Ice Blue (22 page)

“Chief?” Kate’s voice, also in his ear.

“Here,” he mumbled.

“Don’t take this as impertinence. But – I
should tell you, from time to time, I dream about cases. Sometimes
in the dreams, I notice things I miss while I’m awake. About a week
ago, I dreamt I needed to interview Jules’s father, and in the
dream, he was … look. I’m wondering – what’s your blood type?”

“AB negative.”

Silence on the line. Then Kate said: “Who
knows. Maybe it’s a mistake, or just a coincidence. But if it’s
true … I’m sorry I told you over the phone. I didn’t want you to
interview Madge and Jules without knowing, but I would have
preferred to tell you face to face.”

“Of course.” Hetheridge defaulted into that
cool courtesy, hammered into him from birth, which cost him no
effort at all. “You have nothing to apologize for. My fault – I
insisted you put me in the picture me right away.”

“Chief, I…”

“Hang on, someone needs me,” he lied in that
same bland tone. “Let me disconnect. I’ll ring you back
momentarily.” He hit END. Closing the phone, he held it against his
chest as he stared, unseeing, toward the clouds of ground-creeping
mist.

Hadn’t they been careful? It was a long time
ago, but he was always careful – it was a hallmark with him.
Condoms, surely … until she assured him she was on the pill…

How soon after their break up had she married
Comfrey? Less than six months, or thereabout. At the time he’d
received the news with relief. Madge had seemed so floored, so
devastated when he’d ended the engagement, but she’d had no trouble
bouncing back into a new relationship…

Or she’d been desperate to find one,
Hetheridge thought, pulse still hammering in his ears. Why didn’t
she tell me? Heaven knows I would have married her, I would have
made the best of it …

It occurred to him that Madge might have
wanted a husband who loved her for herself, not one who manfully
accepted the sad necessity of commitment to her and her offspring.
He wished he could recall what she’d said when he broke it off –
how she’d looked, hints she might have given – but not even his
excellent memory could dredge up that exchange. Because he’d paid
more attention to himself, and to his feelings, than to hers.

Jules Comfrey. She might be his child. She
was almost certainly his child.

Hetheridge closed his eyes, willing himself
calm. Like any other man, he had tried to imagine what a son or
daughter would be like, and the visions were pleasant and
flattering. Never once had he envisioned a sullen, directionless
young woman with a nightmare boyfriend and a drug habit or two.

Something came back to him then. It was his
father in their family home, ensconced in a leather wingback chair,
double old-fashioned in hand. It was the calm, measuring look, and
the almost off-handed statement, “When I look at you, boy, I wonder
how in the hell something like you came from me. Good God. What
fools are men, to pin their hopes on sons.”

Hetheridge felt himself go cold. He was under
control. And the wiser half of his mind, the half he could depended
on, told him exactly how to proceed. Reopening his phone, he rang
Kate’s mobile.

She picked up on the first ring. “Chief.”

“Forgive the interruption. About Burt
Rowland. Based on your interview, should he be placed under
arrest?”

“No, I think he’s clean. Clean of Ginny
Rowland’s death, at least.”

“Fair enough. Caution him to remain in the
city and release him. Make sure the scene is processed properly,
then go home. We’ll meet at nine o’clock tomorrow instead of seven.
That should give you time to rest a bit before we compare notes. As
you suggested, I’ll send you out to interview Ivy Helgin. Now if DS
Bhar is with you, put him on the line.”

“I’m here, Chief,” Bhar said after a
moment.

“Paul, I need you at the Yard as soon as
possible. Madge and Jules Comfrey need to be re-interviewed, and
I’d like you to handle it. I’m sure Kate told you why.”

“I’ll be right there.” If Bhar was surprised,
he gave no sign.

“One more thing. I believe both Madge and
Jules are under the influence. I’m going to ask them to submit to
piss tests right away. More than likely, both will refuse and
demand their solicitor, and we’ll be forced to compel them. But
I’ll make the attempt. See you when you arrive.”

* * *

Madge and Jules were waiting inside New
Scotland Yard’s lobby alongside two uniformed constables. The room,
cavernous and minimally lit, rang with a faint echo each time Madge
took a step in her black patent heels. Noticing them for the first
time, Hetheridge realized Madge had stormed a crime scene in those
heels. Jules, at least, wore trainers and jeans. It was a
generational difference, he supposed: Madge belonged to an era that
still believed in dressing up to break the law.

