Ice Blue (16 page)

Kate entered quietly, in case Hetheridge was
on another conference call, or in the midst of something private.
Instead, she found him sans jacket, tie loosened, leaning back in
his executive chair with his eyes closed. He looked like a man who
had stayed too late at work, and fallen asleep.

Kate continued to clutch the door handle,
wondering if she should go back the way she came. As she leaned
against the door, indecisive – and not relishing the prospect of
re-engaging Mrs. Snell so soon – the door creaked, and Hetheridge
opened his eyes.

“Kate. I thought you went home hours
ago.”

“I did. Sleep in here often?” She took a seat
in front of his desk.

“I wasn’t sleeping. Thinking. Best time to do
it, when most people have gone. There’s little chance of phone
calls and e-mails and drop-in visits interrupting me.”

“It looked like sleeping,” Kate said,
smiling. “Did I miss anything?”

“Bhar found a possible lead in one of Ginny
Rowland’s former employers, Venture Perfect Temporary Services.
It’s almost certainly a front for an escort service catering to the
sort of men who would never go curb-crawling, or risk a walk-up.
I’d like the two of you to ask Mrs. Rowland about it tomorrow.”

“Of course. Did Bhar tell you Kevin’s
stonewalling us?”

“That’s to be expected. If he’d really
returned for something as simple as his phone, he would have said
so at once. Yet I still find it difficult to imagine him as the
killer whom Malcolm Comfrey allowed to stir up the fire in front of
him. I also have trouble seeing Kevin wiping down the murder weapon
while it protruded from Comfrey’s eye socket. Again, we return to
someone with considerable self-control.”

“So why did Kevin return to the house? It
couldn’t have been to talk to Jules. He ignored her calls all
night.”

“My first guess would be drugs. Perhaps he
left his stash in the Comfrey house, and didn’t want to go the
night without it?”

Kate raised her eyebrows. “Interesting. But
based on what?”

Hetheridge laughed. “Years and years of
investigating suspects like Kevin Whitley. Also his arrest
toxicology report, which was positive for marijuana and
heroin.”

“That could be why he looked so deflated
today. He may be having trouble finding gear in lock-up.”

“Whereas if he enters Her Majesty’s prison
system, he’ll have no trouble at all. By the way, there’s one other
development,” Hetheridge said. “An eyewitness has come forward –
Patsy Mather, the Comfrey’s neighbor the next street over, where
the Comfrey’s back lawn abuts Mrs. Mather’s back lawn. She says she
waited this long because she felt disloyal to her neighbor – which
I take to mean, her class – by speaking to the police. But when she
read we’d arrested a male, she decided to tell us she saw a woman
exit the Comfrey house around half-nine or ten pm, on the night of
the murder.”

“Did Ms. Mather give a description?” Kate
asked, excited.

“Not really. Dark hair, which sounds more
like Madge and Ginny Rowland than Jules, who might look blonde from
that distance, even with the security lights. Ms. Mather saw a
female exit the back door, walk out of the lit area, and re-enter
the house about five minutes later. She was carrying something
small in both hands when she exited the house, but returned
empty-handed. Ms. Mather thought it was odd, but not remarkable,
not until the police lights and sirens gathered around the Comfrey
house. I think…” Hetheridge broke off as Kate’s mobile rang inside
her bag.

Sighing, Kate thrust a hand into the bag,
coming up with the phone on her first attempt for once. The blue
screen indicating the phone number, unfamiliar to Kate, began with
0121 – Birmingham.

“Sorry,” she said to Hetheridge, and put the
phone to her ear. “Hello?”

The woman on the other end asked Kate her
name, gave hers, and then said something incomprehensible. The tiny
hairs on the back of Kate’s neck rose, and her stomach went cold,
although she never remembered those sensations later.

“What? What did you say?” Kate demanded,
raising her voice, as if the caller was hard of hearing instead of
speaking words she found impossible to process. Those words issued
into her ear again, faster now – frustrated, demanding,
impossible.

“I don’t – you can’t – no!” Kate said, or
meant to say, but it came out as a scream. Before she knew what
happened, she’d screamed again, an ugly sound like a snared animal.
Then Hetheridge was there, Mrs. Snell was there, and her phone was
on the floor, the sight of it distorted by tears.

