02 Blue Murder (21 page)

“
Ritchie’s my big brother,”
Kate shrugged. She swiped at her face with the bed sheet
again.

Hetheridge snapped the jewel box shut. With
effort, he controlled himself—his impulse was to chuck it into the
wall, but instead he placed it gently on the bedside table. “So
your answer is no.”

“
My answer is never!”
Casting the sheet aside, Kate straddled his chest in a way he might
otherwise have found unbearable. “You live inside the privileged
bubble, Tony, but you’re a good man. A wonderful man. I won’t be
the one to destroy your life. To taint everything and make you hate
me in the end.”

“
Kate.” Catching her face in
both hands, Hetheridge pulled her close, almost close enough for a
kiss. “Promise me. It’s just the title? Just the
Peerage?”

She nodded, eyes brimming. “It is.
Otherwise, my answer would be yes. I love you, Tony. I love
you.”

“
Then that’s enough for me.
For now, at least.” Hetheridge allowed himself one glance at the
jewel box. Then Kate was rubbing against him, hungry for fresh
satisfaction, the sort he knew he could deliver with lips and
hands, possibly more. When she doused the lamp, he pinned her
beneath him, passing the rest of their time at the Nautilus without
words.

Chapter Seventeen

D
etective Sergeant Paul Bhar turned up at New Scotland Yard
several times on Saturday, logging extra hours to avoid his mum.
Sharada was deep in the grip of what Bhar privately thought of as
“author meltdown.” In the early days of her romance novelist
career, many events could elicit author meltdown: a one-star
review, a week of low sales, an editor’s demand for fresh rewrites.
Now his mum’s worst moments seemed triggered by only one thing:
Facebook.

“
I’ve unfriended them all,”
Sharada sniffed. “All sixteen of them.”

Bhar passed her a fresh Kleenex. “I’m sure
they didn’t mean to say you can’t write for toffee. Did one of your
writer friends actually say, verbatim, Sharada Bhar can’t write for
toffee?”

“
They are
not my friends.” Sharada blew noisily into the tissue. “I have
unfriended them. And if they don’t message me in the next
twenty-four hours and beg my forgiveness, I will block them.
Block
them,” she cried,
dabbing at the mascara stains under her eyes.

“
Mum. What did they actually
say?” Sometimes he had to be stern with her, as he was with a
confabulating witness.

“
Regina said, ‘No offense,
Sharada, but you write love scenes like English is your fourth
language.’ And Polly commented, ‘LOL!’” Sharada blew into the
tissue again.

Bhar waited. When no more details seemed
forthcoming, he said, “That’s two. Why did you unfriend the other
fourteen?”

Sharada’s wide eyes went even wider.
“Because they said nothing! No one rushed to my defense! No one
stood up for my honor!” She pointed a finger in his face. “Have you
never heard it said? Silence equals death!”

“
I’ve heard it said. In a
slightly different context,” Bhar said carefully. If he laughed or
smiled, he would be the one who discovered death’s equivalencies.
“I’m not sure it meant you should Facebook-kill anyone who doesn’t
chime in on a post. Maybe your other friends were away, I don’t
know, having a coffee. Working their day job. Living their
lives.”

“
What good are friends if
they’re off living their lives when I need them?” Sharada burst
into fresh tears.

Bhar stood up. Before the advent of author
meltdowns, he’d never once witnessed his mum break down. When he
was nine and the family pet, Furby, had been eaten by a pack of
dogs, Sharada had written him a letter, purportedly from Furby,
explaining the joys of the feline afterlife. When he was fifteen
and his father briefly ran away with an office temp, Sharada had
rented a stack of comedy films and made him watch every last one.
And when his father left for good, cutting off his wife and son
without a penny, Sharada had declared only fools cry over
betrayal.

“
In this house we weep only
for people who deserve it,” she’d said. “Not a single tear for
those who do not.”

Yet there she was, his mum, sobbing into a
crumpled Kleenex like her heart would break. Clearly being an
author drove otherwise normal people mad. Especially when combined
with Facebook.

“
Hang on,” Bhar said,
hurrying to the kitchen. In less than a minute, he was back with an
open pint of cookie dough ice cream and a long spoon.
“Here.”

