Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (3 page)

"Kate," Tony called from the other side of the bathroom door. "They've cleared out. Walked them halfway to Green Park Tube station myself. Shall we…?"

She said nothing, perversely hoping he'd blunder again. Since their marriage, he'd occasionally muddled personas, adopting what she thought of as "Guv mode" at home, or "Tony mode" on the job. Just now, a command—"Shall we get on?"—had nearly issued from CS Hetheridge's lips. But then it fragmented into the gentler "Shall we…?" as he no doubt remembered they were still at home, and on the husband front, he was still in trouble.

Kate leaned over the basin, scowling at her reflection. Her cut lip was obvious. There was no concealing it with makeup, so she settled for extra mascara and a liberal application of powder. As for her shoulder-length blonde hair, it was hopeless. Gathering it into a ponytail, she twisted the mass into a bun. If this murder case turned into an all-nighter, the clips would eventually work free, probably at the worst possible moment. She didn't care. At least she had on one of her nicest suits, dark and sober and scarcely bloodstained. Maura and Louise had descended on Wellegrave House just as Kate arrived home, and what with all the shouting, she'd never had time to change out of her professional attire. This tailored suit from Harrods was still a prized possession, something she'd purchased soon after joining Hetheridge's team, in hopes a more conservative appearance would help her up the ladder.

Before I leapfrogged everyone by marrying the boss….

She knew better, of course. But
Bright Star
believed it. Her archenemy at Scotland Yard, DCI Vic Jackson, believed it. Maura, who considered herself eternally victimized and Kate a scheming pseudo-saint, believed it. No doubt Louise, the absentee mum who refused to stay absent, believed it, too.

I expect that of them
, Kate reminded herself.
They always assume the worst. It's Tony who should know better. Who should never ask me if I care what Henry wants, especially in front of
them.

"Kate?" He rapped on the door.

She sighed. She hadn't shot the bolt, yet he still didn't enter, not without an invitation. Perhaps the people who'd reared him, all those terribly impressive sorts who stared down from portraits on the landings, would have considered that impolite, even between man and wife? In her old flat, she'd had to lock the door to keep Ritchie and Henry from bursting in, often to referee an argument while she tried to use the loo.

"Here I am, guv." She emerged from the bathroom. "All present and accounted for, sir."

Tony was prepared for the walk to 24 Euston Place, his overcoat buttoned and scarf wound around his throat. He'd also obtained Kate's newest coat, a Christmas present from him to her, which he passed over now. Full-length and cut from brilliant red wool, wearing the coat usually made her feel extravagant, glamorous. Now, as she slipped into it, she felt ridiculous, an utter fraud.

"Mum and Maura took the Tube?"

"Yes."

"I wonder you didn't put them in a black cab. Guv."

"As a matter of fact, I offered that very thing. Sergeant." His eyes twinkled. "They declined."

"I'm surprised you took no for an answer, given how madly you campaigned to get on their good side."

"My dear DS Hetheridge. If you believe Sir Duncan Godington is the only man of your acquaintance who uses charm as a weapon, you haven't been paying attention." Taking her hand, Tony examined the plaster on her injured knuckles. "Does it hurt?"

"Not as much as Maura's nose."

"No doubt."

She pulled her hand away. Black suede gloves were in her coat pockets. As she fished them out, she told herself to drop it. But even as she resolved to focus on the upcoming investigation, Kate heard herself say, "How could you ask that?"

"What? If it hurt?"

"You know what. If I cared what Henry wants."

"I only meant to redirect the discussion toward what matters most. Things seemed to be going off a cliff."

"It always does with them." Kate worked her aching hand into a glove, hoping it would prevent swelling as the night wore on. "Do you think I
don't
care what Henry wants?"

"Of course not."

"Because the worst thing about being trapped by those two wasn't getting decked. It was feeling like my husband, the person who's meant to trust me, has lumped me in with them. Like even you see me as one of them, a Wakefield to the bone."

He sighed. "That wasn't my intention. As far as how I see you—let me point out, it's not me who keeps forgetting you're called DS Hetheridge now."

Kate couldn't answer that. Instead, she pulled on the other glove, buttoned up her coat, turned up her collar and checked herself in the mirror once more. And she was fine, absolutely fine, until Tony put his arms around her. Then a hot tear slid down her cheek, burning a trail in that freshly-applied powder.

