Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (7 page)

"I'm sorry. I can't tell you, Tony." Mopping her wet cheeks with another tissue, she gave a defiant sniff. "I'm not a thickie. This is where I lawyer up."

* * *

Soon after her declaration, Sharada Bhar was permitted to depart, provided she present herself at New Scotland Yard the next afternoon, solicitor at hand, for a taped interview. Yet despite this impasse, Sharada remained stubbornly convinced she had a right to remain near Buck Wainwright, even if she wasn't permitted to see or speak to him. Compelling her to exit the crime scene proved nearly as difficult as ejecting DS Bhar. In the end, the only way Tony could avoid threatening her with arrest was by reminding Sharada her son was surely home by now, awaiting her safe arrival.

"You're right." She dug in her handbag, coming up with that phone again. "Missed call log! Nothing? Messages? Still nothing." She frowned at the screen. "Deepal hasn't called. Hasn't texted. And Tony, you were so stern with him. He idolizes you. I hope he hasn't done something drastic."

As far as Tony was concerned, a truly drastic action from Paul would be to experience contrition, or renounce his reckless ways, or simply arrive at work on time for a change. "I'm sure he's fine," he told Sharada, by which he meant safe in a pub, drowning his sorrows in a pint. "The sooner you're home, the sooner you can reassure yourself."

"I suppose. But will you check your mobile to see if he's called?" She gave him a wide-eyed, pleading look.

Reluctantly, Tony withdrew his phone and turned it on. Immediately he was confronted with three missed calls, all in the last hour. None were from Bhar. All came from his immediate boss, Assistant Commander Michael Deaver, who'd even taken the extraordinary measure of sending a text. Deaver was resoundingly, unshakably negative. Some men saw the glass half empty, but Deaver saw it half full—of hemlock. Yet even by his standards, the text message was bleak.

It's done. Sorry.

Tony stared at the words. He stared at them for so long, his mobile's power-saving scheme kicked in, darkening the screen. He was still staring at the black rectangle when Sharada asked, "What's wrong? Is it Deepal?"

"What? No." He forced a smile. "Go home to him, please. We'll continue our discussion tomorrow. Now I really must carry on. Excuse me."

He wandered back through the house, half-aware of what he was doing, taking in details with a dispassionate eye. In East Asia House's gallery, the scene had been properly sorted. Granville Hardwick's corpse was gone. FME Peter Garrett had departed. Even the CSIs had packed it in, leaving behind only key areas marked with yellow crime tape.

Tony's usual habit, when an unwelcome turn of events disordered his thoughts, was to painstakingly reorder them, sorting valid concerns from rubbish ones until he felt balanced again. Yet Deaver's text had done more than disorder his thoughts; it had swept them away altogether. What remained was an ominous swirl of emotions, circular as a whirlpool and leading down, down, to some place inside himself he'd never been and didn't want to discover.

Kate.
The thought came to him like a life preserver. Almost an hour ago, he'd ordered her to interview Buck Wainwright. If Buck had proven obstructive, she might still be in East Asia House. He could ask a PC to help locate her. If Buck had been cooperative, she might be escorting him to the Yard. He could ring her mobile and—

Wait. Was he actually proposing to interrupt a crucial interview? To ring Kate in the midst of what might be a taped murder confession? All so he could moan and whinge? Bleat about his
feelings
, for heaven's sake?

Bugger that. Those Wakefields put her back to the wall. Even after I cleared them off, she didn't ease up, not till we reached the crime scene. Work is her salvation. I can't poison that for her. I won't.

"Chief?"

Turning, Tony found himself confronted by PC Kincaid and another young constable, this one pale and stout as a blond fireplug. "Yes?"

"DS Hetheridge accompanied the suspect to New Scotland Yard," Kincaid said. "But she asked us to keep the other witness in the kitchen till you could speak with her."

"Other witness?" Still struggling inside, Tony spoke without thinking, and immediately regretted it. PC Kincaid looked taken aback, as though he'd witnessed an embarrassing mental lapse.

The old lion opens his mouth to roar, revealing toothless gums
. That black inner whirlpool threatened again, ready to swallow him whole, even as the shorter, stouter PC piped up.

"He means Mrs. Tumnus. The lady in the wardrobe looking for Narnia."

"I see. Thank you. And you are…?"

