Ice Blue (13 page)

“Of course,” Jules said. She was better
equipped to verbalize her outrage than Kevin, who was reduced to
shaking his head and scowling. “First of all, Lisa Plaster is a sad
fat bitch who couldn’t pay a man to fuck her. Kevin’s been her
friend for years, but just her friend, because he would never waste
himself on a loser like her. Lisa has trouble telling truth from
fantasy. She’s always wanted Kevin and she’s never been able to
accept our engagement. But we are engaged! Ask my mum! Ask Charlie
and Ginny, they were at the party! The engagement’s the reason my
dad was such a swine that night!”

Bhar, who had flipped open his black leather
notebook, read aloud: “As far as this engagement business, Jules’s
family is too pushy. They know I like Ju. But I’m not ready to
settle down. Marriage is an institution and I’m not ready to be
sent to an institution.” Smiling at Kevin, Bhar flipped the
notebook shut.

“Fuck you!” Kevin exploded, pointing a finger
at Bhar. But he did not rise, Kate noticed. Nor did he tremble with
the suppressed energy that often came before an assailant attacked.
Instead of leaping up and going for Bhar – taller, fitter, and
clearly unafraid – Kevin rounded on Jules, his eyes wide, his
finger suddenly aimed at her face.

“They’re stitching me up, Jules, and you’d
best not believe them! I’m yours, babe, you know that. This is all
balls, just hairy slobbery balls!”

Jules looked terrified. “I know, luv, I know.
I don’t believe a word of it, I wouldn’t …”

“I mean, it’s all your fault these wankers
have climbed up my arse, innit?” Now Kevin began to shake, hands
clenching into fists. “Your fault and your old man’s fault. You
think I need coppers beating down my door? You think I need any of
this noise when I could be painting, when I could be creating my
art?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Tears started in
Jules’s pale eyes. “I don’t believe them, I swear I don’t…”

Bhar’s mobile went off. He listened for a
moment, then rose and headed for the suite’s entrance. Kate, left
alone facing Jules and Kevin, studied the young couple, a strange
ice forming in the center of her chest.

Jules, swiping at her eyes and nose, looked
desperate for reassurance that she hadn’t somehow angered Kevin.
Kevin, on the other hand, looked puffed up again, much as he had
two days before, when Lisa Plaster leapt to his defense. He
accepted Jules’s bottomless need for his approval as his due, just
as he accepted Lisa Plaster’s unconditional devotion: the way a
tick gorges on blood.

Sometimes I hate seeing people so clearly,
Kate thought. Sometimes I hate myself for being able to see them so
clearly.

Bhar returned to the parlor in less than two
minutes, a manila envelope in hand. “Kevin Whitley, Scotland Yard
has received new evidence regarding your whereabouts on the night
of Malcolm Comfrey’s murder.” Bhar’s tone was formal, but Kate
recognized the gleam of pleasure in his dark eyes. “Would you care
to revise your official statement on your movements and actions
between seven o’clock and midnight that night?”

“What evidence?” Kevin asked, gaping at the
envelope.

“A neighbor’s CC TV camera took several
images of you at the side entrance of the Comfrey house. This one,
time-stamped ten minutes past eight pm, was taken just before you
entered.” Bhar held up two magnified, digitally enhanced
photographs for Kate, Kevin, and Jules to see.

Kevin Whitley stood on the threshold of the
Comfrey’s garage entrance, hand on the door knob. The photo
resolution was better than promised – his face was unmistakable. In
the second photo, the door was open and only a shoe was visible as
Kevin slipped inside the Comfrey home.

“Rubbish,” Jules said, more confident now
that her initial tears had passed. “And assuming it’s real, how do
we know it was really taken on that date, or at that time? Kevin’s
been coming round my house for months. Tell them, Kevin. Tell them
they’ve got it wrong!”

Kevin had gone pale. “I want a solicitor.
Won’t say nothing else til I get one.”

* * *

“Can’t believe Jules Comfrey needed a
sedative after we arrested Kevin,” Kate told Bhar on the elevator
ride up to Hetheridge’s office. “She certainly didn’t need a
sedative the night her father was murdered.”

“So, given the photos, now what do you think
of Kevin as the killer?”

