Page 78 of Perfect Strangers

‘We didn’t speak every day like some families; in fact I might not hear from him for weeks at a time. So if you’re asking why he was killed, I don’t know.’ She looked down at her coffee again. ‘But I can guess it was to do with money.’

Ruth sensed a story here, but she was experienced enough to know when to ask questions and when to let a subject speak, and Barbara Beddingfield seemed like a woman who wanted, needed to talk.

‘I’m just a normal mom, I guess,’ she continued. ‘All I wanted was for Nick to get a regular job, meet a nice girl, settle down and bring the grandkids over on a Sunday. But I guess we weren’t the sort of family you see in TV ads. We weren’t really a family at all, when it came down to it.’

‘But Mrs Beddingfield—’

‘Ah, that’s just it,’ she smiled sadly. ‘I’m not a “Mrs”. I never married Nick’s father – I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘He was already married, Ruth,’ she said. ‘I guess you’d call me a mistress. Nick’s dad was a wealthy guy, powerful, but he was never going to leave his wife. For a while that didn’t matter to me, because I was happy to take whatever he could give. And he was good to us – for a few years, anyway. But then I guess he found a younger model and he stopped coming around so much. And then the money stopped coming too. I think that was why Nick wanted to make money so much, and why he didn’t care how he did it, what rules he had to bend.’

Ruth’s inner instinct was tingling again.

‘Are you saying Nick was involved in criminal activity?’ she said, trying to hide her excitement. This could be an interesting twist. She had assumed the line about Nick being a wealthy businessman was straight up – had Fox been holding something back?

‘I’m saying I’m his mother and I didn’t like to ask too many questions, but I’m not stupid. I see things, hear things, even out in LA.’

‘You didn’t see him much?’

‘Whoever knew where Nick would be? He had his apartment in Houston, but you’d get a postcard from Maui or an email saying he was in France, then suddenly he’d pop up needing to stay for a week. I never expected him for Thanksgiving, put it that way.’

‘So what do you think he was involved in?’ Ruth asked gently. ‘Drugs?’

Barbara shook her head, her tanned face creased with disappointment.

‘Maybe that would have been better in a way; at least then I could con myself that he was hooked. No, Nick was arrested four years ago for fraud. Something to do with trying to get money from a woman by deception. He had a good attorney and got off, but I’m not sure he learnt his lesson.’

She looked at Ruth again.

‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know any more than that. I’d be the last person Nick confided in if he was doing anything illegal. Maybe you should try asking his girlfriend.’

‘Sophie Ellis? The girl from the Riverton?’

‘No, her name’s Jeanne Parsons,’ said Barbara wearily. ‘Nick was always very vague about her, but I went to visit him in Houston once and I saw post addressed to her.’

Ruth quickly wrote down the name.

‘Maybe this will help too,’ said Barbara, opening her handbag. She handed Ruth a photograph of Nick as a younger man. ‘You can keep it, I had some copies done for the police.’

He was in his early twenties, Ruth guessed, and was leaning proudly against a motorbike, a semi-ironic gesture of rebellion. The Wild One indeed, thought Ruth. Nicholas Beddingfield had certainly been handsome, and even in this static picture he exuded a certain something: charisma probably. Maybe even sexiness, although Ruth felt uncomfortable thinking of him in that way. After all, the only time she had seen him in the flesh was when he was lying dead on the floor of the bathroom in the Riverton.

Barbara snapped the bag closed and stood up. As she did so, she clutched Ruth’s hand. ‘You will try to find out, won’t you?’ she said, a look of pain on her face. ‘I know he wasn’t perfect, but he was my little boy. That’s how I’ll always think of him. I know you can’t bring him back, but no one should be allowed to get away with what they did.’

‘I’ll do all I can, Mrs Beddingfield,’ said Ruth.

‘Promise me,’ she said urgently. ‘Please.’

‘I will. I promise.’

Ruth watched the woman walk out, her shoulders hunched with grief, wondering if she herself would ever feel such joy and pain. Then she pulled out her mobile and scrolled to the Tribune’s office number.

‘Chuck, it’s Ruth. Get on to the Washington office. I’ve got a name and I need them to track someone down.’

23

Montmartre was every bit as beautiful as Sophie had imagined it would be. The sinking sun cast long shadows down the narrow cobbled streets, bathing everything in a warm orange glow. She gazed at the windows of