Ice Blue (8 page)

“No, and I’ve called him a hundred times,”
Jules said, pulling her mobile phone from her jeans pocket and
placing it on the coffee table. “I’ve called his mum, his sister,
the place where he used to work.  Nothing.  Daddy really
managed to fix things,” she said, her face settling into that
habitually disappointed mask Kate had noticed the night before.
“Couldn’t even die without killing my happiness, too.”

“Tell me about the engagement party,” Kate
said. “Had you been planning it for a long time?”

“Only a week or so. It was mum’s idea. She
liked Kevin much more than Daddy did. She thought a party with just
a few guests would help ease Kevin into the family.”

“You mentioned your father didn’t like him.
Is that why you aren’t wearing your ring?”

Jules glanced at her left hand, then covered
it with her right – a gesture so quick, it might have been
reflexive proof of an embarrassment her conscious mind refused to
admit. “We haven’t picked out a ring yet. That’s Kevin and me.
Material things always come last for us.”

“When’s the big day?” Kate asked, betting she
already knew.

“Haven’t settled on that, either. The big
decision’s made. Everything else is a minor detail.”

Oh, Dylan, Kate thought, recognizing the
shadow of doubt in Jules’s large blue-gray eyes, whoever keeps
cloning you needs to stop scattering versions of you throughout
London, or an entire generation of women may go off men. Smiling at
Jules, she decided to take a gamble.

“So what are his best qualities? What made
you ask him to marry you?”

The doubt vanished from Jules’s gaze, and she
smiled back. “I’ve never known anyone like Kevin. He’s an artist,
and very intense. But at the same time he has a hidden side, a
vulnerable side, he won’t let anyone see. Of course, he’s good
looking, and amazing in … other ways,” she giggled, throwing a
glance at Bhar. “And it wasn’t just me asking him to get married,”
she added, suddenly realizing what she’d revealed. “He wanted it,
too, but he didn’t know how to say it. I had to make the first
move, because he’s so insecure, deep down. He kept telling me I was
too good for him, and I deserved someone who wasn’t married to his
work.”

Isn’t that what Hetheridge told Madge
Comfrey, right before he broke their engagement? Kate wondered. Do
all men use the same excuse when they’re desperate for a way
out?

“Tell me again about the two couples your
mother invited to the party,” Kate said, consulting the notes
contained within her smart phone. “The first guest you mentioned
was Charlie Fringate. You said your father screwed him over a
shipping deal.”

“Yes, that was Daddy’s business. Global
freight and cargo. Last year, Charlie was going through a rough
patch with his company, and he needed a good deal on overseas
shipping rates to turn a profit. Daddy promised him a certain rate
and changed his mind at the last minute. Charlie lost a ton of
money, and I think it ruined their friendship. But Charlie still
came around the house. He needed Daddy much more than Daddy ever
needed him.” Jules paused, transparently holding back something –
something she wanted to say.

“And if you hear a rumor about Charlie and
Mum, ignore it,” Jules said at last, releasing her breath in a
rush. “It’s not true.”

“A rumor about an affair?” Kate asked.

“It’s bollocks.” Jules threw out the curse
self-consciously. “Charlie’s the nicest, friendliest man in the
world. He treats every woman like a queen, not just my mum. He’s
completely in love with his girlfriend, Frieda, and he brought her
with him last night. The idea of Charlie hitting on my mum is just
wrong,” Jules added, pulling a childish face.

“Can you think of anyone who would start such
a rumor? Someone who had a grudge against your family?” Bhar asked,
correctly sensing that Kate, taking notes again, was about to move
on without exploring that angle.

“Ginny Rowland. She sat on social committees
and charity boards with Mum, but Daddy was always mean to her. It
was weird. Like she wasn’t good enough to eat off our plates or sit
on our furniture. I know she was sick of him putting her down and
making her feel inferior. A few months ago, she told me Charlie
might be up to something with my mum. She was wrong, and I told her
so. But even though Ginny was Mum’s friend, I wouldn’t put it past
her to spread rumors about Mum. Not if they made Daddy look like an
arse.”

“And Ginny Rowland was invited to the party,
too?” Kate prompted.

“Yes. Her husband, Burt Rowland, was there,
too. He did business with Daddy. They got on all right, I guess.
Burt never says much, unless the subject is money.”

