Ice Blue (9 page)

“It was still a kind of betrayal. Did it make
you want to kill him?” Kate asked.

Fringate gave an astonished laugh. “I really
am being questioned by Scotland Yard, aren’t I? Don’t worry, I’m
not insulted. Just doing your job, I know. Right. Did I want to
kill Malcolm? No, of course not. Fact is, I wanted to ask him if he
needed any help. If there was something wrong with his business, or
his home life. He hadn’t been himself for at least two years,
especially when it came to money. And for him to change the terms
of a firm deal, a deal I couldn’t possibly break – that wasn’t like
him. I took it hard,” Fringate admitted. Once again, that naked
need bobbed to the surface in his large brown eyes. “But no, I
didn’t want to kill him. Not then, and not last night. Last night
was just an embarrassment, a family row. It upset that dodgy young
fellow of Jules’s far more than anyone else. Frieda and I left as
quick as we could.”

“What’s Frieda’s full name and address?” Kate
asked. The scent of Fringate’s cologne – strong and woodsy,
something that probably came in a plaid bottle – was beginning to
make her head ache.

“Frieda Buxton. 28 Sadler, Shepherd’s Bush,”
Fringate said. “Do you have to speak with her, too?”

“We do. Now what about your relationship to
the Comfrey family?” Bhar asked. “Specifically, Madge Comfrey?”

Charlie Fringate’s face changed. Big, open,
and honest by nature, it tried to close, and only succeeded in
looking wary. “I’ve known Madge and Jules as long as I’ve known
Malcolm. Good people. Best sort of people.”

“It’s been said,” Bhar said, elongating the
pause, “you’re having an affair with Madge Comfrey. We’re not here
to judge anyone’s private lives. But if there’s any truth to the
rumor, it’s much better for you to put it on the table now, rather
than have us dredge it up later.”

“It’s not true,” Fringate said. He was
careful, Kate noticed, to maintain unflinching, unblinking eye
contact with Bhar. “I’m a friend of Madge’s. No more, no less. She
isn’t the sort of woman to have affairs.”

Bhar did not reply. The silence stretched out
for a full minute. Then Fringate, sounding all too eager to fill
the silence, continued, “I really must ask who said such a thing.
Gossip of that nature is just plain cruel.”

“Oh, it’s only gossip,” Bhar said, flashing a
smile. “We have to follow up on everything. Like whereabouts. After
the party broke up, where did you go?”

“I drove Frieda home,” Fringate said. “She
was put off by the whole scene. Malcolm always frightened her a
bit, with his bad temper and his way of crucifying anyone who got
on his bad side. So I dropped Frieda home, went back to my
townhouse, and went to bed.”

“Talk to anyone when you arrived home?
Neighbors? A maid?” Bhar asked.

Fringate leaned back in his chair, studying
Bhar first, then Kate. “I’ll be damned. You really are asking me
for an alibi. My God. Very well. There was no one at home. No one
but my cocker spaniels, whining and scraping at the door. I fed
them, played with them, and went to bed. I had no idea Malcolm was
dead until this morning, when Madge called me with the news.”

Bhar nodded. He started to rise, then stopped
and lifted a finger, as if jogging his own memory. “One more thing.
Mr. Fringate, of everyone who attended the party, you’re the only
one with a prior conviction. Domestic violence, 1991. Charges of
stalking were also filed in 1992, but those were dropped. Care to
explain?”

Fringate blew out a sigh. His expression of
dismay was so genuine, and so sadly comical, Kate almost laughed.
He didn’t look like a man who’d been convicted of domestic
violence. He looked like a man who doted on cocker spaniels.

“That conviction,” Fringate said after a
moment, a note of strain in his voice, “will haunt me for the rest
of my life, I suppose. Every time I think it’s buried, it climbs
out of the grave again. I assume you received the name of the
person who filed those complaints.”

“Helen Fringate,” Bhar said.

“My wife, at the time. Our divorce was final
in 1993. She even took back her maiden name. Like our marriage
never existed. The ‘domestic violence’ was never that. I never
raised a hand to her, nor would I,” Fringate said with passion.
“She blew it all out of proportion, and the courts decided to teach
me a lesson. A lifelong lesson, near as I can tell.”

“What happened?” Kate asked. “We read the
police statements, but it’s better to hear it from you. You have to
understand, a prior conviction for assault could make you a person
of interest in the Malcolm Comfrey case.”

