02 Blue Murder (12 page)

“
It is.” Kate added the
requisite identifiers needed to retrieve privileged data. Then she
listened carefully to what Dennis Chen had to tell her about the
ongoing analysis of Clive French and Trevor Parsons.

Chapter Ten

D
S
Paul Bhar decided to tackle Hetheridge’s orders right away. He felt
jittery and hostile after his all-too-brief sleep, not to mention
his mum’s concerns and the necessity of confessing his professional
sins to Kate. Now he was spoiling for a fight. Re-interviewing
Emmeline Wardle in the presence of her parents would probably
guarantee it.

From behind the wheel of his car, a dark
blue Astra Elegance with a recent wax job, Bhar pulled out his
iPhone and rang the Wardles’ primary number. A woman answered on
the second ring. Mrs. Wardle, who along with her husband had been
back in London less than a day, barely listened to his name and
request before launching into what sounded like a rehearsed
reply.

“
I
consider it outrageous that Scotland Yard has decided to waste
their resources and intelligence —
presumptive
intelligence — harassing
a blameless young girl. For the second time in forty-eight hours, I
might add.” Mrs. Wardle’s chirpy voice, not designed for ranting,
grated in Bhar’s ear. “On the other hand, perhaps I shouldn’t
argue. Perhaps it would be best if you turned up and let me sort
you out. My husband and I have spent thousands of pounds in taxes
to provide your salary. Perhaps it’s time we looked our employee in
the eye and explained that victims have rights,
too.”

“
With all due respect,” Bhar
ground out, employing a phrase he reserved for those he respected
not at all, “the victims in this case were Clive French and Trevor
Parsons. Let me assure you, securing justice for Mr. French and Mr.
Parsons is uppermost in my mind.”

“
Is that
so?” Mrs. Wardle snapped. “Your supervisors, including
Baron
Hetheridge — yes, I
know who he is — have been dreadfully remiss if they haven’t
advised you about the matter of a certain Greek amphora vase
appraised at over two million pounds.”

Startled — he’d only just rechecked the list
of principal physical evidence — Bhar withdrew his notebook,
thumbing through his own neat, closely written notes. “What
vase?”

“
The vase the Met destroyed
when it crashed through my home, violating my privacy and my basic
human rights! The vase for which we expect full compensation, or
you can be sure the civil suit against Baron Hetheridge will go
forward without delay!”

Bhar resisted the temptation to ask, “Are
you threatening me?” It had been all over the Yard the next morning
— Hetheridge putting the question to Emmeline Wardle, cool as only
their guv could be, before ordering her taken into custody. Having
spent two minutes talking to Mrs. Wardle, Bhar reckoned that when
it came to Emmeline, the acorn hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Or
his mum’s slightly skewed version, “When you are a nutter, your
children are nuts, too.”

Bhar smiled. Just once he wished he could
bring Sharada along during an investigation. Watching her lecture
the suspects with bits of mangled folk wisdom would alone be worth
the price of admission.

“
Mrs. Wardle,” Bhar said
with all the phony warmth he could muster, “I am shocked to hear
about the loss of your priceless family asset. In addition to
speaking to your daughter — our most important witness, as I’m sure
you’re aware — I’d like to discuss the vase. Are you at 14
Burnaby?”

“
Of course not.” Mrs. Wardle
sounded somewhat mollified, as if Bhar had finally pushed the right
button. “We just flew back from the French Riviera. The last thing
we wanted after a perfectly idyllic holiday was to enter a murder
house. We’re in Holland Park at present.” She rattled off the
address, adding, “Be so good as to give us an hour.”

“
My pleasure.” As Bhar
started the Astra’s engine, a gleam of gold on the passenger seat
caught his eye. Ah, yes. A long, blond hair. Closer examination of
the passenger side’s floorboards revealed a crumpled leaf. This was
what came of giving the likes of Kate Wakefield a ride in his
usually immaculate car.

