02 Blue Murder (5 page)

“
That there’s Ms. Sloane.”
PC Kincaid indicated a girl sitting alone on the long brocade sofa.
He pawed at his notes. “First name. Um. Kyle …”

“
Kyla,” the girl corrected,
fixing Kate with steady brown eyes.

“
Ms. Sloane, my name is
Detective Sergeant Kate Wakefield.” She offered her hand, which
Kyla accepted. “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through this
evening.”

Kyla shrugged. She wore a white silk
dressing gown over what was probably yet another lingerie-based
costume. The short robe barely covered her to mid-thigh, revealing
long, shapely legs. Even seated, the girl was clearly six feet tall
or close to it, with a model’s angular bone structure. Her dark
brown hair had been accented with a zigzagging white skunk streak;
a choker with plastic bolts, a la Frankenstein’s monster, was
fastened around her throat. Kyla’s corpselike makeup—green eye
shadow, blush and lipstick—should have detracted from her good
looks, but the gangrenous tones actually enhanced her high
cheekbones, firm chin and well-shaped lips. Kate made a mental note
to check and see if Kyla Sloane had done any professional modeling.
Even in costume, something about her seemed oddly familiar.

“
May I ask you a few
questions?”

“
Of course.” The girl’s hand
trailed along the hem of her dressing gown, pulling it down another
inch. Not that her attempted modesty made those long legs, pressed
together and turned slightly, any less impressive.

“
Tell me what happened,”
Kate said, noting Kyla’s dry eyes. If the young woman had shed any
tears, they had been few, and quite some time ago.

“
I heard a sound, like a
twig popping. I thought it was a neighborhood cat. I called out,
‘Is anyone there?’ Then—”

“
Wait.” Kate held up a hand,
startled by the way the young woman launched into her recitation.
Had Kyla Sloane actually skipped right to the moment she discovered
Clive French’s body?

“
Let’s start at the
beginning,” Kate said, putting on what she hoped was an encouraging
expression. “You were invited to this party by Emmeline Wardle,
correct? Are you particular friends with Ms. Wardle?”

Kyla Sloane blinked. Clearly in her world,
that was the stupidest of all possible questions.

“
Yes. Em and I have been
friends since we were babies,” Kyla said. “I can’t remember a time
when I didn’t know Em. When she throws parties, I help organize
them. Handle the decorations. Plan the menu and the games. Even
tend bar, if it comes to it.”

“
Do you also select the
guest list?”

Kyla blinked again. “Em doesn’t usually need
any help with that.”

“
I suppose not.” Kate tried
to sound as curious as she felt. Kyla was an extraordinarily poised
witness. She was as calm as if she underwent questioning by New
Scotland Yard every day and twice on Sundays. “So just for the
record, how was tonight’s party going, before it all went
awry?”

“
Perfect. Absolutely
perfect.”

“
You were enjoying
yourself?”

Kyla pressed her lips together. Kate had the
suspicion the young woman had bitten her tongue. “Of course.”

“
Then why were you alone in
the back garden? When you discovered Mr. French’s body, I
mean?”

Kyla hadn’t expected that. Kate worked hard
to keep her own face blank. Astonishing how most witnesses assumed
the police incapable of guessing anything at all.

“
Because.” Kyla took a deep
breath. “I went outdoors to check on something. The decorations. I
wanted to be sure the jack-o’-lantern candles hadn’t guttered
…”

“
No jack-o’-lanterns in the
back garden. No party decorations, either. I was just there.” Kate
offered a friendly smile.

Kyla’s left fist clenched. With her right
hand she tugged harder at the hem of her dressing gown, covering
another millimeter of well-shaped thigh. “I don’t see how my
reasons for going into the back garden are relevant to your
investigation, detective.”

“
With two young men dead,
and me responsible for finding out how and why, I’ll be the judge
of what’s relevant.” Kate kept her voice soft. It was a trick she’d
learned from Hetheridge. Express a reasonable expectation in a
reasonable tone, and then dissect the response.

