Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (12 page)

"When did you learn the credit card company denied your appeal?"

"Yesterday. No—day before. They called, I fussed and acted the fool, and then I… well…."

"Went to the pub?" Tony asked.

"Yeah. Drank a long time. Found myself on Hardwick's street, Euston Place. Knocked on the door. He answered it himself. Big stupid grin on his face." Those steel caterpillar eyebrows converged, ominous. "I don't remember what all we said. I don't remember hitting the wall, but I saw the marks later. I've done stuff like that before."

"Then what happened?" Tony asked.

"I don't know. But I used to fantasize about hitting him. I wanted to beat his crooked teeth in. I wanted to knock him down and kick his sides and stomp on his face till there was nothing left. If Sunny picked that little weasel over me, I must be nothing, I must be the most worthless sumbitch to ever walk the face of the earth." This last was difficult to understand, as Buck's low baritone broke into harsh, panting sobs. Chains rattling, he held out his hands, redness transforming to black and blue, and cried, "Did I really kick and punch him to death over money? Money?"

Tony and Kate exchanged a look. The small hairs on the back of his neck had stood up, and she looked equally startled.

"Mr. Wainwright, this is very important," Tony said, sharply enough to cut through the man's sobs. "Do not speculate. What do you actually remember?"

"I—I remember him grinning at me. I told him it wasn't over. That I'd sue him for theft, extortion, undue influence. I told him he'd never so much as look at Sunny without remembering how I shook him down. Then I stormed out. To—to…." He broke into deeper, wrenching sobs, but Tony thought he said, "Find another bar."

There was nothing to do but let the man cry it out.
Should I fetch tissues?
Kate mouthed to Tony. He shook his head.

"Buck," he said when the weeping finally lessened. "This is very important. Before you went to confront Hardwick, which pub did you visit?"

"It was near Green Park. Yellow… something? Yellow Duke?"

"The Yellow Earl?"

"That's it."

"With whom did you speak, besides the barman?"

"I don't know. No one. Wait. There was a man out front. Had a German Shepherd." Buck wiped his eyes with his injured, cuffed hands, an operation that was painful to watch. "Woke up in my hotel room late in the afternoon. Maybe the evening—it was getting dark. There was blood on my hands. Blood on my shirt and jeans. I had the feeling I'd done something terrible, but I always feel like that after a blackout. Because I never really know till someone tells me."

"What then?" Tony asked.

"I got scared. Wondered if I took it too far with Hardwick. If I knocked his teeth out, maybe he'd sue me for assault, you know? Decided I'd best go back to his house and eat crow. Maybe even write off that twenty grand as the price of meeting Sharada."

"What about your bloodstained shirt? Your jeans?"

"I, er, didn't want any evidence, in case he did sue. Gave the maid fifty pounds and told her bleach out every drop, even if she ruined 'em in the process."

Tony sighed. "Mr. Wainwright. If those clothes had proven free of Mr. Hardwick's DNA, if the lab had determined the blood was yours and yours alone, it might have been sufficient to clear your name. You comprehend that, do you not?"

Buck closed his eyes. Fortunately, the storm of deep emotion had passed; what escaped him was only a groan.

"Keep going," Kate prompted. "You showered, put on clean clothes, arranged to have the blood evidence destroyed. What else? Place any calls, send any texts?"

"Never sent a text in my life. Never will, I guess, if I'm headed for prison. Most days, I keep the phone switched off so the durn thing won't beep or vibrate."

It was Kate's turn to groan. "Off as in, all apps shut down?"

"Off as in off, ma'am."

"Right. Lovely. So once we have Hardwick's official time of death, we can't use your mobile's GPS feature to place you, say, safely back at your hotel," she said. "Keep going. When did you arrive back at Hardwick's?"

"I'm not sure, Miss Kate. By then my head was pounding, and I was sick as a dog. I know it was full dark outside. I knocked, but no one answered. The lights were on. His car was parked out front. I tried the door. It was unlocked, so I went in and… and found him."

"What then?" Tony asked.

"Turned on my phone and called Sharada. She called Paul."

"Did you touch anything while you waited?"