Taking an evidence bag from
the glove box, Bhar sealed the blond strand and bits of leaf
inside. Later, he would confront Kate with proof that she’d broken
the rules regarding his beloved Astra. Bhar felt terribly guilty
about telling her off, especially in front of the guv—leaving aside
the added dimension of Kate and Hetheridge’s extracurricular
relationship—to embarrass a colleague in front of her superior was
out of line. And saying sorry afterward had been meaningless. How
could Kate do anything but accept his apology with the guv sitting
right there? Of course, a second
private
apology would be excruciating
for them both. Instead he would spring his evidence on Kate and
accuse her of deliberately befouling his still-new car. And after
they’d had a laugh together, a real laugh, maybe he wouldn’t feel
like rubbish anymore.

* * *

B
har had been trapped in the creep-and-crawl of midmorning
London traffic for more than half an hour when his mobile rang. It
was Kate.

“
Have you re-interviewed
Emmeline Wardle yet?”

“
Of course. Popped round by
helicopter and videotaped her confession. Wrapping the case in time
for tea.” Bhar sighed. “Or I’m trapped behind the boot of a very
dirty Ford Anglia. Guess which.”

“
I have some data from FSS.
Not official, mind you—just a courtesy report because we’re working
such a high-profile case. Ready?”

“
God, yes.” Bhar hoped the
fervency of his reply conveyed his real meaning—gratitude that Kate
always played fair, even when cheesed off at him. Was Kate prickly
and prone to holding a grudge? Yes, and everyone in the Yard knew
it, except possibly Kate herself. But her first priority was always
solving the case, no matter whom she had to work with or what
personal indignities she had to swallow. And such dedication to
duty was far rarer than it ought to be.

“
First—Clive French always
earned top marks at uni,” Kate said. “But he was recently placed on
academic probation.”

“
Why?”

“
He was accused of helping
other students cheat. Providing them with term papers and finished
science projects. The investigation was still open when he died,”
Kate said. “Second, according to his professors and his dorm mate,
he was gay.”

“
So?”

“
So he was bullied for it.
Even in this day and age, he had to register two formal complaints
with the dean’s office. That’s a motive for murder, isn’t it?
Suppose Clive came on to the wrong guy. A bloke so insecure in his
sexuality, he decided to prove he wasn’t gay? As in, with an
axe?”

“
True. Then again, maybe
Clive insulted a bird?” Bhar suggested. “Said no thanks, you’re not
my type, and wound up paying the price?” Traffic was so slow, Bhar
had no difficulty jotting in his notebook and steering
simultaneously.

“
Not bloody likely,” Kate
snorted. “You saw Clive. He looked as bad in his family photo as he
looked in a body bag. That poor kid couldn’t have gotten lucky in
the women’s nick with a fifty pound note taped to his
willy.”

Bhar laughed. “Oh, really?
If I’d made the same comment about a female vic, you’d be tutting
at me.” He imitated the sound, a prissy
tch-tch-tch
, until she
laughed.

“
Fair enough,” Kate agreed.
“One more thing about Clive French. Speaking of money, he was
packing more than a fifty pound note. He died with nine hundred
pounds tucked in the front pocket of his jeans.”

Bhar gave a low whistle. “How about that.
And didn’t Emmeline Wardle call him a blackmailing little git, or
thereabouts? I don’t suppose there are any useable prints on the
money?”

“
Of course not. FSS tested
them and found all the usual stuff—a million partials, a bunch of
random skin cells and a whiff of cocaine. But that last …” Kate
trailed off in a teasing little sing-song.

Bhar grinned. Kate always went a bit giddy
when dishing up clues. “By all means, keep torturing me. I have it
coming. I was a prat to you this morning. In the guv’s office,” he
admitted, surprising himself.

“
Think nothing of it. But be
advised, I’ll bear a grudge.” Kate’s tone was featherlight.
“Now—would you care to guess what Trevor Parsons had on his person
when he died? Also stuffed in the pocket of his y-front. I’ll give
you a hint: it wasn’t cash.”

“
Let me guess.
Cocaine?”

