02 Blue Murder (3 page)

Fourteen Burnaby’s front
garden was encircled by a low fence. Another uniform opened the
gate for Hetheridge and Bhar, hastily pulling on gloves before
touching the wrought iron. Once upon a time, New Scotland Yard
detectives and even police constables had been expected to gather
evidence; Hetheridge still had a box of blue latex-free gloves in
his car’s boot just in case. But nowadays every crime scene was
documented, catalogued and analyzed by specialists—sometimes the
Forensic Science Service, sometimes private scene-of-crime officers
for hire. There was even a small, unpopular contingent who believed
the crime scene should be secured not only from the public but from
the police themselves until the SOCOs completed their efforts. But
the day
that
passed into law, supposing it ever did, was the day Hetheridge
buggered off for good. Modern science was an integral part of most
investigations, but no matter how neatly crimes were solved on
telly—often with just a drop of blood and an errant twig—in the
real world, it took a detective to weave an investigation’s
disparate threads into a solid case. Hetheridge rarely felt more
needed—more alive—than he did at that moment, arriving at the scene
of a fresh murder.

The Wardle house was three stories tall,
with a peaked roof and old-fashioned leaded windows. Its pale brick
exterior was trimmed in black; its red door boasted a brass knocker
and twin brass lanterns. Closer, Hetheridge noted synthetic cobwebs
stretched between the lanterns. A jack-o’-lantern sat on the porch.
It had been carved with some skill—slashed eyes and no nose, just a
wide, ravenous grin. Far above the door, at least three meters up,
sat a CCTV camera.

“
Kincaid! Point your torch
there, will you? There’s a good man.”

The camera’s status light was blinking red.
It had been knocked askew, probably by a rock or similar
projectile, and left pointing at the sky.

“
I want that camera’s
orientation photographed. Tell the SOCOs to check the ground for
whatever might have been tossed at it, in case there are prints,”
Hetheridge told the nearest uniform before pivoting back to
Kincaid. “Where was French discovered?”

PC Kincaid blinked, then began patting
himself down. “French … French … beg pardon, sir, let me find me
notes …”

“
The first victim to be
found. Clive French,” Hetheridge said, not requiring a glance at
Bhar to know he’d remembered correctly. In general Hetheridge
preferred to work without a notebook, relying on memory alone.
“Where was his body discovered?”

“
Oh. Yes, sir. Back garden,
sir. A girl called Sloane said she smelled something bad. Followed
the scent and found a fellow with an axe in his skull. Only
sensible bird in the whole bleeding lot, you ask me. Managed to
answer a few simple questions without babbling or bleating for
Mummy.”

“
Rich, privileged uni kids.
I love ’em, don’t you?” Bhar asked heartily.

“
Oh, aye,” the constable
sighed, his latent Scots accent breaking through. “The lasses get
themselves up like prostitutes, probably because the lads mince
about like poofters. Some generation. You catch the killer, you ask
him why he stopped at two, all right?”

“
Is there an entrance to the
back garden from out here?” Hetheridge asked.

“
On the side. Oi! Merton!
Show these detectives into the garden!”

“
Thank you, Constable,”
Hetheridge said. “May I borrow your torch?”

Looking pleased to assist, the man handed it
over. Training the beam over the house-hugging boxwoods—like the
brass lanterns, they too had been decorated with artificial cobwebs
as well as giant plastic spiders—Hetheridge used the light to
examine the smaller plants hugging 14 Burnaby’s east side. Nothing
seemed out of place.

As they entered the walled garden, its
wrought iron gate creaked. The noise was loud enough to make
Hetheridge and Bhar exchange glances. Withdrawing a silk
handkerchief, Hetheridge wrapped it around his hand before pushing
open the gate a few more times. No matter how he did it—slowly,
quickly or in stages—the gate’s dry hinges emitted a sharp squeal
every time.

“
Hard to miss,” he told
Bhar, leaving the gate ajar so no additional manipulation would
loosen the hinges and degrade the effect. FSS would record the
sound, true, but only if requested. It was yet another small detail
among thousands, inconsequential to scientists overwhelmed by a
double-murder scene but obvious to a detective.

