Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (6 page)

"Yes, guv." Kate gave Paul a sympathetic glance.
Steady on
, she mouthed, but he was already slinking away.

Chapter Four

At the back of Hardwick's gallery was a door. Blindly steering Sharada through it, Tony was relieved when they entered a proper living room complete with typical amenities, including a comfortable place to sit down. After placing a constable on the door to guarantee no more disturbances, Tony escorted Sharada to the sofa. It was hideous: Barcelona-style with purple upholstery and vinyl throw pillows. The walls were worse, covered with pop art paintings of four-color blondes and advertising logos. Still, there were tissues, utterly normal tissues, and that was a start. Sharada, glassy-eyed and shaking all over, didn't seem to notice anything else.

"Here we are," he said, placing the box before her. She might go through them all before the pre-interview was done. Some men quailed at a woman's tears, but he'd learned to endure them, even analyze them, as heartlessly as an entomologist examined bugs under glass. He was utterly immune—so long as they weren't Kate's.

"I regret I can't offer you a cup of tea, Mrs. Bhar, but with any luck, this will soon be over. Now." He seated himself in the opposite chair. "Begin at the beginning. Leave nothing out."

"Buck didn't hurt that man." Sharada announced. Decades of living in London, not to mention penning several romances, had given her full command of the Queen's English, but her accent was thicker than usual. "He's not a killer. I saw his hands, but he works with them, he's very physical, he gets into squabbles and rows like any man. Those bruises don't prove—"

"Mrs. Bhar. Sharada," Tony interrupted, again capturing her attention through use of her given name. "Would you like to help Mr. Wainwright?"

"Of course!"

"Then answer my questions as completely as you can. First. Did you know Granville Hardwick?"

"No."

"Why did you come to his house tonight?"

"Buck called me."

"When?"

"Oh." Blinking, she pushed up her sleeves, checking two bare wrists. Then she looked around the room, craning her neck to peer at the ceiling. "I didn't wear a watch. I can't find a clock. I'd answer your question, Lord Hetheridge, but I seem to have misplaced my purse."

"Call me Tony. And forgive me," he said gently, not wishing to worsen her incipient hysteria. "But your bag is on your shoulder."

"What?" Removing it with some consternation, Sharada opened the oversized tote and delved within. Each item she discovered was placed on the coffee table. A wallet stuffed with Boots receipts and five pence coins. A beaded change purse, also overstuffed. An ereader. A compact. A lipstick. Keys. More keys. A tin of mints that called itself "thermonuclear-strength." Another handful of loose coins. Just as Tony feared he must pose the original question a second time, she came up with the last item in her bag, a smartphone.

"
There
you are. Phone!" she barked at the device, so loud he flinched. "Show me my call log."

The phone, apparently knowing what was good for it, obeyed. Sharada passed it over so he could see the screen.

"It says seven o'clock. That's when Buck rang me—seven-oh-two, to be precise. From his mobile."

"What did he say?"

"He didn't make much sense. He sounded dr—" She stopped. "Confused. That's it, confused. He said something bad had happened, and he needed me here at once. Gave me the address. When I asked him what was wrong, we were cut off."

"He disconnected?"

"No. Buck would never do that. He's never rude to me, never abrupt. It's only he gets a bit muddled sometimes. Probably hit the wrong button. And I am telling you," she continued, taking on the lecturing tone her son liked to imitate, "Buck wouldn't hurt a fly. Not even a wicked, despicable little fly everyone hated. Those officers were very wrong to—"

"Wicked?" Tony interrupted again. "Despicable? Are you referring to Mr. Hardwick?"

"Yes, of course."

"I thought you said you didn't know him." He handed the phone back to her.

"I hadn't been introduced to him," Sharada said, getting flustered all over again. "But I knew of him. Half of London knew of him."

"Have you visited this house before?"

"No. And I wasn't about to take the Tube at that time of day. Our station is mental, completely mental, from four to seven. Grown men fling themselves into the cars in front of little old ladies while hooligans push, shove, and trample anyone who hesitates. I took a taxi, after I checked GPS to estimate the distance. See? Open GPS!" she commanded the phone with such violence, an onlooker might have suspected Tourette's.