Kyla’s green lips twisted scornfully. A
momentary flash of truth, it was gone almost as soon as it
appeared, swiftly replaced with false contrition. “Of course. I’m
sorry, DS Wakefield. I don’t mean to be obstructive. I went into
the back garden for some fresh air. I have asthma—cigarette smoke
indoors makes me wheeze. While I was outside, I found Clive.”

“
I understand he wasn’t
invited to the party.”

“
No.”

“
But you knew
him?”

“
Of
course. We go to uni together. Share class—” Kyla stopped.
“
Went
to
uni.
Shared
classes.”

“
So why wasn’t he
invited?”

Scorn flashed in Kyla’s eyes again, though
she kept her voice level. “I realize you’re several years beyond
your schooldays, detective, but surely you don’t believe us kiddies
all play nice together? Just because we’re technically adults?”

Kate was struck again by Kyla’s poise.
Everything about her seemed decades beyond her years. And where had
Kate seen Kyla before? Why did she seem so familiar?

“
So if Clive didn’t make the
cut, what was he doing in Ms. Wardle’s back garden?”

“
I have no idea. You know,
detective,” Kyla strove to sound politely imploring, “I’m very
uncomfortable. If I could be allowed to wash off this makeup and
put on some decent clothes—I can borrow some of Em’s upstairs—I’d
be far better composed—”

“
Just another minute,” Kate
lied serenely. In reality, Kyla Sloane would be packed off to New
Scotland Yard before she knew it. That green makeup would be on her
face for hours to come. “Now that we’ve established the basics,
tell me how you discovered Mr. French.”

“
I heard a sound, like a
twig popping. I assumed it was a neighborhood cat. I called, ‘Is
someone there?’ Then I turned around and saw Clive. Dead with the
axe sticking out of his head. It was horrible.”

Kate let Kyla’s declaration hang between
them, making no comment, keeping her face bland. Possibly the
discovery of Clive French’s body had gone exactly as Kyla
described. Nothing in the narrative was remarkable, except for its
brevity. Witnesses who discovered bodies tended to go on and go,
describing each step, sight or sound in excruciating detail. Not
only had Kyla neatly summarized her discovery, she’d used more or
less the precise words as her first recital.

“
I wish I could tell you
more,” Kyla said after what felt like a full minute’s silence
ticked by. Again she tried to surreptitiously wrangle another
millimeter of coverage out of that short, thin robe. “But that’s
all. Nothing more. I found Clive and I went back inside and the
next thing I knew, Em was screaming her head off. Then chaos. Then
this.”

Kate said nothing.

“
So if I’m free to go …”
Kyla started to rise.

“
Now, miss. You’ve not been
dismissed,” PC Kincaid said, waving Kyla back onto the long brocade
sofa. The sound of his voice nearly made Kate jump out of her skin.
She’d been so focused on Kyla, she’d forgotten Kincaid’s
presence.

“
Just a few more questions.”
Kate smiled again. “Would you say the party got out of
hand?”

Kyla folded her arms across her chest.
“No.”

“
Think Ms. Wardle’s parents
will object? When they see …” Kate trailed off, indicating the
room’s disarray.

“
No.”

“
Just no?” Kate was used to
witnesses lapsing into monosyllables when they felt misused. The
best response was to just keep smiling, and just keep
asking.

“
No.” Kyla’s brown eyes
narrowed again.

“
So they prefer the house
this way?”

“
No.”

“
They gave permission for
their daughter to have a huge party whilst they were out of
town?”

“
No.”

“
They won’t object to fag
burns on the carpet or a broken—” Kate was going to say lamp, since
all the best parties in her own youth had involved broken lamps,
but Kyla cut across her.

“
Who cares about a vase? Two
people are dead! Are you from Scotland Yard or Lloyd’s of
London?”

Kate fought to evince no surprise. Kyla,
however, looked startled enough for both of them. Surprised and
suddenly no older than her age—perhaps twenty-one—as her eyes
filled with tears. Biting her lip she looked away, muttering,
“Everything comes down to money in the end.”

Kate turned to PC Kincaid. “See that spot?”
She pointed at the mammoth bookcase’s empty alcove with its
spotlight shining on nothing. “Have a look at it, will you?”

