Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (8 page)

The constable consulted his notes. "Well, sir, as regards the application of the em-oh-jay's guidelines: Miss Sevrin qualifies as a vulnerable witness. Subject disclosed a history of mental illness after a car crash. Her doll Ramona may represent a fractured ego. She could have multiple personality disorder, in which case indiscriminate treatment from the police might cause further harm."

"Is that what you think?"

"It is, sir."

"Well, I think you were right the first time. She's putting it on." The constables goggled at him.

"Because—because she said you were the murderer, sir?"

"Because of red spots along the hem of her housedress and blood on the soles of her carpet slippers. Granville Hardwick's blood, unless I'm very much mistaken. Call back the CSIs, process her flawlessly, and remember this well, gentlemen," he said, looking each man in the eye. "Never give a suspect a miss simply because they behave like a nutter. She's been living here since a car accident for which Mr. Hardwick was likely responsible. Perhaps he sought to appease her by voluntarily taking on some of her care. Or it may be that someone else caused the crash, and they were suing that individual jointly, in which case her pretense of mental distress served Hardwick, too. I expect you to find out, Constable Fannon. I want to know everything about Georgette Sevrin: her former profession, any previous lawsuits, and all details about the accident."

"Yes, sir."

"Your instincts are good. But in future, open your eyes." Tony turned to Kincaid. "See that she's kept here under observation until we have the green light to formally interrogate her. Just because I'm convinced she's not a vulnerable witness doesn't mean it's wise to proceed without formal input from Social Services. It's no good grilling Miss Sevrin under the lights, so to speak, if her statements are ruled inadmissible because we failed to dot an i or cross a t."

"I'll put it in your hand by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, sir," Fannon vowed.

Tony started to agree, but then he remembered. Those emotions he'd temporarily stuffed down threatened to emerge. And if the whirlpool opened, it led nowhere but down.

"Giving it to the team is good enough," he said, grateful he could always sound calm and professional, no matter what sort of fiasco raged inside his head. "DS Hetheridge, DS Bhar, etc."

"Of course, sir."

On the way out of East Asia House, he checked his mobile. Nothing new, just Deaver's text.

It's done. Sorry.

Tony hit delete. He still had a few hours. It was time to get back to the Yard.

Chapter Five

Bhar gets sent home. Tony interviews Mrs. Bhar. And I get first crack at the prime suspect
, Kate thought, unable to contain a surge of jubilation. There was nothing like a murder confession to chase away a bad mood.

The PCs led her to the back parlor, where Buck Wainwright sat under uniformed guard. All four officers had chosen to remain standing, two facing Buck and two on the door. The most stone-faced among them had her baton out, ready against her palm. That one would make SO19 one day, Kate thought, or Counter Terrorism. And her aura of grim preparation didn't seem over the top.

At around fifty, Buck Wainwright wasn't a young man. Nor was he an ostentatiously fit one, in the manner of sports drink adverts. Yet he was tall, hard, and lean, with broad shoulders and an air of authentic danger. Men like Buck became strong through hard work, not workouts; they gained endurance in the world, not inside a gym. Even on the seat his guards had provided—a pouf fit for a child, forcing him to sit awkwardly, his knees almost to his chin—Buck looked like he could unfold those long limbs at any moment and come up swinging.

"Hello, Mr. Wainwright. I'm DS Kate Wa—
Hetheridge
of Scotland Yard. I work with Paul Bhar."

"Ma'am." His gray hair was shaggy, his mustache squared off in the style called a horseshoe. He wore old school jeans, copper riveted rather than designer, and battered cowboy boots inlaid with red roses. His shirt was white and open-throated, revealing a puff of chest hair the color of steel wool.

If he bludgeoned Hardwick, he changed clothes afterward. That white shirt is pristine.

