Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (27 page)

"I asked Saunderson to go over the footage requisitioned from the CCTV cameras of Hardwick's neighbors. Saw the results just before I left the Yard. Buck Wainwright was captured briefly on several. Nothing useful there. But a young man dropped by East Asia House around eight. Drove a lorry, had on something like a uniform, but looked dodgy to me. Shaved head. Multiple piercings. I'll bet he was calling about Hardwick's drug distribution scheme. Then there's the lady in the lavender coat and scarf who entered East Asia House's back garden and never came out."

"Fiona Leeds said she saw Georgette leaving…."

"We have pictures of that, too. A woman, medium height, scarf over her hair, lavender coat, punching in the code to Hardwick's back fence around six o'clock. The neighbor's cameras are roof-positioned, so the angle is bad, but we see her enter. She never comes out. Ever. Half hour later, Georgette Sevrin exits. Wild hair, big glasses, housedress. Climbed the fence to Declan East's back garden and never appeared on camera again. Not until she emerged from the wardrobe inside Hardwick's house." He took a sip of cola. "It's like a magic trick. A bloody annoying magic trick."

"All right," Kate said. "Let's pick this apart. Hardwick was into more than art. He was using his gallery's order fulfillment system to ship drugs for a third party. Maisie refused to play along and said she was threatened. You think Hardwick courted death on that front?"

"It's possible. I've chased these types for years. Most of them kill someone in their own network from time to time, just to be taken seriously," Jackson said. "But the fact this third party knew Maisie flushed the gear and pressed several times for repayment says something. The really tough customers only ask once. Then they make an example out of you. And the lorry driver? He may have come round to threaten Hardwick, but he didn't kill him. Hardwick was alive a few hours later to open the door for Buck."

"Okay. Next item. A woman in a lavender coat entered, but didn't exit. A woman who took steps to conceal her identity with the scarf…."

"It was cold out."

"True. Still, whoever she was, she knew the code. Sunny tweeted some odd stuff the day of the murder."

"This woman's too short to be Sunny. Too short to be any of Hardwick's women, if you ask me. Liked legs, our Granville."

"Finally, Georgette appears to leave," Kate said slowly, trying to envision it, "but never comes back. She's cruel and mocking and a certified liar. But I almost believed her when she said someone was in her bedroom, rifling her chest of drawers. And there
were
unknowns in the fingerprint analysis."

"There always are, unless you're a total hermit," Jackson said. "There are unknowns on every surface, including the murder weapon. They just don't tie into any person of interest."

"Those shots of Georgette. Were they also from a roof camera? Did you identify her by face, or just by hair and glasses?"

"You think it wasn't her?"

"Well, you said she wore a housedress but no coat. And it
was
cold that night. I wore my best coat to the scene, and so did everyone else. Leaving aside the issue of how Georgette got back in the house, why would she leave without a coat?"

Jackson seemed to consider that. Kate, who already had a theory, waited. In the past, he'd maintained an excellent arrest ratio by coming down with both feet on the first likely suspect, detective work be damned. Now that he was off the sauce, as he put it, would he still be so quick to plow through cases without examining all the evidence? Or would he stop and actually ponder an unanswered question or two?

"So you think the woman in the scarf may have killed Hardwick?" she asked Jackson. "Then she went up to Georgette's room, took some of her things, and exited in disguise?"

"Maybe."

"That's fine, but if Georgette Sevrin was home, as she claims, why didn't she notice? I realize she likes to play nutter, but she has the lucid routine when things get hot. Why not lucidly mention who actually did it?"

"I'm not sure yet," Kate said. "But let's say the woman in the lavender coat killed Hardwick. If she wasn't one of his girlfriends, she was definitely a neighbor. Someone who'd had an opportunity to learn the gate code.

"Anyway," Kate continued, warming to her theory. "This girlfriend or neighbor quarrels with Hardwick. Bashes him with the statuette and gets blood all over her coat. If the murder wasn't premeditated, maybe she panics. Thinks about all those TV crime shows, the forensic traces she might have left behind, the neighborhood cameras. Decides she can't leave as herself and risk being seen. So she exits dressed as Georgette."

