Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (5 page)

PLASTIC

THE OTHER WHITE MEAT

Kate thought,
I don't know much about art, but I know what I like. This looks like nothing but a lot of wank. Probably means it's priceless.

Still, at the far end, the gallery contained one gripping, emotionally affecting piece. It was Granville Hardwick, face down in his own blood.

In death, he was smaller than in his infomercial. Dressed in khaki chinos, a blue pinstriped shirt with white cuffs and collar, and a lime green vest, he'd slipped out of one shoe as he fell, revealing a lime green sock. His hands had been pre-bagged by Garrett and the forensic techs; any DNA evidence under his nails, or defensive wounds on his fingers, was so valuable it had to be protected right away. Through the clear plastic, Kate noted no wedding band, just a gaudy pinky ring. Given his position, it was impossible to make out Hardwick's features. But despite all the blood in his hair, she noted a flash of lime green.

"Blood's congealing. Ambient temp feels like 15 or 16C," Kate said. "Did Hardwick die this afternoon?"

"Almost certainly," Garrett said. "But don't quote me in advance of the official report." Nodding at the ominous wall splatter, he asked, "What do you make of that bloodstain pattern?"

"Killed by a single, massive blow to the head."

"And there's the murder weapon." Tony indicated the hefty marble statuette which lay beside Hardwick, painted with gore.

"The bloke minding the van said Buck Wainwright's been taken into custody," Kate told Garrett. "The alarm was on standby and there's no sign of forced entry. Looks like Hardwick opened the door to Buck, and Buck killed him. What else did you want us to see?"

"Ah, but that would be telling. No doubt you've attended at least one of my lectures. Now's your opportunity to put that knowledge into action." For one who could pass as Death's body double, Peter Garrett's voice was surprisingly hearty. And his toothsome grin looked sincere—alarming, but sincere. "However, before you begin… Lady Hetheridge, forgive me for veering from the strictly professional, but it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last." Garrett's bony hand fastened onto hers with unexpected strength. Even through blue nitrile gloves, the touch was icy. "I do hope you enjoyed your honeymoon. How does the life of a baroness suit you?"

"V-very well," Kate stammered. Why did she always respond like an idiot? Best to get back to the job.

She moved closer to Hardwick's corpse. The smell of violent death—copper, urine, and feces—was overpowering, but she didn't flinch. At a crime scene, uniformed PCs always watched from the periphery, and heaven knew coppers liked a juicy bit of gossip. Bad enough how the rank and file derided Scotland Yard's "Toff Squad." Showing even momentary weakness would be grist for the mill, and Kate couldn't allow that.

She went back to the blood spatter. Four huge spots marred the wall, soaked into its rough, porous surface. Each spot was a dark round center surrounded by a halo of smaller points. Together, the four spots looked like a cluster of dandelions gone to seed; a bouquet, rendered in blood.

Something caught her eye on the opposite wall. Multiple craters, each over an inch deep. It took Kate a moment to realize those craters were roughly the size of a man's fist. Someone had battered the walls. But when? During the rage that had preceded the murder, or the despair that followed?

"Did you have a look at our suspect's hands?" she asked Garrett.

"I have. They'll soon be black and blue. Well done, DS Hetheridge. The first crew overlooked those marks entirely. Until I pointed them out, they assumed it was all part of the décor." Garrett gave a disapproving sniff. "But there's one more thing."

From his position beside the corpse, Tony pointed at a pool of mostly congealed blood. Two long smears emanated from it, dried and irregular. "Can these be drag marks, Peter? I think perhaps they are. Unless someone stepped in the blood. Slipped in it?"

"My theory is someone did indeed track through it," Garrett said. "I think those are shoe prints he or she took the time to rub out. I asked a technician to examine the pattern. Perhaps the shoe size can be extrapolated, if the thinnest swipes are cataloged and eliminated. If that size matches your prime suspect, I doubt Johnnie Cochran could get him off. If it doesn't, the defense will run riot."

"I agree," Tony said. "Kate, are you ready for him to turn the body?"

She nodded.

"Ah, but let's have a closer look at this first," Garrett said, lifting the murder weapon. A statuette of veined white marble affixed to a thick base, the item was half a meter tall. Kate guessed it weighed nine or ten kilograms, judging by how Garrett used both hands. As he brought it up for their inspection, an arm dropped off. Which still left plenty of limbs; as far as Kate could see, the figure possessed three additional arms, two legs, and four hooves, all in a tangle. Alone on the floor, the broken arm looked rather forlorn, clutching its miniature club daubed in red.