"I've seen the body," Kate said and paused deliberately. When hoping to elicit a confession, she did her best to exude a sort of weary knowingness, as if all had been revealed, and she only needed to mop up. Leaving long, ominous pauses between each sentence often encouraged the suspect to fill in the blanks with their own guilt and paranoia. "I discussed the forensic evidence with the FME. Saw the blood spatter." Another lengthy pause. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

Buck stared at her. His eyebrows, thick and steel gray, were so heavy they nearly obscured the small brown eyes underneath. "Aren't you supposed to say you're here to help me?"

Kate turned to the officers on the door. "Find us two proper chairs, will you? Ta." Taking a step closer to Buck, she said, "I am, ultimately. You called 999. Here we are. So why don't you tell me what happened?"

Buck sighed. When the officer dropped the chair in front of him with a disapproving
thwunk
, he gritted his teeth as he shifted off the pouf, unable to conceal his hands in the process. They looked like half-inflated balloons. In some places, the skin was badly abraded, a net of hardening scabs; in others, white scar tissue shone through, tough as dragon hide. These were new injuries, then, over a map of old ones.

Kate held up her own scabbed knuckles. "Look at that. We're practically twins."

The twin steel caterpillars lifted, small brown eyes boring into Kate. "Who'd you deck?"

"My sister."

"Because she hit you first?"

"Because she said the wrong thing." Kate took a seat opposite him. "I've always had a bit of a temper."

"No alcohol involved?"

"Not on my side."

"Oh. Well. I should tell you, ma'am, I'm a drinking man. Sometimes I drink too much."

Kate nodded. Seeing he expected a follow-up question, she said nothing. The silence stretched out uncomfortably for almost a minute. Then, as she'd known he would, Buck spoke of his own volition, saying far more to fill the hateful quiet than he would have in response to a question.

"I'm not happy Hardwick's dead. Not sad about it, either. He knew how to push my buttons. Strutting little bantam rooster thought the sun came up to hear him crow. When Sunny and I separated—Sunny is my wife, you understand, soon to be my ex-wife—she flew to London to visit her sister, Maisie. Maisie's an artist. Not a real one like Thomas Kinkaid. One of those phony baloney finger-paint types. Anyway, Maisie introduced Hardwick to Sunny, and don't you know, it was like red meat to a coyote. The fox chewed his way into the henhouse. Get what I mean?"

Kate nodded again. Already roosters, coyotes, foxes, and hens had figured in Buck's narrative. Did all Americans require a barnyard to tell a story? Or just Texans?

"So—Sunny wanted to split up? Fine. I was always a faithful old dog, sleeping under the porch, but she'd stopped throwing me bones. And she wanted to replace me with
him
, a little weasel with bad teeth and soft hands? Fine. But here's the kicker. She had this notion I owed her, ma'am, and owed her big. She thought until the divorce was final, she could live high on the hog in London and let old Buck foot the bill. Can you believe that?"

Again, Kate nodded rather than interrupt the flow of verbiage. A weasel, hog, and quite likely a hound dog had joined the mix.

"Sunny even used our joint credit card accounts to buy art through Hardwick," Buck continued. His tone remained calm, but his injured hands started to shake. "Ten thousand pounds' worth of junk you couldn't give away at a garage sale. Do you know how much that is in US dollars? Sunny doesn't work. She's never worked, not even in the home. We had a maid, a cook, and no kids. What did she have to worry about but keeping up with her TV shows, while I took care of the ranch and the hired help? Not to mention US Fish and Wildlife. Like the world really needs to protect the endangered Gonzales springsnail. Ma'am, you ever seen a Gonzales springsnail?"

"No."

"I have. Googled it. Worthless creature. Ever see one on my land I'll stomp it, or give it both barrels."

"So you owed Mr. Hardwick about twenty thousand dollars?" Kate watched a flush creep up Buck's neck. Murder suspects often worked to project tranquility. Usually they insisted all was sweetness and light, even with an estranged spouse or hated creditor lying dead in the next room. Buck seemed incapable of this; frustration came off him in waves. As did the stink of alcohol.

