Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (26 page)

"Words cannot express," Georgette said, "how little I care about your sister, Detective….?"

"Hetheridge," Kate said. "And I'm not surprised you don't want to hear about Maura. I know you've been doing the Sally Slip and Molly Moan routine most of your life. People who get hurt or sick for real are your competitors, eh? And you love the attention, don't you? That's what it's all about."

Georgette's nostrils flared. She sat up as straight as her squishy beanbag permitted. "It's about money, you stupid bloody cow. Money I'm owed for real injuries caused by careless people who should have done their jobs properly." She raked Kate up and down with her sharp gaze. "Then again, you don't look too familiar with money. I know your sort. The kind with a bedsit, a pile of unpaid bills, and a husband on the dole."

"You see right through me," Kate said, suppressing a smile. "So well, in fact, those specs must have been part of the act. Plus a fright wig, right? To make you look round the bend?"

"When I'm not lucid, Detective," Georgette said, shooting the camera a lingering glance, "that's
L
,
U
,
C
,
I
,
D
, your new vocabulary word, I prefer the wig and glasses. They offer me comfort. The accident left me so confused, you see. It destroyed my hope of finding employment or another husband."

"Right. Speaking of husbands… what's the story with you and Granville Hardwick? He was married to your sister Monette. Yet all these years later, she divorced him and made a new life for herself while you stayed by his side. It's not much of a leap to think maybe you were in love with him. I'm not sure what he had, but he must have had something, judging from all the women under his spell."

Kate had hoped this more daring jab would further inflame Georgette, but instead, she regained her composure. Then again, a career liar with her years of experience had surely faced hostile interrogators before.

"Detective Hetheridge, you should know, my lucid phases don't last forever," she said warningly. "You want something to take to your superiors. I want out of this prison. Ask me about the murder."

"All right. Last Thursday. Were you inside East Asia House all day and all night?" It was the question Paul had suggested she ask, based on what Fiona Leeds had seen—a woman with wild hair, big specs, and a housedress climbing over Declan East's fence.

"Yes. I hardly go out and never alone," Georgette said firmly. "Since the crash, I've lost all independence."

"Who visited East Asia House that day?"

"Buck. Sunny's husband. She used to natter constantly about how she resented him. Didn't stop her from squandering his money, though."

"What time did he arrive?"

"I don't know."

"What time did he leave?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

"When did he come back?"

"No idea. How I wish I could help you," Georgette said coldly.

"Help me with this. When did you go downstairs and walk through Hardwick's blood?"

Georgette touched her throat in pretended shock, like a dowager clutching her pearls. "I don't believe I ever did. Come to think of it, the night it happened, a man from Scotland Yard talked to me. His name was Hetheridge, too. My goodness." She smiled. "That was the baron, wasn't it? And you're the gold digger he married. Congratulations. I married for money once, too. And it was far harder work than anything else I've done to pay the bills."

"You knew about me from the moment I walked in, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"Well," Kate said, "it just so happens, I knew about you. Before I came to St. Thomas, I telephoned your sister Monette. She told me she's never been happier since she divorced Hardwick. Since she left London to get away from you two. You know what else she said? That you fell in love with Granville Hardwick when the three of you were at university. That even though he loved your sister, you wanted him so much, you made yourself the third wheel. Always unwanted. Always following them about like a hopeful puppy. So desperate to win his attention."

Georgette's smile disappeared.

"Monette said you tried to be prettier, but that didn't work. Hardwick always had an eye for beautiful women, and you couldn't hold a candle to your sister. You tried to be smarter, but Hardwick didn't care. He already thought he was the cleverest bloke in the room. The only thing you had, the only thing that could make him look your way, was the capacity to be hurt. To moan, to cry, to make people feel sorry for you," Kate said, enjoying the growing horror in Georgette's eyes. "He finally pitied you so much, he strayed from Monette, didn't he? But you couldn't keep him. In the end, I'm surprised you didn't saw off a limb or gouge out an eye, just to hold his interest a little longer."

