Page 14 of Murder Most Actual

That implied a follow-up question. “Then why do you trust me?”

Ruby moved in the dark; something that might have been a mop fell sideways with a clunk that seemed very loud, but at that moment what Liza was mostly conscious of was an overwhelming closeness. “Monsieur Belloc may be pompous, absurd, and almost certainly using a fake accent—then again, so am I—but he is not exaggerating the danger Mr B poses. He has spies everywhere, he has agents everywhere, but even he, I think, would be unlikely to have one of his operatives spend two years co-hosting a popular true crime podcast just to set up a cover story. Apart from Belloc and Sir Richard Quirke, you’re the only person in this building I can be reasonably certain is who they say they are.”

“So why not go to one of them?”

The tone of Ruby’s voice was almost disappointed. “Because they’re lawmen. Or law-adjacent, in Quirke’s case. I can’t trust either of them not to hand me over to the police the moment the snow clears.” She gave a heavy, almost regretful sigh. “I have not lived a good life, Ms Blaine. Or an honest life. But I have lived a wonderful life, and I would like it to continue for a long time, and for that time to be spent outside prison.”

“And you think I won’t go to the police?” Liza wasn’t sure if that was flattering or insulting.

“With you, I think I at least have a chance.”

There was something loaded in that. “What sort of a chance?”

“Why, Ms Blaine.” Ruby’s very full, very red lips curled into a wicked smile. “Whatever sort of chance you’d like to give me.”

“You know you can call me Liza, right?”

Ruby laughed in the dark. “I’m sure I can, but I like to reserve a person’s given name for when I’m sighing in their ear.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Liza,” in a tone that could only be described as orgasmic.

“Does this whole … this classic femme fatale thing really work for you?” asked Liza, trying very hard to pretend that she couldn’t see exactly how it would.

“As a poet once said, I have a very particular set of skills. Skills that have served me well so far; they have kept me alive and comfortable, and made certain that I am never bored.” Ruby gave another of her contemplative exhalations. “Also, I just really like to fuck.”

“You know I’m a married woman.”

Once more, Liza could make out the edge of a smile in the darkness. “Do you really think I find either of those things off-putting?”

“Just—can you just keep this about the murder and the terrible danger we’re apparently all in, please?”

A sigh. “Very well. I will tell you what I can. Some of what I can, at any rate. I still don’t entirely trust you.”

“Because you think I might be honest, or because I’m not going to have sex with you?”

“Not going to have sex with me right now. Always keep your options open.”

This was getting irritating. “You really think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

“Just being realistic, darling. I assure you I would blow your mind.”

“My wife blows my mind,” replied Liza only slightly defensively.

Ruby made a sound that in a less poised person might have been called a snort. “I strongly suspect that’s a lie, or at least that it hasn’t been true for some time. But in any case, I will tell you three things.”

“If we’re in danger why not tell me all of the things?”

“My life depends on candour; my freedom depends on caution. You see the dilemma.”

“A dilemma that would miraculously vanish if I let you eat me out in a broom closet?”

Somehow, Ruby managed to convey a raised eyebrow entirely vocally. “My, my, you did go quickly to specifics. But yes, that is rather the size of it. And really, when you put it that way, doesn’t it sound like a bit of a win-win from your perspective?”

Liza gave her a resolute look. “Still married.”

“‘I’m married’ is to sex,” drawled Ruby—she was one of nature’s drawlers—”what ‘I’m on a diet’ is to chocolate. It means ‘I want to, but society is telling me I shouldn’t.’”

“It means ‘It might feel good in the moment, but there would be real consequences I’d have to live with.’” Liza did her best not to think too much about either the feelings or the consequences. They were both distracting in different ways.

“So you do admit it would feel good?”

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