02 Blue Murder (10 page)

“
Sounds like you kept up
with her, though,” Kate said. From the corner of her eye, she saw
Hetheridge shake his head almost imperceptibly. Why? Did she come
off like a prickly, grudge-bearing bitch to him, too?

“
I mean, if it comes to it,”
Kate continued, watching Bhar’s face, “maybe you should question
Ms. Chilcott in regards to this case. If only to show you survived
a knife in the back. That your career’s still thriving, despite her
best efforts?”

“
No need,” Bhar continued,
taking another sip of his drink. “Tessa’s renewed friendship with
Sir Duncan didn’t last long. Then she stabbed a stranger to death
and was committed soon after to a psychiatric hospital. There she
remains. Probably for life, unless she’s improved in the last year
or so.”

Appalled, Kate glanced at
Hetheridge for assistance. His expression was completely
inscrutable. Yet something in those ice blue eyes seemed to
say,
I did try and warn you. Dig your own
self out.

“
I see. Well. Right. Which
psych hospital?” Kate asked Bhar.

She expected him to demand how that could
possibly be any of her concern, but he didn’t. Perhaps something in
her crisp, businesslike tone lent the question legitimacy.

“
Parkwood.”

“
I knew it had to be that,
or St. Joseph’s. My older sister’s at Parkwood.”

“
Is that so?” Bhar feigned
interest rather poorly. “Is your sister a doctor or a ward
sister?”

“
Neither. She’s a resident.”
Kate gave Bhar a moment to absorb her meaning. She’d never told
anyone this outside her own meager family, or beyond those who
absolutely had to know, like paid carers and social workers.
“Maura’s a paranoid schizophrenic.”

“
I’m sorry,” Bhar
murmured.

Kate risked a quick glance at Hetheridge. He
said nothing.

“
Well.
Yes. Thanks.” Kate forced out the words from long habit. “Maura
self-medicated her early symptoms with drugs — street drugs, mostly
heroin — but eventually no one could cope with her and she had to
be committed. It’s dreadful, seeing someone you care about
disappear into a place like that. Even a decent place, a place
where they try to do right by the residents, is still what it is —
one of
those
places, if you get me. I’m sure you despised Tessa for what
she did to you, Paul. But I know you wouldn’t have wished a fate
like that on her. Not even if you wanted her
dead.”

Bhar looked at the floor.

Kate, exhausted by her impromptu speech, had
no idea where to go next. She also felt reluctant to turn back and
meet Hetheridge’s gaze, now that she’d impulsively revealed why she
had custody of her eight-year-old nephew, Henry. She didn’t want
Hetheridge’s pity. In fact, she couldn’t bear it.

“
Well. Thank you both,”
Hetheridge said in his coolest tones. “Not that all this family
background isn’t fascinating, but we seem to have wandered far
afield. DS Bhar, before you arrived, DS Wakefield and I had
gravitated, unbidden, to the notion of a killer who was also an
invited guest to Ms. Wardle’s party. Someone who saw the event as
an opportunity to commit double murder and arrived prepared to do
so. But we have yet to seriously discuss the other possibility.
That an intruder entered the Wardle property by way of the garden,
killed Clive French, slipped into the house, killed Trevor Parsons,
then legged it amidst the resulting chaos.”

“
You mean an intruder other
than Sir Duncan?” Kate asked.

“
Yes. No. Either,”
Hetheridge smiled. “The PCs on-scene claimed they caught each and
every escapee and dragged them back. Suppose they didn’t? Are we
remiss in failing to discuss the possibility of an intruder?
Especially in a confused scene filled with drugs and alcohol? A
setting in which a simple disguise — perhaps just a rubber
Halloween mask — might allow a total stranger to pass
through?”

Chapter Nine

T
he
possibility of an intruder in the French-Parsons case meant New
Scotland Yard would muster a more extensive team effort than DS
Wakefield had yet participated in. If the inquiry went on long
enough, or kept expanding, it was entirely possible she and DS Bhar
might end up supervising ten or twenty subordinates each. The idea
made Kate’s ambitious side, never dormant for long, perk up. During
her first major investigation as a member of Hetheridge’s team,
she’d distinguished herself by making the intuitive leaps necessary
to break the case. She’d also chased after a hunch without proper
backup and nearly gotten herself killed in the bargain. How sweet
it would be to fully redeem herself in the course of the
French-Parsons investigation. To prove to everyone, including
herself, that she hadn’t gotten lucky, that she wasn’t just a
one-off …

With a start, Kate realized Hetheridge was
still speaking. Surprised at herself for losing the thread, Kate
sat up straight to listen.

