Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (16 page)

Kate wanted to argue with Jackson. It was natural to argue with Jackson, to x-ray every sentence, to dispute every word. But what he was saying made sense, damn him.

"I won't muff this, Chief," Paul said, apparently having arrived at the same conclusion. "Which of your lads am I taking over for? I'd like a word, straightaway."

"Murdock. But now isn't a good time for a chat. He's at St. Thomas. Still in intensive care."

Paul took a moment to digest that. "Because of Arry?"

"Him, or the people Arry works for." Jackson shrugged. "I said it wasn't a murder case. I never said it was a feather bed."

"I'll handle it. I promise," Paul announced, synthesizing enthusiasm rather less convincingly. To Kate, he added, "See you around." Then he was gone, leaving her alone with Vic Jackson.

It was a situation she'd avoided ever since the previous summer, when he'd asked her to a pub, ostensibly to discuss a case. Thrilled to finally be treated like one of the lads, she'd met him in a back booth. There, he'd proceeded to open his mouth, unzip his trousers, and make a demand she'd never forget.

"So. DS Hetheridge."

"Chief." Did the memory of that night, and her near-sacking that followed, show on her face? Kate thought it must have, because he retreated to his broken-down office chair, which creaked in protest. Sitting half obscured by folders and files seemed to give him courage.

"I know I said let's skip the agony and get on with the misery, but the truth is, I need something from you."

Of course you do.
Kate glared at him.

"I need you to listen to me."

She kept glaring, ready.

"That night. You know, in the pub. The things I said. What I did." Jackson cleared his throat. "It takes two to tango. There's two sides to every story, and nobody's ever blameless. Except that night. That night, it was down to me. You had no part. It was all my fault."

"If you're asking me to forgive—"

"I'm asking nothing," Jackson cut across her, sounding more like his old self. "Except for you to hear to me say it. It was my fault. I was wrong."

"Yeah, too right you were. Back then, I was foolish enough to think if I played by the boys' code, they'd accept me," Kate spat at him. "I didn't turn you in to internal affairs because I thought it was the best way to protect myself. Now I've wised up. Say or do anything like that again, and I'll have you under investigation so fast, you'll be afraid to pull it out in the Men's, much less a pub."

"And so you should," Jackson muttered.

She waited. Her schoolyard training in Bullying 101 had prepared her for what should come next: a sob story about why it had actually been someone or something else's fault. Or perhaps a deeper look into her behavior, a recitation of her many attempts at revenge.

Jackson's chair creaked. He cleared his throat once, twice, a third time. Then:

"Since we're in agreement on the past, can we move forward to the Hardwick case?"

"Er. All right. Sir."

"Good. First order of business." He shifted a stack of desk-detritus, allowing them to see one another better. "Establishing a timeline for Buck Wainwright's movements on the day of the murder. I've already assigned constables to gather CCTV camera footage. If he's innocent, that might exonerate him. Especially if another person called on Hardwick around the time of death."

"What about the rest of the time-stamped data?"

"Such as?"

"Buck's hotel key card. His mini bar access. Credit card use at the hotel pub or that other spot he mentioned…."

"The Yellow Earl. I know the place. Know one of the barmen. I'll check it out," Jackson said.

"Then there's Euston Place. I understand there's a protest group solely devoted to East Asia House," Kate said. "I suppose I could go knocking on doors, see what people observed that day," she added, with no idea how helpful or unhelpful her new neighbors would be.

"Yes. Face to face with the bluebloods. That's the sort of task I'd have put to Bhar," Jackson said.

"But not me?"

"No. I suppose you're suited, being a resident and all, but not this time. Maybe I'll do it myself. Maybe I'll farm it out to someone special."

"PC Gulls?"

Jackson shrugged. "Now. About this Georgette Sevrin. I asked for a rush analysis on the blood on her clothes. Let me check the email…." More detritus was shifted, unearthing a mouse, then she heard some keyboard clicks. "Bingo. Initial check gives 95% probability the blood is Hardwick's. That's enough to clinch an interview. My court order for that has come through, too. But as far as a go-ahead from Social Services…." More clicks. "Nope, dead air. Looks like they ignored the emergency request Tony put through last night. Well, it's a new day. Let's light a fire under them, shall we?"

