian name.’

‘I’ll do it again if you tell me where Mrs Beddingfield is staying.’

‘The Horizon Hotel, Paddington. Now get out of here before I accuse you of tampering with evidence. Again.’

She watched him walk up to the house, feeling a moment’s sympathy – for Fox, who had to deliver so much bad news; for Mrs Beddingfield having to fly twelve hours to see her son’s dead body; for Julia Ellis, who was all alone in a house full of ghosts. But as she turned and walked back towards her car, her thoughts were for Sophie Ellis, who had been dragged into this mess through, she suspected, no fault of her own.

‘You will help her, won’t you?’ her mother had said. And she would. Not only was this going to help Sophie, Ruth knew it was the story to help herself.

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‘Get your bag, princess,’ said Josh, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘We’re off.’

‘Where are we going now?’ said Sophie. She had been enjoying their room service picnic – a club sandwich, fruit salad and a bottle of Badoit water. Lounging on the bed, eating off a silver tray, it all seemed decadent and slightly naughty, and she was in no rush to leave the relative safety of the suite.

‘We’re here to find out about Nick, remember?’ said Josh, picking up his jacket. ‘And the obvious place to start will be at his apartment.’

Sophie reluctantly stood and brushed the crumbs off her white ‘Jil Sander’ shirt – another of the fakes from the lock-up he’d brought along. It was a size too small and the buttons were straining slightly, but Sophie still liked the Parisian air it gave her.

‘Aren’t the police going to be there? Surely that’s the first place they are going to check.’

Josh pulled a face. ‘No, because the flat wasn’t his.’

‘Whose was it?’

Josh sighed and opened the door. ‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

They took a cab from the front of the hotel, turning down the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré with its smart boutiques and cafés. She saw a flower stall doing a brisk trade in sunflowers and a baker’s with an art deco frontage and a queue snaking out of the shop. She wound down the window and let the warm air roll over her as Paris passed before her. The honking traffic on the Place de la Concorde, the stateliness of the Tuileries Gardens, the waters of the Seine glinting and flashing as if she were in some Technicolor-drenched movie set.