"Have a good look, please, before I bag it," Garrett warned.

Rising, Tony turned to Kate. "Will you take us through it?"

"Sure, guv. Our killer is right-handed. He killed Hardwick with a single blow to the back of the skull. The parietal bone, I think. Since Hardwick was about five foot seven, the angle suggests his killer was the same height or taller, and probably held the statue by the base, judging by that negative space." She indicated a clean area on the bloody statuette. "Not sure if that's a two-handed grip, which means the killer could be female, or a one-handed grip, which suggests a male."

"Anything else?"

"That PC out front said he wasn't sure if the motive was theft or revenge. The body shows no signs of overkill. Maybe it wasn't personal?"

But even as she said it, Kate's eye was drawn back to the battered wall.
Something
personal had transpired in this room.

"Prints have already been lifted," Garrett assured them as he gently bagged the statuette. "Two partials made in blood. And the techs may recover more latent prints in the usual ways—Super Glue, ninhydrin, laser luminescence. To say nothing of touch DNA."

Tony made a disbelieving sound. Kate felt much the same. Notorious for false positives, touch DNA mostly belonged to the world of defense barristers, often to conjure up reasonable doubt. By locating eight or ten skin cells, usually left by a CSI or copper in the line of duty, touch DNA could get an entire crime scene ruled contaminated—and therefore inadmissible—torpedoing an otherwise solid case. When it came to Scotland Yard in general, or prosecutors in particular, touch DNA was rarely a friend.

"Go on, have your laugh," Garrett said serenely. "I'll order the tests all the same." Now that the statuette was properly sealed in its clear evidence bag, he placed it on its base, allowing Kate to view it properly.

"Yet another piece of art I can't comprehend. What's that even meant to be?"

She expected shrugs or sarcasm. Instead, Garret and Tony said at once, "Giambologna." Then, nearly in unison: "
Hercules Beating the Centaur Nessus
." They looked as pleased as if they'd simultaneously buzzed in the winning answer.

Kate must have looked nonplussed. Garrett said, "It's quite all right, DS Hetheridge. Back when Tony and I were at school, and Stonehenge was merely a gleam in some prehistoric Celt's eye, art was considered essential. And the ability to discuss it, the mark of a gentleman."

"Hang on. Are you telling me this poor bugger was done in by a famous work of art?"

"Not at all," Tony told her. "He's telling you Mr. Hardwick was killed by a rather tasteless reproduction of a famous work of art. An item that hardly fits the room, wouldn't you say? This space is devoted to post-modern art, probably all originals. Whereas this type of item is… well…."

"Vulgar?" Kate asked sweetly. "The sort of thing someone who doesn't belong in this neighborhood might pick? Ordered from a home shopping channel in the middle of the night?"

Tony, clearly sensing the danger, said nothing. Garrett, however, looked pleased all over again.

"Yes, precisely. This must have come from QVC or somewhere equally ghastly. Why would Hardwick possess such a thing? Whatever you think of all this" —he gestured around the gallery— "it's nothing if not consistent."

"Perhaps it was a gift?" Tony suggested. "Something the killer brought into the house?"

"Good thought," Garrett said. "Which brings us back to the question of overkill and personal malice." Gently, he rolled Hardwick over, out of the congealing blood. "It's true, the man was killed with a single blow. But look what that blow did."

Kate saw that Hardwick's skull was ruptured. As Garrett moved him, a trickle of cerebrospinal fluid leaked out, carrying bits of grey matter. But even in death, Hardwick's face retained a genial, boyish cast, the corners of his mouth tilted up in a smile. His eyelids were shut, which looked peaceful, but something round and pinkish-white stood out on his cheek. For a split second, it didn't register. Then Kate realized a slender cord extended from beneath his eyelid to the blob on his cheek. Her stomach dropped. Hardwick's eye was knocked out on its stalk.

Don't think of it as knocked out. Think of it as dislocated. Displaced
, she coached herself, shifting her gaze to Hardwick's jaunty bowtie as she waited for the nausea to pass
.

