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

"Just say it," Tony cut across him, not unkindly.

"Half the team checked the house's basement and ground floor. The other half searched upstairs. There was, er, a small wardrobe in a bedroom. And because the square footage is so large and all the lights were out, I—that is to say,
my team
and I—we, er—"

"Passed over a suspect?"

Kincaid winced. "Yes, Lord Hetheridge. I'm sorry, sir. She emerged from the wardrobe just as the techs began dusting for prints. Said the passage to Narnia failed."

"Beg pardon?"

"The, er, wardrobe, sir. It didn't take her to Narnia."

"I see. May I presume she's now in custody?"

"Yes, sir, but she's been no help. No ID on her person. Answers questions with complete rubbish. We're still working on her name."

"What about the forensic team? Still at it, I suppose?" As always, Tony sounded slightly put off by being permitted into the crime scene only after it was processed. In his youth, senior detectives had enjoyed full access, which sometimes allowed them to solve cases more quickly. Other times, they smeared irreplaceable evidence with fingers and ground subtle traces beneath heels, leading to a mistrial or acquittal in Crown Court. Nowadays, in what Kate considered a perfectly rational change of policy, the Forensic Medical Examiner went in first, assisted by a squad of CSIs. They took samples, dusted for prints, photographed key details, and digitally filmed the scene in three hundred and sixty degree slices, assembling a flawless 3-D image for future study. To Kate, it was the best possible use of technology. To Tony, it was another attempt to replace human ingenuity with a web of interlocking policies. Old-fashioned copper that he was, he valued a seasoned detective's instincts above even advanced scientific analysis.

"Tony! We're ready for you." From East Asia House's doorway, a tall man in blue overalls, gloves, and booties beckoned. It was FME Peter Garrett, his plastic-fronted hood under his arm, revealing that trademark deaths-head grin. "Go round to the forensics van and get your protective gear. You and your bride need to do this one by the book."

The van had both back doors propped open. Inside, on a folding chair, sat a tech wearing a dirty yellow vest with highly reflective patches, a copy of the
Evening Standard
in his lap.

"That's it, step right up ladies and gents, step right up," he called to Kate and Tony. "I'll take your coats, I'll take your scarves, I'll take your purse, too, blondie, and promise not to paw through it too much."

Tony gave the man a sharp look. Kate didn't like the idea of handing over her bag to anyone she didn't know; most of these techs were contract workers, not Met employees, and once in a blue moon, valuables went missing. She glanced at her husband in mute appeal.

"There's nothing for it. Peter always enforces the letter of the law when there's significant blood spatter."

"Oh, there's more than blood in there, guv. Brains, too," the tech continued in his boisterous Cockney manner. "Right slaughter in that house. Someone must've hated the poor bugger."

Tony, in the process of stepping into an overlarge, overlong pair of filmy blue overalls, gave the tech a longer, more pointed stare.

The tech laughed, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. "No offense, guv'ner, no offense! You two are old school, eh? Hearts breaking for the dearly departed?"

"Something like that," Kate said, reluctantly handing over her purse. "So if you were allowed inside with the crew, how'd you land back out here, minding the little blue booties? Too much carnage for your delicate tum?"

"Nah, love. These are austerity measures. Used to be, we had a newbie to mind the van while us old pros worked. Now the Met's frozen our wages. Claim they're too skint to hire new blood. So a twenty-year man like myself draws van duty, babysitting the evidence baggies. But mustn't grumble," he said, passing a plastic-fronted hood to Hetheridge. "While I mind the van, I can read my paper. Have a fag. Get a nice view of how the other half lives."

"Speaking of that. I don't suppose you had a look at that bloke hanging about? Bald man with an Alsatian?" Kate asked as she put her hood on.

"I did. Didn't want to leave, that one," the tech agreed, handed Kate her own overlong, overlarge blue coveralls.

"Notice him doing summat strange? Snapping pics or recording video with his mobile, maybe?" she asked, stepping into them.

