Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (22 page)

"Who's a united front?" Sharada interrupted. "You and your husband? Regarding the adoption of your poor little nephew?"

Sweeping back into the dining room, Sharada insinuated herself into what had been a private conversation. "Kate, dear, I hope you didn't mind me sending you that news story. When you didn't text me back, I was afraid I'd committed a
faux pas.
" She snatched the half-eaten scone off her son's plate, popping it into her mouth. "Tony looked so dashing on TV. You weren't surprised, were you? I confess, I wondered if you were surprised. Since Deepal tells me everything you say and do, and Deepal never mentioned anything about an adoption in the works…."

"Really? Everything I say and do?" Kate asked, dangerously sweet.

Paul gave a nervous laugh.

"And I'm sure it goes without saying, I was very shocked when your husband announced his retirement. You would think he could have stayed on the job until Buck—" Sharada cut herself off. "No, no. It's only right he should choose to be with his family. Naturally, I was very stern with Deepal for giving me no hint of what was to come. But I was happy to see Tony looking so relaxed this morning. And holding your hand." She beamed at Kate. "As far as the adoption…."

"It's long overdue," Kate said. "Sorry I didn't reply to the link you sent. Things were a little hectic. Sometimes I hate the press. I hope the class warfare angle doesn't play as well in Family Court as it does in the media."

"Should you need legal counsel, I can give you recommendations." Gathering up her loose printouts, Sharada consigned them to the depths of her handbag. "We have an embarrassment of riches in our family. Four barristers—"

"And thirteen solicitors," Paul finished for her. "You and Aunt Gopi and Aunt Dhanvi never get tired of trotting that out, do you? Even if Sri quit practicing to raise her family and Fahd never passed the bar."

"What?" Kate looked puzzled.

"Pay no attention," Paul said. "I'll bet the g—your husband already has the best counsel money can buy."

"No. It's only—I've heard that phrase before," Kate said. "A constable mentioned it the night Buck was arrested."

"Gopi and Dhanvi went round the Yard, poking their noses in, as usual. I'm sure they said it."

"Yes, but somewhere else, too. Paul—your father. What's his name?"

"Haresh."

"Does he have a dog? An Alsatian called Mani?"

"You spoke to Haresh?" Sharada cried. "When? Why?"

"Outside the crime scene the night Hardwick died. Right up by the barriers. I had to warn him off with threat of arrest."

"What? My dad? Are you sure?" Paul couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to his father. A year ago, perhaps, or maybe two.

"You tell me. The man said that line about barristers and solicitors," Kate told him. "He was walking a very friendly dog called Mani. And he said the great Lord Hetheridge was about to get what he deserved."

* * *

"I don't like this about Dad," Paul told Sharada as they exited Wellegrave House. Despite the January chill, it was a sunny afternoon and plenty of people were out, enjoying a bit of fresh air. "Dad lives in Shoreditch. What was he doing in Mayfair?"

"Who knows? Your father does what your father does. Papa was a rolling stone. I'm just so disappointed more hasn't been done to help Buck," said Sharada, mind slipping into its one and only track, right on schedule. "And you, why did you have to sell the Astra?"

"I couldn't afford it. Too many fees."

"I wish you still had it. I'm not taking the Tube this time of day. I refuse to fight like an animal just to sit down. You'll have to hail a taxi."

"Fine. There's usually a stand around the next turning. But Mum," Paul said. "Dad wasn't just taking a walking tour of Mayfair after dark. He had Mani with him. That's a long way to take a dog. What was he doing so far from his house?"

"You mean that slut's house." Although Haresh had left her for his mistress years ago, Sharada still never referred to her romantic rival by name. "Maybe the slut wised up, sent him packing. Maybe a few years with Haresh taught her not to pick through another woman's rubbish."

Paul thought about that. For a long time, he'd assumed Sharada tended an eternal flame for Haresh. That she still hoped and prayed for a reconciliation that no one in the extended family, including him, Gopi, or Dhanvi, ever thought would come to pass. But that semi-nonsensical line about stealing garbage shed new light on the matter.

"All right, let's say there's a good reason he just happened to be walking Mani in Mayfair. Even so, isn't it strange he was outside East Asia House just after Hardwick's body was discovered? And that crack about Lord Hetheridge getting what he deserved?"