"Chief Superintendent Hetheridge! What a relief." Surging into the crime scene, Sharada Bhar, mother of DS Deepal "Paul" Bhar, made for Tony, which amounted to throwing herself at Hardwick's corpse. "Someone senior is needed. These people have made a terrible mistake."

With a growl of frustration, a uniformed PC shot after her. The man surely meant to preserve the peace, to say nothing of the evidence, but when he caught her by the shoulders, Sharada shrieked. Her cry, high-pitched as a little girl's, was probably heard in Wembley. And
that
summoned her son, already hard on the PC's heels. Darting in, Paul laid hands on the constable, spun him around, and bellowed, "Don't you touch my mum!"

"
Stop
."

Everyone froze. Even Kate, well-accustomed to her husband's commanding nature, stood rooted to the spot. For his part, Paul literally ceased in mid-grapple, still hanging on to the constable's shoulders.

The constable, equally shocked, made no attempt to free himself. Like Paul, he seemed afraid to breathe. Sharada, essentially untouched, nonetheless managed to look wounded to the core. She was dressed in her usual manner: long skirt, bright sweater, gold rings on every finger. Behind her overlarge spectacles, her equally overlarge eyes looked as hurt and pleading as a greeting card puppy's. Paul had warned Kate about that. He claimed his mother's seeming helplessness was an evolutionary adaptation, like the sweet whiff of a carnivorous plant.

As for Paul, he still wore his office attire—charcoal Prada suit, Gucci shoes, pink Ferragamo tie, and enough Acqui di Parma to announce his coming around corners. He cut a dashing figure these days, or would have, except for his tendency to put his foot in it, time and time again. Still, Kate ached for him. His comically arrested look of horror made it clear. He'd leapt to his mum's defense so instinctively, he'd never guessed his chief was on the premises, much less bearing witness.

"DS Bhar." Tony didn't sound cold. He sounded positively frigid. "Release that officer."

"Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry, mate," Paul babbled. He took his hands off the poor PC. Then, ludicrously, began patting the officer's shoulders, possibly in an attempt to restore the man's personal space. "No offense meant. I only wanted to—"

"Now get out," Tony said, cutting across him.

"Guv." Paul stopped patting the hapless PC. He looked as stricken as his mother. "I'm completely out of bounds, I know. But this is madness. They've arrested Buck. He discovered the body, stumbled upon it. Then Buck rang Mum and Mum rang me, and before we knew it—"

"Detective Sergeant Bhar. Forgive me for being unclear." Hetheridge stepped as close as the corpse between them permitted. "Speak not another word. Touch not another object. Get out
now
. And present yourself in front of my desk at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow."

Paul's mouth worked. Kate knew it went against his deepest nature to keep silent, even when ordered to do so. She faced a similar problem; it took an act of will for her not to leap to his defense. And not because he was right. Protocol was clear; having learned his mum and her boyfriend were at a murder scene, he should have done anything, absolutely anything, but show up at said murder scene. Much less insert himself into the investigation, manhandling a PC in the process. Such conduct was indefensible. But every instinct cried out for Kate to defend him anyway, simply because he was a mate. Loyalty was encoded in her DNA, just as verbal recklessness was encoded in his.

Paul kept silent. Kate kept silent. So far, so good. In his case, self-preservation must have finally kicked in. As for her, she had little choice—Tony was not only her guv, he was her husband. That didn't make the moment any better, or Paul's expression any easier to bear.

"Lord Hetheridge, I beg you!" Sharada would have clambered right over Hardwick's corpse if Bhar hadn't stopped her. The collision between mother and son made her look at the body—really look at it, taking in what that tabletop reproduction of
Hercules Beating the Centaur Nessus
had done.

"No." Sharada went rigid, hand to her throat. "My Buck couldn't have done this. No, no, no—"

"Sharada." Tony's use of her given name sliced through her incipient hysteria. Going to her side, he placed an arm around the trembling woman's shoulders, turning her away from the dead man. "Would you accompany me into the next room? I'd like to interview you personally. Let's get to the bottom of this, shall we?"

"Y-yes," she quavered, clinging to him. "Buck wouldn't—he couldn't…. That man's eye. His eye!"

"We'll make sense of this together, I promise," Tony said. Without looking at Kate, he ordered, "DS Hetheridge, go to the suspect. Interview him here, now, and if circumstances warrant, arrange his processing."