02 Blue Murder (30 page)

“
Let me tell you summat.
That lady,” the fat man pointed at Molly French’s door with his
cricket bat, “has lived a life about as sweet as a cow pat from the
devil’s own satanic herd. Her poofter son went and got himself
killed. And she’s dying, if you don’t know. Got colon cancer. Won’t
finish another six months, to hear the doctors tell it.”

“
We had no idea,” Hetheridge
said. “You are …?”

“
The bloke
what owns this building. Lonnie T. McGraw,” the man said,
pronouncing his name slowly and distinctly, like a curse. “I’ve run
off the
Sun
twice
and the
Daily Mirror
five times. Plus that little uncover bugger, whichever rag
he’s from. Always turns up with a bouquet and a big phony smile.
How long do you reckon you’ll be in there?”

“
Half hour. Hour at the
most,” Hetheridge said.

“
Fine. I need a good long
sit on the bog. Hate to leave Molly alone. ’Fraid she’ll do herself
harm. There won’t be no last holiday in Hawaii for her now, and
it’s a right awful shame. What’s she got to live for?”

“
Mr. McGraw,” Hetheridge
said as the landlord rose from his deck chair. “One of my
subordinates may join us later. Young, blond female. DS Kate
Wakefield. If she attempts entry, please don’t swing the cricket
bat at her head.”

“
Noted,” the landlord
grunted, leaving the bat lying across the deck chair’s seat. “While
I’m gone, give me the same courtesy and don’t send poor Molly
crying. Yesterday she wept so much over her boy, she threw up.”
McGraw shook his head. “Goddamn stupid poofter. Couldn’t stay alive
another six months. Couldn’t do that much for his poor old
mum.”

Hetheridge knocked first, then tried the
bell. By the time McGraw had shambled, bow-legged, down the stairs,
a stooped woman in a dressing gown opened the door.

“
You’re the police.” Her
hair, uncombed, was dyed brown with three inches of white showing
at the roots. “Please come in.”

“
Mrs. French.” Hetheridge
refrained from stepping over the threshold, waiting until she
gingerly accepted his hand. “Before we enter your home. I’m Anthony
Hetheridge. An inspector for New Scotland Yard. Please accept my
deepest sympathies for the loss of your son, Clive.”

Molly French’s blue eyes moistened. “Oh.
Thank you. Still can’t believe it. Still keep thinking I might wake
and find it’s all a dream.” Stepping back, she waved Hetheridge and
Bhar inside. “I suppose you’re here to ask questions.”

“
I’ll be taking notes,” Bhar
said, holding up his notebook and pen where Molly French could see
it. “If I may begin—did your son have any enemies? Anyone who might
have wanted to do him harm?”

“
Not that he ever spoke of.”
Molly French fiddled with the belt of her terry cloth robe. “My
Clive was a shy one. Gay, I think, but he never told me. Never
seemed to fancy girls. Just his schoolwork and the computer, of
course. I didn’t care if Clive was gay. He was the best son a
mother could hope for.” Taking a deep breath, she pressed her lips
together, transparently fighting back tears. “He would have flown
me anywhere in the world if there was a cure. And when he heard
there wasn’t—when the doc said I might as well pack it in—Clive
said, ‘Never mind, Mum. I’ll fly you to Hawaii. We’ll vacation in
paradise.’”

“
Did your son have
sufficient savings? To fly you to Hawaii, I mean?” Bhar
asked.

Molly French shook her head. “Not in the
bank. But he tutored other students at uni. Lots of his mates owed
him money. Fees here and there that my Clive let ride. He was
always generous like that. But once he had Hawaii set in his mind,
he told me he’d collect or know the reason why not.”

“
Were the people who owed
Clive money truly his mates?” Hetheridge asked gently. “Or just
other students he knew through a sort of business
association?”

Molly French gave
Hetheridge a stricken look. “They had to be his mates. Clive was
secretive, he never said much about uni, but I’m sure he had
friends. Everyone has friends. Maybe even a boyfriend. I’m sure my
Clive wasn’t all alone in the world. There was one lad who visited
him regular. I think
he
was the boyfriend …”

“
Did Clive associate with a
young man named Trevor Parsons?” Bhar asked.

Molly French shook her head.

“
Emmeline Wardle? Kyla
Sloane?” Hetheridge asked, watching as the woman’s watery eyes
darted from side to side.