“Still don’t like him.” Kate shook her head.
“Malcolm Comfrey’s been described as a pretty formidable
personality. Did you notice how Kevin didn’t dare attack you when
you read back his quote? He turned his anger on the only safe
outlet in the room – Jules. I know Kevin has a history of roughing
up papier-mâché burros, but I can’t help thinking he lacks the
basic nerve to physically attack a person. Or even verbally attack
anyone with half a chance of striking back.”

“You really don’t think much of Kevin, do
you?” Bhar asked. “Come on, Kate. Cut him a break. Most of us
geezers aren’t born with the face, body, or talent of a David
Beckham or a Brad Pitt. If a bloke like Kevin wants to lead a life
of multiple women pleading for his attention and bitch-slapping
each other out of his bed, he has nowhere to go but the bottom of
the food chain. He might not be hot enough to make Angelina Jolie
and Victoria Beckham beg for it, but he can make a couple of saps
like Lisa Plaster and Jules Comfrey treat him like the sexiest man
alive. I’ll bet when we finish investigating Kevin, we’ll find two
or three other hard-luck ladies in his stable. That’s the real
reason he hasn’t told Lisa Plaster he’s marrying Jules. He’d be mad
to turn down Jules’s money, but he’s addicted to being a hot
commodity.” Bhar laughed. “You’re getting that barracuda look
again.”

“Sorry. Bet you think I’ve gone off men.”

“Not at all. If you really want to know what
I think…” Bhar smiled. “I think one man treated you rather like
Kevin treats Jules – or maybe even Lisa Plaster – and the memory
makes your blood boil, that’s all.”

Kate caught her breath. The elevator dinged
and the doors slid open, giving her an excuse to compose her
thoughts. When she turned back to Bhar, she was under control
again.

“I refuse to believe,” she smiled, “such a
gifted detective can only find a date through the efforts of his
mum.”

“I can scare up my own dates. But my mum has
a certain type in mind for me. If I refuse to play along, it would
break her heart. Ready to head back into the dragon’s den?” Bhar
asked, indicating Hetheridge’s office at one end of the
corridor.

Kate nodded.

“Care to explain what you meant about knowing
all the old man’s parts still work? Because the truth is probably
nicer than the explanations I’ve concocted.”

“Not really.”

“Fair enough. He doesn’t hold grudges. Just
go in there, act professional, and he’ll treat you the same way he
always has. Now I’m off to my research on Charlie Fringate. But
second unit has promised to ring us both if Kevin drops any
bombshells during interrogation.” With a wave, Bhar turned and
headed in the opposite direction, leaving Kate facing Hetheridge’s
office alone.

Mrs. Snell glared at Kate as she entered the
offices. “Chief Hetheridge is on a conference call at the moment.
Please take a seat and – Sergeant Wakefield!”

“He’s expecting me,” Kate tossed over her
shoulder, and strode into Hetheridge’s inner office without another
backward glance.

Easing the door shut behind her, Kate crept
to one of the chairs positioned in front of Hetheridge’s wide desk.
He was turned half away from her, facing the speakerphone, but his
eyes flicked toward her as he continued, mid-sentence: “… and when
I encounter this degree of spurious complaints so early in the
investigation, I begin to suspect complicity, if not an outright
conspiracy.”

A male voice issued from the speaker. “But
both your subordinates have been perceived as offensive. And both
of them, if we may speak frankly, are likely to stumble when
interacting with their betters. An Indian and a disgruntled woman,
isn’t it, Tony? I know you’ve always had your idiosyncratic
favorites among the detectives. But to select those two and then
permit them to work unsupervised among such rarified individuals –
individuals they can’t possibly comprehend – is a recipe for
disaster.”

A female voice, vaguely familiar, as if Kate
knew it from the telly: “I can’t comprehend why the Indian told
Mrs. Comfrey he was member of the Taliban, or why he prayed aloud
to Allah prior to the questioning. If she goes to the gutter press
with her complaint, it could be a nine-day’s wonder.”

“Madge won’t go to the media,” Hetheridge
said, unruffled. “She threatened you with them because she knows
you’re terrified by that prospect above all others. But it’s the
one action she’ll never take. Now if we can get back to…”

“Hang on,” the male voice interrupted. “This
is an anguished widow who feels mistreated during her hour of need.
How can you be certain she won’t air her grievances to the
press?”

