02 Blue Murder (8 page)

“
What?” Bhar bellowed down
the stairs. “What in the name of God is so important?”

Sharada Bhar appeared at the foot of the
staircase. Short and plump with an impish face, she had a genius
for regaining her own tranquility after pushing Bhar over the edge.
The look she turned on him now was utterly serene.

“
There is no need to shout
or be profane.”

“
I haven’t yet begun to be
profane,” Bhar said in tones of menace. He pounded down the stairs,
overlarge robe flapping behind him. It had been a gift from his
aunt Dhvani — a towering, robust woman who labored under the
delusion he was as big and beefy as those professional wrestlers
she adored.

“
Deepal. Come and sit with
me.” Sharada’s tone suggested she was at peace with the endless
suffering that was her lot. At the same time she widened her eyes,
shameless as a greeting card puppy.

He emitted another, weaker groan. In Bhar’s
experience, the phrase “Come and sit with me” always boded ill. His
mother habitually began difficult conversations with those words.
Over the years, “Come and sit with me” had preceded everything from
“This report from your teacher is unacceptable” to “I do not
approve of my only son becoming a uniformed thug” to “Because your
father ran off to live with that slut, we may lose the house.”

“
Come,” his mother repeated,
still with that unnerving tranquility. She ushered Bhar into the
front sitting room, where the large screen telly — his gift to them
both last Christmas — hung on the wall. Neither he nor Sharada were
Christian — at most, they might be described as unobservant Hindus.
But since his early teens, when his mother had dragged a freshly
cut fir tree into the house, enlisting Bhar’s help to hang
ornaments on its fragrant green branches, he and Sharada had
celebrated a secular Christmas. His father found the whole thing
offensive, even obscurely anti-Indian, especially as the yearly
event grew to include stringed lights, inflatable reindeer and
hideous Christmas jumpers. But Sharada ignored such criticism. She
wasn’t one to miss out on a great party just because of a religious
technicality.

Stifling a yawn, Bhar dropped onto the sofa
— corduroy, over-stuffed and older than he was. The telly was tuned
to the local news. Onscreen a pretty blond reporter described the
axe murders at 14 Burnaby, then breathlessly recounted the trial
and acquittal of Sir Duncan Godington. Blurry crime scene photos
from the Godington case — the tamest available — flashed onscreen
during her narration.

“
Deepal, that man nearly
ruined your career. You cannot risk letting him succeed this time.
You must recuse yourself from this case.” To emphasize the
seriousness of her request, Sharada took his hand, her liquid black
eyes going still wider.

Bhar, who thought of himself as tough,
street-smart and emotionally armored, forgot his irritation. When
his mum was worried, his knee-jerk response was to try and make
things right.

“
I don’t think recuse is the
word you mean. Maybe resign?”

“
Recuse, resign, retreat,”
Sharada barked, her mask of serenity evaporating. “That man is
dangerous. Tell Lord Hetheridge you’d rather work on a different
case. He’ll understand. I know he will.”

Sharada, who’d met
Hetheridge exactly twice, considered herself an authority on his
character and behavior. Although on both occasions she’d spent
fewer than five minutes with the man, she now seemed to confuse him
with her own fictional creation — Lord Kensingbard, hero of a
romance novel called
The Lordly
Detective
.

As a little boy, Bhar had been thrilled and
entertained by his mother’s flamboyant imagination. Only when he
learned to read did he realize some of his favorite fairy tales
existed not in his storybooks, but only in Sharada’s head. Although
English was her second language, Sharada had never shied away from
tasks her husband despised — reading contracts, interpreting
financial statements and writing business letters. The year Bhar
joined the Met, Sharada decided to finally try her hand at fiction.
She enrolled in a creative writing course at Open University, but
gave up after one class.

“
Those people. They have
spoken English all their lives,” she’d told Bhar. “They write
prettier sentences than me. But they have no idea how to tell a
story.”