"Recent trips? Yes. There it is." She thrust the phone back at Tony. "I've never been in this house before. Neither has Buck, not more than once or twice. Wait," she corrected herself with an air of palpable desperation. "I mean, I've never been here and neither has Buck. Yes. That's my final answer."

"There's no need to invoke quiz show phrases," Tony said, struggling to keep his temper. "I assure you, I'm not here to trick you. I simply require the truth." He didn't care to be reminded of DS Bhar's latest blunder; better to compartmentalize that until it could be dealt with properly. But although Sharada didn't particularly resemble her son, and certainly didn't sound like him—Bhar had mastered "received pronunciation" to a
T
—all this rambling and backpedaling inevitably called her son to mind.

"I'm interested in why you called Mr. Hardwick despicable," Hetheridge continued. "That indicates strong disapproval, does it not?"

"Phone!" Fortunately, Sharada's device was protected by one of those shatterproof cases, or else her grip might have cracked the glass. "Okay, Google. Search for—"

"Sharada, please. Let's put technology aside and just talk." Carefully prying the device out of her hands, he placed it on the coffee table beside the rest of her handbag detritus. "I vow not to interrupt again, if you vow to tell me precisely what you discovered after alighting from your taxi."

Sharada stared at him. She looked trapped, or on the verge of another breakdown. Then, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, she gave a loud sniff and began—not where he'd asked, but at the beginning.

"I met Buck in a pub, which I cannot tell Deepal because he would not approve. I only wanted some dinner. But the dining room upstairs was packed, and it was Friday night, so the front was overrun with men. A huge knot of men, from the taps to the glass doors and spilling out into the street, all of them hoisting pints, arguing, wagering, roaring. I detest the way they roar in pubs. Englishmen!" She shook her head disapprovingly, then seemed to recall to whom she spoke. "No offense."

"None taken."

"It was as bad as the Tube. But I was famished, so I fought my way inside, in search of a barstool. I wouldn't have found one, except Buck stood up. One gentleman in the entire place, and him an American, if you can believe that. And do you know he insisted on ordering for me? A plate of roast beef, boiled potatoes, and ginger ale with two maraschino cherries. I'll never forget it. He's a Texan, you know. Calls me 'little lady.'" A note of pride crept into her voice. "Mind you, Buck is six foot five in his cowboy boots, so perhaps to him, I
am
little. That, or his eyesight is wanting. To myself in the mirror, I look as big and lumpy as two dogs under a blanket." She indicated her bosom and matronly curves, which included a bonus curve smack in the middle.

"He asked me what I did," Sharada continued. "He was very interested when I told him about my latest book,
A Dashing Deadly Spy
. Have you finished it yet?"

Hetheridge blinked. What promises had DS Bhar made in his name? "Er… I have so little time…."

"Oh! I sent a copy to your office. Your assistant must have mislaid it. I'll pack another with Deepal's lunch. But as I was saying. Buck told me his life would make a good story. Usually when people say that, I tell them I'm full up on good stories, thank you very much, and sort them quick. But Buck's life
was
interesting. Sagebrush and cattle. Steel guitars and cowboy lullabies. I won't say he charmed the pants off me, because Deepal wouldn't approve of that, either. Besides, I'm a lady. I never wear pants. But Buck and I have been together ever since."

"I see. And how long is that?"

She did some quick arithmetic on her fingers. "It doesn't seem possible. But only eight."

"Months?"

"Weeks. Which might not seem like a long time, Lord Hetheridge.
Tony
," Sharada said, clearly delighting in the use of his Christian name. "But at our age, we cut through the nonsense, don't we? Focus on what matters. True soul mates recognize one another almost instantly, and love creates unbreakable bonds, wouldn't you agree?"

He realized she meant his swift courtship of Kate, and their equally swift marriage. What precisely had Bhar shared? Tony cleared his throat. "You and Mr. Wainwright are engaged, then?"