"You're abusing me!" Georgette cried, looking at the camera. "This is abuse!"

"You were bracingly frank with me, and I accepted it because I'm a big girl," Kate said calmly. "Now it's my turn. I think this crash scheme was your all-or-nothing play to regain the love of your life. I think you endured the whole routine, the glasses, the hair, the feigned dependency, so you could be with him as much as possible. And when that didn't work, when being the most pitiful, desperate, helpless woman on earth didn't do it, you snapped. Dashed his brains out. Slipped in his blood. Rubbed out the footprint, ran upstairs and hid in the wardrobe."

"You have no proof—"

"I have plenty of proof," Kate said, enjoying the moment perhaps a little too much. "The lab came back with preliminary fingerprints today. Yours are all over the murder weapon. Buck left three prints on it. You left thirteen. There's motive, opportunity, forensic evidence—"

"I lived there!" Georgette retorted. "Of course I touched it. It was a gift, some stupid gift. I don't know who gave it to him. Probably Sunny Wainwright! Gran and I joked about it, pretended to re-gift it to each other, passing it back and forth like the ugly piece of rubbish it was. I touched it, yes, but I didn't use it to kill Gran. And heaven knows I didn't love him anymore."

"You did love him. You killed him, panicked, and ran. There's no use denying it. It's all captured on your neighbors' CCTV cameras," Kate lied, thinking she was onto something and eager to find out if she was right. "Then you came to your senses, returned to your bedroom, rifled a few drawers, and climbed into the wardrobe. You were frightened and guilty. The nutter routine was your only hope."

"Rifled a few drawers?" Georgette repeated. "I knew it! Someone
was
in my room."

"What?"

"Listen. It's true I found Gran dead. I stepped in his blood and rubbed out the print. That's all! I went back upstairs to hide. For all I knew, the killer was still in the house. I looked around and realized someone had been up there. A drawer was open. I hid in the wardrobe to protect myself. I never had time to discover what was taken."

Kate shook her head. "This won't work. If you were home all day, how did you miss seeing or hearing Buck's killer? You must have done it yourself. As for your bedroom, it was analyzed down to the atomic level. Buck didn't leave a trace up there. No one else did, either, apart from a few unknowns, and I'm sure Hardwick must have employed cleaners. This doesn't look good for you, Miss Sevrin."

"I didn't kill him. And whoever you have on camera isn't me!" Georgette shrieked. For the first time, in extremis, her words had the ring of truth. "Now get out. I won't say another word without my solicitor."

Chapter Sixteen

"Sir Duncan? Really?" Kate squashed her mobile against her ear to hear Paul better. It was loud inside the Yellow Earl, and as it was barely seven o'clock on a weekend, the pub was sure to grow louder as the night wore on. "I guess I owe you an apology. I thought the dog was a figment of your imagination."

"'Harebrained psychodrama.' Those were your exact words. Anyway, I'd worry less about saying sorry and more about when and how he's going to kill me. Then again." Paul sighed. "Maybe death is better. I have no car, no home, no hope."

"Er, true. But you'll have the goodwill and approval of our Chief, when he hears you won the old lady over."

"Yeah. Vic's goodwill. Lucky me," Paul muttered. "So what about Mrs. Tumnus? Did she fling herself back to Narnia when you said she was spotted climbing a fence?"

"No, she denied it. Vehemently. I even bluffed, said we had proof. She still insisted it wasn't her." Kate took a sip of ale. "Given her history with Hardwick, though, plus her prints on the murder weapon and her tracks in the blood, the circumstantial case against her is good. As good as the one against Buck, or better."

On one the pub's many televisions, the underdog team scored, prompting a round of cheers and applause. After the noise died down, Kate asked, "Do you really think your dad will refuse to alibi Buck? Even if Jackson leans on him?"