“…
anything FSS is prepared
to provide. Anything the victims carried on their persons, if they
appear to have been robbed by the killer, et cetera,” he said. “It
may help determine if there actually was some connection between
the two men.

“
Now. Detective Bhar, I
understand Ms. Wardle has been released into the custody of her
parents. Given the nature of her arrest and the fact she appears
bent on suing the Met as a whole, as well as me personally,”
Hetheridge permitted himself a small smile, “I shan’t be conducting
her second interview myself. Read my report and go in my place. See
what you can winkle out of her.” He glanced from Bhar to Kate.
“Questions?”

“
Just one. Sir Duncan,” Bhar
said. “We can’t ignore the fact he lives right next door to the
crime scene. God knows the media is already in a feeding frenzy.
May I assume we’ll be questioning him before much
longer?”

“
Absolutely. Tomorrow night,
as a matter of fact, if all goes as planned,” Hetheridge
said.

“
Tomorrow night?” Kate
echoed. She could tell how much he relished his subordinates’
surprise, even if Bhar could not.

“
Indeed. Sir Duncan is to be
guest of honor at his sister’s Halloween party,” Hetheridge
continued. “Her home is in Mayfair — a stone’s throw from mine, as
a matter of fact. My good friend Lady Margaret Knolls, who’s
invited to every event worth the bother of attending, has managed
to secure an invitation for me and a guest. I’d like Kate to
accompany me. Together we can ambush Sir Duncan in a venue where
his social instincts will require him to answer our questions with
all due courtesy.”

“
What about all due
honesty?” Bhar asked.

“
No venue on earth can
guarantee that. Still, I feel if I speak to Sir Duncan — if I look
him in the eye — I can determine if he’s a crucial piece of the
puzzle, or just another blind alley,” Hetheridge said.

Soon after, Bhar left to check on the
Incident Room, then re-interview Emmeline Wardle. This left Kate
the opportunity to speak to Hetheridge alone — or would have, had
Mrs. Snell not chosen that moment to come in. Her pin curls were
slightly bluer, Kate noticed, and she wore more makeup than usual.
Somehow Mrs. Snell’s thin lips looked even smaller when painted
with so much red.

“
Hot date tonight, Mrs. S?”
Kate asked.

The look Mrs. Snell turned on her could have
frozen lava. “I beg your pardon, detective sergeant?”

Hetheridge cleared his throat. “I do hate to
be a bother, Mrs. Snell, but if you could post this right away,
overnight, I’d be ever so grateful. Also — Assistant Commissioner
Deaver’s birthday approaches. If you could look into something
appropriate for him, that would be wonderful.”

“
Of course, Chief
Inspector.” Mrs. Snell smiled her ghastly smile for Hetheridge.
Then she swept out of the office without sparing Kate so much as a
glance.

“
I do wish,” Hetheridge
sighed as soon as his administrative assistant was gone, “you would
reconsider this habit of teasing the poor woman. She’s done nothing
to deserve it.”

“
She’s the leader of a vast
army of the undead,” Kate countered. “And she hates me.”

“
God knows why. May I
presume you intend to spend the day in some useful manner?
Re-interviewing Kyla Sloane, perhaps, about the phantom man in the
Wardles’ back garden?”

“
Not until I’ve done all my
research. FSS hasn’t released any data from the house’s CCTV
cameras, for one thing. But did I hear you right? Am I accompanying
you to some sort of society gala?” Kate asked. Her tone was
perfectly professional. Inside, however, she was terrified by the
prospect of appearing in “society” — whatever that actually meant —
on Hetheridge’s arm.

“
Yes.” Hetheridge used the
brisk tone Kate now recognized as one of his absolute commands.
“See that you wear something appropriate. Black, body-conscious.
Simple. Use a rental agency and put the fee on your expense
account. Jewelry should be one piece only, and dramatic. Contact
Lady Margaret if you need assistance in that area. She’s offered to
lend you the right sort of things.”