"Engaged?" Sharada refilled her purse by sweeping everything on the coffee table back into its depths. "Of course not. I'm still married to Haresh, even though he's been living with that slut for fifteen years. And Buck's divorce from What's-Her-Face isn't settled. Another detail Deepal would find distressing, so I haven't told him. He's such a delicate boy. The way you reprimanded him was a bit harsh, don't you think? Even if he was technically in the wrong, I
do
hope—"

"I promised not to interrupt, but only if you told me what you witnessed when you entered this house," Tony reminded her.

Another stricken look. "I want to help you, Tony. I truly do," she said. "But I can't help remembering what Deepal always says. The thickies talk and talk. Even when they're not guilty, they talk themselves into a corner. The clever ones lawyer up."

"But we're only chatting," Tony lied. He had to; his first duty was to the murdered man in the gallery, not Sharada Bhar. "If you're unfamiliar with the house, how did you enter?"

"Buck let me in. He was all alone—well, we thought he was alone. I suppose that nutter was up in the wardrobe. The woman the constables are detaining in the kitchen. But poor Buck! When he opened the door, he looked dreadful. I know he felt terrible Mr. Art Man was dead, despite the affair with What's-Her-Face."

"I'm sorry. The affair with who?"

"What's-Her-Face. Mrs. Wainwright. Buck's wife." Sharada scowled.

"So that's what made Hardwick despicable in your view? His association with Buck's wife?"

"Soon to be
ex
-wife," she corrected. "And no, of course not, good riddance to her. It's the money Mr. Hardwick was so awful about. Unbearable, really."

At last, Tony scented the meat of the interview, as a shark scented blood in the water. Conversationally, he said, "I suppose if Buck and his wife were still married, any money she spent could be considered Buck's, too. Did she buy art, by any chance?"

"Tons! Ordered it through Mr. Hardwick's gallery and expected Buck to foot the bill," Sharada said. "When he refused, that's when the harassment started. Emails, phone calls, ambushes in pubs. Just last week, Buck and I were having a nightcap, and Mr. Hardwick turned up on pretext of having a drink—in Buck's hotel, if you can believe it. Money, money, money, I'm sick to death of it. If I'd had enough in the bank, I'd have settled the account myself, just to make that grinning, green-haired monkey disappear forever." Sharada looked slightly taken aback by her own outburst. "Er… nothing but good of the dead, naturally."

"Naturally. I must say, if I were Buck, I might have found Hardwick's appearance at my hotel a touch over the top," Hetheridge said.

"He did. He'd had a few, you know. Told Hardwick not to cross him again or there'd be blood."

"You heard Buck say that?"

"Exactly that. 'If you ask me for money one more time, make no mistake, there will be blood,'" she recounted, attempting an American accent. Only after she repeated the threat did she seem to realize what, precisely, she'd disclosed.

"Of course," she quavered, trying to backpedal, "someone who doesn't know Buck might jump to conclusions, but it was just male posturing. Chest thumping. I'll bet Mr. Art Man made enemies everywhere he went. There are probably a hundred men in London who've threatened to kill him this week."

"Quite possibly. But only one was found at the scene of Mr. Hardwick's murder, and only one has been taken into custody." Tony gave her a moment to absorb that, again reining in his private sympathy. Eight weeks didn't seem like a very long time for a romance, particularly between mature adults. But as she'd pointed out earlier, he'd personally experienced the heady madness of attraction, fascination, and love—not in eight weeks, but eight days.

"So. You received a call," Tony said, taking up the thread again. "Hired a taxi to Mayfair. Was let into East Asia House sometime after seven pm by Buck Wainwright. The alarm wasn't ringing, there was no sign of a struggle, and Buck seemed alone, in a state of distress. Did he show you the body? Tell you what happened?"

Fresh tears glistened in Sharada's eyes. Like many before her, she'd been tripped up by habit—the habit of telling the absolute truth. And if she'd related even half of this to the uniformed PCs, it was no wonder Buck was in custody.