"I meant what I said about the warrant," he told her. "I'll have a word with my solicitor tomorrow. Henry wants to stay with us, he's accustomed to us, and surely the courts will see it our way."

"A judge will grant Maura access the moment she applies," Kate said bitterly. "At the very least, she'll be in this house night and day, bringing all her chaos with her. Telling Social Services a butler and someone like Ritchie can't handle child care. That you and I work round the clock, while she can devote herself twenty-four/seven."

"If I could solve this for you tonight—now—I would," Tony said.

"I know," Kate sniffed.

"There is something else, though, that we
can
solve…."

"I know, guv. Murder in Mayfair. Is it difficult, sliding from chief superintendent to husband and back again?"

"You have no idea," he said, and she couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

* * *

The night proved bracing enough to clear Kate's mind. Euston Place was, as always, quiet. The street was scrupulously clean, all wheelie-bins tucked away, trees and shrubberies manicured. Terraced houses, many erected in the mid-1800s according to their lintel stones, were mostly pale with an occasional splash of new paint; under the glare of so many security lights, those bits of green, blue, and red stood out like rouge on a corpse. Among the eaves of the detached houses, CCTV cameras stood sentry, revealing an upper crust obsession with robbery Kate found amusing. Criminals who frequented Euston Place weren't of the purse-snatching or house-breaking variety. They were international robber barons, purveyors of televised filth, and politicians, to name only a few.

"Who lives at number twenty-four?" Kate asked Tony.

"I'm ashamed to say I don't know. When I was a boy, my father knew all his neighbors. Hated most of them, but that's another story. These days, they keep their eyes on the street as I pass and I return the favor."

"At my old building, I was on nodding acquaintance with everyone. Mind you, we weren't all mates. One slag banged her doors at all hours. And this tosser played gangster rap every—oh. Look, guv!" The honorific slipped out automatically as they turned the corner. "Blue lights."

Twenty-four Euston Place was an aggressively modern, blindingly white three-story house. Fully detached and made of poured concrete, it stood alone in a treeless gravel courtyard. Such isolation put forth the unmistakable impression that no naturally-occurring thing on earth cared to rub elbows with the house, and the feeling was mutual, thank you very much. Everything about it was asymmetrical. Oddly spaced windows, unbalanced roof, and no columns or pediment, just a vast porch burdened with what appeared to be a heap of red wheels and gyros.

"Crikey. What's that meant to be?" Kate asked.

"Art, I fear," Tony said. "I suppose a shrub in a planter was all too obvious."

Like most residences, number twenty-four stood awash in halogen security lights, giving it a sort of radioactive glow. It wasn't just violently modern, but futuristic: a life support cube from some bleak tomorrow, teleported smack into the heart of Mayfair.

Affixed to number twenty-four, Kate saw a large nameplate, white with red letters, that read:

EAST ASIA HOUSE

It was decorated with the block-cut silhouette of an elephant, also in red.

"Good God," Tony murmured, startled. "That red heap
is
meant to be art. And I am acquainted with who lives here, slightly. Granville Hardwick. Only I've never heard his home called Twenty-Four Euston Place."

"What's it usually called?"

"The White Elephant. The neighbors were so upset when he built it, a protest group was actually formed. The REB: the Society to Reverse Euston Brutality. 'White Elephant' is the nicest thing they call this house. As for Hardwick, they say he's obsessed with self-promotion. Provocative, vainglorious."

"Whew. Around here, getting a reputation like that must take some work," Kate teased. But gently; after all, it was now her neighborhood, too. "Whatever happened inside, things seem under control." She indicated three panda cars, a yellow plastic barrier, half a dozen uniformed officers, an ambulance, and a forensics van. It was all very much business as usual, including a few gawkers who'd edged as close to the perimeter as possible: a bald man with a dog and a grandmotherly sort with two small girls. The dog's tail wagged; the small girls fidgeted. "Can't be a hot scene."

"Is that so? Check the rooftop to your left."

It took a moment for Kate's eyes to adjust from the garish white house to comparative blackness. When the roof finally swam into focus, she saw a man in a bulky Kevlar vest positioned against a chimney, rifle at ready.