"No. Well, except for Hardwick. Just his wrist, and then his throat, to see if he was really dead. Oh, and the statue-thingy lying beside him. It was bloody, so I put It down again, quick." As he spoke, he seemed to realize the full import of what he'd said. "Mr. Hetheridge, I have to ask—does your country have the death penalty?"

"We do not, Mr. Wainwright. For which you should be eternally grateful."

* * *

Buck was returned to his cell for the night. Next morning, he would appear before a magistrate, have the opportunity to retain legal counsel, and enter Her Majesty's Prison Service for remand. Given the evidence against him, not to mention his non-national status, he would be considered a flight risk, making bail unthinkable. The only real question was did the Met boast a facility safe enough to house an American millionaire without consigning him to week upon week of solitary confinement? If not—if, for example, the governors of HMP Wandsworth and HMP Pentonville declared their prisons unequal to such a task—a Category C training jail, such as HMP Brixton, might be a safer bet.

Wherever Buck found himself, he faced an uphill battle. Tony saw that clearly when he and Kate adjourned to the observation anteroom, only to be greeted by PC Gulls.

"Bloody hell, such a load of cobblers," she chirruped as they entered. "He's a gormless tosser and daft to boot! Talk about a job for Google translate. It's all horses for courses, I suppose, but I
parlez
more Farsi than whatever he was on about."

"CS Hetheridge thinks he's innocent," Kate said.

"What? I—" PC Gulls stopped and thought it over, then gave Kate a fresh smile. "Pull the other one."

"DS Hetheridge speaks the truth. Mr. Wainwright is guilty of many things, including abusing alcohol, trespassing, and interfering with a crime scene," Tony said. "I do not believe him guilty of murder."

"But he… but I…." PC Gulls glanced over the video monitors as if a surfeit of technology had cruelly misled her. "His story was vague. He had motive. He had opportunity. He even returned to the scene of the crime, and told us to expect his fingerprints on the murder weapon!"

"I never expected to hear myself say this, but I'm in your corner, Gulls. Hundred percent," Kate said.

"You heard the man. Since his arrest, he's believed he beat Hardwick to death with his bare hands," Tony said. "He didn't realize the statuette was the murder weapon."

"He was three sheets to the wind. Just because he forgot
how
he did it doesn't mean he didn't do it," Kate countered.

"He's made it to his fifth decade, or thereabouts, without a previous violent episode."

"So have you. But if
you
were hauled in spouting the same load of bollocks, I'd be forced to conclude there's a first time for everything."

Now she was just being difficult. Feeling warmth creep up his neck, Tony said, "I find it difficult to believe Sharada Bhar would consort with a man violent enough to kill. Particularly over a few thousand pounds."

"You heard him. He didn't inherit that dosh, he worked for it. Practically had every dollar named." Kate's color was rising; she looked like she had among the Wakefields, close to the breaking point. "And as far as Mrs. Bhar goes, please. If I had an espresso for every woman I've met who fell for a violent man, I'd never sleep again. Fact is, Sharada's as bad as her son, who happens to be a famous imbecile! You'll have to do better than that."

"I should
think
," Tony announced in thunderous tones, "I needn't explain myself at this point in my career. That someone would remember who I am and what I've accomplished time and again in public service."

"I just sat across a table from a man who sounded guilty as sin," Kate countered. "He admitted there will be fingerprints and touch DNA. He's cooked! So go on, guv, enlighten me. What on earth did I miss?"

"His innocence. I didn't hear it in his words. I saw it in his eyes."

"What?" Kate said.

"What?" PC Gulls said.

Kate went rigid. So did Tony. Slowly, painfully, he tore his eyes away from his wife. Yes; not only was the eager young constable still present, she'd been following their argument with rapt attention. More seasoned officers would have slipped out or feigned sudden, impenetrable deafness.

"PC Gulls. Still here, then? Right." He threw in a bit of throat clearing, which sounded desperate but allowed him to formulate his next words. "Because you were observing Mr. Wainwright via closed-circuit TV, it's quite likely the nuance I speak of may have escaped you. But early on, as I recited the formalities, he—"

"Sort of seized up when you said the word 'murder.' I did notice." PC Gulls's head bobbed. "Thought for a tick I'd cottoned on to something subtle. Then the whosits and whatsits piled up, and like DS Hetheridge said, his goose looked cooked."

