02 Blue Murder (6 page)

“
Ms. Wardle, I’m well aware
of your loss,” Hetheridge said. “Another young man, Clive French,
is also dead. Can you think of any reason someone would attack
those two men? And risk doing it here, at your party, with dozens
of potential witnesses about?”

“
It was an axe murderer,”
Emmeline all but screamed, her already weak voice breaking. “A
nutter! Why do nutters do anything?”

“
Do you consider any of your
guests potentially unstable?”

“
Of course not. They’re all
the best people. Well—not Clive. Obviously. But all the
rest.”

“
With regards to Mr. French.
Why is he not one of the best people?”

“
Because he’s a slimy
blackmailing little toad!”

Hetheridge blinked, amazed by her vehemence.
Emmeline, too, looked equally shocked, as if unable to believe the
words that had come out of her mouth.

“
Chief superintendent, we
need to take a break,” the Wardle family attorney broke in. “My
client is overwrought. I’m her barrister. Lionel Oliphant.” The man
put out a hand.

Hetheridge raised his eyebrows. He’d been
reared never to ignore an offer to shake hands. Most importantly,
never to be rude. Never unintentionally.

“
Well. You prefer to take
that sort of attitude, do you?” Oliphant withdrew his hand. “I
suppose you think I have no business here. Very well, take it up
with your subordinates; they were so busy collaring the party
guests who fled, they did a poor job securing the rest of the
house. I realize it must be a great disappointment for New Scotland
Yard, to barge in and find these frightened children protected by
legal counsel.” Oliphant’s tone grew colder. “However, at least in
Ms. Wardle’s case, that’s exactly what you face. I won’t stand for
intimidation tactics from you or anyone else, chief superintendent.
My client will answer questions for ten more minutes. Then
we’ll—”

“
I won’t! I know my rights!”
Emmeline leapt up. Oliphant’s borrowed overcoat tangled beneath her
feet, tripping Emmeline and sending her reeling into Hetheridge’s
instinctive grasp.

“
Get off!”

Pulling herself away from him, Emmeline tore
off the gray wool coat and tossed it aside. As expected, she wore
lingerie underneath—a white camisole and tap pants, lacy stockings
and four-inch heels. Crushed against her back were two pieces of
cardboard pasted with white feathers. It took Hetheridge a moment
to realize they were meant to be wings.

“
Emmy, calm down.” Oliphant
tried to place a restraining hand on her shoulder, but she shook
him off with surprising strength. Without the coat, Hetheridge saw
that Emmeline had an unexpectedly robust built, particularly
through the upper arms and shoulders.

“
Don’t call me Emmy! No one
calls me Emmy anymore! And I’m done answering
questions!”

“
Look, love, I know you’re
knackered, but there’s a difference between being firm with these
people and behaving like an unreasonable little brat,” Oliphant
said. Something in his expression—narrowly contained fury—and use
of the diminutive “Emmy” made Hetheridge suspect Oliphant was not
only her barrister, but a family friend or relative.

“
You’d do well to heed your
counsel, Ms. Wardle,” Hetheridge said, putting all his authority
into his voice. “‘These people,’ as your counsel so elegantly
termed New Scotland Yard, have the time, patience and resources to
pursue you as long as necessary, and to the fullest extent of the
law. We can make your life very unpleasant if you refuse to assist
us with our inquiries.”

Emmeline uttered a short, incredulous laugh.
“Old man. Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m not some dozy
donkey afraid of the cops. My father can buy and sell you. Tomorrow
you’ll be begging me for your job back. He’ll pull a few strings
and you’ll find yourself in the dole queue!”

“
Emmy.” Oliphant closed his
eyes.

“
Are you threatening me?”
Hetheridge asked Emmeline.

“
You better believe I’m
threatening you.”

“
Then you’re under arrest.”
Hetheridge gestured to the uniformed PCs watching, expressionless,
from the area just outside the formal parlor.