Bhar considered the gate’s elaborate wrought
iron scrollwork. About eight feet tall, it boasted numerous hand
and footholds. “I could climb this, no problem. Any reasonably
agile person could.”

“
But would the murderer know
to climb it?” Hetheridge asked, as much to himself as Bhar. “Would
he or she be aware the gate squeaked?”

A flagstone path led into the back garden, a
verdant space that was quite large for Chelsea. It boasted two oak
trees, each past a hundred years old if Hetheridge was any judge,
and a burbling stone fountain at its very center. Beside that
fountain another uniformed constable waited, no doubt advised of
their approach by police radio. As Hetheridge and Bhar moved
closer, the constable angled his torch at the ground, illuminating
a fallen figure. The beam passed over a white face, open eyes and
parted lips. Torchlight glinted off the axe blade protruding from
his skull.

Squatting a judicious distance from the
body, Hetheridge ignored his arthritic left knee’s twinge of
protest. The moment he admitted that twinge could more properly be
labeled pain, he would begin to settle for stooping, or perhaps
even insist his younger colleagues, like the thirty-something Bhar,
perform his crouching for him. And that would never do.

In death, Clive French looked younger than
twenty, and not just because he’d died wearing his backpack. He had
a round baby face with chipmunk cheeks and protruding front teeth.
In addition to the backpack he wore a fleece zip-up, jeans and
trainers that had seen better days. The axe in the back of his head
was buried deeply in sparse dark hair. Had Clive French lived, he
would have been bald by thirty.

Hetheridge wasn’t sure how long he remained
in that crouch, studying the body. As he arranged the details of
the crime scene in his mind, cataloging each possibility, he heard
a distant clack on flagstones. Bhar didn’t visibly react, but the
two PCs did. Kincaid drew himself up to his full height; the other
uniform made a nervous sound in his throat. The clack on the
flagstones came closer, closer, until a soft hand fell on
Hetheridge’s shoulder.

“
Starting the party without
me, guv?”

Forgetting his left knee altogether,
Hetheridge rose in one smooth movement. Turning, he gave Detective
Sergeant Kate Wakefield a carefully professional smile. She wasn’t
meant to be back from medical leave; by rights, she had another
week. Not that she appeared to need it.

Kate had taken Lady Margaret Knolls’ fashion
advice to heart, at least for the most part. Gone were the
inexpensive frilly suits, the costume jewelry, the cheap scent. Her
tailored jacket-and-skirt combo was the model of career sobriety,
her understated 14-karat gold hoops the only concession to
femininity. Well—that and her knee-high black leather boots and
masses of wild blond hair. Lady Margaret would never approve of the
boots; to her they would be dangerous, signaling youth, sexuality
and an adventurous nature. As for the shoulder-length blond
hair—Lady Margaret had already suggested Kate cut it all off,
opting for a career-elevating pixie or bob instead. Hetheridge knew
better to advise any woman about her wardrobe. But he hoped to God
Kate never cut her hair.

“
Just waiting for you to
catch up, DS Wakefield. I had a notion you wouldn’t take your full
medical leave.”

Kate gave him that familiar sideways smile,
green eyes snapping with amusement. “Nope. I’m fine. Though I meant
to creep close and give you a start,” she admitted,
disappointed.

“
I heard you walk up. Not a
tremendous leap of logic to guess the constables wouldn’t let
anyone but a member of my team stroll into the scene. Besides,”
Hetheridge moved incrementally closer, stopping just short of a
nearness that would strain the bounds of propriety, “Bhar didn’t
react, but these male PCs went quite rigid. Had to be
you.”

Kate leaned closer, leaving only a
centimeter or so between their lips. In moderate heels she was
exactly Hetheridge’s height, making the proximity of their lips a
constant danger.

“
Have a
care. One fine day, I
will
surprise you. Now.” Her tone shifted, suddenly
businesslike. “Is this poor blighter the first of our two dead
partygoers?”

“
Yes,” Hetheridge said.
“Apparently another guest found him after …”

“
Sorry,” the constable
blurted, sounding eager. He straightened nervously when Hetheridge,
Kate and Bhar turned as one to face him. “Don’t mean to speak out
of turn. It’s just that you have one bit wrong, if you’ll excuse my
saying so. Clive French was known to the partygoers, but he wasn’t
a guest. He wasn’t invited.”

