Ice Blue (10 page)

Kate took Kevin through his recollection of
the previous night, which agreed with Madge, Jules’s, and Charlie
Fringate’s accounts. The party had gone sour from the beginning.
Malcolm Comfrey had warmed up by needling his other guests, then
focused his attention on Kevin. Kevin had finally stormed out, gone
to his favorite hangout, the Severed Head, and proceeded to crawl
from pub A to pub B until passing out on the street. At dawn, he’d
awakened and made his way back to Lisa’s. Kate took down the names
and phone numbers of six different friends, and five different
pubs, all of which Kevin claimed as his alibi. It would take the
junior DCs at least three days to fact-check his statement.

“What about that story Malcolm Comfrey told
his guests?” Kate asked. “About an old teacher of yours, and a
papier-mâché project?”

“That limp prick,” Kevin said, a flash of
anger in his eyes. “Mr. Butterman. He had to go and tell that
pillock Comfrey something that happened ages ago. I was supposed to
make a papier-mâché project for class. A burro,” Kevin said.
“Something fucking stupid like that. Butterman turned up over my
shoulder, stumping around on his cane, and said my burro looked
like a sperm whale. Motherfucker,” Kevin said. “You know what I
did? I snatched that cane out of his hand and beat the whole thing
to pieces. Fuck papier-mâché. Fuck burros. Fuck bloody
Butterman.”

“Ever felt like doing something like that
again?” Kate asked, holding his gaze. “Beating something to a
pulp?”

“Every day,” Kevin grinned. “Every fucking
day.”

“So what have we now?” Hetheridge asked.

He was seated on the terrace of his London
home, at a wrought-iron table in the center of his garden’s red
brick terrace. His back was to the sun, which had already passed
its zenith; the position gave him an excellent view of Kate and
Bhar’s faces. On Sundays, most of Scotland Yard’s crime units
worked half a day or not at all, but Kate and Bhar had been keen on
a face to face discussion. Hetheridge, who knew his mind worked
best not in contemplative silence, but in the less disciplined and
even raucous noise of junior detectives at debate, had agreed, and
even offered to play host.

Bhar had turned up in an excellent mood,
ready to dissect the case from the moment Harvey opened the door.
Kate, however, had arrived subdued and unusually quiet, her mascara
smudged and her blonde hair twisted in an awkward knot. Even after
brunch, she looked distracted. Perhaps she was overawed by the
splendor of Wellegrave House? No – Hetheridge couldn’t believe she
spooked so easily. Dark circles lurked beneath her eyes, as if
she’d missed some sleep. Surely she was preoccupied by something
other than the house, which Hetheridge had spent a lifetime taking
for granted – the home his great-grandfather had built, and his
mother had appointed with the tasteful, the classic, the
impeccable. She had loved the place. To Hetheridge, Wellegrave
House was a cold, functional vessel – its best days long behind it,
and, frankly, a creaking old bore.

Like me, he caught himself thinking. He made
no effort to push away the thought. He wasn’t a relentless
taskmaster, at least not on his subordinates. He knew they needed
the rest, family time, and gentle treatment he had never required.
So why did Kate look so defeated this morning?

“Start anywhere,” Hetheridge said. Kate
seemed to start awake, dropping her blue-flowered teacup on the
saucer with a clatter.

“Right,” Bhar said. “We have one violent act,
assumed to have been perpetrated by a right-handed person of at
least moderate strength.” He glanced at his notes, open on the
table. Unlike most of his contemporaries, Bhar still jotted his
observations on paper, in a black leather-bound notebook. “The
preliminary autopsy indicates Malcolm Comfrey died from his head
wounds. His placement beside the warm fireplace made estimating
time of death from core body temp woollier than usual. Still,
Forensic places it between 8 pm at the earliest and 11 pm at the
latest.”

“Seems a spontaneous killing, rather than
planned,” Hetheridge said.

“Except spontaneous murders usually end in
confession,” Kate said, stifling a yawn. “Sorry, not bored, swear
to God. Anyway – half the time, the perpetrator actually calls 999
after a spontaneous murder and vomits out exactly why he did it.
The other half of the time, the escape and attempt at concealment
are as spontaneous as the murder, so evidence is everywhere, and a
quick arrest soon follows.”