"Haresh knows Tony was the inspiration for my character, Lord Kensingbard," Sharada said. "He accused me of having an affair with him."

"What?" Paul stopped walking, leaving the pedestrian on his heels no choice but to plow into him.

"Oi!"

"Sorry," Paul muttered. "Mum, stop. Come back here. Dad accused you of having an affair? When?"

"Last month," Sharada said. "Deepal, it doesn't matter. Sometimes your father gets an idea in his head. The stupider the idea, the longer it takes for it to work its way out the other end."

"So I'm guessing Dad read
The Lordly Detective
?"

"Yes, finally. Who knows why? Heaven knows he never cared about anything that mattered to me before. Then he rang me up and accused me of all sorts of mischief. I was tempted to confirm it all."

"Mum!"

"I said tempted, Deepal. I hung up and blocked his number."

Paul blew out his breath. "This can't be a coincidence, Mum. He was outside Hardwick's house."

"And I was inside, remember? Maybe your father was following me."

"What?"

She shrugged. "He's done stranger things. But hurry, we have to find that taxi stand," she said, frowning at the sun as if it had no business being in its current position. "The book signing starts at two o'clock."

"What book signing?"

"Fiona Leeds's book signing at Harrods. Wandering wife number one wrote a memoir. She's been blitzing Facebook and Twitter with promos for weeks, and now she's making personal appearances. What better way to question her than to ambush her in public?"

This was too much. Paul took Sharada by the shoulders, forcing another mid-pavement stop. This time two pedestrians bumped into him, and a woman with a mobile glued to her ear gave him the death-look. He ignored them, focusing on his mother.

"All right, Mum, here's the truth. You're not a detective. You're not on Buck's case. You're not on any case. I
am
a detective, but I'm not allowed to participate in the Hardwick investigation. So we can't go to Harrods. And we certainly can't scream, 'Did you kill your ex-boyfriend?' at Fiona Leeds during her book signing."

"Oh, Deepal. You're so literal sometimes," Sharada said with the breeziness that made him want to shake her till she rattled. "I know I'm not a detective. I'm an author who wants to support a colleague's signing. And since I'm not investigating, there's no reason you can't be with me. If you hear something significant, you can pass it on to Kate. And Buck will be one step closer to freedom."

This was more sensible than Paul had expected. He couldn't think of a denial.

"Well?" Sharada prompted.

"All right. As it happens, I'm fresh out of ideas for how to convince Mrs. Nibley-Tatters to testify against Arry. Maybe concentrating on something else for an hour will help. Mum, you called Fiona a colleague. Do you actually know her?" Since embarking on her career as a self-published romance novelist, Sharada had met dozens, even hundreds, of authors online. She had argued with, unfriended, and blocked a great deal of them, but still.

"Of course I know her. I follow her on Twitter."

"Does she follow you back?"

"No, but last week she retweeted my retweet. We're like this." Sharada held up crossed fingers. "Now, we'll be late if we don't find that taxi stand. Can we get on?"

* * *

Harrods of London was made up of seven stories, four and a half acres, and—in Paul's expert opinion—some of the most beautiful sales clerks in the western world. Most never gave him more than a polite smile, and that was only after he showed them his credit card. Still, during the rare times he visited, he tended to linger in zones where he had no business, such as lingerie, pretending to be in the market for things he couldn't afford, such as G-strings by Agent Provocateur. Today, the clerks were as lovely as ever. But with Sharada frogmarching him past displays, the likelihood of him chatting one up was plummeting to zero.

They entered Harrods five minutes before the signing was due to begin. Thinking it would looked suspiciously overeager to appear right on time—how many people were likely to care passionately about a footballer's ex on a bright Saturday afternoon?—Paul floated the notion of visiting Wine, Spirits, & Cigars. Not because he could afford anything sold in that department but to gather talking points for his current squeezes, Emmeline and Kyla. Emmeline, always brand conscious, loved a frothy discussion of fads and trends. And for the more serious-minded Kyla, Paul could turn the dialogue on its ear, tutting about high street prices. Either way, it would be brilliant, as long his mouth didn't run away with him. Sometimes he liked the sound of his own voice so much, he forgot which woman he was speaking to.

"No, Deepal, we shall be on time," Sharada warned, steering him toward the escalators. "I refuse to wait behind a mob just because you have a fatal attraction to vice."

