Perfect Strangers by Tasmina Perry Page B

as guests went into the Riverton. Worse, there was a Channel Five film crew setting up on the steps. Not exactly the exclusive she had been led to believe.
    Cursing, Ruth pulled out her mobile, but before she could dial the number, she heard a low whistle. Turning, she saw a familiar face: DC Dan Davis, lurking by the side door. He beckoned her over.
    ‘What’s that film crew doing here?’ she hissed.
    ‘It’s a free country, Ruth. Or hadn’t you heard?’ said Davis, a smile on his face. ‘I can’t help it if that nice bird off the telly turns up, can I?’ He craned his neck around to look at the pretty newsreader standing on the steps.
    ‘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?