“I didn’t assault Helen,” Fringate cried, his
voice rising as his face went red. With a visible effort, he drew
in his breath and fought to regain his composure. “I was at a low
point in my life. My second business had gone bankrupt. Helen
announced she was leaving me. Not for another man, not because she
never loved me, but because she thought I was a failure. On the
night she packed up and left, I tried to stop her from getting into
the taxi. That’s all. I thought if I could make her stand still and
listen to me, she would give me another chance.”

“The complaint said you tackled her and
falsely imprisoned her until the taxi drove away, and the neighbors
called the police,” Bhar said.

Fringate, still red, looked away. “I didn’t
tackle her. I got down on my knees and told her I loved her and
couldn’t live without her. Then I put my arms round her legs and
held her so she wouldn’t get into the taxi. Didn’t put a mark on
her. Didn’t rumple a hair on her head. Just held her and told her I
loved her.”

“Until the police came,” Kate said. She’d
meant it to be a question, but it came out as a statement.

Fringate did not deny it. “The stalking
business was nonsense, too. Helen was still my wife. We’d made
vows. We’d shared everything for almost ten years. I was just
trying to force her to listen to me. And the charges were
dismissed, eventually. That time, not even Helen could succeed in
turning my devotion into something sinister. And you won’t be able
to turn my friendship with the Comfreys into something sinister,
either.”

* * *

“Is he having an affair with Madge?” Kate
asked Bhar, as they walked back to his Astra. It was almost noon
now, and the sun felt good on her skin. Her feet, however, ached
worse than ever, wedged in those treacherous black shoes.

“Yes,” Bhar said. “Or if he isn’t, he wants
to. Gave us the liar’s stare. Keep looking, don’t blink, don’t
waver, and they’ll have to believe me.”

“Could he have beaten Malcolm Comfrey to
death? Maybe over business deals sealed with a handshake, with no
legal recourse? Maybe over Madge?” Kate asked.

Bhar considered for a moment. “Yes. I think
so.”

“But did he?” Kate asked, turning the idea
over in her mind.

“Don’t know.” Bhar aimed his keyless remote
at the Astra, which chirruped obediently as the doors unlocked.
“Let’s go meet Kevin Whitley and size him up.”

* * *

Kevin Whitley’s address led Kate and Bhar to
a council flat in a tall, charmless building that reminded Kate of
one of those sci-fi flicks – the ones where the future is a
landscape of white cube architecture and white polyester jumpsuits.
The building’s lobby was equally featureless, and fiendishly
well-scrubbed. The linoleum floor was grooved by mopping, and the
baseboards were scraped with brush marks. Even the call box showing
each apartment number had been attacked with a cleaner strong
enough to fade some of the tenant names. The lobby smelled
overwhelmingly of bleach, and faintly beneath that, urine.

“Lovely place,” Bhar said, examining the call
box. “Which name are we looking for?”

“Plaster,” Kate said. “Lisa Plaster is the
actual tenant. Whitley just flops here. He used to live with
another girl, Nan Cardwell, but Jules said they don’t speak
anymore. Whitley wasn’t officially on the lease at Ms. Cardwell’s
place, either.”

“Moocher, par excellence,” Bhar said,
punching the call button labeled Plaster. After a moment, a female
voice barked, “What?”

“Scotland Yard. DS Bhar and DS Wakefield, by
appointment,” Bhar recited cheerfully into the microphone. “We’re
here to interview Mr. Kevin Whitley.”

Silence. Then the lobby’s inner doors buzzed,
and they were permitted entry.

Lisa Plaster’s flat was located on the
eleventh floor – a long, off-white hallway where the graffiti had
been washed away semi-successfully. The orange carpeting bore
multiple ash burns and a deep path worn down the center. As they
approached the door, Kate heard the scrabbling of a chain lock slid
aside, and deadbolt turned. The door opened, and a tubby blonde in
a stained T-shirt and sweatpants faced them, hands on hips. She was
about Kate’s age, with a swollen nose and pink, weepy eyes.

“This is my place. Kevin’s just staying here.
What’s he done?” Lisa asked thickly, through a cold that sealed off
most of her nose. “He gave me some bollocks about being prime
suspect for murder.”

“I am a prime suspect for murder,” called a
male voice from behind her, over the sound of theatrical kicks,
punches, and grunts. “Jules told me I’m meant to have smashed up
her pillock of a father with a fire iron. It’s brilliant!”

“Mr. Whitley is a person of interest in a
murder investigation,” Kate said, allowing Lisa to examine her
credentials. “But we’re not here to make accusations. We’re here to
talk.”