“
Brill! And one more thing
about our victims,” Kate said. “Trevor had sexual intercourse
sometime that day, either in the late afternoon or early evening.
Probably it doesn’t signify—I’ll bet the same can be said of the
half the guest list—but there it is. Since Trevor was Emmeline
Wardle’s one and only, presumably the deed in question was done
with her. Because if not …”

“
We have another motive for
murder. Now I can’t wait to get to Holland Park.” Bhar clutched the
wheel with both hands. “Mr. and Mrs. Wardle will be present, you
know. Coming off a posh holiday …”

“
Posh?” Kate laughed. “Paul,
I know you’re hard up for break, but would you really call Arkansas
posh?”

“
Arkansas?
As in—the United States?” Bhar laughed. “Are you telling me the
Wardles were in
Arkansas
when the murders happened?” He had only a vague
idea of the place—somewhere in the American South, presumably where
chickens roamed dirt roads and buttered grits were served with
every meal.

“
Confirmed this morning,”
Kate said. “You know the guv. He has the juniors verify every
possible detail that might bear on the case. Especially since the
Wardles are threatening to sue him on their daughter’s
behalf.”

“
Mrs. Wardle told me they’d
just returned from the French Riviera. What were they doing in
Arkansas?”

“
You’ll have to ask them. We
should be able to trace some of their movements by requisitioning
credit card statements and mobile phone records. But only if we get
a warrant,” Kate said. “Otherwise, digging any deeper into Mr. and
Mrs. Wardle’s private life would just make the guv look like he
truly is harassing them.”

“
Oh, I’ll ask them, unless
they pass a much shinier object in front of my face,” Bhar said.
“Why should the guv get all the drama? Civil lawsuit, here I
come.”

***

T
he
house on Addison Road was, for want of a better word, a mansion.
Bhar had expected a detached three- or four-story home with a gated
driveway and an enormous back garden. He had not expected a vision
in pure white, peaked and gabled like a fairy tale castle. The lawn
was still as green as Astroturf; the maple trees had turned red and
gold. Even as the security guard buzzed him through the gate, Bhar
saw a gardener patrolling the front garden with a rake, clearing up
leaves the moment they drifted to earth.

As Bhar emerged from his Astra, the front
door opened and a fortyish woman stepped out. He required no
introduction to recognize her as Mrs. Wardle—the resemblance was so
startling, she could almost have been Emmeline’s elder sister. Like
her daughter, Mrs. Wardle’s hair was straight and blond, falling
several inches past her shoulders. Only a little larger than
Emmeline—size 6, perhaps, rather than 4—Mrs. Wardle wore a tight
T-shirt and black stovepipe jeans. Clearly, mother and daughter
frequented the same shops.

“
Where’s the man I spoke to
on the phone? He was English,” Mrs. Wardle asked as Bhar climbed
the white marble steps. “Name of Barr, I think.”

“
That was
me.” He put out his hand, which she ignored. “Paul Bhar, B-h-a-r.
And I
am
English.
Born in Clerkenwell,” he added, unable to resist the chance to
irritate her even more.

For a moment Mrs. Wardle looked thwarted,
but rallied with admirable speed. “Yes, well, have it your own way.
But before you set foot over this threshold, let me make one thing
perfectly clear. My daughter is the true victim in this travesty.
She’s never been in trouble a day in her life. Never been anything
but a joy to Mr. Wardle and me. I’m sorry some homicidal maniac
killed those boys, but there it is. They’re at peace now. My
daughter cannot say the same. She has to live with the memory of
poor Trevor falling down dead in her home—before her very eyes,
Constable.”

“
Detective sergeant,” Bhar
murmured, but she took no notice.

“
And before you see
Emmeline, there’s the matter of my amphora vase. Come along! No
time to waste!” Closing the door behind him, Mrs. Wardle waved Bhar
through the foyer. “Our family barrister is waiting with all the
necessary documentation. Lionel! The detective is here to discuss
our damages!”

“
Well, strictly speaking,
I’m here to re-interview Ms. Wardle,” Bhar objected, finding
himself herded into an airy front parlor larger than the ground
floor of his mum’s house. He had only a moment to register the
basics—parquet floor, vaulted ceiling and a grand piano positioned
before the picture window. Then a harried-looking man in a rumpled
suit came at Bhar with an armful of papers.