“
Not that I ever heard of,”
she muttered. “My Clive loved his computer, he did. If someone
killed him—” She stopped. “Someone did kill him. I know that. I
haven’t gone mad, I know what happened. But it must have been a
mistake. I can’t believe anyone who knew Clive would
ever—ever—”

Hetheridge started to go to her but Bhar was
already there, snatching a Kleenex from the coffee table and
pressing it into Molly French’s hand. “If you don’t mind—could we
see your son’s bedroom?” he asked.

“
Of course. Let me—let me
take my medicine first.” Slow and deliberate, Molly French made her
way to the kitchen. Opening a prescription bottle, she shook out
two large white pills, swallowing them with a glass of water. “Now.
Clive’s room. This way.”

Hetheridge and Bhar followed Molly French
into her son’s bedroom. It looked small and dispiritingly hopeful.
The twin bed was made with an Avengers bedspread. The Mac on
Clive’s desk displayed a Thor screensaver.

“
Always did love Thor, my
Clive,” Molly French said fondly, tracing the blond demigod’s
digital image with a fingertip.

“
Mrs. French. Your pardon,
but—what are those?” Hetheridge asked, pointing to a shoebox near
the computer desk. It overflowed with silver balls, each attached
to a key ring by a long metal chain.

“
Oh! Key chains, don’t you
know,” Molly French said. “They come with lip balm inside. I’ve
always had dry lips. But if you don’t need lip balm, you can chuck
the pot and fill it with—”

“
Hallo! Mrs. French? It’s
me!” a young man called.

“
Oh.” Drawing her robe
closer around her throat, Molly French smoothed her hair with both
hands. “There he is. My Clive’s secret fellow. Don’t let on we
know.” Drawing herself up, she put on a weak approximation of a
smile. “In here, luv. Come on back.”

Hetheridge and Bhar turned as one as Jeremy
Bentham entered Clive’s bedroom. He carried a supermarket bouquet
of carnations and a miniature teddy bear.

“
Detective Bhar,” Jeremy
said, flashing a smile. His gaze shifted to Hetheridge. “Is this
your superior officer? The one who arrested Em?”

“
Yes. Chief Superintendent
Hetheridge,” Bhar said. “He’s in charge of the French-Parsons case.
Chief, this is Jeremy Bentham.”

“
Pleasure to meet you, Mr.
Bentham,” Hetheridge said, shaking the young man’s hand.
“Remarkable for you to remember DS Bhar’s name.”

“
Not really. We’ve met twice
before.” Jeremy pressed the bouquet and small teddy into Molly
French’s hands. “I brought these for you. Little pick-me-up.
Figured you could use it. Just came by to collect some of my … ah!
There you are, you little buggers!” he said, spying the shoebox
full of key chains.

Stooping, he bent to retrieve the box,
dumping its contents atop Clive’s bed. “Right. Let me just count
these. Clive was always losing things. If he wasn’t dead, I’d have
to give him a slap.”

“
Mr. Bentham,” Hetheridge
said, giving Bhar one sidelong glance. “I was told Ms. Paquette is
near her time. How does she fare?”

“
Premature labor. In the
antenatal unit as we speak,” Jeremy said, not looking up from his
counting. “Thank goodness she chose her cousin as her birth
partner. All that waiting would be too much for me.”

“
You might consider popping
round to check on her soon,” Hetheridge suggested. “Sometimes a new
mother dies in labor. The baby dies, too. Nine months of sacrifice
for nothing.” He laughed. “It’s actually quite funny, if you think
about it.”

“
Hey?” Jeremy shot
Hetheridge a sidelong grin. “Well, sure. If they both died … Talk
about a colossal waste of time.” He giggled.

“
Jeremy,” Molly French said,
her tone shocked.

“
I want you to know, I
understand your position,” Hetheridge continued, moving closer to
the door as Bhar took a careful step toward Jeremy. “Most of the
marriages in my family tree come down to money, connections or
both. Phoebe is your golden ticket, isn’t she? No more working your
way up the ladder with one scheme or another. Marry Phoebe and once
she has access to her trust fund, you’ll never want for anything
ever again.”

