Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (9 page)

Ritchie, who kept highly individual hours, was still up, watching his favorite Blu-ray,
The Lego Movie
. Since receiving it as a Christmas gift, Ritchie had given the film an unswerving devotion that put Henry's
Star Wars
obsession to shame. In the morning, Ritchie watched it while eating breakfast. In the evening, he watched it again with the commentary on. Any attempt to interrupt this pattern resulted in a meltdown. Fortunately, Wellegrave House was large enough to accommodate Ritchie's viewing patterns. Back in the old flat, commandeering their lone telly for a single program, day in and day out, would have tested Kate's patience and pushed Henry to the brink.

"Did you get something to eat?" Kate asked, leaning over the sofa to hug Ritchie from behind. He accepted the embrace with his eyes still locked on the screen.

"Yes."

"What did you have?"

"Takeaway."

That was better than a Cornetto and Coke, a duo he would eat at least as often as he watched
The Lego Movie
, except Harvey wouldn't allow it.

"Sorry family dinner was scuppered," she said, mussing Ritchie's curly brown hair until he swatted her hand away. "You know the drill. Work calls, and I have to answer. Catch the bad guys and put 'em away. I'm leaving again in a few and might not be back till after midnight."

"Okay. Where's Tony?"

Kate bit back a smile. There it was again—her brother's growing fascination with the new man in his life. Henry had fallen for Tony almost as quickly as she had. Ritchie was thornier. He didn't relate to others in the traditional sense, didn't hold what might be called normal conversations, took little interest in most people he met. But after all his tantrums and breakdowns about leaving their South London flat, he'd settled into Wellegrave House. And though he'd done so with utter indifference toward its history, antiques, and comparative splendor, he'd latched on to one feature—Tony.

"Also working. Remember, he's the chief."

"Beefeater?" After his visit to the Tower of London, Ritchie conflated all police officers, and indeed all of Scotland Yard, with the venerable yeoman warders. She suspected that in his mind, Tony spend a portion of each night guarding the White Tower and performing ceremonies to do with Queen Elizabeth's keys.

"Something like that."

"Who was shouting before?"

"Shouting?" she stalled. "I didn't hear any shouting."

"Sounded like Maura. I hate her. Manky minger."

Kate swallowed a laugh. Ritchie's animosity didn't surprise her. He'd spent most of his childhood terrified of Maura, especially when she turned up loaded or high.

"Richard Wakefield, that was a very rude thing to say about your own sister. Who taught you that?"

"Henry. I wasn't supposed to tell you. Snitches end up in ditches." Breaking contact with his beloved red and yellow bricks, he turned to her and added, "I don't want Henry to go."

Kate caught her breath. "Oh, Ritchie, baby. Henry isn't going anywhere."

"But he cried." Ritchie's breath quickened. "Cried and said he had to go. That Maura will turn up and take him away, and no one can stop her."

"I beg your pardon." To assure his full attention, Kate not only plopped down on the sofa beside him, but dared to pause the movie. "I'm not just your mouthy little sis. I'm Detective Sergeant Kate Wakefield. No one is taking anyone out of this house without my permission. And if they try, I'll force them through Traitor's Gate and lock them up in a dungeon."

Ritchie considered that. He said nothing, but his breathing slowed, and finally he touched the remote, restarting the movie. Meltdown averted.

"All right, love." She kissed his cheek, laughing as he tried to shrug away. "I'm off to right wrongs and keep the city safe." But as she turned to go, Ritchie said, "Hetheridge."

"I told you, Rich. Tony's not here. Knowing him, he'll nap behind his desk and work straight through tomorrow."

"Not Tony. You. You aren't Kate Wakefield now. You're Kate Hetheridge, aren't you?"

"Oh. So I am. Thanks for that, stinker."

"Things have to change."

It was her own phrase, words she'd repeated to him time and again, ever since she'd accepted Tony's proposal. And it had been one thing to expect Ritchie to live by those words, knowing she was in full control of said changes and would always do her best by him. But suppose Maura was actually permitted to regain parental responsibility for Henry? Suppose some ivory tower magistrate, nurturing fantasies of absolute social equality and foolish enough to believe Maura's tales of rehabilitation, ruled that Henry belonged with his so-called mum?