"Leaving the lavender coat behind, either tucked in East Asia House or one of its rubbish bins." Jackson looked impressed. "Not bad. Not sure if I buy it, but not bad. Tomorrow I'll go back over every inch of the place with my own team. The CSIs are good, but in a house that size, there's plenty to overlook. If a bloody coat is hidden inside, I'll find it. So now—this mystery lady who climbed over Declan East's garden wall. Didn't Bhar's mum list Mrs. East as a wandering wife?"

"Yes," Kate said, chuckling. "It's amazing what some time with Google and absolute, unswerving devotion to a man can accomplish. If Sharada ever turns stalker, Buck's finished. I'm met Patsy East. Kind of a shrinking violet. But she seems to have had an affair with Hardwick. Certainly her husband, Declan, wrote at least one column taking all Britain to task for condoning adultery."

"I've read his stuff. Angry man," Jackson said. "Never satisfied. I'm tempted to knock on his door and hear his unvarnished opinion of his poor dead neighbor. But Tony's meeting with the REB tomorrow, and the Easts should be among them. Best leave it to him."

"That reminds me. About Tony…."

Jackson's eyes narrowed again. "More gossip?"

"Not really. I just—"

"Look, you can think what you want, Hetheridge, but I never wanted Tony out. Maybe we weren't the best of friends, but he overlooked a lot from me. So anything you heard, anything about decisions that came from the MoJ or wherever…." He glared at her, gripping his cola glass with both hands. "Sod it. Never mind. Maybe you never had a relative who made you want to leave the country. I do."

"Actually, I have one or two," Kate said. "And to be honest, I was only trying to thank you. You came to Wellegrave House for tea. Showed mercy to Paul and his mum. Even invited Tony to continue in the investigation as a private citizen. That was big of you."

If Jackson had looked uncomfortable before, now he seemed positively mortified. "Oh. Well. Er, it was all for me, really, asking Tony to handle the neighbors. He doesn't need my help. He's Lord Hetheridge. He'd beat cancer with a pack of cigarettes."

"Maybe." Kate smiled. "But thanks anyway. Chief."

"Right. Um, look, there's the barman," Jackson said, either catching sight of the witness or pretending to. Standing up, he brushed the dandruff off his shoulders and straightened his sport coat, which he'd probably bought off the rack when Prince Harry was a baby. "I realize tomorrow's Sunday, but I'll expect you in no later than noon, is that clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good. And good work on the theory. Go home," he ordered over his shoulder, and walked away.

* * *

By the time Kate reached home, it was almost nine. She was taking off her coat in Wellegrave House's foyer when her mobile rang.

"Hello, ma'am!" PC Gulls sang, cheerful as ever. "Hope this isn't too late. I've spent all day on your assignment, and ooh, it was a tough one. Funny how many people don't work Saturdays and dodge calls on the weekend, even from Scotland Yard."

"I always say straight out it's a murder investigation. That gets people's juices flowing," Kate said. "The less they have to do with it, the more keen they are. But you're right, it's late. Have something for me on the statuette?" She feared Gulls, in her zeal, might have actually called her after hours to report negative progress.

"Yes. It was quite a long and twisted road, ma'am. First I had to track down the maker's mark. It's for the St. George & the Dragon Replica Company, which was founded three years ago and went out of business soon after. After it failed, its holdings were liquidated, so it took some little white lies on my part to determine—"

"Gulls."

"Ma'am?"

"I'm sure you did an amazing job. I'll probably never fully appreciate everything you went through to track down that piece. But if you did track it down, could you skip to the grand finale? I'd really like to see my husband before dawn."