"Subtle." Tony took up the adjective joyfully. "Yes. It was subtle indeed, that sign from Mr. Wainwright. Miniscule yet compelling. Not one in a hundred young officers would have registered it. Well done. Now, if you don't mind, might Kate and I beg a moment to confer?"

"Of course." PC Gulls's eyes shone happily.

"Alone," Kate barked.

"Of course!" Beating a hasty retreat, Gulls closed the observation room door behind her.

Tony turned to Kate, regarding her coldly. She stared back, not giving an inch. This went on for what felt like a very long time. Then he started to crack, first smiling, then chuckling. Soon Kate dissolved into laughter. As she did, he pulled her close, and she didn't resist.

"Lord, I'm tired," she said. "That's the second time we've rowed tonight. Is it your new idea of fun, provoking me, or did Miss Bedtime Story really catch something I missed?"

"I think she did. But given the reception you had at home, plus a murder after hours, it's a wonder you're still on your feet, much less beavering away at the Yard. "

Kate waved a hand in dismissal. Seeing her bloodstained plaster, Tony caught that hand, bringing it to his lips. "Don't know why I said all that rot about my experience carrying the day."

"I've never heard you talk that way. You should do it more often. But I shouldn't have called Paul a famous imbecile," Kate said. "He's the best friend I've got. You won't really sack him, will you?" Before he could answer, she kissed him again, slowly, sweetly, just the way he liked it. His wife was tempestuous, there could be no doubt, but what followed the storms made each one a pleasure.

"Right. It's late. I move we go home and resume hostilities tomorrow. Do you concur, DS Hetheridge?"

"Completely, CS Hetheridge. Tomorrow it is."

Chapter Eight

After his humiliating ejection from the crime scene, DS Deepal "Paul" Bhar stormed off to the Green Park Tube station, taking the usual line home but disembarking a stop early. When internal combustion reached dangerous levels, his best bet was a long, brisk, furious walk, letting his heels beat that impotent fury into the pavement.

"'Be at my office at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow morning,'" he muttered as he walked. It was bitterly cold. His breath plumed before him, but he was too angry to register anything but the wind. Each gust felt like a fresh slap in the face.

"C'mon, guv, sure you didn't want a bigger audience for that dress-down? Maybe engage
Bright Star
to run pictures on tomorrow's front page? And as for tomorrow, milord, where else would I be? I turn up at your office every morning at eight, right on time!"

Unless you miss it by a quarter hour or more
, said a dissenting voice in Bhar's head. He ignored it.

"Should I have entered the crime scene without your permission? No. Fine. I accept that," he raged at a boxwood hedge. "I should be more like you, shouldn't I? Only someone with ice water in his veins and a sodden ash heap for a soul would hear of his mum
in the same room as a murder victim
and think, right-o, let's not be hasty! What's the proper procedure, old stick? Never mind if she's safe, never mind what happens to Buck. Is it done, old boy? Is it
done
?"

"Oi! Nutter!" a man shouted at Bhar from his front porch. "Keep raving, and somebody might call the cops."

"I am the cops!" Bhar bellowed, jerking his wallet from his coat and flashing his warrant card. "Careful I don't run you in."

"For what? Having a fag?" The man flicked ashes in Bhar's general direction. "Wanker!"

Let it go. You're ranting at shrubbery. Probably his shrubbery, which appears reasonably innocent, as shrubbery goes
, that dissenting voice said.

Groaning, Bhar set his teeth, put his head down, and strode faster into the wind. Home was only three streets away. It was the house he'd shared with Sharada since early childhood, a piece of property his estranged father still owned, although Sharada paid for its upkeep. And theirs was a good neighborhood, safe enough, well-lit, dozens of CCTV cameras mounted on high. In dodgier surroundings, Bhar would have remained on alert, on guard against muggers, skinheads, or the proverbial man with a knife and nothing to lose. But so close to home, his focus swung inward, fury rising until he flung accusations at still another hedge.