"And here I thought Scotland Yard was all loafers, and me and my mates were the genuine heroes." Another flash of those crooked teeth. "He was coming up the street when our van arrived. Playing it cool, just walkies with the mutt, right? But he didn't move on when the pandas rolled up. Loitered about, watching the house, long after that big blighter did its business. In my book, that makes him a conspirator. Probably a lookout. So how's about it, blondie? Do I make the grade?"

"Not quite. The correct way to address my colleague is Detective Sergeant, for a start," Tony said, zipping Kate's overalls up the front. "But did you say your van arrived before the first police cars?"

"Too right, guv. We're the psychic murder squad. Gonna have our own program on Sky TV." The tech sounded stroppy now; Tony's reproof must have struck home. "Naw. We were all dispatched at the same time. Our van just beat the pandas. The bloke what found Mr. Hardwick called it in as murder. From what I can gather, the unies didn't believe him and arrested him on the spot. Your prime suspect, signed, sealed, and delivered? I call that easy work, milord."

"My name," Tony said pleasantly, reaching past the tech to obtain Kate's booties, "is Chief Superintendent Anthony Hetheridge. I'd ask yours, so I could mention it to your superior officer," he said slowly, maintaining eye contact for what felt like a very long time, "but I fear I'll simply forget it. Just as I'll forget you, the moment I walk away. Carry on babysitting the evidence bags. The work suits you—so long as they're empty."

Tony turned away. Kate spared the tech a pitying glance, mouthing the word "Whoops."

"For the love of—" He shook his head, horrified. "Why didn't you give me a wink? That was
Lord Hetheridge
!"

"Was it?" Kate grinned. "Oooh, he's dead sexy. Must dash!"

Falling into stride with Tony, she said, "Not sure if I buy Mr. Working Class Hero's lookout angle. But don't forget, the man with the Alsatian mentioned you. If that's a coincidence, it's a big one."

"We'll look into it. Though it beggars belief, doesn't it? A scenario in which one conspirator circles the crime scene, in full view of witnesses, while the other sticks by the victim till he's arrested?"

"Fair point. Now tell me, do you plan on getting angry every time some tosser calls me blondie?"

Tony looked surprised. "I wasn't angry. Only pulling rank. I don't believe you've ever seen me angry."

"Maybe not. I'm usually angry enough for both of us. But I've seen you displeased. I've watched that look come over your face."

"Which look?"

"You know. The one that says the peasants plowed the wrong field, or the scullions made off with the silver. That's it," she cried, delighted. "No wonder that poor tech almost soiled himself. I'm all a-shiver!"

"Tony?" Peter Garrett called from the doorway of East Asia House. "Are you two coming inside or embarking on a second honeymoon?"

"Coming," they replied in unison.

The concrete steps were stamped with more block images of elephants. On the porch, a huge GH, painted in gold, made Kate wince. She didn't belong to the cult of Mayfair, wherein the phrase "grade II listed home" represented the highest possible good, and the term "Georgian-inspired" meant the homeowner was at least, well,
trying
. Still, Kate appreciated the neighborhood's relentless symmetry, its understated grace: pediments, black-lacquered iron fences, steps inlaid with black and white tile. But this? Elephant silhouettes, an incomprehensible art installation, a gigantic gilt monogram? Kate found it all a bit repellent. So members of the Reverse Euston Brutality group must have been positively suicidal.

Or homicidal. Confessed killer on the premises or no, we'll need to interview the entire group. Maybe Paul can handle that. He's a genius at knocking on posh doors and getting under the residents' skin.

Tony seemed to read her thoughts. "I require a bit more assistance," he told Garrett. "Would you be so good as to have someone call the Yard? I'd like Dispatch to round up my other detective, DS Bhar."

The forensic medical examiner's face split into a familiar toothsome grin. "No need, old chap. He's inside already."

Kate blinked at Garrett. "What? The first responders called DS Bhar before they called us?"