Joy was summoned to coordinate the conference call. All smiles and helpful remarks, she managed it easily once she excavated Jackson's phone. In less than five minutes, Kate and Jackson had Miss Sevrin's social worker on the line, a young man who sounded earnest, bright, and perhaps twenty-two. Kate tried to feel sympathy for him, but he was clearly operating under the assumption Miss Sevrin was an innocent bystander, menaced by jackbooted thugs. Therefore, he seemed determined to obstruct Scotland Yard as much as possible.

"I'm afraid Miss Sevrin responded poorly to her treatment by your agency," said the caseworker via speakerphone. "Strange surroundings, unfamiliar people, it was all too much. A night in lockup often sends vulnerable individuals into a dissociative state, which is what my client's experiencing."

"She wasn't in lockup," Jackson said. "She was in protective custody, which amounts to a private room with a comfy bed and a staff at her beck and call. Mind you, there's a great many states I'd like to disassociate myself from, so if Miss Sevrin has the inside track, I'm all ears."

"By a dissociative state," said the social worker a touch sniffily, "I mean she has lost the ability to locate herself in space and time. She's adrift in a world of her own making."

"Like I said, precisely the state I've tried to achieve for eons. So I don't care if she's thinks she on the moon or inside Colin Firth's bedroom. She's a murder suspect, and we plan to interview her."

"That's not on the table. She needs medical reevaluation. An adjustment in pharmaceuticals perhaps, or—"

"Listen to me, you little—" Jackson interrupted, sounding precisely like the man Kate knew and loathed. Right at the moment, however, she rather enjoyed his reappearance and the shocked huffing sounds emanating from the speakerphone.

"A man is dead," she said, cutting across both of them, doing her best to sound as coolly authoritative as her husband. "We have a solemn responsibility to the victim, his family, and the public at large. In a murder case, deliberate attempts to impede the investigation will be met with the strongest possible scrutiny. So be advised, we are aware of the precise legal standard required to interview a suspect like Miss Sevrin. Our top consultant is double checking to ensure we've met it. You have twenty four hours to make her ready. That's all."

Silence. Then: "I understand. Can you interview her tomorrow at half-two?"

"I'll be there with bells on."

Jackson disconnected. "Well. That put him on the ropes." He sounded impressed. "Who's our top consultant?"

"Me. And Google. And a quick ring to Legal, if they can be arsed to put down the nine iron and pick up."

He nodded. "Step lightly, Wake—Hetheridge. I know we have more power on the front end than those heart-bleeders like to admit. But in the course of exercising those powers, if we say or do something a soft-headed jury might call coercive…."

"… whatever we collect will be ruled inadmissible, up to and including a murder confession," Kate agreed. "So Miss Sevrin's on my calendar for tomorrow. What about today?"

"I want you to look into Hardwick himself. Tony mentioned the man had an eye for the ladies. Three guesses where I'd start."

"His current girlfriend, Sunny Wainwright. I didn't get a look at the morning papers. Has his name been released?"

"No," Jackson said. "'Murder in Mayfair' was splashed all over, obviously, but without an address or details. The fact it was Hardwick should break by the afternoon edition, though."

Meaning the time to interview Sunny Wainwright is now
, Kate thought. When she has no idea her lover is dead—or will be forced to pretend as much.

* * *

Upon arrival in the United Kingdom, Sunny had listed a flat in Shoreditch, leased to one L. M. Dase, as her residence for the duration. But L.M. Dase, presumably Buck's sister-in-law, Maisie, had either suspended her phone service or failed to pay the bill. Either way, Kate couldn't get through. She felt desperate to escape the Yard, so off to Shoreditch it was.

The Tube ride from St. James Park station on the District line, changing to the Central at Monument, then out at Bethnal Green, placed her within easy walking distance of L.M. Dase's address. And the Tube had been lightly-traveled and quiet, apart from a crocodile of French schoolchildren
en route
to Tower Hill. Kate felt a bit sorry for two American women, bewildered by the simultaneous rush to alight and board at one of Monument's busy platforms. Yes, in England, the queue was sacred. But boarding the Tube involved no queues, strictly speaking, and those who hesitated would be pushed past, left behind, or possibly flattened.

