Ice Blue (6 page)

Hetheridge smiled. “In a week, I’ll be
sixty.”

“Ah. An age referred to, in the common
parlance, as fifty-nine. Fine. Thanks for sharing. And don’t worry,
I wouldn’t dare call you Tony. But you can call me Kate,” she said,
and closed the door.

Kate made it back to New Scotland Yard by
7:03 am. Hurrying into the lobby with breakfast, a large coffee
heavily dosed with artificial sweetener and creamer, gripped in one
hand, she swerved around two human road blocks and made for an open
lift.

“One more!” she called to the navy blue suits
and frowning faces that occupied the half-empty elevator. No one
moved, and the doors began to close.

“Wankers,” she muttered, throwing herself
toward the lift. Her left hand shot into the shrinking space
between doors and wall, and the mechanism halted, opening again.
Kate’s shoulder bag rocketed backward as she entered, smacking the
nearest navy-suited man, and the slick bottoms of her pumps threw
her off balance, almost sending her into the arms of a scowling,
thin-lipped woman. Relieved to still be in custody of her coffee,
Kate repositioned her handbag, corrected her posture, and smiled at
her reflection in the lift’s highly polished metal doors. She’d
worn her best suit – a gray pinstriped jacket/skirt combo with a
hint of pink in the weave, and a bit of black lace peeking out at
the cuffs and hem. She’d even gone so far as to wear those
hazardous black pumps, which were already pinching her toes. She
looked pulled-together, competent, professional.

“Tarted up for your next cock tease?” a voice
said in her ear.

She half-turned to see Superintendent
Jackson, one of the navy suits, directly behind her. His face
looked fatter than ever. A crumb of something white, probably
pastry, clung to the corner of his moist pink mouth.

“Just on my way to Hetheridge’s office,” she
said sweetly.

Jackson snorted. “He’s gone soft in more ways
than one. Tough sell for the likes of you.”

The lift dinged, and the doors opened on
Kate’s floor. Crossing the lift’s threshold, she put her shoulder
against its retracted doors and fixed Jackson with a pleading
look.

“Now that I’ve been reassigned, I just want
to take a moment and publicly ask your forgiveness for saying you
had a small penis. A man’s penis size should never be mocked in the
workplace. And the way I squeezed my fingers together to indicate
something itty-bitty, or just stuck out my pinky finger to
symbolize you,” she continued, demonstrating both actions, “was
inexcusable. Please forgive me, and understand I’ve learnt my
lesson.” With that, Kate released the doors and stepped back. The
doors shut, and Superintendent Jackson’s spluttering curses
traveled toward the next floor up.

Kate regarded the closed doors for a moment,
beginning to blush, as she always did after an impulsive act of
defiance. He’d make her pay for that, sooner or later, and probably
in a way she could ill-afford. Why did she have to rise to his
baiting? Why couldn’t she have the restraint of, say,
Hetheridge?

Because I’m not him. I’m Kate, she sighed
inwardly, taking a swig of coffee and hurrying toward the Chief’s
office. And if he’d lived my life, he’d be a snappish little bitch,
too.

She paused before entering the office,
tossing her half-full cup in a corridor rubbish bin, and trying on
a calm, professional expression. No good looking more interested in
sucking down her breakfast than in getting down to business on the
Comfrey murder.

Opening the door, she made her way from the
reception area, where the administrative assistant’s desk sat
empty, toward Hetheridge’s office, and the glorious aroma of bacon
and eggs.

A pleasant-faced man in his mid-thirties sat
in a chair pulled up to Hetheridge’s wide desk, chomping
contentedly on bacon and fried bread. He was dressed in a blue
striped shirt with white collar, black vest, and black trousers.
His thick hair was glossy black, his complexion was dark, and his
eyes looked as black as his hair. Kate had glimpsed him around the
Yard from time to time, but still had to look at his ID to recall
his name.

“DS Bhar?” she asked, pronouncing it
carefully. His first name was Deepal.

“Call me Paul,” he said, wiping his hands on
the linen napkin in his lap, then putting out a hand for her to
shake. “Sit yourself down. Always another space at the trough.”

Kate grabbed a chair and dragged it close,
placing her handbag on the floor and awkwardly crossing her legs at
the ankles. That was the worst thing about her best suit – the
skirt was exactly the wrong length to sit comfortably. “The Chief
mentioned you last night. Said you were wrapping up another
case.”