Even as he moved closer to the shelves,
Kyla’s head came up. That remarkable poise was shattered. Sniffing,
she wiped ineffectually at her eyes as fresh tears appeared.

“
Is it dusty?” Kate asked.
She thought there might be a fine layer of dust, except of the
imprint of what had, until recently, occupied that
space.

“
No, ma’am. Every shelf is
neat as pin.” PC Kincaid made a slow circuit of the room, shuffling
his feet. Several meters away he stopped, dropping to one
knee.

“
Wait! Ma’am … down here …”
Instinctively Kincaid poked with a finger, then guiltily drew his
hand back. “Something in the carpet here. Glittering. Bits of
glass.”

Kate turned back to Kyla. The young woman
sniffed again.

“
It was an accident. Not
that it will matter. The amphora was Hellenistic. From ancient
Greece,” Kyla added, misreading Kate’s expression as ignorance.
“But it’s gone now and Em and I might as well be dead. Because her
parents are going to kill us.”

Chapter Five

E
mmeline Wardle
looked
like an Emmeline Wardle, if such a thing were
possible, Hetheridge caught himself thinking. Seated in the
townhouse’s formal front parlor, she was exactly what the pampered
daughter of a frozen foods magnate should be—trim and stylish in a
magazine-ready sort of way. Blue-eyed and spray-tanned, her long
blond hair was equally flawless, falling down her back in a
straight, shimmering mass.

As Hetheridge approached, Emmeline sat
whispering furiously to a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit.
Clearly the Wardle family attorney had wormed his way inside the
scene before the Met secured it. And now, Hetheridge thought,
cursing the officers responsible for the breach, the accused man
was part of the investigation. Sending him away was out of the
question; on the contrary, he too would need to be interviewed.
From the lawyer’s point of view, being questioned by Scotland Yard
was doubtless a small price to pay after filling his young client’s
ear with potentially game-changing advice.

“
Who are you?” the lawyer
asked, his tone wary but not overly sharp.

“
Chief Superintendent
Anthony Hetheridge, New Scotland Yard.” Hetheridge passed over his
credentials, waiting patiently while the lawyer examined the
warrant card minutely enough to commit it to memory. Once the card
was returned to him, Hetheridge advanced on Emmeline with a
smile.

She stared back at Hetheridge from her place
on the antique Queen Anne sofa. Like the rest of the parlor, the
sofa had suffered during the party. A fresh stain marred the
cushion beside her; cigarette butts had been stamped directly into
the blue Turkish rug. Over the course of his career, Hetheridge had
toured the remnants of many parties. This one had been well and
truly out of control. Emmeline, by contrast, was not. Not at
present, at least. The girl Hetheridge had first glimpsed, stabbing
a finger at her attorney while hissing commands, had disappeared.
This girl was crying prettily, wiping away each tear as it fell
with that same perfectly manicured finger.

“
I can’t answer any more
questions,” Emmeline told Hetheridge in a breathy whisper. She wore
the lawyer’s boxy gray coat buttoned over what must have been
another skimpy costume. “My throat hurts. I can barely talk. I want
my mum.”

“
Of course you do.”
Hetheridge sought to radiate firm authority rather than false
paternalism. Over the years, he’d dealt with more than one Emmeline
Wardle. Threatening and coquettish by turns, females like her knew
how to induce two responses: lust and fear. Only by avoiding the
appearance of either could he keep her off-balance, and thus hope
to glean what he needed. “Tell me what happened and I’ll see that
you’re reunited with your parents as soon as possible.”

Emmeline’s teary look turned sullen. For a
long moment she said nothing, giving Hetheridge time to register
the fullness of her displeasure. Then she spoke.

“
What
happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Someone killed my boyfriend
and no one will do anything about it. Someone
killed
Trevor with an axe and ran off
to God knows where and the police are making me a prisoner in my
own home.” Her voice rose, scratchy but still strong. “In case
everyone’s forgotten, I’m the victim here! Not the suspect!
The victim
!”