Even if he showered and changed before ringing 999, he reeks like a drunk tank. Must've been a massive binge.

"
He
claimed I owed him twenty thousand," Buck continued. "More, with late fees. I earned it, she spent it, and my lawyer?" He gave an incredulous laugh. "Called it an 'expensive lesson.' Says I should have closed our joint accounts the day she flew to London. Should've taken steps. Steps! Isn't that what the law and lawyers are for?"

"So you were stuck."

"That's what he said. Now where I'm from, ma'am, this sort of dispute doesn't have to clog up the legal system. Doesn't even have to end in violence. Where I'm from, when there's a misunderstanding, even over money, men can talk it over. Come to Jesus. That's what I had in mind when I decided to see Hardwick one last time. Discuss it, man to man."

"Today?"

Buck nodded.

"What time?"

"I'm not sure. I'd had a few," he muttered, gaze dropping.

"How many?"

Buck cleared his throat. "A few," he repeated, still not making eye contact.

"And how did the meeting go? The, er, 'come to Jesus?'"

"No messianic figures turned up," Buck said morosely. "Hardwick told me to pay him directly, or pay through the courts, plus legal fees. Called me a berk and a pillock. Maybe he didn't realize I've been over here long enough to know what that mean. That's when I hit the wall. At least, I think I hit it. Who else could have left those marks?"

"You're not sure?"

"No, ma'am. I got what they call a blackout temper," Buck said softly. "Something flips the switch inside my head and I… I…."

He was trembling from head to toe, overcome with shame. Recognizing her moment, Kate did what she'd been trained to do: go for the throat.

"Hardwick was sleeping with your wife. Emptying your bank account. Laughing in your face." She leapt to her feet. "You reek like a distillery and look like you went ten rounds with a brick wall. But scaring Hardwick wasn't enough, was it? You finished it, didn't you? Dashed his brains out!"

"Yes," Buck whispered. "I must have."

"Right. Now we're getting to the truth. Good." Kate interjected an artificial note of compassion into her voice. Hurling that accusation at Buck, she hadn't felt angry. And now that he'd accepted responsibility, she felt no true softening. Altogether, Kate felt nothing for Buck, not even contempt. Emotions might come later, when the job was done and she had the luxury of sentiment. Now, the only feelings she cared about were his—his fear, his self-pity, and his desperation for absolution. She had to stoke those passions, keep them in play, until she placed him in front of a camera and drew out his full confession, word by golden word.

"Buck Wainwright, I'm charging you with the murder of Granville Hardwick," she said, reciting the standard right-to-silence caution. "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court." At this point, Kate usually took her prisoner by the arm, as being taken into literal custody often had profound psychological effect. But Buck topped her by close to a foot and outweighed her by five stone. So Kate stepped back, letting the stone-faced PC with the truncheon do the honors.

"On your feet, sunshine," Stone Face barked, sounding more like Peckham's Most Wanted than a uniformed officer of the law.

"Anything you do say may be given into evidence," Kate finished as Buck stood. He looked miserable, desperate, ready to die. But still better than Granville Hardwick, zipped into his plastic body bag. "All right, Mr. Wainwright. Let's go to the Yard, get a medic to see to your hands, and get this sorted."

* * *

Kate's impatience to interrogate Buck notwithstanding, his arrest had set a painstaking process in motion, no part of which could be expedited or omitted without jeopardizing the Crown's case. By her estimate, it would be another hour or two before she'd have the opportunity to take him through his story again, point by point. That meant there was time for a detour. So when she left East Asia House, she walked back to Tony's place—
their
place—to look in on the boys.

To her great relief, Henry was asleep. She wasn't ready to talk to him yet. But in the morning, she owed him an explanation, perhaps even an apology.
She
knew she cared about what he wanted, that she would do anything for him, even act against her own wishes if they violated his best interests. But perhaps at not quite nine, he didn't know that or felt shaken by what he'd witnessed. Tomorrow, she'd make it right.