Sharada peeked into the carton to check the
flavor. “I am too upset. I could not possibly eat.”

“
Sure about that?” He made
as if to dig into the pint himself.

“
But since you’ve gone to
all this trouble, I will force myself.” She ate one small spoonful,
then a bigger one. Bhar suspected an empty carton would appear in
the rubbish bin before long.

“
Thank you, Deepal. You’re a
good son.”

“
Yes. Well. Thanks, Mum. But
I have to dash,” he lied, giving her what he hoped was a regretful
look. “The French-Parsons case calls.”

“
I still think you should
recuse yourself,” Sharada said around a third mouthful of ice
cream.

“
Can’t,” he called over his
shoulder, and was gone.

***

C
hecking his messages at the Yard, Bhar learned Clive French’s
mother Molly had been released from residential care and was
willing to be interviewed in the next few days. Apparently Clive
had been her only living relative; most of her healthcare seemed to
be coordinated by social services, her landlord and neighbors. It
was Molly French’s landlord who told Paul that an immediate
interview was out of the question.

“
She’s not a well woman.
Just got sprung from the bleeding nuthouse. And between you, me and
the wall, they might have kept her a bit longer,” the landlord
said. “Poor old Molly won’t comb her hair or take a bath. Took my
wife to convince her to put some proper clothes on instead of going
about in her nightgown all day.”

“
I see. Is there no one else
to take care of her?”

“
No one but Clive and now
he’s dead as a post, innit he? And the bloody Met won’t release the
bloody body. Molly French never had too much strength, mind you,
and she’s already been put through more misery than one woman
should ever have to bear. Now her boy’s dead and she can’t even
bury him.”

“
I understand your concern,”
Bhar said. “But I’m not the enemy. My only goal is to get justice
for Clive French.”

“
Is that right? Good on
you.” The landlord’s gruff tone might or might not have been
sarcasm. “Come round Tuesday at two o’clock. Don’t expect to stay
more than an hour. Don’t expect no high tea, either.”

Bhar’s other lead, Phoebe Paquette, answered
his call on the second ring. “Oh, of course, anything I can do to
help. I’m home all weekend. Just doing a bit of decorating. Pop
round right now, if you like.”

“
That’s very kind. Where do
you live?”

“
Shepherd’s Bush. May I
ask—why did you choose me? The officer who took my statement the
night of the murders didn’t seem terribly impressed. He looked
ready to fall asleep the whole time I was talking.”

“
I’m sure he was just
overworked,” Bhar said, knowing full well the officer in question
was him. “As for why I chose you. Well. Another witness mentioned
your name. Thought you might have insights into why Clive French or
Trevor Parsons was targeted. That witness must remain confidential,
of course, but—”

“
Emmeline Wardle.” Phoebe
let out a sudden laugh. “She probably told you I’m the murderer.
You aren’t coming over to bang me up, are you?”

“
Not unless you want to
confess right now.”

“
Good, because I’m pregnant.
What you might call ready to pop.” Phoebe laughed again, loud and
jarring. “Don’t want to give birth in a cell.”

***

B
har reached the flat in Shepherd’s Bush by midafternoon. After
interviewing the Wardles in that white fairy tale castle, he
expected a bit more than what he found—a brick walk-up with barred
windows, a pokey foyer and gloomy front parlor.

“
Oh, it’s you! Mr. Sleepy
Copper! Fancy a cuppa before I start nattering on?”

“
I don’t need caffeine. I’m
quite refreshed,” Bhar smiled.

“
Brilliant. Well—what do you
think? Home sweet home. Not much but it’s all mine!” Phoebe
Paquette showed Bhar around her front parlor, pointing out
knickknacks here and there. “This house is my first major purchase.
Still can’t believe my name’s on the lease.”

“
Home ownership is
wonderful,” Bhar said automatically, wondering if Sharada would
ever permit him to move out. Of course, if his only recourse was a
flat quite this grim, he’d prefer living at home, where his clothes
never wanted pressing and his meals appeared as if by
magic.