Shoreditch was part of Hackney in London's East End. In recent years it had become increasingly gentrified yet was still known for its street art (temporary) and its graffiti (permanent, at least until the Council took action.) Sometimes Shoreditch's street art was simple: chalk drawings on sidewalks or stickers all over a sign post. Other times, entire streets were transformed by spray paint; by giant sculptures erected on rooftops; even by fanciful decoupage, such as paper lilies blooming inside phone boxes. It was all left of center, unexpected, and mostly anonymous, although a genuine Banksy graced Rivington. Once upon a time in the Victorian era, rich young men in top hats and tails had gone slumming in Shoreditch, sampling its music halls and prostitutes, safely scandalized by how the other half lived. Now doubledecker buses packed with tourists trundled through, showing off a district that had become a sort of open-air gallery.

L. M. Dase's building, however, proved no tourist attraction. It was run down, the manager's office shut without explanation. A few neighbors opened their doors to Kate, frowning at her warrant card and claiming no knowledge of Maisie's whereabouts. Kate hadn't seen so many shifty looks and weak denials since Henry and/or Ritchie had caused the downstairs toilet to overflow. Either Maisie's neighbors were curiously wary of such inquiries, or she'd chosen a building where coppers weren't welcome.

Wonderful. Sunny's an unemployed American on a tourist visa. It could take hours to track her down. I'm better off camping in this dank hall and waiting.

Another option came to her. Pulling out her mobile, Kate opened Twitter and searched for @SunnyDase. The very first hit was the one she wanted. The profile picture showed a Mrs. America-style beauty, about forty, with cascading blonde hair and blindingly white teeth. A frequent Tweeter, Sunny's most recent submission to the digital void had been posted at half-two the night before. It read:

I never felt more free. #nofear #noregrets

That post was geotagged at someplace called Pure Silk, which turned out to be a City of Westminster dance club. Sunny's previous Tweet, time-stamped 12:03 the day Hardwick died, read:

There will be consequences. #don'tbelievemejustwatch

That one wasn't geotagged, but Sunny had attached a selfie. Her expression—scowling with lips pursed—was what Henry called "gangsta." He didn't do it very convincingly, and neither did Sunny.

What do you know?
Kate thought, taking a screenshot for posterity in case Sunny later deleted it.
Buck's soon-to-be-ex just became a person of interest.

Of course, as a human being with a stake in civilization, not to mention someone who hoped social media didn't obliterate every last vestige of common sense, Kate maintained healthy skepticism. It almost beggared belief that a murderer would Tweet her deadly intentions, then publicly rejoice when the deed was done. But experience had taught Kate there were all sorts of murderers. And some of them were, to employ a technical term, idiots.

Something else struck her. Glad she'd neglected to shut down her own little-used Twitter account, the suitably anonymous @katewake261, she used it to Tweet:

@SunnyDase you're dead quiet. No pictures. OK?

Now she just had to wait. Rather than head back to the Tube station, Kate lingered near Maisie's building, browsing through a street vendor's rack of pashmina shawls. Just as she located the very thing—snow white with a gold trim—her mobile pinged, indicating a response.

"Cheers," she told the vendor, handing over a tenner and tucking the folded shawl into her bag. Then she read Sunny's reply.

Late start. Coffee and Red Bull first. My pretty face after.

The Tweet was geotagged Xpression Xpress. To Kate, that sounded like a newsstand specializing in Cornettos and ciggies, but turned out to be a small private art gallery three streets over. Sunny, it seemed, was too sufficiently convinced of her own cyber celebrity to wonder why a stranger inquired after her. Not only had she answered, she'd specified her present location. Despite the popularity of cop dramas, detective novels, and true crime shows, some people saw no downside to putting their personal safety on the line.

Behaving as if she's invincible might be a sign she was involved with Hardwick's murder
, Kate thought. Many killers enjoyed twenty-four to forty-eight hours' euphoria. During that "murder afterglow," as Bhar called it, the killer was most likely to boast to friends or issue dark hints. Or they might tuck away some grisly trophy, perhaps after suffering an overwhelming desire to return to the scene of the crime.