I've held the family together despite all the disappearances
, Kate told herself.
I'll keep it together through reappearances, too.

"You're right. Things do have to change. And that's for the best," she said, hoping at least one of them believed it.

* * *

"Wonders never cease. The cavalry's arrived," DCI Vic Jackson said in tones of mock astonishment as Kate stepped off the lift. "Who knew the poshies worked after six o'clock?"

As he frequently seemed to live at Scotland Yard, she wasn't surprised to find him casting gloom over the detectives' bullpen, his not-inconsiderable hindquarters parked on some poor bugger's desk. Never the radiantly healthy sort, Jackson, who was known for surviving on fags, office coffee, and powdered doughnuts, looked significantly worse than usual.

"Crikey, you dead or summat?" Hardened as Kate was to the man's unshaven jowls, foul breath, and dandruff-bedecked shoulders, she couldn't help but goggle. "Zombie apocalypse kick off and claim you first?"

Usually such abuse seemed to energize him. Tonight, he looked startled. "No need to get personal," he said, gaze flicking to the linoleum floor.

If I didn't know better, I'd think I hurt his feelings.

But the moment that came to Kate, she instantly rejected it. To have hurt feelings, one must first possess feelings, and DCI Jackson did not. He harbored no sentiment, no hopes, no dreams, no inner life whatsoever. Within his overtaxed veins, shriveled by nicotine and clogged with dietary fats, coursed no mortal blood, only sexist jokes and racist remarks.

"Why're you loitering about?" she asked. "Busted down to DI again? I hear there's an opening for a copper in Snowdonia National Park. Deep in the heart of Penrhyndeudraeth," she said, rolling those Welsh
r'
s with relish. "Mountain air! Feral goats! Perfect for a man of your talents."

"You'll see your precious Bhar there first," Jackson said, eyes flashing. "Word's already spreading about his latest cock-up. But never mind that. Your little insinuations and slights don't even register. I'm bulletproof, ain't I? Every last one of you tossers wakes up wanting to be me and cries yourself to sleep at night having failed again."

Wow. He even
sounds
hurt
, Kate thought, mystified. At the far side of the otherwise deserted bullpen, two constables she recognized as part of Buck's escort appeared. They craned their necks in her direction, too polite to interrupt senior officers. Ordinarily she never missed a chance to escape Jackson's presence, but now her sleuth's curiosity was piqued.

"Vic." Kate moved closer. "Seriously, you sound funny. Even smell funny."

"Shove off!"

"I mean it." She forced herself to take another sniff. "You reek of… soap? And—mouthwash? Definitely mouthwash, loads of mint there, maybe a twinge of vomit." A new suspicion dawned. "Flu! Vic, if you have flu, you have to go home. And believe you me, if I catch it from you and spread it around home and end up surrounded by whinging half-dead males, so help me I'll—"

"I don't have flu. I'm fine, fit for duty, and thrilled to be here!" Jackson cried, voice breaking on the last word. "Now shove off. And mind you address me as 'sir' from here on. Respect my rank, DS Hetheridge."

Kate blinked. He almost never addressed her by name, either the old or the new. Since his last brush with dismissal, for calling a rookie detective constable "Wonder Wazzock," he'd abandoned such epithets as "Carpet Muncher Kate," sticking to safer labels like "you," "her," or "it." Even more astonishing: he was trembling all over. His eyes shone, not with fever, but….

Tears. Good grief. Those are actual human tears.

She froze. Talk about long day's journey into night. Tony had witnessed the Wakefields at their worst. Maura had threatened a custody battle, Bhar had disgraced himself again, and his mum's handsome Texan? Confessed murderer. All that Kate could accept. But DCI Jackson weeping?

"Oh, look! Those PCs need me," Kate babbled. "Must dash. I, er, have a confession to hear and reports to write. Scads of reports. An insane number of reports. Feel better soon," she cried over her shoulder, fleeing headlong out of the bullpen and into the stone-faced constable from Peckham.

"Sorry! What's the story?" Kate gave the PC an apologetic smile that was, unsurprisingly, not returned. "Did Wainwright request counsel while I was
en route
?"

"He did not. Spoke not a word, ma'am," the constable replied. "And now we're all shipshape and Bristol fashion. CSIs took away his clothes and shoes, swabbed his skin, did a buccal, inked ten, and wrapped him in white. I added a four-piece suit and popped him in Two."