Kate felt her jaw drop. With a supreme
effort, she managed to close her mouth. “Well. I see. Any advice on
my hair, guv? Or can that be left to my discretion?”

“
Up. Elegant. Ask a stylist
to give you a French twist.”

“
Right.” To Kate’s horror,
she felt herself beginning to blush. “Well. Brilliant. I don’t know
whether I should be relieved by your practicality or insulted by
your assumption I don’t know how to dress myself.”

“
Relief is the correct
emotion. Believe me. I’ve suffered through more of these affairs
than I can count,” Hetheridge said. “If you don’t blend with the
crowd, you might as well be in sackcloth and ashes. Which would
make no difference to me — except a detective in sackcloth and
ashes has lost her predatory advantage. Kate — Sir Duncan knows me.
He doesn’t know you. My plan is for you to slip up on him. If you
to turn up looking like a copper on the job, he’ll be on alert from
the start.”

“
You’ve
forgotten how I speak. My accent isn’t exactly Mayfair. Shall I
take a gander at
My Fair
Lady
? Memorize the best bits of
Pretty Woman
?”

“
Nonsense. Kate.” Hetheridge
rose, crossing to the other side of the desk. A kiss, Kate
realized, astonished all over again. The arrogant, blue-blooded son
of a gun expected a kiss.

“
I hope you’ll be moved to
consider the occasion something of a date, rather than merely a
working assignment,” Hetheridge said, leaning closer.

Kate gave an unladylike snort. “Not bloody
likely!” Her East End bray, usually under tight control, came
through loud and clear as she snatched up her coat and bag. “Sorry,
guv, but what you’ve just described sounds like nothing but a pain
in my arse.”

And with that Kate strode off, closing
Hetheridge’s door a bit too hard and ignoring Mrs. Snell’s wide
smile.

* * *

N
o
one at Forensic Services seemed inclined to drop what they were
doing and answer Kate’s questions about initial findings in the
French-Parsons case, so Kate had to settle for leaving her name and
mobile number. With no desire to turn a corner and run into
Hetheridge anytime soon, she wandered down to the third floor,
where a bullpen of minimally appointed desks were up for grabs for
any officer who needed them. Each desk, as greasy and
battle-scarred as a primary school reject, was allotted a
telephone, a slow computer, a grotty old mouse and an even grottier
old mouse pad.

Settling into a desk near the back corner,
Kate found some previous user had replaced the blue Met Police
Service mouse pad with a Hot Jugs version featuring a bare-breasted
cover girl. Even the computer’s standard Met wallpaper had been
replaced with a new background — a topless woman who was bare south
of the border, too. Wearing a constable’s hat, she fondled a black
police baton as if she might kiss it, or worse. The caption read,
RECRUIT ME AND SACK THE FAT DYKE BRIGADE.

Kate bit her lip. She didn’t mind if her
mostly male colleagues enjoyed dirty pictures or an un-PC joke. And
when it came to criticizing such behavior, God knew the Met’s
females had to tread lightly. The old boy crowd drooped like limp
fish fingers when confronted, whining to Assistant Commissioner
Deaver and anyone else who would listen, “Those birds have no
fecking sense of humor!” Bare tits on a mouse pad? Kate didn’t
care. Officer Sexy as computer wallpaper? She’d seen much worse.
But that caption? No. That took the joke one step over the line.
Why did the old boy crowd always have to drag their adolescent
fantasies into the real world?

Why do they pretend they’d
rather serve with strippers instead of so-called fat dykes like
me?
Kate, neither overweight nor gay, had
given up correcting the assumptions about what sort of woman chose
the Met as a career. She no longer cared if her colleagues
disapproved of her body type or harbored stereotypical notions
about gender roles. What infuriated her was the seemingly
indestructible notion that for female officers, sexual availability
trumped skill, courage and dedication to duty.

Heaven help these men if
they were ever held to the same standard
,
Kate thought.
Most of them could stand to
lose a stone or two. Even then, they’d need new clothes and a
celebrity stylist to make them presentable. Lucky me — I work with
the only two attractive men at the Yard.