“Fine,” Lisa sighed. “Have at. I need to give
Benjy his bottle.”

Turning away, she headed deeper into the
flat. It looked like Kate’s, at least in her darkest imaginings, if
she ceased all housework and allowed a harsh Darwinian landscape to
take shape. The orange-carpeted floor was strewn with plastic toys,
a crunchy dusting of crumbs, and dried beverage stains. The coffee
table was piled with dirty plastic bowls, overflowing ash trays,
and crumpled food wrappers.

Kevin Whitley was seated on the floor in a
gamer’s chair, rocking back and forth in front of the television as
his fingers worked a controller. As the detectives approached, he
glanced away from the screen, where two muscle-bound titans
pummeled each other mercilessly, and paused the action. “Oi! Am I
nicked?” He gave Kate and Bhar a self-satisfied grin.

Kevin was about Jules’s age, with a high
forehead, brown eyes, and bleached hair sculpted into a fauxhawk.
He wasn’t handsome, Kate thought, and he wasn’t cute. At most,
Kevin Whitley was charismatic, with an intense stare and an
engaging smile. Other than that, despite the pierced ears and
eyebrow, he looked like a thousand other young men she might
glimpse in a normal week – maybe a hundred thousand.

“I’m DS Wakefield, this is DS Bhar.” Kate
extended a hand.

Kevin took the hint. Giving the paused game a
sorrowful glance, he stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans, and
shook with each detective. Sweeping aside dirty plates and an
action figure, which he chucked to the floor, Kevin indicated the
now-cleared sofa. “Have a seat.”

Easing herself down to avoid a grease stain,
Kate said, “I understand your engagement party last night was
ruined by Mr. Comfrey.”

“Hey?” Whitley frowned, glancing over his
shoulder toward the room Lisa Plaster had disappeared into. “It
weren’t never an engagement party. Did Jules tell you that? She’s
always exaggerating.”

Kate exchanged glances with Bhar. “That’s
interesting. Both Jules Comfrey and her mother described the
occasion as an engagement party. One of the guests, Charlie
Fringate, made reference to that, too.”

“Oh, well, maybe Madge said it because she
wants me in the family. She’s always liked me, and I’ve always
managed to keep her sweet. In fact,” Kevin continued, giving Kate
an appraising stare, “I quite like older women. They’re more
settled. Easier to talk to. Madge liked me from day one, and …”

Breaking off, Whitley glanced over his
shoulder again as Lisa re-entered, a toddler on her hip. He was
sucking contentedly on a bottle of fizzy soda.

“You know, as far as this engagement
business, Jules’s family is too pushy,” Kevin announced with new
authority. “They know I like Ju. They know we have fun, and she’s
into my art. In their minds, that equals marriage. But I’m not
ready to settle down. Not for one girl, much less a wife. Marriage
is an institution and I’m not ready to be sent to an institution.
Know what I mean, mate?” he asked Bhar.

Bhar nodded. “Sure. So – did you explain your
philosophy to Jules?”

“About a hundred times,” Lisa said, shifting
Benjy from one hip to the other. “Let me tell you about Jules
Comfrey. She’s a toffee-nosed little bitch who thinks she can buy
herself a man. Once she called here for Kevin, and I told her to
get stuffed. Kev’s been trying to break it off with her for a year.
If he’d just show some balls,” she grunted, her anger suddenly
shifting from Jules to Kevin, “he could send the silly bint down
the road.”

“So you’re acquainted with the Comfrey
family, too?” Kate asked Lisa.

“Just by reputation, luv,” Lisa said. “And
that’s plenty. Kev tells me everything, and I do mean everything.
If he’d just take my advice once in awhile, he’d be the perfect
man.”

Bhar turned his winning smile on Lisa. “So,
just for the record. You and Mr. Whitley are…” He trailed off,
inviting her to fill the gap.

“Friends,” Kevin said.

“Fuck-buddies,” Lisa said in the same moment.
Shifting Benjy back to her other hip, she tried to look tough and
territorial as the boy grabbed at her breast. “Whaddya think’s
going on here? Kev’s like all men, born to stray. Don’t mean he
ain’t smart enough to come home at the end of the day.”

“That rhymes,” Kevin laughed. He was visibly
puffed up by Lisa’s declaration, like a vampire glowing with fresh
blood. “You’re a poet, my love. Now tell me, detectives, am I
nicked or not? I’m pleased as shit the old man’s dead. But I’d
really like to hear how I did it, since I was out with my mates all
last night.”