Free The Outcast Dead by Elly Griffiths Page A

forty-five. So she gives Kate a quick kiss, says goodbye to Sandra and dives back into her car.
    She feels fine until she gets to the university. Then, as she’s parking outside the Natural Sciences block, she sees her hands shaking on the wheel. She turns off the ignition and notices, with a kind of detached interest, that now her whole body is shivering. For God’s sake Ruth, she says to her reflection in the driving mirror, pull yourself together. You’ve got to impress Phil’s TV mates. She attempts a professional-looking smile but realises that she’s grinning like a loon. And now she can’t stop smiling. It’s as if she’s had four cups of espresso, a totally spaced-out feeling, not unpleasant in a way, but not terribly helpful today of all days.
    She manages to stop smiling and shaking as she climbs the stairs. Calm, she tells herself, calm and professional. Oh God, where’s her scarf, her cool TV scarf? She feels at her neck. She must have left it in the car or even at the side of the road where she had the accident. Never mind, you don’t need a scarf to look like a good archaeologist. She pushes open the door to Phil’s office.
    The room seems to be full of people. Dimly, as if looking through water, Ruth sees Phil, a woman in jeans and a tall, grey-haired man.
    Phil is doing the introductions. ‘And this is Frank Barker, the celebrated historian,’ he is saying. ‘PoorFrank’s a bit shaken up. He had a shunt on the way here. Some woman driver.’
    And Ruth realises that Frank is holding her red scarf, like the favour of some fallen knight.

CHAPTER 10
    Ruth stands frozen to the spot. ‘You,’ she says at last.
    The man, Frank Barker, is looking equally stunned. He glances down at the scarf and then back to Ruth as if wondering how the two came to be in the same room.
    ‘My God,’ he says. ‘It was you …’
    Phil, who has been looking rather put-out (he doesn’t approve of tension unless he is the cause of it), says suddenly, ‘Oh I see! Ruth – you were the woman driver. That’s priceless.’
    ‘It was entirely my fault,’ says Frank.
    ‘Sue him, Ruth,’ says the woman, who has remained seated, her face impassive. ‘Sue him for every penny he’s got.’
    ‘It’s no big deal,’ says Ruth, sitting down at the conference table. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’
    ‘You had to drop your daughter off,’ says Frank. ‘How is she?’
    ‘Fine,’ says Ruth shortly. She doesn’t like the way that Phil is still chuckling and the woman (what was her name? Danielle something) is still staring at her.
    ‘Here,’ Frank pulls out a chair. ‘Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.’ Ruth sees a cafetiere and real china cups laid out on a tray. Phil must have brought them from home. The university only runs to plastic cups from a vending machine. There are biscuits too.
    ‘Are you sure you haven’t got whiplash?’ says Phil. ‘You can make a mint out of whiplash claims.’
    ‘Just another way for lawyers to get rich,’ says the woman, leaning forward to fill up her cup.
    ‘I haven’t got whiplash,’ says Ruth, through gritted teeth. ‘I’m fine. It’s no big deal. Shall we get on with the meeting?’
    ‘Good idea,’ says Phil. ‘Now that the two experts have bumped into each other, ha ha.’
    Ruth is pleased to see that no-one else laughs. The woman, who turns out to be the producer, hands out glossy information packs showing a shadowy figure of a woman brandishing a knife.
    ‘This is the franchise,’ she says briskly. Her voice is an odd mixture of transatlantic drawl and upper-class English. ‘
Women Who Kill
is a series about notorious woman murderers. It tends to be a bit sensationalist. Corinna Lewis presents it and she’s not exactly one for subtlety, but I’ve been called in to do this one and I want it to be a bit different, more accurate historically. That’s why I want to involve Frank here.’
    ‘So not too many close-ups of the famous hook,’ laughs Phil.