"Especially if Jackson leans on him. My father is…." Paul huffed into the phone. "I have no words to describe him. Just that sound." He did it again. "I mean, he leaves my mum, carries on with another woman for years,
then
gets angry when he doesn't find her still waiting at home? Can you believe the nerve?"

"I can, actually. Garden-variety cheater. Thinks the rules only apply to women. Maybe she traded up with Buck. At least he strikes me as faithful."

"I don't know. He has issues, too. But what's all that noise? You and Tony on a date somewhere?"

"I wish. I'm waiting for the Chief. We're meeting to discuss the case."

"Where?"

"The Yellow Earl. The barman who worked Thursday afternoon will come on shift soon. If he remembers serving Buck, that will lock down Buck's timeline. Maybe even alibi him. So even if your dad won't cooperate, Buck will still be freed."

"I have nowhere to go and nothing to do. Want me to come by? Provide backup?"

"Why?"

"Um, Kate. It's you. And Jackson. In a pub."

"I know. But I suppose I have to give him a chance eventually. Now's as good a time as any. Besides, I picked a two-seater in the middle of the room. Dead center. No chance he can—oh. There he is," she said, catching sight of her new guv's familiar rumpled form. "Better let you go. But seriously, Paul, where are you sleeping tonight?"

"Right now, it's a tossup between the bathtub and a hotel. My credit card's almost maxed, but I might have enough for one night."

"No. Tony and I will put you up. We have plenty of room."

"Wellegrave House? I don't know. I always feel like I don't belong there. Like I might stain something. Or break something."

"Never fear. If it can be broken or stained, Henry and Ritchie have beat you to it. We've lost two rugs, three lamps, and quite a lot of downstairs plumbing."

"How's Tony handling it?"

"Suspiciously well. I'm beginning to think he was never best pleased, being surrounded by museum pieces, and seeing it demolished suits him fine. Now Harvey… Harvey may snap if Mrs. Snell doesn't whip the boys into shape. Anyway, don't be intimidated. Our place has guest rooms, clean linen, and nightly showings of
The Lego Movie
. How can you say no?"

After a few awkward attempts to do just that, Paul finally said yes. By the time he rang off, Jackson was hovering by the table, a glass of fizzy pop in hand.

"Hiya, Chief. Have a seat. What're you drinking?"

"Pepsi." He settled himself on the opposite stool, looking every bit as uncomfortable as she felt. She instinctively tried to set him at ease.

"The bitter's two-for-one tonight. I have another one coming to me. If you want to drink it, I'll go back to the bar and—" She stopped, remembering. "I mean, er, sorry. Pepsi's good."

His eyes narrowed. "Who have you been talking to?"

"No one."

"Someone tell you I'm off the sauce?"

"No. I just noticed you cleared out your drinks trolley. And turned down a Bloody Mary this morning. I don't mean to pry. It's a detective thing." Feeling guilty, she added, "I probably shouldn't have snagged us a table. Or ordered this," she added, glancing at her pint of lovely golden ale, still more than half full.

"Well, you're right. I am off the sauce, but never mind looking out for me." His voice was edged with bitterness. "Can't step out my house without seeing a pub, a corner market, a Guinness advert. Even if I stay inside, every program on the telly is sponsored by a bottle of this or that. And every character on every program has to enjoy his little drinky before hurrying off to save the world."

She'd never thought of it that way. Was that why Maura couldn't seem to give up the booze, no matter what her doctors said? Louise was enjoying herself, that much was obvious, but Maura seemed as miserable drunk as she did sober.

"Crikey, Hetheridge, don't look like that." Jackson sighed. "There are places I can go. Meetings I can attend. The whole, 'I'm Vic and I'm an alcoholic' thing. It works. When I let it work. So drink up. And please, make this worthwhile. Tell me your interview with Georgette Sevrin wasn't a waste of time."

Kate described the encounter, muddling the facts to make it seem like she, not Paul, had dropped by Harrods to question Fiona Leeds. At her description of a fleeing woman, Jackson perked up.