Ice Blue (26 page)

“Couldn’t let you do this alone,” Paul said,
holding Kate tight. “I called Tony, and he called out the troops.
Then he insisted on going in, through that broken side door. Are
you all right?”

Kate tried to answer, but no sound came from
her – just the thunderous boom of a gunshot inside the house.

Pulling away from Paul, Kate surged toward
the red-lacquered doors, powered by terror and no thought except to
get to Hetheridge. Hands caught her, seizing her shoulders and
waist. She kicked and flailed, screaming for release, but they
didn’t let go.

A deadly shift occurred around Kate. It was
the slide and pop of well-oiled, rarely-used weaponry, as officers
took position to fire on the person whose footsteps approached.

“It’s Hetheridge!” the Chief Superintendent
shouted. “Stand down!”

Despite his self-identification, Hetheridge
came into view with hands up. Blood and bits of shiny white tissue
covered half his face, and for one endless moment Kate thought he’d
been shot in the head. Then she realized his eyes were clear and
his gait was steady. The fatal wound had been Madge’s.

“Tony!”

The restraining hands released her. As
Hetheridge tried to wipe his face on his overcoat, Kate threw
herself against him, heedless of the gruesome remnants. Emergency
technicians rushed into the house, pushing Kate and Hetheridge
aside as she scanned him, top to bottom, convinced he bore some
hidden wound.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded, taking deep gulps of air.

“Are you
mad
? Why the
hell did you do that?”

Hetheridge didn’t speak.

“Why?” Kate screamed.

Hetheridge gripped her hands to silence her,
or perhaps to answer her. Staring in his eyes, Kate wasn’t sure
what passed between them.

Hetheridge’s gaze dropped. “Blood …”

Kate looked at his legs, then her own. A dark
triangle had begun to spread along her left trouser leg. As she
watched it grow, mesmerized, her lower back and left side were
gripped by vicious, rapidly increasing contractions.

“Oh, no …”

“You!” Hetheridge caught a rescue worker by
the arm, yanking him toward Kate. “See to her. Now!”

Hetheridge knew it was clichéd to detest
hospitals, but he didn’t so much detest the places as avoid them
altogether. During his father’s final hospitalization he’d been
legitimately – and blessedly – detained on a case that demanded his
presence until the day of the funeral. But if Hetheridge had
managed a bedside visit, God knew what he and his father would have
said to each other. As for his mother, she’d exhibited the good
breeding to drop dead at home. Not for her the scuffed linoleum,
stark white walls, and fluorescent lights that never stopped
burning. But if she had been confined to one of these numbered
rooms, surrounded by bustling medical personnel, by beeps and
whispers and bursts of nervous laughter, what would he have said to
her? Hetheridge didn’t know. He imagined himself offering a bunch
of cellophane-wrapped flowers, struggling to look anything but
miserably uncomfortable as he … what? Came forth with a tide of
heretofore unexpressed emotion?

Glancing at the cellophane-wrapped bouquet in
his hand – yellow and pink flowers pronounced “cheery” by the
shopkeeper – Hetheridge made his way through the aseptic-smelling
ward to room 6115. Outside the door, on a whiteboard, someone had
block-printed in blue marker: K. Wakefield.

What would he say to Kate?

He drew in his breath. This was duty. He
could manage duty. At least he had for sixty years, give or take
the odd spot of cowardice.

The door was open, and to his relief and
frustration, Kate wasn’t alone. He’d imagined her in drug-induced
slumber, face half-obscured by an oxygen mask, needles and tubes
poking out of bruised flesh. Instead he found her propped up
against a mound of pillows, wooden board across her lap, playing
cards with two young men.

One, a bespectacled blob, he guessed was the
nephew, Henry. The other, a tall man with unruly curls, Hetheridge
momentarily mistook for an old suitor, ala the late Dylan, who’d
seen the news and rushed to Kate’s side. A surge of resentment
struck him, along with an impulse to drop the bouquet and flee. But
then the curly-haired man turned his unflinching, over-direct stare
on Hetheridge, and he realized he looked upon Kate’s brother,
Ritchie.