The blond fireplug tried to exchange glances with PC Kincaid, who chose that moment to examine the floor. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir. PC Fannon, sir."

"Very good. Tell me, Constable Fannon, what is the definition of a vulnerable witness?"

"Er. Yes, sir. Definition of a vulnerable witness, sir," Fannon stalled. "Er… below the age of eighteen. Or physically disabled. Or mentally impaired. Sir."

"Correct. And what constitutes mental impairment?"

Fannon again looked around for assistance, but Kincaid remained in a fugue state while the other uniformed officers drifted away. "Er… low IQ? Learning disability?"

"PC Fannon, I'm disappointed. You don't sound terribly familiar with the Ministry of Justice's Vulnerable and Intimidated Witness Guide. It specifically includes persons who suffer or appear to suffer from psychiatric disorders. Now what did you tell me? That this potentially frightened, traumatized witness is married to—whom? Mr. Tumnus?"

Fannon coughed into his fist. "Sorry, sir. Took us awhile to find her ID, but her right name is Miss Georgette Sevrin, sir."

"I see. Then who is Mr. Tumnus?"

"He's… er… you know…." Fannon grew increasingly desperate as Tony waited. "Well, he's a
faun
, innit? But sir, I'm not just taking the mickey. That woman isn't off her trolley. She's putting it on, I swear she is."

It was time to show mercy. "Perhaps you're right. Let's find out, shall we? Constable Kincaid, see that we're not disturbed. Constable Fannon, take me to her."

* * *

PC Fannon led Tony into the room he called Granville Hardwick's kitchen. Evidence did suggest it was, indeed, a kitchen: the presence of a stainless steel refrigerator, for one thing, and a matching cooker, for another. Beyond that, Tony—who had the distinction, for good or for ill, of never having decorated a room in his life—believed he was looking at another in-home gallery, one even more provocative than the one in which Hardwick died.

It was monochrome for a start, the walls and ceiling painted burnt orange, the floors and backsplashes covered in matching orange tile. In place of normal overhead lighting, two enormous lamps blazed overhead like twin suns. Affixed to adjustable arms, they had clearly been designed for operating theaters. And the art? Black-and-white framed photographs, not so much pornographic as gynecologic, hung above food prep and dining surfaces. The pictures were so large, magnifying that most female of regions to such a degree, the effect ceased to be human.

Is that the point?

Not for the first time, Tony wondered about the victim's tastes, including his seemingly limitless desire to incite. Constructing a house guaranteed to alienate his neighbors, confronting his girlfriend's husband in a hotel pub, even decorating his kitchen in a manner that might put guests off their food—perhaps there was some truth to Sharada Bhar's assertion that Hardwick had plenty of enemies besides Buck?

"Sick, aren't they?" The voice was high, querulous. "Granville loved women. When he didn't hate them, I mean."

The kitchen table looked like a repurposed surgical instrument table, the steel type on four wheels. Metal stools, the kind that swiveled, were arranged around it. On one such stool sat Georgette Sevrin, turning this way and that like a six-year-old, though she must have been fifty. Her floral poplin housedress was zipped up to her chin. Her carpet slippers were stained, her wild brown hair uncombed. As she turned, enormous specs with magnifying lenses transformed her eyes into ping pong balls—very round, very white, and bouncing in all directions.

"Good evening, Miss Sevrin. I'm Chief Superintendent Anthony Hetheridge."

"How do you know my language?"

Beside him, PC Fannon made the tiniest of sounds, a sort of incipient cough.

"Just lucky, I suppose," Tony said. "May I join you?"

"Please yourself." She swiveled a half turn, jerking back as he approached. "Not there! It's occupied."

It was—by a toddler-sized baby doll he'd been on the verge of sweeping aside. As dolls went, it spoke less of idyllic childhoods and more of direct-to-TV horror movies: naked, glassy eyes, yellow hair standing straight up. A crack ran along its forehead.

"That's Ramona." Still riding the stool, Georgette lifted her legs like a little girl, the bottoms of her carpet slippers flashing by. "Question her first. She saw everything."

"Yes, well, thank you very much. Perhaps I'll get to her in a moment." Taking a different seat, Tony glanced at PC Fannon to see if the man had caught what just happened.

If he did, he has a remarkable poker face.

"Forgive the necessity of questioning you during this very distressing time. But as I'm sure you're well aware, Granville Hardwick is dead. Did you see what happened?"

