02 Blue Murder (24 page)

“
Unofficial means we’re once
again treating Lady Margaret’s opinion as fact, doesn’t it?” Bhar
rolled his eyes. “It can’t be good, always turning to that old bat
for gossip. How do we know she doesn’t just have it in for
Emmeline’s dad? Lady Margaret always struck me as a bit of a
man-hater.”

“
Oh, please. Lady Margaret
doesn’t hate all men. Just you.” Kate buttered her toast with
vigor. “Anyway, it explains why the Wardles are trying to sue the
Met over that vase. The silly thing was all they had left. Though I
do plan on asking Kyla Sloane why she smashed it.”

“
Phoebe told us why,” Bhar
said. “During a catfight with Emmeline over the apparently
irresistible Trevor Parsons.”

Kate made a scornful noise. “Yes, of course,
Phoebe Paquette. Now there’s a disinterested witness. The woman
Trevor Parsons knocked up, making accusations and even stapling
motives onto her rivals. Both of whom she’s hated for years.”
Delving into Harvey’s homemade blackberry jam, Kate spread a thick
layer atop her butter-soaked toast. “I don’t necessarily doubt Kyla
threw that vase. But if she did, why aren’t the Wardles suing Kyla?
Besides—Kyla seemed so well controlled. It was the first thing I
noticed about her.” Kate took a bite of toast.

“
Back to your evil ways, I
see. Butter and jam. Given up on slimming?” Bhar put on
mock-sympathetic look, as if ready to hear her
confession.

Kate took her time chewing. “I heard you
prefer slim girls,” she said at last, “so I’m stuffing my gob as
fast as I can.”

“
Is that a
fact? Well. Just so happens
I’ve
heard—” Bhar stopped. He didn’t seem to know how
to continue, his look of triumph fading away.

Hetheridge, a forkful of eggs halfway to his
mouth, also halted. So did Kate. No one spoke.

Kate shot Hetheridge a quick, guarded
glance. Bhar did the same, meeting Hetheridge’s eyes for a half
second. Then he turned back to Kate, giving her what he no doubt
hoped was a nonchalant shrug.

“
I’ve heard nothing but
sunshine and daisies,” he finished woodenly.

“
Brilliant. Can’t tell you
how goddamn relieved I am.” Kate pushed her plate away.

Hetheridge cleared his throat. He’d used
this trick many times before—the loud, theatric interruption always
produced the desired response. Kate and Bhar snapped to
attention.

“
I enjoy gossip and rumors
as much as the next man. Particularly if that man pries into
secrets and lies for a living.” Leaning back in his chair,
Hetheridge regarded his junior officers steadily. “I believe there
will need to be a reckoning between the three of us, and soon. But
just for now, just for this discussion, let’s focus on Clive French
and Trevor Parsons. At the end of the day, capturing their killer
is more important than office gossip. Agreed?”

“
Agreed,” Bhar
said.

“
Of course,” Kate
said.

“
I’ve read every pertinent
bit of data provided by the Incident Room manager,” Hetheridge
continued, gesturing toward the table’s center. Between the tea
service and the rasher of bacon, Harvey’s bowl of yellow
chrysanthemums had been replaced with a stack of affidavits,
photocopies and printouts, all pertaining to the French-Parsons
case. “According to FSS, there were no useable prints on the axe
handles, just a lot of partials, which may date back to when they
were on offer in the hardware store. Therefore, the killer probably
wore gloves.

“
DCI Jackson and two DIs
spent a good deal of time cross-referencing statements to try and
determine who was last seen with Trevor Parsons. The consensus is
Emmeline Wardle and Kyla Sloane.”

“
Nothing about Quinton
Baylor?” Bhar asked.

“
Not according to DCI
Jackson’s report.”

“
Like I’d
ever hang my hat on anything
he
signed off on,” Kate snorted.

“
Noted.” Hetheridge
repressed a smile. “At least point, I’m still not convinced
Emmeline Wardle is Murder Boy, as Kate calls our killer. Kyla
Sloane, we’ll discuss in a moment. Of the male partygoers, it must
be noted that Quinton Baylor has two motives for killing Trevor
Parsons, as he’s taken Mr. Parsons’ place in two arenas—on the
rugby pitch and in Ms. Wardle’s affections, at least for the time
being.”