Kate nodded. Translated from the copperish, it meant Buck's personal items had been seized and catalogued. His hands and face had been rechecked for trace evidence, and DNA had been obtained by cheek swab. Fingerprints had been taken, though "inked" was a misnomer. In Greater London, actual ink had been replaced with a digital scanner. As for "wrapped in white," that referred to the tracksuit assigned to detainees whose apparel had been soiled or seized. Once placed in remand to await trial, Buck would be permitted to dress in his own clothes. His "four-piece suit" (handcuffs, waist chain, leg irons, and keyhole guards) would also go away, unless he demonstrated further propensity toward violence.

"Wainwright's in Interrogation Room Two," Kate repeated. "Anything else?"

Stone Face swapped a look with the male PC.

"What?"

The male PC said, "Well,
she
turned up, but we sent her packing."

"Who's she?"

"The prisoner's girlfriend. DS Bhar's mum, ma'am." Stone Face remained stone-faced, but her eyes sparkled. "Brought two of her sisters for backup. Big ladies, both sixty if they were a day, jabbering in Hindi and English at the same time. PC Loomis here almost took a fingernail to the eye. Long, pink, and crusted with glitter."

He nodded. "Dead scary when I had to tell them to leave. Mrs. Bhar warned me there were four barristers and thirteen solicitors in her family. Said one would turn up any minute to take over the prisoner's defense."

"I explained Mr. Wainwright had waived his rights and only he could reinstate them. Members of the public couldn't assign him counsel against his will," Stone Face continued. "That's when the aunties started shouting, 'Deepal! Deepal!' Like he was a hotel clerk who could get them an upgrade."

Kate winced. Though she'd never met Bhar's aunts, Gopi and Dhanvi, she'd heard all about them. Sharada's squat, vertically-challenged sisters favored hot pink caftans, designer handbags, and towering hairstyles they considered "elongating." According to Bhar, his mum's sisters were like Sharada on steroids: pushy, prone to hyperbole, and infamous for butting in where they didn't belong.

"They cleared out, didn't they?" Kate asked.

"Only after I threatened to arrest the lot."

"I see. Well. I know I can rely on you both to keep this quiet," Kate said, trying to imitate Tony's way of tucking a threat inside an expression of confidence, "You've been the model of discretion and professionalism. Let's keep it zipped. We don't want some spendy solicitor digging up rumors and innuendo about police connections to the suspect, do we? Getting our man sprung on a technicality?"

"No, ma'am." Loomis's expression had gone from polite to faintly overawed.

"No, ma'am. You can count on us, ma'am." Stone Face practically snapped out a salute.

For a heartbeat, Kate was overjoyed. It was all about clear communication. Respect. A firm but fair hand! Then suspicion pricked her.

Turning, she found Tony standing behind her. It seemed that just before her impromptu speech, he'd exited the lift and crossed the bullpen, arriving in time to lend gravitas to her use of his management technique.

"CS Hetheridge."

"DS Hetheridge." He smiled. "May I sit in on your interrogation?"

"Of course." She waited till the constables were gone, then took him by the lapels of his bespoke Italian suit, fingers sliding beneath heavy wool. It felt good. "So tell me. How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Carry on like God's in his heaven and all is right with the world, despite what's happened?"

She expected him to laugh. Instead, he stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you. You're perfect." Kate was reasonably certain she'd married a human being. Yet here at the Yard, he was dauntless, unflappable, and forever in the right place at the right time. Not only indefatigable, he managed to look distinguished and charming, while her hair slipped out of its untidy bun and her stomach growled and grumbled.

"Sounds like you're hungry. We can stop by the canteen first," he said. "Pick through whatever remains."

"No thanks. The canteen's cold lasagna is fatal. A Coke and some crisps will be good enough. Sir," she added, tacking on the honorific as another uniformed officer passed through the bullpen. "Can I get you something?"

"I'm fine."

"Of course you are. Like I said—perfect, at least in your natural habitat. You are the Yard, and the Yard is you." Kate expected the analogy to please him but instead, he seemed to go cold.

What is it with everyone tonight?

"Forget it. Just give me two shakes." And Kate, nearly as baffled by her husband as she was by Jackson, hurried off to find a vending machine.

Chapter Six