Despite Sharada’s initial
disapproval of Bhar’s chosen career — in her home village,
policemen were just a higher class of criminal — her imagination
had been piqued by her son’s close association with a baron. Thus
Sharada’s first novel had featured a fictionalized version of
Hetheridge: somewhat younger, considerably taller and in Bhar’s
opinion, disturbingly randy. He’d read the manuscript in an agony
of embarrassment — until then he’d never realized what such books
contained, much less that
his mum
was capable of writing it. In the end, Bhar had
forced himself to lie, telling Sharada it was brilliant. And so his
mother, thrilled, had embarked on the aspiring novelist’s
time-honored path, querying agents and racking up nothing but
denials. Hiding his relief as best he could, Bhar carried home
pints of cookie dough ice cream and suggested different hobbies,
like needlepoint or knitting. Then Sharada discovered e-books and
self-publishing.

Her first book,
The Lordly Detective
,
sold a surprising number of copies in six months. Emboldened,
Sharada wrote another romance. That time around, she sprang for a
professional editor and cover artist, reasoning that with better
presentation, she might double her sales. They had quadrupled. And
to Bhar’s private dismay, a career based on smoldering looks,
heaving bosoms and bare male chests was born.

Thus far Sharada had
written twelve romance novels, all under her Anglicized
nom de plume
, Sharon
Lacey. Her income from the novels had saved the house, back when
Bhar was a newly made detective constable and his father had
withdrawn all financial support. Bhar knew the creative outlet had
helped Sharada weather her husband’s defection to a much younger
mistress. But the fact that she frequently mentioned Hetheridge,
and kept a framed cover of
The Lordly
Detective
in her bedroom, was a clue to his
mother’s inner workings that Bhar preferred not to
examine.

“
This case could be
important to my career,” he said patiently, hoping to make her
understand. “I can’t run away from it, especially just because Sir
Duncan lives near the murder scene. It might just be a coincidence.
In fact, it might be something the killer knew before he or she
decided to act. Perhaps they counted on his proximity to confuse
the thrust of the investigation.”

“
But what
if Sir Duncan has a new protégé? I saw the footage.” Sharada
gestured toward the telly. “All those half-dressed tarts remind me
of
her
.”

Sharada had a habit of refusing to name
those females who seriously angered her. Her husband’s mistress had
long been referred to exclusively as “that slut.” And this other
woman, whom Sharada despised at least as much as her own rival, was
spoken of only as “she” and “her,” usually in the sort of withering
tones that served as auditory italics.

Bhar rubbed his eyes. They were dry and
scratchy after his long night, the lids slightly gummed with
interrupted sleep. “Come on, Mum. You know Tessa wasn’t a scrubber.
She behaved like any nice girl. You thought she was wonderful.”

“
I thought she was
adequate,” Sharada said grudgingly, still holding his hand. “But in
the end, she was as evil as Sir Duncan.”

Bhar smiled, as grateful for her unstinting
devotion as he was suffocated by it. “Mum. Let’s be honest among
ourselves. Tessa fitted me up royally, but she wasn’t evil. And for
the mistakes I made, I should’ve got the sack. The only reason I
didn’t is because the guv spoke up for me. I can’t ask him for
another favor. As long as he wants me on the case, I’ll be
there.”

“
You were young! Foolish! In
love!” Sharada cried.

“
Love?” Bhar groaned. “That
only exists in your books.”

“
There is real love between
a mother and son,” Sharada said. “So I say this with love. If you
continue as a part of this investigation, and Sir Duncan proves to
be involved, you will be considered a detriment to the case. Can’t
you see Lord Hetheridge would thank you for requesting a
reassignment?”

Bhar stared at his mum, surprised by her
acuity in matters he’d assumed beyond her understanding. For all
her protests about despising politics and finding the Met’s
infrastructure impossibly dense, she had checkmated him. If Sir
Duncan was even peripherally involved to the murders at 14 Burnaby,
Bhar’s presence on the investigation team would be a defense
counselor’s dream.

Playing for time, he sniffed the air. “Is
that coffee?”