“
Phoebe Paquette isn’t
spotless,” Bhar said. “We only have her word that she and Trevor
Parsons were on the verge of getting back together. Something to
ask Kyla Sloane about. And Jeremy Bentham has a motive, too. He
obviously plans to marry Phoebe, assuming she’ll have him. If he
knew Phoebe and Trevor were close to patching things up …” Bhar
shrugged, trailing off.

“
But why would anyone kill
Clive French?” Kate asked.

“
That does seem to be the
sticking point. Suggesting the act itself was the point, not the
victims. Bringing us back to Sir Duncan,” Hetheridge said. “And
despite the rather stunning fact that he was indeed on the Wardle
premises during the time of the murders, I don’t like him for MB,
either.”

“
Why?” Bhar looked
startled.

“
Because Sir Duncan told me
he did not put the axe to those children’s skulls. His precise
words, more or less. He told me, and I believed him.”

Kate, too, appeared incredulous. Not for the
first time, Hetheridge was tempted to chuckle at his subordinates’
transparent dismay. They were still young enough to pounce
wholeheartedly on the biggest, shiniest element, often missing
smaller glimmers in the background.

“
I doubt Sir Duncan ever
felt remorse for any of his crimes,” Hetheridge continued. “Not for
the eight poachers in Borneo and not for his father, brother or
family butler. But when Sir Duncan mentioned the axe murders, he
looked disgusted. At the very least, disapproving.” Hetheridge
turned to Kate. “Would you agree?”

“
I don’t know,” Kate said.
“Can’t say I’ve formulated a unified theory of Sir Duncan
Godington. I only know he’s very smart, very confident and very …
well, full of himself.”

“
So naturally, the ladies
love him.” Bhar sounded more than a little bitter.

“
Probably.” Kate replied
seriously. “My point is, he’s no typical killer, acting on impulse
and then confessing to the first copper on the scene. Sir Duncan is
a born manipulator. I wouldn’t take his word on
anything.”

Hetheridge rifled through the stack of
case-related documents, assuring himself that what he needed wasn’t
there. It would be possible to answer to his next question by
quietly asking another detective to handle the inquiry. But doing
that would humiliate DS Bhar more than asking the man outright.

“
About Tessa Chilcott. Are
we quite certain she remains in full-time residential psychiatric
care?” Hetheridge asked Bhar. “No daytrips or weekend breaks? No
transfer to a part-time facility? I trust you understand what I’m
getting at.” He held up the relevant CCTV photo, tapping the image
of a faceless female with long, dark hair. “No appearances in a
Chelsea back garden, far-fetched as the notion might
be?”

“
I’m sure that’s
impossible.” Bhar pushed his plate aside, dropping his white linen
napkin on top. “But after I saw that picture, I made a formal
inquiry. She’s made significant progress since I last checked in.
Three times now, she’s been allowed visitation with her family. The
first two visits were supervised, and lasted forty-eight hours. The
most recent visitation, in the custody of her family, lasted a full
seven days.”

“
When was it?” Hetheridge
keep his voice neutral.

Bhar let out an explosive sigh. “All right.
About two weeks ago. So yes, Tessa was away from Parkwood the night
of the murders. But she—” He stopped, struggling to moderate his
tone. “From what her case manager told me, Tessa is always doped to
the eyeballs and never left alone. The idea that she could pop into
the Wardle Halloween party with an axe in each hand and kill two
random men …”

“
Even though she walked down
a London street with a knife in her coat and killed a random
woman?” Kate asked. “Sorry—I’m not trying to be cruel, I’m really
not. But we have to look at this objectively. You know a defense
counsel would play up an idea like that for all it’s
worth.”

“
Let’s not theorize about a
future defense counselor just yet,” Hetheridge said. “Since you
checked in with Tessa’s case manager, DS Bhar, tell me this. Has
she had any visitors of note in the last six months?”

“
Her mother, once in the
last eighteen months,” Bhar said stiffly, obviously still offended
by Kate’s remark. “Sir Duncan, three times in the last eighteen
months. A person listed as Kyla Chilcott six times in the last
three months,” Bhar said. “And of course, Kyla’s original birth
certificate confirms her relationship to Tessa. Sloane is her
mother’s maiden name.”

