Ice Blue (5 page)

Hetheridge turned to Jules Comfrey. “What did
you do when the guests left?”

“I went after Kevin. He has his pride,” she
said, shifting in her seat. “There’s only so much abuse a man can
take.”

“How long were you away from the house?”

“Until Mum called me. That was …” Jules
located her mobile in a pocket and flipped it open, scrolling
through the call record. “10:49. I came back fast as I could.”

“Did you go upstairs?” Hetheridge asked.

Jules nodded. “I don’t know why. She told me
– told me what he looked like. Told me not to look, that if I saw
it, I’d never forget it. But I had to see him. I thought maybe Mum
was exaggerating.” An awkward smile tugged at her lips. “I thought
he wasn’t really dead.” Crossing her arms tightly across her modest
chest, Jules shifted again, as if animated by a dangerous energy
that refused to be contained. “And now that I’m sure, I can’t
really say I’m sorry.”

“Jules!” Madge said.

“He didn’t care about either of us. He only
cared about himself!” Jules screamed at her mother, tears starting
in her eyes for the first time. “What if Kevin never forgives me
for the way Dad treated him? What if I never get him back?”

Madge Comfrey drew in her breath sharply, but
did not attempt to answer. It was Hetheridge who filled the
silence.

“Ms. Comfrey, do you think Kevin was angry
enough to break into the house and kill your father?”

Jules swung toward Hetheridge. “Of course
not!” she cried, her once-pale face growing redder by the second.
“And it didn’t have to be Kevin. You couldn’t throw a stone in
Belgravia without hitting someone who hated my father!”

“Jules, you’re hysterical,” Madge snapped.
“You know your father had no personal enemies. He was respected, he
–”

“He screwed Charlie Fringate over that
shipping contract!” Jules shrieked. “He treated Ginny Rowland like
a cheap whore! They came to our house and smiled in his face
because he had all the power, but they hated him as much as I did.
As much as Kevin did. As much as you did, Mum, even if you’re too
much of a saint to admit it!”

Madge Comfrey said nothing. Slowly, her eyes
slid to Hetheridge’s face. Kate saw another glimmer of that
pleading look – restrained this time, but present nonetheless.

Hetheridge leaned back in the armchair. He
regarded Jules Comfrey for a long moment. Then he stood up,
glancing peremptorily at the two constables. “We’ll need to locate
and speak with the guests, Kevin chief among them. Ms. Comfrey,
would you be good enough to supply these gentlemen with Kevin’s
full name and address?”

“I hope you can find him.” Voice breaking
into a sob, Jules pulled her knees under her chin, clutching her
legs like a desolate child. “Because I sure as hell can’t.”

Hetheridge left it to the constables to
manage the final details – caution Madge and Jules Comfrey not to
leave London, escort them to the hotel of their choice, and
maintain guard on the house until CID arrived. Once he and Kate
were back inside the Lexus, engine started and seat belts clicked
into place, Hetheridge turned to her.

“Now. Give me your impressions. Don’t try to
organize them. Just stream of consciousness.”

Kate, who had instinctively flicked on her
smart phone, blinked at the small blue-lit screen for a moment,
then returned it to her coat pocket. “Is this a test of the
relevant details I noticed?”

“More for me than for you,” Hetheridge said
honestly. “I want to see where we coincide, and where we
differ.”

“But it will come out unfiltered, and
possibly inaccurate…”

“Don’t censor yourself. Just begin.”

“Right.” Kate stared out through the
windshield toward the Comfreys’ home. It was still lit by flashing
blue lights, as well as the reflected white glare around a
television news correspondent, reporting from as close to the house
as the constables would allow. “Impressions. As far as the crime
scene, I think the killer was someone Malcolm Comfrey knew. There
wasn’t much sign of a struggle. Seems like Comfrey either allowed
someone to take a hot poker out of his hand, or else he sat in his
chair and watched, unafraid, while his murderer stirred up the
fire.

“As far as intruder access – the front door
wasn’t forced. But the side door, which enters directly into the
garage, has scuffs and dents along the bottom, and the jamb is
cracked. Someone could have gotten in the way. But the damage
looked old, not fresh, like the break-in happened a few months ago
and no one bothered to repair it. Neither Madge nor Jules Comfrey
knew anything about a break-in. They just said the door was due for
replacement.”