“Wrapped,” Bhar said with satisfaction,
popping another piece of bacon in his mouth. “This case is way more
interesting, anyway. Murder in Belgravia. That’s what they’ll call
the mini-series. And I always fancied being interviewed on telly,
explaining the mind of the super-rich killer. Now eat. Seriously.
Don’t force me to become fatter than I already am.”

Kate smiled at Bhar, neat and trim despite
his rapid style of consumption, and studied the spread on
Hetheridge’s desk. “This is amazing.”

Before her, in silver serving dishes, the
traditional English breakfast waited: eggs, bacon, sausages,
mushrooms, fried bread, and kippers. A tall silver coffee pot sat
to one side, with a single remaining china cup beside it.

Happy to cave in, Kate loaded up the china
plate someone had provided for her, digging into everything except
the kippers. Then she poured a cup of coffee, doctoring it with
real sugar and half-and-half before savoring a mouthful. It tasted
like the beans had been ground fresh before brewing.

“Who provided this?”

Bhar shot her a knowing looking. “Lady
Hetheridge,” he stage-whispered.

Kate blinked at him. Before she could ask,
Bhar gave some sort of awkward signal, like trying to point with
only his shoulder, and bent his head to his breakfast.

Hetheridge’s administrative assistant, Mrs.
Snell, entered. Kate knew that most of the Yard, including the
senior officers, were terrified of her. She was a tall, scrawny
woman with protruding collarbone, non-existent bosom, and wide,
accusing eyes. Her hair was a fierce white, set in waves that would
have looked outdated thirty years before. Her style of dress,
high-necked with a hem falling to mid-calf, could only be described
as somewhere between the Queen and Dame Edna Everage. No one knew
Mrs. Snell’s age, which fell between sixty and eighty. No one asked
her questions – she asked the questions, and invariably received
answers.

“How is breakfast?” she demanded in a crisp,
headmistress sort of tone.

“Excellent,” Bhar mumbled, mouth full of
egg.

“V-very nice,” Kate said, stammering in spite
of herself.

Mrs. Snell’s eyes narrowed behind her large
lenses. “I hope,” she said suspiciously, “there will be no
problems, now that you have joined us, DS Wakefield?”

Kate found herself speechless – a sparrow
enthralled by the gaze of a cobra. Bhar used his foot to poke her
in the leg.

“N-no,” Kate quavered. “I’m grateful to be
part of the team.”

Mrs. Snell studied her in cool disbelief.
Then, drawing herself up, she said “Good,” in a skeptical tone and
exited the office, presumably returning to her own desk.

“Oh, God,” Kate said, turning to DS Bhar and
shuddering in relief. “She’s ghastly.”

“She’s someone you’d better learn to please,
if you want to survive with the old man,” Bhar cautioned. “She
irons his shirts when he pulls an all-nighter. She chooses his
dinner when he works past eight. I heard she and his ‘manservant,’
Harvey, got into a hissing, hair-pulling catfight when…” Bhar broke
off again, sitting up straight and smiling as the office’s door
reopened. “Sir,” he cried, hitting a grand, false note as
Hetheridge appeared. “Great to see you.”

“Good morning,” Kate said, her sausage
pausing on the way to her mouth. Was she supposed to stop eating,
now that he’d arrived?

Hetheridge had changed from his tuxedo into
his usual attire – smartly cut suit, silk tie, and polished Italian
shoes. He looked rested, as if he’d enjoyed a full eight hours’
sleep, though she doubted he’d had any.

“Do continue,” he said with a slight smile, a
coffee cup in one hand. “Mrs. Snell is cross when her breakfast
offerings are neglected.”

“Oh, sir,” Bhar said, adopting a sinuous
Indian accent quite different from his usual way of speaking,
“since I came to this country, I have begged and prayed for a
woman. And now, at last, you grant my request. When may I marry and
beget my dynasty on this fertile female?”

Hetheridge dropped into his black executive
armchair, studied Bhar for a moment, then turned to Kate. “Moving
on. Any fresh insights into the scene last night? I’ve already
written up a preliminary report and given it to DS Bhar to
read.”

“Gripping stuff,” Bhar breathed, returning to
his normal manner of speaking, and placing his empty plate on
Hetheridge’s desk. “It moved me as no writing has moved me
before.”