"Vice?" He stepped on the escalator, staring at its giant Egyptian-style decorations, in which colossal pharaohs were rendered in glowing plastic. So much gold, purple, and green was overwhelming. It was one part Art Deco, one part Burger King, and one part gay pride. "And why are we going up? Aren't books down?"

"Books are up," Sharada insisted. "I was here two years ago. As for the vices sold in that other section, the name says it all: wine, spirits, and cigars. Three things my only son should avoid."

"I gave up the ciggies. As far as a drink, come on."

The escalator spit them out into what was plainly women's fashion. Sharada surged forward, undeterred.

"Come on? What does that mean, come on?" she asked. "Are you being seduced by peer pressure? Giving in because the other boys do it?"

"I'm not a—" He stopped. It was no good reminding her that he was long past thirty, not unless he wanted a refresher on how his birth had made her suffer. "The point is, I don't drink like Buck, and you never say a word to him."

"Buck is cutting down."

"Buck is always one or two in the bag. The night Hardwick died, he was well and truly pissed."

She made a dismissive gesture.

"Seriously, Mum, I think he's an alcoholic."

"Red brassieres?" She frowned at a mannequin. "Why are there red brassieres in the book section?"

"Because I told you, this isn't the book section. Mum. Listen," he said, stopping her from charging into an area she was sure to consider highly inappropriate, at least for his eyes. "Are you actually okay with that? A boyfriend with a drinking problem?"

"Buck can manage his own affairs. The most important thing now is to prove he's innocent."

"It's just… after dad. I don't want you to get hurt again."

He expected her to get teary or perhaps wrap him in an embarrassing embrace. Instead, she wagged a finger at him. "Deepal, I am a grown woman. I don't need your meddling. I should be meddling with you! You think I don't know you're seeing two girls at once? It's outrageous. I didn't bring you up to—"

"Look, there's a sign. Books downstairs," he lied, jumping back on the escalator. To his relief, she followed.

Harrods bookshop was located in the middle of several departments Paul found more interesting—fine gift, travel goods, bed linens, even an ice cream parlor. It wasn't that he disliked books, he just had no interest in tell-alls or C-list celebrity memoirs. And Fiona Leeds's autobiography,
More Than a Footballer's Wife
, seemed like a cross between the two.

The book's dust jacket featured her in a velvet evening gown; small pictures on the back showed her skiing, snorkeling, and taking the stage for Miss Universe's bikini round. But the shop's towering promotional posters only showed her alongside Barney Leeds: at their wedding, at a World Cup match, on the red carpet. Clearly, despite the book's title, reminding readers of her connection to the man who'd punched out his coach was a major part of the book's marketing scheme.

Fiona sat behind the signing desk. She looked dignified, as least compared to herself in the beauty pageant photo. Her long hair, twisted in a bun, was accented with chopsticks; she wore a turtleneck, black slacks, and no jewelry. She'd also acquired a pair of rectangular black spectacles, the big, aggressively bookish sort. Paul wondered if they were borrowed.

An older woman in a yellow dress sailed up to greet them. She didn't wear a Harrods name tag, which suggested she'd accompanied Fiona; her publicist, perhaps.

"Yes, here early, very wise," she said, as if Paul and Sharada weren't ten minutes late. "Get your copies and hurry up to the table. Such a splendid opportunity! You'll get to spend a moment with Fiona and ask questions before the crowds surge in."

Paul glanced around. No crowds threatened, though he did see several people browsing in Stationary. A pack slavered around the Godiva Chocolatier cases. And a rather unimpressed-looking man held an open copy of Fiona's book, frowning as he read. It was an inauspicious start.

"I'm not buying one of those," Paul muttered to Sharada.

"Yes, you are. Take it to the table. Question her."

There was nothing else for it. Selecting one from the top of a five-foot stack, Paul opened the book, glimpsed the retail price, and immediately regretted it. With any luck, Emmeline would appreciate such a gift and reward him accordingly. Otherwise, he was spending a bundle just to humor his mother.

He approached the table. Fiona's eyes flicked up; otherwise, she affected not to notice his arrival. Her head was bent studiously over a book, lips moving slightly as her eyes moved down the page. Only when she looked up, smiled, and shut the book did he realize it was
More Than a Footballer's Wife
she'd been reading so intently.