“This murder may appear impulsive, but you
make a good point. There’s no subsequent trail of evidence,”
Hetheridge said. “Our investigators noted nothing of interest in
the rubbish bins, and yesterday, Forensic agreed – the bins are
clear of anything but normal household garbage. If Madge killed her
husband, we would expect to find evidence on her clothes, hair, and
skin, or else concealed within the Comfrey house. Same with Jules.
Forensic is still analyzing the house, but both women submitted to
a standard post-homicide exam at Central Middlesex Hospital before
relocating to their hotel. Both were declared clean.”

Bhar whistled. “I’ve heard tarts scream for
their solicitor when invited to hospital for forensic checks. Can’t
believe two posh birds would submit to tests without clawing out
someone’s eyes.”

“It wasn’t sold to them as a forensic
rule-out,” Hetheridge smiled. “It was suggested as a psychological
evaluation, to ascertain whether or not Madge or Jules required
medication or therapy after the shock of discovering Comfrey’s
body. Of course, once at the hospital, their clothes were taken
into evidence, and the usual exams were conducted. But Madge and
her daughter both signed waivers allowing the evidence to be
gathered – quite possibly because they’re innocent. As I said, no
trace of Malcolm Comfrey’s blood or tissue was found on either
woman. None was discovered on their clothing, either.”

“I don’t like Jules as the killer, anyway,”
Kate said. “She doesn’t strike me as tough enough to do in
Daddy.”

“Like being tough enough to commit murder is
a bad thing,” Bhar said.

Kate laughed. “Besides, even if Jules snapped
and killed her father, do you really think she has the cold, hard
center to pull off what came next – concealing all the evidence,
submitting to questioning, and then sitting, poised, through a
forensic exam?”

“Never,” Bhar agreed. “But killers who seem
like geniuses at first usually turn out to be nothing but lucky.
Can we dare to assume the lack of evidence – current lack of
evidence, anyway – is really the result of a well-executed clean
up?”

“I think we can,” Hetheridge said.
“Therefore: if the murder truly was spontaneous, it was a rare act
of passion by an otherwise well-controlled individual. An
individual who, upon returning to his or her usual mindset, could
accept the enormity of the crime and move forward to conceal it,
without the distractions of guilt and fear.”

“Unless the murder didn’t involve just one
person,” Kate said. “Unless it involved two people – one passionate
and violent, the other cold and controlled.”

Bhar sat up straighter. “Jules kills Daddy.
Madge helps her conceal it.”

“Or Kevin kills Comfrey, and hopelessly
devoted Jules swoops in to hide the evidence,” Kate suggested.

“What about Charlie Fringate?” Hetheridge
said.

“Oh, he’s a complete non-starter,” Bhar
objected. “Approval-seeker. You could threaten to snip off his dick
and he’d offer to lend you some good sharp scissors.”

“I don’t know. Bit of a psycho vibe there,”
Kate said. “That bit about clutching his estranged wife’s legs
until the coppers arrived gave me the creeps.”

“Wimp,” Bhar pronounced. “Pitiful. Kevin’s a
better guess. He beat his burro with a stick.”

Kate burst out laughing. It was a sweet,
welcome sound, Hetheridge thought, experiencing a strange relief as
he watched her face light up.

“Sorry, sir.” Kate shot Hetheridge an
apologetic glance. “That sounded naughty.”

“Off-duty, there’s no need to call me ‘sir,’”
Hetheridge said.

“Off-duty, we call him ‘Your Eminence,’” Bhar
said. “Hang on. What d’you think of this scenario? Charlie Fringate
is having a mad passionate affair with Madge. So he kills Comfrey
because Madge orders him to – she wants out without the aggro of a
divorce. Charlie’s weak enough to do whatever Madge tells him. She
masterminds the clean up. He goes home to his doggies with the
knowledge that after a suitable interval, he and Madge will marry,
and he’ll have Comfrey’s money to shore up his current business.
Which certainly looks as likely to go bankrupt as the last two,”
Bhar added.

“I like that,” Kate agreed, aiming a smile at
Hetheridge. The deeper the discussion of the crime went, the
lighter she seemed. “That scenario fits everyone’s characters, as I
see them. But what do you think, sir – um, sorry. Anyway, what do
you think? As one who – well, really knows Madge Comfrey?”

Bhar assumed a theatrical silence. Hands
clasped beneath his chin, he looked so ridiculously hopeful, like a
teenage girl watching her first romantic cinema, Hetheridge
couldn’t help but laugh.