Kate repressed a giggle. She could see the
amusement buried in Hetheridge’s eyes, and wondered if Bhar could,
too. Or would he keep going, riffing in new and absurd ways, until
he made his superior laugh out loud?

“Almost moved my bowels,” Bhar added.

“Thank you,” Hetheridge said repressively.
“DS Wakefield. Last chance to add anything before I give you a copy
of my report, and determine assignments for the day.”

“I’d like to track down Jules Comfrey’s
fiancée,” she replied. “Also the guest named Fringate, the one she
said her father screwed on a business deal, and that Rowland woman
– the one she said her father treated like a whore. For that
matter, I’d like to speak with Jules Comfrey herself. Her mother
silenced her a few times last night. I think she might say more on
her own.”

“I intend to re-interview Jules Comfrey
myself today,” Hetheridge said. “And Madge Comfrey, too, but not
until Forensic Services has results for us. Good observation about
her hair and make-up looking fresh, Wakefield. I called Forensic
Services and asked them to check the pipes of every sink and shower
for evidence of blood and human tissue. Also asked them to check
every outdoor dustbin in the neighborhood, not just the Comfreys’.
”

“And Forensics told you?” Bhar asked.

“To mind my own damn business and let them
get on in peace,” Hetheridge grinned. “But Forensic, as we know,
will sometimes cut corners in a house that large.” He took a sip of
coffee. “They’re under tremendous pressure right now. First to
solve every crime from nothing but a wad of chewing gum and a
partial shoe print, the way forensic teams do on telly. Yet also to
spend less money, and justify the number of special tests run.
Knestrick is our man this time, and he would have been content to
only examine the library, balcony, and front door, if he could get
away with it. He wasn’t happy to be asked to dismantle the house’s
entire plumbing system, more or less, but he’ll do it, since I
could link the request to a specific investigator’s
observation.”

Kate put her own empty plate on top of
Bhar’s. “If I may ask, sir, why do you want to handle the Jules
Comfrey interview personally?”

“Belgravia,” Bhar hinted.

“There has already, if you can believe it,
been a certain amount of pressure brought on our unit,” Hetheridge
replied. “These are the sort of cases that always come to us. The
expectation from the top, and from other offices within the
government, is that I will handle it with a minimum of fuss. And, I
might add, with zero complaints from any influential people who
might be touch
ed
in the course of the
investigation.”

“Can’t have Kate Wakefield bulldozing in,
being impertinent and working her betters into a froth,” Bhar
said.

“I understand,” Kate sighed. “But is there
any way you could give me a chance with Jules? I really think I’m
the better choice, sir.”

Hetheridge regarded her levelly. “Why?”

“Because I’m female, and not too far from her
age. Because I’m not married,” Kate said. “Because there’s
something odd about the fact she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring,
yet she claimed her father ruined her engagement party. She also
mentioned that Malcolm Comfrey didn’t think her fiancé was good
enough for her. I have a feeling dear old dad might have been right
about that. I can’t see Jules Comfrey telling you – a man who will
probably remind her of her father, if you’ll excuse me for saying
so, sir – about her boyfriend troubles. But she might tell me.”

Hetheridge said nothing for a moment. He put
down his coffee cup and leaned far back in his chair, which creaked
in protest. “You’re right,” he said at last. “Very well. Bhar and
Wakefield, I’d like you to work together today. Interview Jules
Comfrey, Charlie Fringate, and Ginny Rowland. If the PCs succeed in
rounding up the fiancé, Kevin, I’d like you to interview him, too.
Report any breaking details directly to me. Otherwise, we’ll meet
again this time tomorrow. And remember, Wakefield – go softly with
Jules Comfrey. I see enough of Commander Deaver as it is.”

“Care if I drive?” Bhar asked Kate. “I have a
new car. Still has that smell.”

Kate shrugged, pleased to escape the duty of
navigating what would still be rush-hour traffic. Following Bhar to
the car park, she smiled at his shiny Vauxhall Astra Elegance, dark
blue with sleek detailing and a spotless black interior.

“No food, no smoking,” Bhar said as he
released the passenger door’s lock. “This vehicle will remain
clean. Each time we exit, you will collect any blonde hairs
clinging to the head rest. Before each reentry, your shoes will
pass visual inspection.”