"Told you. Ask Ramona." Seizing the doll, she plopped it onto the stainless steel tabletop. "Talk to her, don't be shy."

Another incipient cough from Fannon.

"Constable, I trust you're taking notes? I intend to revisit that Ministry of Justice guide with you when we've finished."

"Yes, sir." Frantic throat clearing and the tap of stylus on smartphone. "Getting it all down, sir."

Georgette began cooing at the doll, murmuring reassurances, stroking her stiff blonde hair. Every few moments she glanced wildly around the kitchen, eyes ping-ponging in every corner, the Coke-bottle lenses so distorting, it was impossible to gauge her sincerity.

"Do you live here, Miss Sevrin?"

She nodded.

"For how long?"

"Since the accident."

"And when was that?"

Two long, slow blinks behind those lenses. "Don't really
do
time, actually."

"A week? A month?"

"A year," she said uncertainly. "What's that, Ramona? Oh. Ramona says two years. She wasn't in the car crash. She remembers things better."

"And why do you reside here? What was your relationship to Mr. Hardwick?"

"Brother-in-law. Ex brother-in-law. On account of the divorce from my sister. Also on account of him being dead."

"It's a bit unusual, living with a former in-law, is it not?"

Those distorted eyes did their unsettling dance again. Then Georgette covered Ramona's ears and whispered, "I'm Granville's ace in the hole. His get-out-of-jail-free card with the troublesome ladies."

"What does that mean?"

"Gran had loads of women," Georgette said. "Sometimes they got clingy, wanted to sleep over, wanted to move in. That's when he brought me down for tea. An hour with me and they wanted to go home again, sharpish."

"Considering his former association with your sister, did you approve of all these women?" Tony asked. "Or of being used to chase his inconvenient dates away?"

"Oh, well, it's to be expected, I suppose. Triumph of the underdog and all that. In school, no bird looked twice at Gran. Couldn't buy a date in an all girls' school with One Direction tickets stapled to his bum. Then he grew up, discovered the art racket. Made a name for himself, made money. That brought the gold diggers out, my sister chief among them. In those days I was the third wheel."

"Younger sister?" Tony guessed.

She nodded. "When it fell apart, Gran tested his wings. Set out to discover just how far a homely little man with a lot of dosh could take it. Started dating Harrods lingerie clerks, the ones who model. Then young actresses, pretty faces with walk-on parts. Then married women, proving his worth, showing how he could even steal other men's wives if he wanted. I should have taken a page from my sister's book, washed my hands of him, but…." She looked around the kitchen again, big white eyes bouncing into every nook and cranny. "The crash. He was driving. I was the passenger. The lawyers haven't settled yet. Ramona handles counsel for me, but I can't go back to work." She laughed as if "work" was the funniest thing in the world. "I can't look after myself. I need someone to take me to the shrink on Tuesdays. I need my meals brought up. I need chocolate Hobnobs at four o'clock and a hot bath at half-eight…."

"Splendid, Miss Sevrin. It appears that with regard to certain daily rituals, you do, as it were,
do
time. Who brings those meals up to you?"

"Molly, the housekeeper. She left early because Gran was in a state. A bit shouty."

"I see. And who was he shouting at?"

"People on his mobile. His solicitor. His estate agent. Someone called Buck. And then…." Another wild look around the room. "The killer. I don't care for shouting, so I left Ramona on guard downstairs and went into my wardrobe. That's why she seen whodunit and I didn't." Georgette pushed the doll toward Tony. "Ask her."

He studied Ramona's fright-wig hair and cracked plastic skull. He wasn't overly concerned with his dignity; in pursuit of justice, he'd done stranger, not to mention less fruitful, things than interrogate a piece of plastic. And so he addressed the doll. "Who killed Granville Hardwick?"

Georgette answered for Ramona in a treacly voice meant to sound like a little girl's. "You did, guv'nor. Saw you do it."

"Indeed." Rising, Tony signaled for PC Fannon to do the same. "Thank you for your time, Miss Sevrin. Some constables will remain with you until a social worker arrives to arrange care." He jerked his head to Fannon, who followed him back into the gallery. It was out of Georgette's earshot, provided they spoke quietly.

"Chief." PC Kincaid looked eager. "What's the word?"

Tony turned to Fannon. "Proceed."