Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (15 page)

* * *

Despite her husband's dislike of lengthy goodbyes, Kate couldn't resist dragging it out as long as possible. But at last there came a moment when there was nothing to do but go, and as she did, that familiar sick throb at her temple became insurmountable. She needed coffee
now
. Not to mention privacy to digest all that had happened. She wanted nothing more than to find a Pret A Manger, plunk down the extortionate cost of a latte with three shots of espresso, and drink it in silence, preferably while staring at a wall.

But alas, she'd promised Tony she'd go to the canteen, put on a show, keep calm, carry on, etc. So off she went to find Paul.

He was already in the dining room, sitting alone like Billy No-Mates, parked at a table meant for four and disconsolately chewing a bit of toast. Ignoring the whispers, Kate braved the queue with head held high, getting coffee and a chocolate croissant. Her ongoing struggle to get back into the jeans size of her early twenties could wait; she was a career detective, not a model, and there was considerable comfort in gooey filling.

"Perkins smiled at me," Paul muttered when Kate sat down across from him.

"That bastard."

"Saunderson waved. I think he's trying to catch your eye."

"Of course he is," she said, tearing savagely into the croissant. "He worships Vic Jackson and would use me for target practice if there wasn't a law against it." She added cream to her coffee, then a reasonable amount of sugar, followed by an unreasonable amount. "Besides, he always hated the guv."

"He's not the guv anymore. And it's my fault. I made him look bad."

"Don't be daft. I'm the radioactive slag he married." The coffee was decent, for which Kate was grateful. As her headache started to recede, she forced herself to scan the dining room. Except for the two empty seats at their table, it was packed to the gills. Either all of Scotland Yard was off to an unconscionably late start, or work had been suspended in favor of watching the Toff Squad brought low: forced to eat an ordinary brekkie like ordinary people.

Derek Saunderson, a beefy, bucktoothed man who seemed to dislike women in general and Kate in particular, met her eyes. Holding her gaze, he gave her a slow, satisfied smile. Kate's first impulse was to get up, march over to his table, and knock those buck teeth down the back of his throat. What she actually did, in light of her promise, was visualize her husband's face—and smile back.

"It really is my fault," Paul was moaning. "I need medication. Therapy. Hypnotherapy, that's it, to keep me from saying what I think. Or doing what seems right. Those are the two habits that have ruined my life. I feel awful," he added so loudly, Kate gave him a sharp look.

"We're meant to be showing the world we're fine," she whispered, tearing off more croissant with her teeth.

"I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. And what about him? The guv—I mean, the chief. I mean, Lord… er, he hates it when people at the Yard call him that…."

"Tony. Surely you've used his name before?"

"Once or twice. Felt unnatural." Paul shuddered. "In his office I was such a berk. News like that, and he practically consoled
me
."

"Yes, and then he consoled me, and now he's reassembling Mrs. Snell's soul from damp ashes." She reached for more croissant and found nothing but crumbs. This was probably how compulsive eating disorders started—shoveling down pastries as a balm against the rejoicing of one's enemies. Kate glanced in Saunderson's direction. No doubt about it: still rejoicing.

"But is he really okay?" Paul asked again. "Behind closed doors, you see the real him."

Do I?
Kate washed down her doubts with more coffee. When this purgatorial breakfast was over, she intended to spend the rest of the day thinking about nothing but the case. Murder was easier than relationships; any detective would say the same.

"I should have offered to resign," Paul said.

"No. I tried. He came over all 'my lord' on me."

"How'd that make you feel?"

"Relieved. I've worked too hard for this. Giving up now is… well…."

"Unthinkable. I know. Uh-oh. Here comes Saunderson," Paul muttered, taking out his mobile and scrutinizing it with ersatz fascination. "Guess gloating from afar isn't enough."

Kate took another deep draught of coffee. If she was about to be arrested for visiting grievous bodily harm upon a fellow officer, she wanted to at least be properly caffeinated.