Shrieking in disbelief, Emmeline tried to
bolt. The male PC seized her forearms, spinning her around.
Planting her feet, Emmeline managed to free herself briefly, only
to shriek again as the female officer snapped cuffs around her
wrists. Immobilized, Emmeline started calling for Oliphant,
pleading until her voice shredded, but the lawyer merely stepped
aside, giving the PCs ample room to perform their duties.

“
You do not have to say
anything,” the woman PC recited over Emmeline’s halting sobs, “but
it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned
something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may
be given in evidence …”

Hetheridge waited silently until Emmeline
Wardle had almost been maneuvered out of the room. Just as the PCs
hauled her over the threshold he called, “Ms. Wardle! One final
question. Do you know who lives next door to you? At number
16?”

“
If Sir Duncan did this, it
isn’t my fault!” Emmeline cried, voice breaking. “I’m not the one
who provoked him! I’m innocent!”

It was the perfect declaration for an
earthbound angel with crumpled cardboard wings. Still, Hetheridge
took those final three sentences more to heart than anything else
Emmeline Wardle said, weighing them long after the constables
dragged her away.

***

T
he body of Trevor Parsons was still being examined by the
divisional surgeon when Hetheridge entered the Wardles’ vast media
room. Judging by the wild disarray, it had been the heart of
Emmeline’s Halloween party. The vast theater-sized telly, taking up
an entire wall, had been muted. A zombie film was playing, young
women shrieking soundlessly onscreen while SOCOs photographed and
videotaped every possible angle. Once Parsons’ body was finally
removed, the SOCOs would place a robotic camera just inside the
taped outline, documenting the crime scene “in the round,” from its
epicenter. As much as Hetheridge found public worship of the FSS a
bit over the top, fueled by television fantasies that distorted
their work almost beyond recognition, he had to admit a videotaped
record of the scene was helpful. Donning protective gear—booties,
paper gown and face shield—Hetheridge approached the divisional
surgeon, Peter Garrett, a man he’d known for more than twenty
years. Garrett was crouched beside Parsons, examining the body with
the aid of a very bright handheld torch.

“
Give it to me straight,
doc.”

“
He’s a goner,” Garrett
replied from long habit. It was an old routine, amusing only to
cops like Hetheridge who had actually heard defense counselors ask,
months after a decapitation or disembowelment, “Did any qualified
expert declare the victim to be dead?” So in this modern era, every
single murder victim was verified deceased by a qualified expert,
even a victim stiff with
rigor
mortis
, an axe buried in the back of his
skull.

“
Have you already examined
Clive French?”

“
I have. One of the PCs
told me you thought the body may have been moved.
Livor mortis
doesn’t
support that, I fear,” Garrett said, referring to the way blood
pooled in the lowest part of the body after circulation ceased. “Of
course, it’s possible the poor young man was moved just after
death. Have to wait and see what FSS finds under the remains of
that bonfire.”

“
Were both men killed with
the same sort of axe?”

“
Precisely the same.”
Garrett, a thin-faced man with prominent lower teeth, gave
Hetheridge his trademark deaths-head smile. “Each was brand new,
from the look of it. This one even has its price
sticker.”

Hetheridge squatted down for a closer look,
ignoring the pain in his arthritic left knee. The UPC coded sticker
bore a name he didn’t recognize: W. C. Marsden’s.

“
Do I imagine it, or is the
blade sunk more deeply into Parson’s head than in
French’s?”

“
You do not imagine it,”
Garrett said, lifting one of Parson’s hands, pre-bagged by the
scene’s first responders to protect potentially vital evidence
lodged beneath the fingernails. “The blade is almost three
centimeters deeper into Parson’s head. It’s a clean central blow.
As if the killer was trying to separate the right hemisphere of
Parson’s brain from his left. As for defensive wounds …” Garrett
gently replaced the bagged hand. “I doubt you’ll find any. I think
this poor boy was taken entirely by surprise.”

“
It appears both men had
their backs to the killer,” Hetheridge said. “Might indicate a
murderer incapable of facing his victims. Someone physically
weaker, like a small male or a female.”