“What it is?” Hetheridge demanded, arm going
around her shoulders and holding her tight.

“Dylan,” Kate breathed, sure she was dreaming
– she must be dreaming, because nothing else made sense. “He’s
dead.”

Kate clenched her hands in her lap, still
fighting dry heaves, which threatened to start again at any moment.
She felt cold despite Hetheridge’s jacket over her shoulders, and
when he opened the Bentley’s door and led her out into a cavernous
parking garage, Kate blinked at the familiar sight and nearly burst
into tears.

“This shan’t take long,” Hetheridge said in
her ear. His voice steadied her – it was real, and strong, and made
her believe some strength still resided in her, too. “It’s the last
thing you can do for him. Then he’ll be at peace.”

Kate nodded, allowing herself to be led
toward the garage’s lifts. Dylan’s sister Barb had explained the
situation to Hetheridge, who’d jotted down details as Kate rushed
to a toilet to heave up her pub grub. A South London bobby had
found Dylan in an alley fifteen days before, curled in a fetal
position behind some rubbish bins. His throat was cut, his wallet
and phone were gone, and there was nothing on his person to
identify him. After forty-eight hours on a steel gurney, no one had
called a police station or hospital searching for a man of his
description, so the bureaucratic wheels of identifying an unclaimed
corpse began to turn.

They would have run his fingerprints, Kate
thought. He had no criminal record, so that was a dead end. Then
they would have taken dental pictures and sent them to a lab. The
lab would have made inquiries with London dentists, and when they
found a likely match in Dylan, they searched for a blood relative.
They found Barb in Birmingham and asked her to positively identify
the body. But she couldn’t come to London, not with three kids and
a husband always on the road, Kate realized. So she called me.

Steered by Hetheridge, Kate found herself in
the morgue’s sub-basement, where unidentified bodies, corpses ruled
to be police evidence, and cadavers quarantined for infectious
disease were kept. This section of the morgue, unlike the more
modern facility the next floor up, looked very much like the morgue
from countless TV programs and movies – beige walls, merciless
fluorescent lighting, and steel drawers in the walls, designed for
long-term storage. Dylan, who’d considered the word “normal” an
insult, might have been pleased to know his earthly remains had
taken this odd detour between expiration and interment.

“Just think. Malcolm Comfrey’s in one of
these drawers,” Kate said. The words came out high-pitched, giddy.
The coroner on duty, a tall man with bad teeth, studied her like he
might study a new arrival.

“No, he’s not,” Hetheridge said. “Forensic
Services released Comfrey for burial yesterday after the autopsy
report was filed. Affluent and powerful men are always
fast-tracked, even in death.” He put a hand on Kate’s forearm. “Are
you ready for this? We can return in a quarter-hour, if you
wish.”

Kate shook her head. Her nostrils stung with
the heavy odor of antiseptic. “I want to see him. I have to see
him.”

“Dylan Corrigan, as the decedent’s now
presumed, in number eighteen,” the coroner said, consulting a
computer printout on his clipboard. Glancing at Kate, he attempted
to assume some expression that did not come naturally to him –
empathy, perhaps – and succeeded only in looking tired. “I should
warn you, number e—Mr. Corrigan, as presumed, bled out at the scene
and was discovered two to four hours post-mortem. The city
recommends unidentified persons be kept at optimum refrigeration,
and we complied. However, restorative work will still be needed if
you want an open casket service. You may find the deceased’s
appearance upsetting, and you may detect an odor.”

Throat closed, Kate found herself unable to
do more than nod. Hetheridge’s grip on her tightened, and he helped
her move forward as the coroner unlocked drawer eighteen and slid
it open. He gave Kate a moment to take in the man’s shape beneath
the green sheet, then drew it back, exposing the corpse’s face.

It was Dylan. He looked exactly as Kate,
given her experience, had imagined. His face was sunken and blue,
the bones hideously prominent, lips bluish-black. There was an odd
bulge around his ears and hairline, as if his remaining blood had
settled as he waited within his refrigerated drawer.

“It’s him.” Kate stiffened under Hetheridge’s
grip, pulling away. “Excuse me. I need the toilet,” she said, and
escaped as fast as her wobbly legs could carry her.