“According to a constable on the scene last
night, you said a party guest probably murdered your father. What
made you say that?”

Jules shifted in the striped armchair,
looking embarrassed. “I can’t believe I said that. I went daft for
a bit, I think, after I saw Daddy’s body. As I ran downstairs, I
saw visions of people attacking him – Charlie, Ginny, even Frieda
and Burt. I kept hearing all the things he’d said to them over the
years, and thinking, he finally did it, he finally went too far,
and someone snapped. Daddy had a way of picking you up and flipping
you onto your back – shell-down – so he could dig in. He had a way
of a finishing an argument that made you never want to see his face
again.”

Kate nodded, thinking of Malcolm Comfrey’s
bloodied, smashed face. “Is that how he treated Kevin?”

Jules nodded. “We were all gathered round in
the front room for drinks. Daddy started on Charlie first, then
Ginny. Then he set in on Kevin and just wouldn’t stop. Kevin
stormed out, and everyone else was so embarrassed, they went
home.”

“What did he say about Kevin?”

“I’d rather not repeat it.”

Kate paused. Remembering Hetheridge’s
instruction to go softly, she considered her next words with care.
Then she said: “Someone may have murdered your father because of
the way he behaved toward them. If you can tell me what he said to
Kevin – to your new fiancé, at a party meant to welcome him into
the family – I’ll have a much better idea what your father was
like.”

Jules regarded Kate gratefully, like the
first sympathetic face she had encountered in eons. Kate had no
time to feel guilty about the manipulation – the way she had
positioned Kevin’s most slavish devotee to reveal his motive for
murder – because the details of Malcolm Comfrey’s monologue began
pouring out of Jules.

“Daddy started by pretending to congratulate
Kevin for being such an intelligent young man. Proposed a toast to
him. Then he said he’d never heard of an artist who had never sold
a single piece, or managed to beg a grant off the socialists.”
Jules twisted her hands together, coloring slightly. “Daddy said
he’d called Kevin’s references from his portfolio, and found out he
was a rotten student. And that was so unfair,” Jules continued,
voice rising, “because Daddy didn’t bother to find out what was
happening in Kevin’s life at the time, or why he had trouble at
school. He just soaked up a lot of wank from the instructor who
hated Kevin the most, and told everyone a story about Kevin
botching his papier-mâché project. He was sixteen years old! Then
Daddy said Kevin wanted to marry a disaster like me about as much
as he wanted a job in a sewer. So his hat was off to his future
son-in-law, who was prepared to shovel shit for the rest of his
life, as long as he had a wife who could grant him all the money
the arts foundations had denied.”

During the retelling, Jules had grown teary.
Before Kate could decide what to do – actively comfort the girl, or
politely pretend not to notice – the mobile phone on the coffee
table began to emit a dance tune. Eagerly, Jules snatched up the
phone, squealing, “Kevin! Kevin, where are you?”

* * *

“The best part,” Bhar said as he and Kate
walked back to the Astra, “was when she said Kevin had a hidden
side, a vulnerable side he wouldn’t let anyone see. If he wouldn’t
let anyone see it,” Bhar asked with a grin, “how the hell did she
know it was there?”

“Because it has to be there,” Kate replied
with a lightness she didn’t quite feel. “There has to be a good
side to him that loves her and appreciates her. If not, she’s just
a silly git, latching on to anything male to prove she can land a
mate. And she’s way too invested in the fantasy to start
disbelieving now.”

“So do you think Kevin murdered Comfrey?”
Bhar asked, unlocking the passenger door for Kate. “Think the
public revelation about his collapsed papier-mâché pushed him over
the edge?”

“Won’t know until I talk to him.” Kate said,
clicking her seatbelt back into place as she inhaled new car scent
again. “I’ll go out on a limb and say this much. I don’t think
Jules did it.”

“No,” Bhar agreed, taking his place behind
the steering wheel. “The story that she went running after Kevin to
apologize for her father’s behavior, and only went back to the
crime scene because her mother called, is pretty convincing. Then
there’s statistics. Most women kill by a method that allows them to
maintain at least a meter’s distance – longer than a man’s reach.
That means a gun, it means poison, it even means a contract hit.
Taking a hot poker and beating a man to death, that’s more of a
male approach, statistically speaking.”

“But Jules would cover for Kevin, if she knew
or suspected he was the killer,” Kate said, thinking aloud.