Hetheridge sighed audibly. Turning in his
chair, he met Kate’s gaze and, to her surprise, smiled at her. Then
he swiveled back to the speakerphone. “I can be so certain because
Madge Comfrey is not merely an anguished widow. Social climbers
like Madge prize a certain strata of acquaintances, connections,
and invitations. If she, as the wife of an industrialist,
embarrasses me, a peer, in the press, she will risk ostracism at a
time when she might make a brilliant second marriage. She needs my
good will far more than I need hers. Which is why she complained to
you, George, instead of me.”

The room was quiet. Then the male voice said:
“I never considered the matter in quite that light.”

“No. Which is why you shouldn’t attempt to
analyze rarified individuals you can’t possibly comprehend. Leave
that to me. Me and my team, who cannot be blamed for the neuroses
of a few people who, not to put too fine a point on it, are all
under suspicion of murder.”

The female voice said, “I still say you
should caution the Indian for that egregious reference to the
Taliban.”

“Consider it done,” Hetheridge said.

“Is it true you’ve arrested Madge Comfrey’s
future son-in-law on the strength of two photographs?” the male
voice asked, clearly struggling to find a point on which he could
successfully make Hetheridge squirm.

“Photos from a CC TV camera in the
neighborhood. Unimpeachable digital evidence that demands
explanation. I can’t allow the Yard to be accused of favoritism by
skirting standard procedure, can I, George?”

“This case needs to wrap as soon as possible,
Tony. I know I can trust you to further diversify your team, and
put new talent on the investigation, if that’s what it takes to
arrest Malcolm Comfrey’s killer as soon as possible.”

“And successfully prosecute him,” the female
voice said.

“But of course.” Hetheridge closed his eyes
and leaned back, armchair creaking as male and female voices began
to exchange perfunctory pleasantries. When they wished one another
quick, professional good-byes, Hetheridge echoed “Good-bye,” opened
his eyes, and leaned forward to punch a button on the speakerphone.
Then he spun his chair toward Kate, smiling again.

“Interesting about Kevin Whitley being seen
entering the Comfrey house just before the murder. I can’t say I
like him as the killer.”

“Me either,” Kate said.

“And please tell me why Bhar referred to
himself as Taliban.”

“Kevin called him an effing Paki. Bhar was
living up to expectations.”

“I see.” Hetheridge glanced at his Rolex.
“We’ll need to hurry if we’re to make Lady Margaret’s on time. My
driver’s waiting in the Bentley downstairs – just let me send this
e-mail before I forget.”

The computer screen was positioned so Kate
could see the message Hetheridge typed, using that
inefficient-looking, yet surprisingly fast, method belonging to
those whose careers had blossomed before computers dominated office
life.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

Paul,

Kindly refrain from identifying yourself as
Taliban when questioning suspects.

Yours,

AH

“Reprimand accomplished,” Hetheridge said,
rising. “Let’s go.”

“Can I just say one thing first?” Kate asked.
“Off the record?”

Hetheridge’s eyes narrowed. “Proceed with
caution, but yes.”

“I’m sorry I spoke without thinking this
morning. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. And one thing I’ve
learned from practicing martial arts is that when men and women
start grappling each other and rolling around, the men get aroused
sometimes. Besides,” Kate tried to stop herself, but couldn’t
resist concluding with a cheeky grin, “I wouldn’t be much of a
detective if I hadn’t noticed.”

Hetheridge regarded her for a moment, and
then, to her relief, chuckled. “I don’t know why I took such
offense at your mentioning it. At my time of life, I ought to take
out an announcement in the Times.”

“The age thing again,” Kate sighed. “You
really have a hang-up about that, Tony.” She stopped, surprised at
herself, and shot him a glance. “Whoops.”

“Never fear, Kate. I think we’ve moved beyond
surnames. Now let’s go.”

* * *

Lady Margaret Knolls’s London townhouse was
not what Kate expected. She had imagined something similar to the
Comfreys’ home – yellow-striped wallpaper, beige window treatments,
mirrors and glass. Or perhaps something akin to Wellegrave House –
antique furnishings, intricate Oriental carpets, and the occasional
electronic concession to modern life. So Kate was unprepared for
the home into which Lady Margaret’s housekeeper – a middle-aged
Jamaican woman with row upon row of shiny, beaded braids – ushered
them.