Jules’s agitation had not decreased. She was
texting into her mobile while simultaneously pacing. Madge, if
anything, looked asleep on her feet. Her pupils were tiny, and her
arms were crossed over her chest.

“Escort Ms. Comfrey to an interview room.
Mrs. Comfrey and I will talk in my office,” Hetheridge told the
constables.

“No way, you can’t split us up,” Jules cried,
attention wrested from her phone at last. “Where mum goes, I
go.”

Ignoring her, Hetheridge took Madge’s arm and
steered her toward the lifts. “Tell her to obey. I don’t want this
to turn into an arrest and an overnight stay,” he said quietly.

“I’ll be fine,” Madge called to Jules in a
weak voice. “Go with them, sweetheart. We’re just here to talk.
Don’t be afraid.”

Once the lift doors closed them in, Madge
turned to Hetheridge. “You wouldn’t actually arrest her, would you?
She’s not Kevin. She couldn’t endure it.”

“I’m within my rights to arrest her,”
Hetheridge said, noncommittal. “Why didn’t you stop her from going
to the Rowlands?”

Madge looked embarrassed. “I tried. But when
one of Ginny’s neighbors told us something was happening, and we
called Burt’s phone and couldn’t get an answer, Jules went wild.
She always loved Ginny and Burt, and she was afraid for them,
that’s all. When she wouldn’t listen to me, and I couldn’t convince
her not to go, all I knew was to come along. I knew it was
ridiculous, but I had no idea it was against so many laws.”

The lift doors opened. Hetheridge led Madge
to his office, unlocked the door, and switched on the lights. Then
without inviting her to sit or make herself comfortable, he said:
“Tell me now. Is Jules my daughter?”

Madge’s fuchsia-painted mouth worked. She
made no sound, but her heavily-lined eyes slid away from him,
locking on something a few meters away. “I don’t feel well. I need
to sit down. Would you mind?”

He closed one hand over her right forearm,
then another hand over her left, staring into her eyes. “Is Jules
my daughter?”

Madge blinked at him. “Yes.”

“What sort of drugs is she on?”

“Nothing,” Madge cried. She struggled against
his grip. “Let me go. Let me go, now, or I’ll scream! You can’t
abuse me this way!”

Hetheridge released her in one motion. She
staggered back, entirely from her own fear and lack of balance, yet
staring at him in horror, as if he’d struck her.

“Tell me what drugs she’s on.”

“Nothing!” Madge cried. “Nothing! She’s a
good girl! And she’s nothing to do with you. You’re just the sperm
donor. It’s none of your business what she does, or doesn’t
do.”

“I want you both to submit to urinalysis.
Right now,” Hetheridge said.

“No.” Madge drew herself up. “Absolutely not!
I demand my solicitor. And I demand you withdraw yourself from this
case, Tony. Immediately!”

Before he knew what he would do, Hetheridge
snatched away Madge’s bag and dumped its contents on the dense
green carpet. Keys … a credit card case … a pair of reading glasses
… a silver tube of lipstick …a prescription bottle…

With a strangled cry, Madge dropped to her
knees, reaching for the prescription bottle. Hetheridge, far more
limber despite the arthritis in his knee, was there first. Rising
with the bottle in hand, he removed its cap and spilled the
contents into his palm as Madge, still on her knees, stared up at
him in outrage.

The bottle’s label indicated thirty tablets
of Valium for Madge Comfrey. And the valium was there: small white
round pills. But mixed in with them were larger yellow tablets,
each stamped OC.

“Mixing Oxycontin with your Valium these
days?”

“Give me that,” Madge snapped, struggling to
her feet. “You have no right! This is an illegal search – wait til
I tell my solicitor!”

“Who gets these for you? Kevin?” Hetheridge
asked. “Is that why you don’t mind Jules seeing him? Because he has
his uses for you, too?”

“Escort me downstairs now,” Madge said, her
voice like a glacier. “And pray to God, if you have a God other
than yourself, that you still have a career once I’m done with
you.”