“
I don’t blame her for
changing it,” Kate said. “It’s tough enough in school these days.”
She was nibbling her toast again.

“
A changed name,” Hetheridge
said slowly. “That reminds me. I should put a PC on it, checking
the legalities of all the party guests’ names. Just to prevent
another surprise in this age of remarriages, sex reassignment
surgery, etc.”

Bhar and Kate stared at him, speechless.

“
I have heard of such
things,” Hetheridge added, irritated by their incredulity. “My old
mentor used to say, inattention to detail is the criminal’s best
friend. We already have one suspect with a new name. Why not check
for another? In the meantime, a picture is forming …” He drew in
his breath. “Specifically, of Kyla and Sir Duncan committing these
murders. But why? Why kill Clive French, the boy no one liked, and
also Trevor Parsons, the popular athlete? Why on the same night, in
the same way? In a venue with potentially dozens of witnesses,
should any part of the murders go wrong?”

“
Madness?” Kate suggested.
“Killing two random people for—” She seemed about to say, “for
sport,” then stopped. “For no reason except to kill
them?”

“
Well, that’s Sir Duncan’s
motivation, isn’t it? Bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed?” Bhar
didn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

“
Is it?” Hetheridge held
Bhar’s gaze until he knew he had the younger man’s full attention.
“Sir Duncan’s only passion is nature conservation. His prey in the
jungles of Borneo? Eight poachers. Men who slaughtered endangered
great apes for the equivalent of a pound or two …”

“
So
he
says,” Bhar
interjected.

“
And at home, Sir Duncan’s
crimes were quite personal. I make no excuse for them. I merely
state they were not random. As Kate already pointed out, Tessa
Chilcott’s crime was random, in public, in view of several
witnesses. Either the product of utter derangement, or a twisted
cry for help, or both. My point,” Hetheridge said more firmly,
sensing Bhar’s rising emotion and determined not to let it derail
the discussion, “is I find it hard to accept that Kyla Sloane, or
Chilcott, or whatever her legal name, has been so mesmerized by the
influence of her elder sister and Emmeline Wardle’s neighbor, she
murdered two schoolmates for fun.”

“
Maybe it wasn’t for fun,”
Kate said. “Maybe she had other reasons, and just turned to Tessa
and Sir Duncan to work out the practicalities.”

“
What do you
mean?”

“
Well, Tessa killed someone
and was put away for the foreseeable future. Sir Duncan killed
several people and got off. Maybe if Kyla had reason enough to hate
both Clive French and Trevor Parsons, she decided to get rid of
them. And she wanted to hear about the nuts and bolts of murder
from a person who succeeded and a person who failed.”

Hetheridge turned that over in his mind.
“Did she strike you as so cold? So perfectly balanced, to murder
two men with an axe after polling the experts?”

Kate considered. “She struck me as
controlled for a twenty- or twenty-one-year-old. For a girl who’s
always run with the right crowd. Who’s never been in trouble. But
she broke when I mentioned the smashed vase. I mean, she’s not cold
to the marrow.”

“
So now instead of Tessa,
it’s Kyla who strolled into the party carrying two real axes, and
no one said a word?” Bhar asked.

“
Someone did.” Kate finished
off her buttered toast and jam. “Probably in a backpack. Most of
the males had them, they’re everywhere these days. But since Kyla
and Emmeline organized the party, they could have brought the
weapons in earlier—maybe several days earlier. You’re the one who
discovered both girls are athletes—swim team and archery, right?
They aren’t exactly weaklings.”

Bhar sighed. “These are great intellectual
theories, as far as purely intellectual theories go. Has FSS sent
us any evidence that ties into it?”

“
Yes and no.” Hetheridge
referred back to the pile of papers. “The CCTV data from W. C.
Marsden has been reviewed. Recall that both axes were new. One
still bore its price sticker. Two days before the murder, they were
purchased by someone the clerk cannot recall. Having spoken to the
clerk myself,” he sighed, “I imagine it’s difficult for the young
man to remember anything, given his obvious penchant for smoking
cannabis before a shift. But the shop’s camera, at least, provided
a photo of the customer in question.”