“Hi, Chief,” Kate said. Her hair was in need
of a wash and her face was uncharacteristically devoid of make-up,
but her smile made him clutch the flowers tighter.

“Hallo,” he said. Why did she call him
‘Chief’ when this was a social call? Why did he care?

“Guys, this is my guv, Chief Superintendent
Hetheridge. Chief, this is Henry Wakefield,” she indicted the blob,
“and this is my brother, Ritchie.”

Hetheridge put out his hand to each in turn.
“Tony,” he muttered. “How do you do?”

“I’m okay,” Ritchie said.

“How do you do,” Henry said evenly. He
surprised Hetheridge with his firm handshake and correct response,
which was disappearing so quickly, Hetheridge thought he might live
to see its extinction.

“Should we call you Lord Hetheridge?” Henry’s
eyes sparkled behind large round spectacles. He seemed to hope for
an excuse to use the title as much as possible.

“Like Lord Vader,” Ritchie said.

“Dark Lord of the Sith!” Henry dropped the
mature manner, dissolving into childish laughter that Ritchie
promptly joined. Kate rolled her eyes.

“Henry, weren’t you going to show Ritch to
the canteen? He’s still hungry.”

“I fancy a sweet,” Ritchie told
Hetheridge.

“I’ve shown him already,” Henry protested,
throwing down his cards.

“Show him again,” Kate said. “I know you have
a few quid left. Share with Ritchie, and I’ll make it up to you
later.”

Henry digested this command with ill-grace.
Indicating Hetheridge with his eyes, he stage-whispered, “Ask about
the fencing.” Then he flounced into the hall, forcing Ritchie to
leap up, nearly knocking over Hetheridge in his effort to catch
up.

“No, you can’t hold my hand!” Henry’s
indignant voice carried back to the room. “I’m not your
boyfriend
!”

“They seem in good spirits,” Hetheridge said,
as he would have remarked on a host’s crotch-sniffing dogs.

“Oh, they’re charming, all right. And if
you’re wondering, they have no idea I’m the officer Madge held at
gunpoint, or … what you did. And no clue about the miscarriage,
either. They think I’m in for a stomach bug.” Kate adopted a
bright, not-too-serious tone. “Speaking of what you did … I still
haven’t thanked you properly.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

Kate gathered up the cards, placing the pack
and the lap desk atop the bedside table. “You can sit down if you
want,” she said mildly.

Hetheridge perched himself on one of the
institution-style chairs. The room was too hot. Sweat had begun to
roll down his back, a sensation he detested.

“Those for me?”

Hetheridge looked at Kate blankly.

“The flowers?”

“Oh, yes, indeed yes, here you are,” he heard
himself dithering, along with the reflexive throat-cleaning he’d so
often mocked in his father and grandfather.

Kate smiled again, giving the bouquet a
sniff. “I don’t think anyone’s given me flowers before. Cheers,
guv.” She placed the bouquet atop the bedside table. “And speaking
of the miscarriage … you must be relieved I didn’t whisk you down
to the Registry Office the day after you proposed, eh?”

Hetheridge floundered mentally for the right
reply. Just as he sensed it within his grasp, Kate said, “No,
forget that, it wasn’t fair of me to say. You’ll have to excuse me.
I’ve come out with some odd remarks since yesterday. I feel like a
rubber band stretched too far. Like I might pop.”

“You will.” Lest he sound too serious, or –
God forbid – begin confiding the worst moments of his own sleepless
night, Hetheridge added, “Just be sure to vent the explosion on an
object self-absorbed enough to withstand it. Like DS Bhar.”

“He was here this morning. Played Mad Libs
with the boys. He mentioned you insisted on prosecuting Kevin
Whitley for providing an illegal weapon to Madge. Is this the first
hint of fatherly impulses toward Jules?” Kate sounded irritated
rather than teasing.

“I don’t know. My life used to make sense.
Now with the arrival of Jules and … other concerns … I’m making
decisions moment by moment,” Hetheridge said honestly. “Usually I
don’t personally involve myself in issues relatively tangential to
the case, but in this instance – yes. I think the kindest thing I
can do for Jules is eliminate the most negative influence in her
life.”