“
I thought you wanted to go
back to bed.”

“
Not anymore. If you’ll make
me breakfast, I’ll tell you what we know so far.”

Chapter Eight

D
etective Sergeant Kate Wakefield arrived back at the Yard just
before seven the next morning. She was unsurprised to find
Hetheridge already at his desk, his neglected breakfast plate
pushed away. There’d been some murmurings about Hetheridge’s
singular habit of bringing in breakfast each morning. A couple of
anonymous complainants had suggested
all
officers be required to eat
together in the canteen, not merely to cut costs but to promote
interdepartmental unity. Hetheridge had responded with a single
concession — paying for the catered daily breakfast out of his own
pocket. It wasn’t that he considered himself or his team above
rubbing shoulders with the other detectives. He simply preferred to
work while he ate.

That, and he can’t abide
the canteen’s rubbery eggs and cold toast
,
Kate thought with a smile.

Reading glasses positioned slightly down the
bridge of his nose, Hetheridge was intent on his computer monitor.
Though his shirt and tie were fresh, that signified nothing. The
ghastly Mrs. Snell, revenant of an age when secretaries stood in
for wives whenever necessary, might have provided him with that
incandescently white shirt and blue striped tie. And if Mrs. Snell
somehow failed to fulfill her calling, Hetheridge’s devoted valet,
Harvey, would have hurried to New Scotland Yard with a
mini-wardrobe in tow. What was it about Hetheridge that made people
cheerfully, spontaneously want to serve him?

“
Work all night,
guv?”

Hetheridge smiled. “Why, DS Wakefield.
You’re quite punctual this morning.”

“
Tony.” Kate enjoyed the way
his pale eyes gleamed when she committed the tiny infraction of
using his Christian name. “Have you even slept?”

“
Sleep when I’m dead. Or
this afternoon, whichever comes first. Coffee and breakfast await
you, as always,” he added, looking mildly surprised that she had
not yet loaded up a plate.

“
Ate on
the run this morning,” Kate lied, trying to ignore the aphrodisiac
aroma of strong coffee and a wide array of breakfast foods,
including sausage, eggs and her childhood favorite, fried bread.
Truth was, her favorite slacks were a shade tight, and that was a
situation that had to be arrested, post-haste. Especially since the
possibility of being seen
au
naturel
seemed increasingly likely. When
and if she and Hetheridge took their relationship to the next
level, Kate was determined to look as good as a stint of short-term
starvation could render her.

A second glance at Hetheridge’s neglected
plate revealed several tempting morsels, including buttered toast,
eggs over easy and a wedged orange. Kate tried not to ignore each
distinct aroma. “You don’t seem to have much of an appetite,
either, guv.”

Hetheridge cast a longing look at the plate.
“Last thing I need,” he rumbled, tossing his linen napkin over the
food and concealing it from view. “Besides, I’ve been composing my
preliminary report.”

“
I’ll have mine for you by
noon,” Kate said, taking a seat. “But as far as motive, it still
boils down to a big question mark. On the face of it, Trevor
Parsons and Clive French have nothing in common. They attended the
same university but shared no classes. Parsons majored in
communications; French had a double major, engineering and maths.
This morning I was so wrapped up thinking about them, I nearly
struck the boot of some slow plonker ahead of me, trying to imagine
how our two victims might be connected.”

“
Must they be?” Hetheridge
leaned back in his chair. From his tone Kate knew it was a genuine
query, not a veiled rebuke. And even if it had been a rebuke, Kate
would not have been deterred from her opinion. Especially so early
in the game, when one point of view was as valid as any
other.

“
Same mode of death. Same
venue,” she said, ticking off the points on one hand. “Same time,
approximately. Same murder weapon …”

“
Precisely the same murder
weapon,” Hetheridge said. “I noticed that upon closer inspection.
Each axe was previously unused, I think, although we must wait for
the FSS to confirm that. One axe still bore a UPC price sticker
from W. C. Marsden’s. Do you know the company?”