“
Hah! You don’t look
terribly impressed. But I like the neighborhood, and the fact is, I
had to move out. Mum and Dad went a bit doolally over this bit of
news.” Phoebe patted her pregnant belly. Dressed in a white cotton
blouse and black leggings, her blond hair swept back in a ponytail,
Phoebe looked too young to know where babies came from, much less
expect one of her own.

“
I’ll be redoing the lounge
in sky blue with white crown molding,” she continued, pointing.
“All the metal fixtures will be stainless steel. Very modern. Won’t
it be fab?”

“
Fab,” Bhar agreed. Anything
would be an improvement over the current décor—burgundy wallpaper,
stained carpet and a blackened hearth. “Lucky you could afford this
place. Not many uni students could.”

Phoebe grinned. “If that’s your way of
asking about my cash situation, it’s rather sad at present. But I
have a trust fund. And after a bit of a legal battle, I got enough
money released to buy this place and fix it up. Once I turn
twenty-two, I’ll be master of my own fate. Until then, it’s a
waiting game,” she said, leading Bhar into the kitchen. The
cabinetry was old and battered, but the walls had been recently
painted. Two brand new appliances—a stainless steel refrigerator
and cooker—looked wildly out of place.

“
I’ll admit, it’s a bit
small,” Phoebe sighed. “But if I’d stayed at home, Mum would still
be badgering me to give up the baby. And I won’t.”

“
If you don’t mind my
asking—when is the baby due?”

“
In three weeks.” Phoebe
managed to look ecstatic, terrified and amused all at once. “My
hormones are all over the place. If I say something awful, or seem
tone-deaf, chalk it up to hormones. What I asked you earlier—I’ll
bet that sounded really inappropriate.” She emitted that laugh
again, even louder and more jarring in person.

“
What you asked?” Bhar
repeated, trying not to frown. Phoebe’s laugh was nails on a
chalkboard.

“
If you were coming to
arrest me. Based on Emmeline’s recommendation,” Phoebe explained,
leading Bhar up the stairs, which were surprisingly steep. “I mean,
she doesn’t like me. I don’t like her. But I can’t believe even
Emmy White Lines would accuse me of murder.”

“
Emmy White
Lines?”

Phoebe held up a finger. “Oi. Let me catch
my breath.” She panted for a moment, then started climbing again.
“If I turn up in the antenatal unit ahead of schedule, it will be
due to those fecking stairs. My bedroom’s to the left.” She
pointed. “But there’s nothing to see in there, officer. That horse
left the barn eight months ago.” Another laugh. “But come on, have
a look at my next big thing, my pride and joy.”

Bhar followed Phoebe into the nursery, where
butter-yellow walls were decorated with a thin floral stripe. A
crib waited in the center of the room, already made up with a
yellow blanket and filled with stuffed animals. A pleasant-looking
young man with neat brown hair stood halfway up a stepladder,
installing a new ceiling lamp with what looked like a Swiss Army
knife.

“
Sure that’s safe?” Bhar
called.

The young man paused. “Oh. Detective Bhar.
Hallo.” Climbing down from the ladder, Jeremy held out the folding
toolkit so Bhar could see which implement he’d been using. “This
model has three blades, plus a corkscrew and a Phillips head
screwdriver. I never go anywhere without it. Not since I became
Phoebe’s handyman on call. Anyway, I reckon I’d better reintroduce
myself. I suppose you meet new suspects every day …”

“
Jeremy, we’re not
suspects,” Phoebe said. “You mustn’t say things like that—it sounds
bad. I’ve already scared Detective Bhar half to death with my
laugh. He thinks I’ve gone round the bend. But it’s just hormones!”
Phoebe gave Bhar a cuff on the forearm. “Detective Bhar, this is my
friend Jeremy Bentham. And no, he’s not the dad-to-be. Just my Rock
of Gibraltar.”

Jeremy blinked. “He didn’t ask if I was the
dad.”

“
He’s a policeman. He’s
going to ask us about everything. Jeremy?” Phoebe twisted her
ponytail around a fingertip. “Would you hate me if I said I wanted
curry again tonight?”

Jeremy smiled, transforming from merely cute
to almost handsome. “Of course I won’t hate you.”

“
I don’t suppose …” Phoebe
trailed off, still tugging on her hair.