“Let’s remember, I knew Madge twenty years
ago.”

“Knew her … intimately?” Bhar asked, wide
eyes going wider, lips pulling back to reveal his brilliant white
smile.

“Never had to beat the proverbial burro,”
Hetheridge said, stone-faced, as Bhar whooped with delight. “But I
suppose what you’re really asking is, do I think Madge is capable
of murder, based on the Madge I knew years ago?” He considered the
question. “No. But then, perhaps I never really knew her. Or
perhaps the last twenty years have wrought an enormous change. Or
perhaps the psychological premise that we are all capable of
murder, given the opportunity and the right set of circumstances,
is actually valid.”

“I’ve never believed that,” Bhar said.

“Me either. Some people are weak,” Kate said.
“Even in a kill or be killed situation, they’ll curl up in a ball
and give up.”

“I was going to say, some people are
naturally moral and decent,” Bhar said. “Take my mum. Incapable of
murder. Completely. My mum could never do anything deliberately
cruel or immoral. It’s outside her nature.”

“Oh my God, you still live with your mum,”
Kate crowed, eyes alight.

“Don’t you still live with the wolves that
raised you?” Bhar shot back. “What’s your opinion, sir? On the
theory we’re all capable of murder?”

“My analysis of human nature is ongoing,”
Hetheridge sighed. “And the data appears more complex with every
passing year. There’s certainly a great deal unexplored in the
Comfrey murder. I’ll permit you two to have your heads as far as
how you investigate the following, but this is what I require. Find
out if Charlie Fringate’s business really is in trouble. Follow up
on his assertion that Malcolm Comfrey started behaving differently
about financial matters during the last two years. Look into
Comfrey’s will and let me know how much Madge and Jules stand to
inherit. Re-interview Jules and Kevin Whitley together and try to
make sense of what, precisely, their relationship is. And what
about Ginny Rowland and her husband? I’m troubled that they left
for the south of France on the day after the murder.”

“So am I,” Bhar said. “But I checked on their
travel plans, and they were made four months ago. So it doesn’t
look like a case of fleeing the country so much as a scheduled
pleasure trip. Assuming, of course, they didn’t actually plan the
murder four months ago. Anyhow, the Rowlands didn’t pretend any
distress over Comfrey’s death. Didn’t even ask how Madge and Jules
were holding up, which I found interesting, since they’re all
supposed to be friends. But at least the Rowlands didn’t bleat too
much when I told them to cut short the vacation and return to
London. They’ll be back Tuesday morning. And they insist on having
their solicitor present for the questioning.”

“So they’re not idiots,” Kate said, to nods
all round the table.

“There’s one other approach I’d like to try,”
Hetheridge said. “A visit to Lady Margaret Knolls. She’s been
immersed in London society for fifty years. She’s an astute, if
merciless, judge of character. I always find an afternoon with her
most instructive. We’ll meet her tomorrow at two o’clock,
sharp.”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Bhar said,
“I, too, am leaving for the south of France, and won’t be available
for any –”

“Not you,” Hetheridge cut across him, turning
toward Kate. “I had DS Wakefield in mind.”

“Ah.” Bhar leaned back in his chair,
spreading his arms in a wide, satisfied stretch. “I knew there was
a reason for bringing fresh blood to this team. So I can finally
soak up the perks of seniority.” He sprang to his feet, grinning at
Hetheridge and Kate. “Fabulous brunch. I’ll give my compliments to
Harvey on the way out. I’d love to spend more time with you kids,
but I have to go home and prepare,” he concluded triumphantly, “for
my date tonight.”

“Congrats,” Kate said. “Does she charge by
the hour, or the occasion?”

“Neither. I’m hoping she’ll be like you, luv
– mine for a glass of Chardonnay.”

“Right. Better dash home, then, and tell dear
old mum which of your slacks to press.”

“I am perfectly content,” Bhar said, “to wear
whatever Mum chooses for me. Cheers!” he called, and was gone.

“And people ask why I never had children.”
Hetheridge turned back to Kate. “What about you? Does a prior
commitment loom?”

Kate laughed, dully this time, and shook her
head, looking tired again. “No way. Right now I’m searching for a
reason not to go home.”

“How about a tour of the house? If you can
keep from falling asleep, that is. You seemed preoccupied.”