“
It might,” Garrett said,
eyes on his work. “Mind you, I can’t imagine why a physically weak
or intimidated killer would choose a Halloween party to attack.
Slaughtering one victim in a Chelsea garden and the other amid a
houseful of wild youngsters seems like the height of arrogance to
me.” He flashed that deaths-head grin again. “But that’s why I’m
the surgeon and you’re the inspector.”

***

A
fter the bodies of Trevor Parsons and Clive French were
removed for forensic examination, Hetheridge paced
the Wardle house’s ground floor, taking it all
in—orange and black crepe streamers, abandoned bottles of cider,
half-eaten snacks. He’d hoped to meet up with Kate and compare
notes—her impressions of Kyla Sloane contrasted with his of
Emmeline Wardle—but Kate was gone. She’d accompanied her witness
back to New Scotland Yard to log their interview with whichever DI
the assistant commissioner had assigned to run the French-Parsons
Incident Room. Hetheridge appreciated this diligence on Kate’s
part, well aware that paperwork was her least favorite part of the
job. Given the Met’s increasing computerization and reliance on
HOLMES—the Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System, an acronym
devised purely as an homage to that greatest of British detectives,
Sherlock Holmes—timely reports were needed to keep the UK crime
database operating at its fullest capacity.

Perhaps I should use
HOLMES to run an inquiry on axe murderers?
Hetheridge wondered.
On killers
enamored with neuroscience—with the notion of separating the right
hemisphere from the left?

He sighed. It was a familiar pitfall of his
career, imagining serial killers with bizarre new kinks beneath
every shrubbery. Experience had taught him most murders could be
traced back to sexual jealousy, financial greed or both. True
serial killers were rare.

Rare, yes. If no further than a stone’s
throw away. At number 16 …

The Wardles’ second floor was unremarkable
except for more empties, the sour stink of vomit and the evidence
of sexual intercourse in Mr. and Mrs. Wardle’s master bedroom. The
snowy white sheets were twisted; not one but three used condoms lay
discarded on the berber carpet. Apparently the Wardles’ king-sized
bed had been put to very thorough use. Grateful for the SOCOs who
collected all evidence—repulsive as well as benign—Hetheridge
exited the master bedroom without touching a thing.

At the end of the hallway a door stood open,
revealing another set of stairs. These were short and steep, the
risers painted in alternating colors of red and black. At first
glance, Hetheridge saw what appeared to be a red paint spatter on
the bottom step. He had to get closer to confirm the splotches were
actually dried blood.

These must be the attic
stairs
.
Trevor
Parsons came down them with the axe in his head.

There were more splotches all the way up.
Crime scene booties still covering his Italian loafers, Hetheridge
managed to climb the stairs without treading on any but the
smallest stains. The Wardles’ attic was a claustrophobic, minimally
ventilated space. The sharp scent of mildew assaulted him, as well
as something chemical—mothballs, perhaps. Cardboard boxes were
everywhere, most of them unlabeled, and an unshielded bulb burned
only a few inches from the top of Hetheridge’s head. Nearby was
another spread of blood drops, mingled with the dust on the rough
plank floor.

Suppose Trevor Parsons was
lured up here
, Hetheridge thought.
He’s tall, at least six feet, and hunching under
the low ceiling. Words are exchanged with the killer. Parsons turns
to go. The killer strikes one hard, certain blow. But Parsons is an
athlete, a champion. He doesn’t faint from shock, or fall writhing
on the floor. He tries to seek help. Down the attic stairs … into
the party … till he can’t go any farther. He doesn’t leave much
blood behind because it’s in his hair, it’s in his shirt, and the
axe blade is staunching the worst of the flow. And what does his
killer do, as Trevor tries to save his own life? Slip downstairs.
Disappear back into the party …

Hetheridge considered that scenario. Of
course, it didn’t include Clive French’s death in the equation, but
these things took time.

He crossed to the attic window. Like the
boxes and baseboards, the window was coated with dust.
Nevertheless, Hetheridge could make out a small light burning in
the attic of a neighboring home. It was 16 Burnaby.