Kate, apparently unused to any superior
allowing her to speak at such length uninterrupted, shot Hetheridge
a sidelong glance. In return, he gave her his most neutral look.
Even with the case uppermost in his mind, it was amusing to keep
Kate off balance, and quite possibly had the effect of making her
sharp intellect work even faster.

“What else?” she continued. “Um, right. The
Comfreys have an alarm system. But, like most people who live in
safe neighborhoods, they didn’t turn it on. The Comfreys only arm
it when they leave, or after everyone’s in for the night. Since it
was relatively early, and Jules wasn’t home yet, no one set the
alarm. So if the killer had keys, he could have let himself in and
walked up to the library while Madge Comfrey slept.

“As for the open French doors on the
balcony,” Kate said, “maybe Comfrey did that himself. Unless the
killer brought a grappling hook, I doubt he broke into the house
through the balcony. And it definitely looked too far a drop for
anyone but Batman to exit that way without breaking a leg. Of
course, we’ll need daylight and crime scene photos to be sure.”

She paused for breath, shot another glance at
Hetheridge, and then continued.

“Impressions of the family. Madge Comfrey.
Her make-up and hair were perfect. I think she freshened up before
the police arrived. Jules Comfrey. Might be anorexic. Something
about her isn’t healthy. She also wasn’t wearing an engagement
ring. You’d expect someone in her position to be wearing an iceberg
set in platinum. Oh, and…” Kate broke off. “Never mind.”

“Uncensored,” Hetheridge repeated.

Shrugging, Kate turned that cheeky smile on
him. “I think Madge Comfrey expects her previous friendship with
you to work to her advantage. Not sure exactly how yet, but she
does. That’s all. No more impressions. Brain empty.”

“Very well.” Tires crunching against the
pea-gravel car park, Hetheridge turned the Lexus around, then
rolled up to the police barrier, waiting as the constables moved to
pull it aside.

“I’m going home to change clothes,” he told
Kate. “I’ll expect you in my office at seven o’clock to begin
analyzing statements and checking backgrounds. Would you like me to
drop you home now, or do you prefer to go directly to the
Yard?”

Kate paused. The correct answer, for an eager
junior officer on her first major murder case, was obvious: just
fling me out near the Yard’s revolving sign, guvnor, and I’ll
fortify myself on stale coffee and nicotine until I’ve obtained a
full confession and a commendation from 10 Downing Street.
Hetheridge sensed that Kate wanted very much to give him that
answer, and prove what a good chap and a hard-charging lad she
really was, but that something in her private life made such
single-minded careerism impossible.

“I need to go home,” she said at last. “Tie
up some loose ends. But I’ll be ready to work at seven, I
promise.”

Nodding, Hetheridge steered the Lexus toward
the river, and South London. It was still shy of three o’clock, and
serene along the open highway – the endless, soul-shriveling crawl
of morning traffic wouldn’t happen for at least another two
hours.

“So,” Kate began, that satisfied needling
tone creeping back into her voice, “what exactly was the nature of
your friendship with Madge Comfrey, Chief?”

Hetheridge repressed a smile. He had expected
this, and was prepared. “How precisely is that relevant to you,
Sergeant?”

“I like to be as thorough as possible when
evaluating personalities, sir.”

“I told you she was once a friend. We lost
touch completely, as you may have guessed. That should be
sufficient to satisfy your professional interest.”

“Sauce for the goose should be sauce for the
gander,” Kate said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if I were the one who had a prior
connection to an individual who, frankly, has to be considered a
prime suspect, you would require complete transparency on my part.
If this fiancée of Jules’s, for example, was an ex-boyfriend of
mine, I don’t think you’d let me escape with a blanket statement
that our liaison is over, thank you, and no further questions are
allowed.”

Hetheridge shot a glance at Kate, startled by
her candor, which hovered just below outright insubordination. He
had experience dealing with insubordination. This was also the
truth, and its simple clarity had thrown him. Now he was the one
off-balance.