When Kate arrived at New Scotland Yard the
next morning, she was in a mood that veered from cautiously
optimistic to downright happy. The case was beginning to generate
answers as well as questions. And she had a feeling – unsupported
by logic, but strong, nevertheless – that Malcolm Comfrey’s
administrative-assistant/mistress, Ivy Helgin, would hold the key
to solving both murders. Was that why Kate felt an odd flutter in
her stomach? The realization that her next interview might lead to
an arrest, and then a conviction?

Or was it the prospect of seeing Hetheridge
again?

Striding toward the bank of lifts, Kate
caught a glance – an outright smirk – from a pinched-faced DC. Was
that meant for her? Even if she had only two friends at the Yard,
it was two more than she’d ever had before, and a measure of
respect had accompanied the newfound companionship. The DC’s smirk
suggested she’d devolved back into a pariah overnight.

Punching the lift’s button, Kate glanced
surreptitiously from left to right. Another glance, this time from
DI Letty Marcum, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a face as wide
and flat as a shovel. The look, from DI Marcum’s deep-set eyes, was
aimed square at Kate, its message clear: You poor sod.

Geez, Kate thought, ashamed of how her heart
sped up. You’d think someone died.

“Oi! Wakefield! Have a nice lie-in, did you?”
came a jovial, over-loud male voice behind her.

Kate turned to see Superintendent Jackson
leering at her. He looked in a fine mood. A few other officers
paused in their progress to observe the exchange.

The lift dinged behind her. Relieved, Kate
spun toward it. “Sorry, gotta go …”

“Leave it,” Jackson said, his voice lifting
high, as it did when he was angry or triumphant. “I’ve been waiting
for you.”

Kate felt a surge of suspicious dread.
Jackson looked far too pleased. “Why?”

“You’re mine, luv. Hetheridge’s taken a
powder. So you and Mahatma Ganges are back under my wing. We’re
going to solve the Comfrey and Rowland cases in record time and
prove what a dream team we can be.”

“What do you mean, Hetheridge’s taken a
powder?” Kate asked. Now her stomach wasn’t fluttering, it was
doing flips.

“Hetheridge is accused a brutalizing a
witness and trying to force a confession. In fact, the witness,
Mrs. Comfrey, is in the process of obtaining a restraining order
against him. Commander Deaver tossed him off the case and called
upon yours truly to pick up the pieces. Not surprising,” Jackson
grinned, “since the old man’s arrest-conviction ratio is barely
two-thirds of mine, and he’s never been quick to wrap a major
case.”

That’s because he only arrests people who are
actually guilty, Kate tried to say. But at that moment, her stomach
heaved, lava shot up her throat, and before Superintendent Jackson
could jump aside, Kate vomited instant coffee and Blue Razz Berry
Pop-Tarts all over his shoes.

* * *

Bhar was waiting for Kate when she emerged
from the ladies’ lavatory more than a quarter-hour later. She knew
she still looked pale and shell-shocked, but a dab of lipstick and
blush had somewhat reanimated her. This pregnancy-style vomiting
reminded her of the time she’d eaten a bad bit of lobster –
choking, heaving, and spluttering long after every trace of
sustenance was gone. Whenever she thought of Hetheridge’s career in
jeopardy, and Superintendent Jackson – Jackson! – taking his place,
the purging started again. Finally, she forced herself to think of
nothing but her desire to successfully interview Ivy Helgin. By
keeping her mind focused on that goal, Kate calmed herself, washed
her face, and exited the lavatory with a semblance of dignity.

“You look like shit,” Bhar said.

“And you look manic. Like you chewed coffee
beans all night and washed them down with Red Bull.”

“I’m planning on murdering Jackson,” Bhar
said conversationally. “Every detective has his own murder plan.
Mine is flawless – no DNA or dental evidence left behind. Just you
wait. You’ll know I did it, but you’ll never work out how.”

“What happened to the Chief last night?”
Kate’s left side still ached. She pressed a hand against it,
ignoring the curious glances from those passing through the
corridor.

“I don’t know,” Bhar admitted. “Supposedly he
took Madge Comfrey up to his office, slapped her around, searched
her person, and tried to coerce a confession. Madge and her
daughter were baying at the moon when I got here, playing it up for
their solicitor and threatening to bring down the Met. I did the
only thing I could think of.”

Kate waited.

“I arrested them. Because the crime is
murder, we have thirty-six hours to hold them before we have to
officially charge them with anything.”

Kate let out her breath all at once. “Bold
move.”