“Goes without saying,” Bhar agreed. “What
about Madge Comfrey? Would she cover for her daughter’s fiancé, if
she knew he was guilty of such a violent crime?”

“I don’t know,” Kate said. “It might depend
on her relationship to Kevin – and how happy her marriage was.
Let’s go see Charlie Fringate and ask him about the rumors of an
affair. Then let’s finally meet Mr. Kevin Whitley,” she said,
consulting her notes, “of 68-B, New Junction Road.”

Charlie Fringate’s Mayfair office was cozy
and old-fashioned, with heavy antique furnishings and drapes
instead of blinds. A single elderly administrative assistant sat in
the reception area, behind a remarkably uncluttered desk. Her
computer screen was dark, and when Kate and Bhar entered, she was
reading a magazine. She glanced up at the detectives with a vague
smile, as if surprised human beings had at last penetrated her
sanctum.

“DS Bhar and DS Wakefield,” Bhar said,
showing his warrant card as Kate did the same. “Scotland Yard.
We’re here to speak with Mr. Fringate.”

“He’s very busy,” the administrative
assistant murmured, with practice of one airing out a particularly
threadbare lie. “Let me go and check.”

A minute later, the old woman returned from
the inner office. “Yes, yes, come along. He will certainly make
time for the police. Bad business about Mr. Comfrey.” Still
muttering, she led them to Charlie Fringate’s door, which featured
his name in overlarge block letters engraved on a brass plate, and
ushered them inside.

Fringate stood up as Kate and Bhar entered.
He aimed a wide, welcoming salesman’s smile at each of them.
Fringate was in his early fifties, Kate guessed; a big, broad
shouldered man with a square face, superhero chin, and a head full
of hair so dark, it had to be colored. He was handsome in a
wholesome, American-cowboy sort of way. But weighty bags drooped
under each eye, and there was something in his gaze – something
excessively hopeful – that made Kate wonder how many potential
clients he frightened away with his naked need.

“Come in, come in,” Fringate said in a hearty
voice. Leaning over the desk, he shook each detective’s hand before
returning to his seat. He wore a burgundy-striped shirt with a
matching tie and braces, the latter of which dug into his
shoulders. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to just below each
elbow, as if he intended to get down to business. Or perhaps he
already had, Kate thought. His desk, like his administrative
assistant’s, was clear of work. A large calendar-style blotter
covered most of the space, scribbled over with times, names, and
phone numbers. His desk also offered not one but two candy dishes:
a cut-crystal dish of peppermints, and a porcelain bowl of M &
Ms.

“Take your pick,” Charlie said, flashing his
hopeful smile. “Please, sit down. Let me know how I can help. But
this is just a formality, I guess,” he added, with what Kate
suspected was a habit of unwarranted optimism.

“Jules Comfrey mentioned you did business
with her father. She said on one occasion, the deal went sour,”
Bhar began. “Can you tell us about that?”

“Sure. I did business with Malcolm on and off
for almost twenty years. Used his company to ship calculators and
adding machines, back in the day, before the Asians cut me to
ribbons.” He grinned at Bhar. “No offense. Smart people. Good at
miniaturization. Most of us just couldn’t compete. Now I’ve gone
into a different line, auctioning factory surplus and what they
call ‘seconds’ – merchandise not good enough for Mr. and Mrs. U.K.
Consumer – and shipping it round the world. Always need the best
price on global freight or the profit goes up in smoke. Malcolm and
I agreed on a price for shipping a huge amount of plastics to
Poland, Lithuania, and the Ukraine, but just when the freight was
ready, Malcolm told me his company’s circumstances had changed. He
increased his price by almost twenty percent. I only had an eight
percent profit margin, but I was committed on several levels. So I
shipped the freight, swallowed the loss, and tried not to take it
personally.”

“Did you consider your legal options?” Bhar
asked. “Since Comfrey changed the contract without notice?”

Fringate laughed. “Oh, no, it doesn’t work
that way. Handshake deals, that’s how it’s done. Never lawyers,
never paperwork. And even if we did bother with a written contract,
I never would have turned around and sued Malcolm. Never.” Fringate
didn’t look or sound the least bit condescending – he had an easy,
pleasant way of explaining – but the unspoken meaning rang clear to
Kate. People like us conduct business through gentleman’s
agreements. People like us aren’t litigious, like you rabble.