Jeremy frowned. He seemed to be thinking as
rapidly as possible, trying to reason out a puzzle fraught with
emotional resonance for most, but not for him. “Most people do
marry for security, as well as companionship,” he said slowly.
“I’ve proven I can be everything Pheebs needs. She just needs time
to get over Trevor. She’ll have more money than she can spend. It
won’t hurt her to go halfsies with me. And her baby will need a
father.”

“
Of course. No one would
argue with that,” Hetheridge said. “Trevor Parsons was in the way,
wasn’t he?”

As Hetheridge took another step toward the
door, Bhar moved incrementally closer to Jeremy, saying, “Phoebe
told me she went as your guest to Emmeline’s Halloween party. And
she attended for just one reason. She wanted to rekindle her
relationship with Trevor Parsons. To tell him there was still time
for him to change his mind before she sued him for paternity.”

“
I don’t understand,” Molly
French quavered. “What’s happening? What are you all on
about?”

“
We almost missed the
connection between you and Clive,” Hetheridge told Jeremy. “Clive
was determined to earn enough money to take his mother to Hawaii.
His academic pursuits weren’t enough. So he started working with
you. Delivering samples and collecting on debts. I wonder …”
Hetheridge glanced at Molly French. “Forgive me for asking this,
Mrs. French, but I begin to wonder if Clive’s success at
blackmailing students didn’t inspire him to overreach. To demand
hush money from Mr. Bentham here, or else tip off the police about
your thriving cocaine business.”

“
I know my rights.” Pushing
the box of key chains aside, Jeremy stood up stiffly, like a man at
attention. “I reject every allegation you’ve made. I want
counsel.”

“
Mind you, I’m not concerned
about the cocaine,” Hetheridge said, easing forward another
centimeter. Jeremy’s face remained calm, but a spot of red appeared
on each cheek. His hands, still at his sides, were beginning to
shake.

“
And I understand why you
felt Trevor and Clive needed to be eliminated. But it took me
longer to work out why you did it so flamboyantly,” Hetheridge said
slowly, hoping Bhar was ready but not daring to split his
concentration, even for a moment. “You chose a venue so big and
confused that without an eyewitness or a confession, the culprit
would be almost impossible to pinpoint. But perhaps more
importantly, you chose a venue filled with the sort of people Sir
Duncan Godington particularly values. Right next door to Sir
Duncan’s townhouse, even. And you wielded a weapon similar to a
machete, but easier to handle for someone of your stature. Leaving
me with only two conclusions. Either you meant for Sir Duncan to
take the blame, or you wanted to impress him with a spectacular
crime. Something to rival his own triple murder.”

“
I know my rights,” Jeremy
repeated.

“
I think it was the latter,”
Hetheridge continued, inching still closer to the door. “Not an
hour ago I received word that when you turned eighteen, you legally
changed your name to Jeremy Bentham. Before that, you were Ian
Burke. Twice detained for attempting to get a ringside seat at Sir
Duncan Godington’s trial. Once with a false ID, trying to pass for
twenty-one. Once in drag. Having tried it once and nearly
succeeded, you decided to purchase the murder weapons in drag,
didn’t you? Did you intend to resemble Kyla Sloane with the long,
brunette wig, or was that just a happy coincidence?”

“
Jeremy! What is he—why is
he—” Molly French began.

“
Shut it,” Jeremy cried,
seizing Molly French by the hair. For an instant his fingers clawed
at her soft white throat. Then Hetheridge was there, prying the
younger man’s hands away and pulling Clive’s mother to safety as
Bhar knocked Jeremy to the floor.

“
Don’t try to run,”
Hetheridge cried, holding onto Molly French, who was screaming and
twisting like a madwoman. On the floor, Bhar got into two solid
punches as Jeremy writhed, going for something in his front jeans
pocket.

“
Gun! He may have a gun!”
Hetheridge shouted.

Something small and red flashed in Jeremy’s
right hand. Then Bhar screamed as a blade entered his neck and
blood spurted across the room.

Hetheridge let Molly French go. As she ran
screaming from the room, he advanced on Jeremy. The young man had
plunged his Swiss Army knife’s largest blade into the side of
Bhar’s neck, right where the shoulder joined with the throat.

“
He’s not
bleeding too much,” Jeremy said from the floor, one hand curled
just under Bhar’s chin, the other holding the knife in place. “Bet
if I pull it out, he’ll bleed like a stuck pig. That’s a cliché. I
should say … the
proverbial
stuck pig.”