"Of course! So,
Hercules Beating the Centaur Nessus
was limited to one thousand copies. A home shopping club sold most of them, and I'll be getting those names and addresses by next week. Always like to be thorough, ma'am," Gulls said happily. "But twenty-five copies were bought by a magazine called
Our Beloved Heritage
. It's one of those aren't-we-English things, all about restoring fox hunting and abolishing immigration and getting back to our roots, which I think is code for something unpleasant. Anyway, those twenty-five copies were given as gifts to the magazine's regular contributors." Gulls couldn't suppress her rising excitement. "And one of those contributors, who submits an opinion piece for every issue, lives in your neighborhood."

"Declan East," Kate said.

"Yes!" Gulls emitted what was, for her, a rather wicked laugh. "The statuettes are all numbered. Unfortunately, the magazine didn't keep track of which piece went to which recipient. So even though we know it was statuette 371 of 1000 that killed Granville Hardwick, we don't have a document affirming statuette 371 is the one Declan East received. Still, it can't be a coincidence, can it?"

"I don't think so. Well done, Gulls. I won't forget this," Kate said, and rang off.

In Ritchie's room, she discovered Paul and Henry sitting in on the millionth re-watching of
The Lego Movie
. Henry was reading a book. Ritchie was on the floor, constructing something new from his beloved plastic bricks. Paul, however, seemed captivated by the film, laughing at all the right spots.

"Did Harvey find you a room?" Kate asked.

"Yes. Thank you. And have you seen this? It's brilliant!"

"Stick around. Before long, you'll be hearing the theme song in your sleep."

Leaving him to it, Kate went upstairs to find Tony sitting up in bed, reading specs on, duvet pulled up to his waist, frowning at his iPad. He was shirtless, which she considered a good start. So she locked the bedroom door against any possible incursions from Henry or Ritchie.

"You don't look happy," she said, stepping out of her heels. "It's not because I invited Paul for the night, is it?"

"Of course not. I did wonder if it was your idea of revenge. I decide we should adopt Henry; you decide we should adopt Paul. But no, if I seem frustrated, it's just a bit of aggro over this," Tony said, indicating the device on his lap. "Mrs. Snell believes that, retired detective or no, in order to obtain my PI license, I'll have to attend at least one weekend course. Not online. In person. Possibly with a sticky name tag affixed to my lapel. I've been checking behind her, and she's correct, as usual."

"What's the topic? How to submit information requests in triplicate, then start over again when the government loses them?" Kate asked, draping her blazer over a chair.

"No. This. 'Achieving Best Evidence in Criminal Proceedings: Guidance on Interviewing Victims and Witnesses, and Guidance on using Special Measures,' by the Ministry of Justice."

"Tony. You could teach that."

"I have taught it. Offered to rewrite it, as a matter of fact." Putting the iPad aside, he removed his reading glasses, the better to watch her undress. "Never mind. Carry on."

Smiling, she removed her skirt, then began unbuttoning her blouse. "So you're actually committed to the private investigation service? You think things will go that way and not…." Trailing off, she unhooked her bra, enjoying his unwavering gaze.

He didn't answer.

"Tony?" she said, wriggling out of her knickers.

"Hmnh? Sorry, you distracted me. As for the future, I suppose it's fifty-fifty. You know me, I like to keep my options open, and I'm certainly not ready to retire in earnest. So I'll get that license, whether I actually use it or not." He patted the space on the bed beside him. "Come closer. Tell me about the case."

"The case?" She feigned disbelief. "But we have a rule. No work in bed."

"That was before. When I was your commanding officer. Now I'm merely a citizen. And very interested to know what my wife has uncovered."

"I don't think discussing it would be very professional of me."

"Shall I convince you?"

"Please."

Chapter Eighteen

The home of Jimmy Quarrels and his wife, Tabitha, was arguably the most palatial on Euston Place, and certainly the oldest, predating Wellegrave House by fifty years. Tony, accustomed to the reality of homes which had passed their bicentennial, wasn't surprised to find that within No. 22's Georgian exterior, only the front parlor was maintained as a period showplace. Beyond that chamber, with its neoclassical furniture, antique rugs, and Moorish mirrors, the house opened up, walls falling away and picture windows appearing, brightening an expansive living room and an oversized, airy kitchen.