"Bhar.
Hetheridge
." Saunderson rolled the latter name off his tongue like a particularly scrumptious boiled sweet. "I heard the strangest rumor. Absolutely can't be right. I heard—"

"That old Derek's poncing around the canteen at this hour? When his report on the diamond district heist still hasn't hit my inbox?" DCI Jackson interrupted in his we're-all-mates tone, the one that always boded ill. "I heard that, too. Tell me it's bollocks."

Saunderson's chin, underdeveloped in the shadow of those big buck teeth, seemed to recede another centimeter. "Er, no, sir. That is, I'll have it to you by this afternoon. First thing tomorrow at the latest, sir."

"See that you do." Jackson watched Saunderson make his retreat, then turned to them. "Is this a bad time, DS Hetheridge? DS Bhar?"

There it was again. Her correct name, used without apparent malice. Kate was too confused by Jackson's rebuke of his crony to form a complete sentence. Bhar came to her rescue.

"No, sir. It's a good time." He picked up Kate's coffee, nodding for her to rise. When she did, he put the cup in her hand with an emphatic
go along with this
look.

"Of course, Chief." If that plonker could feign good manners, so could she. That was Bullying 101: the rules of the game were subject to change without notice. Kids who failed to perceive and adapt were doomed to a life of seized lunch money and purloined gym clothes. Kate had not forgotten; despite its sterling reputation the world over, there were times when life in Scotland Yard's canteen closely resembled the schoolyards of her youth.

They followed DCI Jackson out of the dining room. She expected him to revert to type the moment they were more or less alone, but no sneering abuse followed. So into the lift they went, the three of them plus a uniformed constable who offered cheerfully, "Lovely weather this morning, isn't it?"

No one answered. It was a long ride up.

The moment the metal doors parted, Jackson struck off toward his office, moving faster than Kate had ever witnessed. He'd dropped a bit of weight, it seemed, or upped his caffeine, if such a thing were possible.

"Come through," Jackson said when they reached his office. Paul entered first. As the door opened, Jackson caught it… and held it for Kate.

That's it. I'm having a psychotic break. Any minute they'll inject me with meds, and I'll see white coats looming all around….

"Oh! Hello," said the matronly woman behind the reception desk. She had red plastic spectacles, three chins, and an infectious smile. "You're DS Hetheridge and DS Bhar, aren't you? Welcome! I've only just started working for DCI Jackson. Name's Joy."

"Hi, Joy," Paul said, admirably synthesizing warmth while Kate assessed Joy's workstation with a jaundiced eye. Judging by all the conspicuous happiness—yellow silk daisies, plush animals, and loads of cartoon smiley faces—the woman was a very new recruit indeed. Heaven knew what a few days' exposure to Jackson would do. Joy was overweight, black, and probably fifty, judging by the gray in her curls. She was the living embodiment of half his punchlines. Maybe someone at Scotland Yard hated Joy. Or maybe she'd been sent in wearing a wire, and not even Jackson's highly placed uncle would save him from what must surely follow.

"Two messages for you, sir," Joy told Jackson. "Transcripts sent to your email as requested."

"Thank you," Jackson said so politely, a new suspicion occurred to Kate. Was it
Joy
that had driven him to some kind of self-improvement scheme?

His office, it seemed, was not included in said scheme. It was even messier than the last time Kate had seen it. Unlike Tony, who preferred Spartan simplicity, Vic Jackson was a packrat at best, a hoarder at worst. Three large bookcases sagged, so overburdened as to constitute a health and safety violation via threat of collapse. Kate spied thirty-year-old textbooks, tattered three-ring binders, legal pads, and loose conglomerations of paper. Dozens of cardboard boxes were labeled ESSENTIAL DO NOT TOUCH in Jackson's messy, rather desperate hand. Isolated on one wall hung a twenty-year-old service award for Detective Constable Victor P. Jackson. Nothing else like it existed; it was a freak of nature, alone in the world.

Jackson went to his desk, or the collection of piles a concealed desk presumably supported. Rather than sitting down, he stood awkwardly beside his chair, as if debating whether or not to make a speech.