Garrett kept his smile in place, but it began to look pained. "They did. A, er,
witness
wanted him." His emphasis on the word "witness" transformed it into something closer to
suspect
. "She's an older woman. Quite loud, quite insistent. Wouldn't take no for an answer, actually. I believe she's called Sherry… Sharon…."

"Mrs. Sharada Bhar?" Tony sounded neutral. But judging by the look in his pale blue eyes, one could be forgiven for concluding scullions had made off with the silver, the china, and perhaps even the Bentley.

"That's it, Sharada Bhar." Garrett's smile flagged. "She insisted DS Bhar be present. It seems the man they arrested for killing Mr. Hardwick is her, well, boyfriend, as it were."

Chapter Three

East Asia House's interior was as idiosyncratic as its future-shock exterior. In the foyer, a neon sign covered an entire wall, spelling out WELCOME three times in block letters. However, the first few letters of each word had been deactivated, leaving this, over a meter tall and glowing like a red hot poker, to confront visitors:

ME

ME

ME

Ego, much?

Kate used her smartphone to take a picture. The rules on crime scene photography via mobile devices were still a bit woolly. Taking snaps was one thing; transmitting those images in any fashion, even to one's private cloud storage or personal hard drive, was quite another. Attempting to enter them into evidence after personal storage? Also potentially disastrous. Yet despite the dedication of the Met's crime scene techs, Kate liked taking photos for her own personal reference. It gave her an illusion of control in a system almost too vast to imagine.

"Have you met Mrs. Bhar's boyfriend?" she whispered to Tony as they followed Garrett.

"No, but I've listened to Paul grumble about him. A genuine American cowboy, to hear him tell it, called Wainwright."

"That's right. Buck Wainwright," Kate said. "Not to justify murder, but that welcome sign would put anyone off. How do you suppose an American rancher knew a London art dealer?"

The tunnel-like foyer bent twice, taking Kate, Tony, and Garrett around funhouse-style corners before depositing them into what seemed like a waiting room. There was bland furniture, an oval table, and a muted flat screen TV showing a montage of paintings and sculptures.

It's an infomercial
, Kate realized.
Hardwick plays an infomercial about himself in his own house?

The video seemed intended to educate guests about Hardwick's triumphs, judging by the number of times his company, Hardwick Happenings LLC, cropped up in the captions. And for every picture of modern or post-modern art—gold lamé-wrapped trees, giant anvils suspended above teacups, David Beckham rendered in Weetabix—there were several "action" shots of Hardwick himself: breaking ground before a new gallery, being interviewed on a TV chat show, sipping sake in a trendy Japanese restaurant. To Kate, he looked a bit like Andrew Lloyd Webber, with red cheeks, thin lips, and limp hair, yet lively eyes and a boyish smile. That face would have been at home in any issue of
Punch
from 1841 to 1900. Still, Hardwick's suits were youthful, his female companions were beautiful, and his forelock was frequently dyed some Day-Glo color like lime green, orange, or hot pink. Was that hair a signal to creative types? A sort of Open Sesame for the art world?

Kate snapped two more pictures, more from habit than interest. This room was pristine. No blood, no body, no signs of a struggle.

"Where's the body?" she asked Garrett.

"This way."

If the waiting room was bland, the room to follow was even blander: raw stuccoed walls and a concrete floor. Kate took it to be "industrial-chic," that soulless intersection between a debtor's prison and a South American sweatshop. Denied windows and relentlessly gray, the space offered no television, sound system, bookcase, or sofa.

"What is this?" she asked her husband.

"A gallery."

She looked again. If this was Hardwick's personal gallery, then what it held must be art. Kate saw bits of wadded toilet tissue arranged on a silver platter. An unframed canvas stapled with church jumble adverts. Brown and gold turkey feathers glued into the shape of a sombrero. And in the center, occupying pride of place, a naked female mannequin arranged in a handstand, bolted to her pedestal. Up her legs someone had spray-painted,