Chapter Three

“
Y
ou mean he crashed the party?” Kate
asked.

The PC tried to give Kate attention without
giving her too much attention, Hetheridge noted with amusement. He
understood the dilemma all too well.

“
Yes, according to Ms.
Wardle, Mr. French must have crashed. Seems he wasn’t quite her
sort, if you know what I mean.”

Hetheridge nodded. No doubt Emmeline Wardle,
as the daughter of a frozen foods baron, felt a solemn
responsibility to be particular about those she called friend.

“
Ask my opinion,” the PC
continued, emboldened by Hetheridge’s nod, “it seemed like Ms.
Wardle was less upset by the fact Mr. French was dead than by the
fact he’d set foot on her property at all. Told me at least five
times that he wasn’t a friend and he had no business here. Mind
you, she was off her nut with grief. The other murdered bloke was
her boyfriend. UC rugby star called Trevor Parsons.”

“
Hang on. I knew that name
sounded familiar,” Bhar said. “He was expected to make a brilliant
pro career, wasn’t he?”

“
Not sure. Prefer proper
football meself,” the PC said. “Anyhow, according to witnesses, the
party was in full swing when Mr. Parsons staggered down the stairs,
an axe sticking out of his skull. He pointed at Ms. Wardle. Tried
to say something. Dropped dead. That’s when Ms. Wardle started
screaming blue murder.” The PC’s eyes widened slightly. “And was
still at it when I arrived. One of the women PCs—Buckley—slapped
Ms. Wardle across the face to make her stop. Now the poor girl’s as
hoarse as if she sucked a whole crate of fags. Sight of so much
blood made her go starkers, I reckon.”

Hetheridge nodded gravely. He wished the PC
hadn’t offered that last opinion, but it couldn’t be helped. “Give
me a moment with my team, will you? There’s a good fellow.”

As the PCs obligingly stepped back,
Hetheridge steered Kate and Bhar closer to Clive French’s body.
“Impressions. DS Bhar?”

“
He was taken by surprise,
almost certainly from behind. His fingernails look grossly clear.
No contortions, no signs of a struggle.”

“
I agree. DS
Wakefield?”

“
Body’s been
moved.”

He met Kate’s eyes. “Because?”

“
There’s almost no blood.
Scalp injuries tend to bleed like mad. Blood should be everywhere.
But the ground’s more or less clean.”

Hetheridge smiled, hoping Kate hadn’t been
prompted by the PC’s comment. “Yes, indeed. I was given to
understand the girl who discovered Mr. French—Ms. Sloane, I
believe—responded to a bad odor. What do you say to that?”

“
All I smell is wood
smoke.”

“
Same here,” Bhar said. “I
think—hang on. Borrow your torch, guv?”

Hetheridge handed it over, suppressing a
smile as Bhar used the light to pick out something Hetheridge had
already noticed—a yellow plastic garden hose among the drifts of
fallen leaves. His junior officers followed the hose to a
still-damp pile, grinning like schoolmates. Bhar called, “The fire
was here, guv! Snuffed with a bit of water.”

“
Kincaid.” Hetheridge turned
to the uniformed officer. “Please be so kind as to direct the SOCOs
to that area the very moment they arrive. I suspect Mr. French was
killed there, and traces of his blood may lie beneath the burnt
leaves. With any luck FSS will be able to—”

From his coat pocket, Hetheridge’s mobile
vibrated. Hetheridge sighed. But one glance at the INCOMING screen
told him the interruption was unavoidable. The caller was Assistant
Commissioner Michael Deaver.

“
Excuse me.” Turning his
back on the other officers, Hetheridge walked as far away as the
walled garden permitted before saying: “Hetheridge.”

“
Tony, your scene is out of
control. You need to lock it down. Now.”

“
I’ve only just arrived.
Everything looks reasonably secure. What’s wrong?”

“
The young woman hosting
the party, Emmeline Wardle, rang 999 a quarter hour ago.” Deaver
sounded harried. “She accused the Met of brutality and false
arrest. Psychological torture, if you can believe it, because the
PCs detained her inside the house with her dead
boyfriend.”