“The little bitch will just go find someone
worse. Not that it matters. Aristocrats never turn on their own.
Madge told me that, and I think she was right. Do you suppose
that’s why she shot herself, instead of you? So you’d be around to
mind Jules?”

“Perhaps.” Hetheridge sighed. They were back
on dangerous ground, heading into topics he would happily pay
thousands to sidestep. “You think I shouldn’t try to impose myself
in Jules’s life, then?”

“I think she cold-bloodedly left me to die.”
Kate blinked a few times, looking away. “If you still want to know
her, that’s your business.”

The silence stretched for so long, Hetheridge
seriously considered commenting on the weather. Then inspiration
struck. “Charlie Fringate’s been cleared of all charges, you know.
We’re confident Madge lifted his handgun without his knowledge.
We’ll probably prosecute him at a future date for illegal
possession, but not now. He’s under suicide watch at this very
hospital. Became hysterical when he learned Madge shot herself.
Sobbed like a child.” His tone held the requisite contempt, even as
he added mentally, lucky bastard.

“Lucky bastard,” Kate said.

Hetheridge blinked at her. Then he
smiled.

“It would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

“God, yes.

The sounds of Henry and Ritchie Wakefield
preceded their arrival by a good thirty seconds. It was the sort of
“you are,” “no,
you
are,” banter heard daily in every
schoolyard and pub in Britain. Ritchie was eating a Cornetto; Henry
had a family-sized bag of cookies. Hetheridge, who deviated from
his peers in his dislike of crotch-sniffing, shoe-devouring
canines, felt much the same about children and child-like adults.
Time to escape.

“When are you due for release, then?” he
asked, almost jumping to his feet.

Kate looked amused. “Tomorrow. And I should
be back at the Yard in a week or two.”

That long? Hetheridge thought. But what did
he know about miscarriage? And surely not everyone chose to recover
from the threat of violent death by immersing themselves in a fresh
murder investigation as soon as possible.

“I’ll try not to strangle Bhar while you’re
gone.” Hetheridge moved toward the door as Henry and Ritchie
settled back into their chairs. Ritchie was absorbed in his ice
cream, and Henry was shoveling down cookies. Kate, replacing the
long wooden desk across her lap, began shuffling cards. Hetheridge
realized he was obligated to go, he had essentially excused
himself, yet he hadn’t accomplished his primary goal – settling on
a day to see Kate again. One or two weeks was too long to wait.

“So the fencing’s all fixed?” Henry said
between mouthfuls.

“Oh.” Kate slapped her hand against her
forehead. “Tony, I’m sorry to ask, but would you be willing to give
Henry fencing lessons? He’s keen on the notion, especially if you
can scare up a lightsaber or two.”

Henry made a contemptuous noise. “Nobody’s
come up with real lightsaber technology yet, Kate.”

“My mistake.” Kate shot her cheeky grin at
Hetheridge, making him realize he would have said yes to anything,
including dog-sitting.

“I’ll be glad to. When can you bring Henry
by?” he asked, proud of how neutral he sounded.

“Friday around seven?”

“Friday at seven it is.”

Hetheridge strode even faster than usual
toward the lifts. He hadn’t much time. He needed to arrange for the
rental of a portly child’s costume and mask. The third-floor loo
was dodgy, too. He had to get Harvey on it posthaste, or his Friday
guests would surely try to flush too much paper and make it
overflow…

As the lift opened, Hetheridge curtailed a
boyish impulse to whistle. He knew the specter of the gun would
reappear when he tried to sleep that night, as would Madge’s
expression as she pulled the trigger. But one advantage of turning
sixty was the realization that still being alive was the point.
Perhaps the Charlie Fringates of the nation, mocked as they were,
had the market cornered on emotional expression. That was fine, at
least until it ended in suicide watch. Hetheridge and Kate weren’t
that sort. They carried on.

He caught himself whistling a scrap of tune
as the lift began to descend. The lift’s only other passenger, an
old trout in a powder blue suit, shot him a look of disapproval.
Hetheridge ignored her.

Friday, he thought. The Bentley’s driver,
seeing him emerge from the hospital, eased the vehicle toward the
curb. Putting on his sunglasses, a convenience Hetheridge now
couldn’t imagine living without, he strode into the daylight.

####