Kate exchanged looks with Paul. Once again, he seemed to be silently communicating something. Did he want her to follow his lead? Fine. When he sat, Kate sat, taking another slurp of coffee.

Wish it were Irish.

Tony kept a drinks trolley in his office, a cut crystal, single-malt scotch affair intended only for special occasions. Jackson had one, too, but less formal and subjected to hard use. Glancing about, Kate finally located it, pushed in a far corner. Gone was the middling vodka, the cheap whiskey, the wine sold by the jug. Now there was bottled water, fizzy pop, and those little prepackaged caffeine-and-vitamin shots.

"So. Right." Jackson looked briefly at Kate, then Paul, before aiming his gaze at his desk and keeping it there. "Let me begin by saying I've spoken to Tony. He's put me in the picture as far as the Hardwick case, no holds barred, everything he has. Which is, to be, er,
rigorously
honest, quite decent of him. Before I went down to the canteen in search of you lot, I had a look at Buck Wainwright's interview. At first glance, I thought the case was open and shut. But given Tony's years of experience, and his conviction Wainwright might be innocent, I agree we must explore all avenues before handing the matter to CPS." This came out stiffly, yet quickly, like an errant Victorian child stood up before the class and compelled to apologize. "Are there any questions?"

"What's happening?" Kate mouthed to Paul.

He gaped at her as if
she were the crazy one.

"Was that a question, DS Hetheridge?"

"Sorry, er, Chief. It's been a wood chipper of a morning, and my coffee's gone cold. What
is
this?"

"All Tony's cases have been given to me for the interim," Jackson said. If he felt any triumph, it was well concealed. "You and DS Bhar are assigned to my command for the foreseeable future."

Chapter Ten

Kate found herself unable to form words to respond. Which was fortunate, because all the words that came to her were profane.

"Please excuse my colleague," Paul said with that same synthesized warmth he'd applied to Joy at reception. "She worked quite late last night and turned up early this morning, running on fumes. We're both a bit off-balance, sir," he added, addressing Jackson—Jackson!—with all the respect his rank deserved.

This is real. This is happening. I'm back where I was when I met Tony, only now there's no Lord Hetheridge to save me
.

"Don't apologize. The truth is…." Jackson paused. Perhaps speaking the truth required muscles he'd permitted to atrophy. "The truth is, I'd like to skip all this, whatever this is, and get straight to the meat. Any takers?"

Paul nodded. Kate managed to nod, too.

"All right, Bhar, let's start with you. You bungled it with Hardwick, but Tony said you've been dealt with, so we'll say no more. Clean slate. Do you have any open cases?"

"Two. Both sorted, minor details left."

"Perfect. New assignment. I'll email you the fine print," Jackson said. "Has to do with my favorite combination—cocaine and Albanians. The cartel is slippery, but one of the distributors put himself on my radar. Bloke by the name of Arjan Potka, goes by Arry. The case is built. There's an eyewitness willing to testify. She has the goods on Arry, lock, stock, and barrel. But then my lad in charge of the investigation pulled up lame, the witness got cold feet, and I've become too busy to massage her myself. I'd like you to take over. Charm the old girl, make her see sense. Convince her to go to court and put Arry the coke dealer behind bars forever." He frowned. "Which in today's Britain probably equals fifteen years or less, but I'll take what I can get."

"So there's no…." Paul took a deep breath. But lacking hypnotherapy or a brain surgeon's intervention, he still said what came to mind. "This isn't a murder case."

Jackson shook his head.

Paul opened his mouth again, and Jackson emitted one of his exaggerated sighs, the sort that typically preceded a torrent of abuse. Paul went rigid. So did Kate. So did Jackson, who seemed alarmed by his own response.

"Right. Er. Listen," he said after an uncomfortable silence. "There's two ways this can go. You can muff this, like you muffed Hardwick, not to mention Godington, and prove all the naysayers right. End up never working a murder case again, except in your dreams. Or you can take the assignment, no complaints, no skiving, get results, and prove everyone wrong. In which case, the next time your old pal Sir Duncan does it in the drawing room with a candlestick, you'll still be in the game."