"Oh."

"And behind us," Tony continued. "Atop the trattoria on Westbury."

Turning her head as unobtrusively as possible, Kate picked out two more armed SO19 officers, so well-positioned as to be almost invisible. If a suspect tried to flee East Asia House, he or she would pass directly through the officers' sights. "How did you notice them?"

"How could I not? I owe police snipers my life." He referred to that event, long before Kate came to Scotland Yard, which had sealed his reputation as ice cold under pressure. "Therefore, I tend to look for them when approaching a scene. Let's clear those civilians before we pass the barriers. Sharpshooters or no, unneeded distractions are dangerous."

Warrant card in hand, he approached the elderly woman with the girls. Withdrawing her own credentials, Kate approached the bald man with the Alsatian on a lead. Its gray muzzle lifted, tail thumping its master's leg in friendly anticipation. The man, however, narrowed his eyes. Then he pointedly turned his back on her, staring at East Asia House as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm DS Kate Wa—Hetheridge. Scotland Yard." Though the bald man's face remained averted, she held up the warrant card anyway. "I must ask you to go. Let the police conduct their business."

The man said nothing. The Alsatian tugged at its lead, giving Kate a happy bark as its tail wagged even harder.

"Sir. Did you hear? I'm DS Hetheridge of Scotland Yard," Kate repeated firmly. "I'm ordering you to clear off. Now."

"Hetheridge, eh?" The man gave Kate a sidelong glance. Perhaps sixty years old, he had a doughy face, trimmed mustache, and beady black eyes. "Very well. This is a public street, DS Hetheridge, and I am a British citizen. I've lived here forty years, never mind the accent," he said, imitating an Indian cadence thicker than his natural one, "so I know my rights. I pay your salary, and I'm telling you to leave me in peace."

This sort of response wasn't uncommon. According to recent UK opinion polls, the police ranked low in public esteem, just beneath sales clerks and traffic wardens.

"Sir, this is for your own safety, as well as the sake of an ongoing criminal investigation." Kate kept the warrant card up. "If you disobey my direct order, you leave me no choice but to ask a constable to remove you."

"Madam," the man replied, as certain sale clerks might address a troublesome customer. "I have four barristers and thirteen solicitors in my family. I've done nothing wrong, and I—"

"Sergeant!" Tony called. He'd already warned the grandmotherly sort off. She was walking away with small girls in tow, grumbling aloud all the while. "Must I send for a PC?"

"Should he?" Kate prompted the bald man. The dog let out another friendly bark, prompting a stern command from its master in Hindi.

"My, my. The noble Lord Hetheridge himself," the man said viciously. "Always where he shouldn't be, taking what doesn't belong to him."

"What are you on about?"

"He has a great deal to answer for," said the man, pulling his knitted scarf over his mouth and nose. "And he'll get what he deserves, in good time. Come, Mani."

Mani the Alsatian whined but obeyed her master. Watching them go, Kate committed the image of man and dog to memory. As she rejoined her husband, she asked, "Who was that?"

Tony gave him a cursory glance. "No idea whatsoever."

"Well, he knows you. And doesn't seem to like you very much."

"Is that so?" He shrugged. "Try not to take it personally. I don't. Every time I send a murderer to prison, I alienate a fresh handful of people." He led Kate toward a semi-circle of plastic barriers strung together with blue and white police tape. "These days, the only enemies that concern me are the ones inside Scotland Yard."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind. Good evening, Constable Kincaid," he said, greeting the young man behind the barrier. Kate was once again impressed with his powers of recollection, which extended even to uniformed officers he saw two or three times a year. "Put us in the picture, will you?"

"Of course, Lord Hetheridge." Kincaid's tone and face were professional, but his unironic use of
Lord
marked him as an admirer. At the Yard, Hetheridge's inherited title was never invoked, except as a form of reverse snobbery. "The victim is the homeowner, Granville Hardwick. Unclear if the motive is theft, revenge, or a spur of the moment fight. Our efforts to secure the scene were, er, not entirely flawless. We, er, worked hard to follow procedure. I had men everywhere, neighbors kept stopping and hailing us. One tried to peek in a window, and we had to caution her. It wasn't intentional, sir, but—"