* * *

“I don’t want tea.” Kate knew she should at
least attempt to sound grateful. “I’ll just puke it up.”

“Brandy, then,” Hetheridge said, maneuvering
Kate toward the sofa in his dark-paneled study. “I have a liquor
cart right here. Cognac, I think, unless you prefer sherry.”

“Neither. I can’t drink anything.”

Ignoring that, Hetheridge removed two
cut-crystal glasses from the cart’s second shelf, then selected a
decanter from the spirits crowding the top shelf. He removed the
stopper, filled each glass a quarter full, and brought the drinks
to the coffee table. Kate stared at hers, but did not move toward
it. Hetheridge started to sit beside her, then seemed to think
better of it, choosing the leather wingback opposite her
instead.

The silence stretched out, infinite. Kate had
no desire to fill it. Finally, Hetheridge took a sip of his cognac
and spoke.

“Tell me about Dylan. I presume he was your
lover.”

Kate nodded. Someone – that manservant
Harvey, she guessed – had made up the fire, which was actual wood
instead of gas or electric. It crackled merrily, providing the
study’s only light, except for one brass lamp behind the sofa. The
study was so warm and cozy, like a family’s retreat on a
picturesque Christmas Eve, Kate again felt swallowed by the
surreal. Was she really sitting in Lord Hetheridge’s London
townhouse at midnight, being quizzed on her sex life?

“He was. We spent the last two or three
months breaking up and getting back together,” she said. “Then we
had the big break-up, and he stormed out. Came back an hour later
for most of his stuff, and I never saw him again. That was three
weeks ago.”

“I suppose that’s why his death went
undiscovered for so long.”

“I thought he had another girlfriend. I
thought he’d just disappeared from my life. If I’d known he’d
really disappeared, if I’d thought there was any chance he was hurt
or in trouble …” Kate broke off, reigning in her emotions. The
effort was suffocating.

“I’m sure he knew you cared for him,”
Hetheridge said.

Kate blinked away fresh tears. “No, I didn’t.
Not at the end. Maybe not ever. He was just another of the same
type – handsome. Smart. And dead idle. But when I found out, I
assumed he’d be there for me. I assumed he’d help, and it would
make a better man out of him. I never imagined this. Every time…”
Her voice broke, and then she was helpless in the grip of hard,
humiliating sobs. “Every time I think someone will stand by me,
every time I think they’ll stick around, they disappear. I hate
it,” she said thickly. “And I hate him, the stupid bastard! He was
only thirty-two! How can he be dead?”

“It just happens. Most of the time, it
doesn’t make sense. But what do you mean, when you found out, you
assumed he’d help?”

“With the baby!” Kate cried, and broke into
fresh sobs. These carried on until she had to choose between
breathing and weeping. Then she began to calm herself, forcing in
long, deep breaths.

“I’m pregnant. It was an accident,” she
added, as if Hetheridge couldn’t guess.

“Sometimes that just happens, too.”

He didn’t sound embarrassed. But when Kate
looked at him, some quality in his eyes told her the revelation
made him uncomfortable.

She didn’t know what to say. Neither, judging
by his silence, did Hetheridge. Only the fire interrupted the
stillness, flames leaping higher as the logs split. At last, able
to bear it no longer, Kate made her way to the loo. There she blew
her nose, washed her face, and patted it dry. The towels on the
rack were soft and pure white – miles away from the towels Henry
and Ritchie routinely ravaged.

Decent of the Chief to take charge during my
moment of weakness, Kate thought. His consideration went beyond
anything she expected from a superior officer – or from anyone,
come to that. She needed to thank him, apologize for her
innumerable professional lapses, and leave him in peace.

When Kate returned to the study, Hetheridge
was in the chair beside the hearth. Taking an iron from the rack,
he stirred the fire until it blazed, then returned the tool to its
hook.

“Thinking about the case?” she asked,
striving for a light tone.

“Not remotely.” Hetheridge rose. “You look a
bit better.”

“I am.” Under his gaze, Kate felt herself go
shy. She was grateful for the study’s dim lighting, in case she
blushed beneath the strain of so much compassion. “Sorry I went to
pieces on you. Balancing the boys and my job is tough enough
without a new responsibility. I didn’t figure Dylan for father of
the year, but I thought … never mind. Now I have no choice but to
go it alone.”