“Very well. I was once engaged to Madge
Sowerby, as she was called then. More than twenty years ago, I
might add, so the jury is out as to whether or not you were even
alive at the time. The engagement ended, the friendship cooled, and
we went our separate ways.”

Kate turned toward him, unabashed interest in
her face. “Who broke the engagement?”

Hetheridge was so surprised by her audacity,
he actually grinned. “Before I answer that, Sergeant, I look
forward to hearing how such a detail could be relevant to Malcolm
Comfrey’s murder.”

“It isn’t,” she grinned back, delighted. “I
just want to know.”

Hetheridge, at a loss, faltered in his route,
nearly missing the turn to cross the river. He was pleased by her
personal interest in him. Pleased, embarrassed by that pleasure,
and strangely willing to endure the embarrassment if he could
extend the pleasure a little longer.

Correcting his route and narrowly
accomplishing the turn, he replied, “I was the one to break it off.
She didn’t forgive me, which is probably to be expected.”

“Why did you end it?”

“I realized I didn’t want to be married,”
Hetheridge replied with utter honesty. “Especially to her.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Good God, no. I told her I wasn’t good
enough. That she deserved a man who wasn’t already married to his
work.” Even by the dashboard’s subdued glow, Hetheridge could see
Kate was waiting for more. “I have managed to associate with a few
other women over the years. Would you like me to list them
alphabetically, or in order of importance?”

She chuckled. Hetheridge, prompted by his
rising embarrassment to change the subject, impulsively posed a
question he’d thus far denied himself permission to ask. “So who
are you going home to? A boyfriend? A fiancée?”

“A brother,” Kate said. Her voice held a note
of finality, as if the subject was off-limits. Hetheridge had heard
this about her – heard she guarded the details of her life outside
the Yard like a dragon – and was prepared to let the question drop.
Although he pried for a living, collecting secrets and violating
privacy to a degree the typical village busybody could only
fantasize about, Hetheridge was always correct in personal
interactions. He loathed the idea of forcing a confidence.

“A brother who gets very worried when I don’t
check in on him,” Kate continued, giving Hetheridge a new sort of
smile – a vulnerable smile, hinting of trust. “He’s developmentally
delayed, as we say now. Mentally retarded. Ritchie has a live-in
carer, but he still needs me. If I went off in the middle of the
night and didn’t come back for a day or two, he’d go to pieces. I
also have a nephew, Henry. He’s one sharp little guy,” she said
with pride. “He’s eight, but most of the time he behaves like an
older brother to Ritchie. If I just make Henry’s breakfast and give
him a kiss goodbye, he understands completely. Henry was only
supposed to stay with me for a month, but somehow the arrangement
turned permanent.” She stopped. Taking a deep breath, she put on a
broad, false smile. “Let me guess. More than you wanted to
know?”

“More than I expected you to tell,”
Hetheridge said. “Quite the family life.”

“Quite the buggery bollocks of a family
life,” she snorted, the false smile disappearing. “Sometimes I hate
being home and I love the Yard to an obscene degree, to a
gibbering, drooling, insane degree. When I get that way, I feel my
work is my reason for being alive, and I love it. Other times, I
come home to Ritchie and Henry, and we have a fun dinner and a few
laughs, and I go to bed thinking they’re the absolute best things
in my life. But neither feeling sticks around for long.”

Hetheridge, unwilling to make insincere small
talk about a situation he could hardly imagine, said nothing. They
settled into an easy silence, journeying over the river and back
into South London, neither compelled to speak until Hetheridge
pulled up in front of Kate’s building.

“You remembered how to get back without
turning on the GPS,” Kate said, unbuckling her seat belt.

“Detective,” Hetheridge said, touching his
forefinger to his temple.

“See you at seven.” Climbing out of the car,
Kate reached up to undo her tight bun, pulling her hair free in
thick, matted strands. She closed the car door behind her, took a
step toward her building, and then turned back, opening the door
again.

“By the way,” she said, leaning back into the
Lexus, “if you were engaged to Madge Comfrey twenty years ago, I
was indeed alive at that time, thank you very much. I happen to be
thirty-one years old.”

“I’ll make note of that.”

She waited, then asked, “How old are
you?”