Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (10 page)

Before Tony entered Interrogation Room Two, he stepped into the observation anteroom for a look at Buck Wainwright. It was always good to take a glance ahead of time, to judge the suspect's demeanor from afar.

In days of yore, only two-way glass had separated the detainee from note-taking detectives. That had led to a certain amount of theatrics from those awaiting interrogation: tears, impassioned oratories, even an unnerving, unblinking gaze directed toward the glass. And the sort of suspects who exhibited this latter behavior tended to share key traits. They were male, unusually tall, physically strong, with a history of violence and a concurrent history of substance abuse. As new breakthroughs in genetics arrived, the conclusion was XYY syndrome, a genetic abnormality that resulted in reckless, easily angered, mentally subnormal "supermales."

But since the nineteenth century, all who attempted to identify wrongdoers by type instead of actions had failed. Cesare Lombroso, the man who in 1911 had posited that all criminals shared a weak chin, low slanting forehead, and abnormal body hair, was soon discredited. The XYY fable had been similarly binned, which was lucky for Buck, who some criminologists would have loved to shoehorn into their "supermale" theory. He certainly looked the type, sitting upright at the table and gazing straight at the primary camera. Hardly seeming to breathe, he sat utterly still, like a man dead, a corpse unaware the end had come.

"Good evening, sir," PC Gulls chirruped from her seat by the monitors.

"Good evening, Constable." During his team's last high-profile case, PC Gulls had volunteered to cull five minutes' crucial footage from hundreds of hours of CCTV film. She'd done the job quickly, accurately, and without complaint, despite its daunting nature. Tony thought highly of her, but around the Yard, the sentiment was far from universal. Short and slight, with elfin dimples and a mop of curly brown hair, Gulls's upbeat demeanor had engendered considerable ire. Grimmer, wearier colleagues took to calling her names: PC Gullible, the Hobbitess, Bilbo Slaggins.

That last was, in Tony's view, an inexcusably lazy attempt at humor. Gulls was the furthest thing from a slag; any country that prided itself on sophisticated wit ought to do better. So he'd quietly leaned on the worst offenders, suggesting they devise a nickname capable of making
him
laugh or else desist. No one, it seemed, possessed such faith in their comedy stylings. Now PC Gulls was known only as PC Gulls.

"Anything to report?" he asked.

"No, Chief. They sat him down about a half-hour ago. He's been waiting like that ever since. Someone said he killed an art dealer. It wasn't Granville Hardwick, was it?" Gulls asked.

"It was. You've heard of him?"

"After last week, I reckon anyone who reads the
Daily Mail
has. Then again, I might be their last reader. They don't call it
Daily Fail
for nothing." She tittered. "Our killer must have stood at the head of a very long queue. You want to see?"

Tony nodded.

Turning to an auxiliary monitor, Gulls opened a search engine, typed "Granville Hardwick," and hit enter. Tony was astonished by the results. For a man who'd never impressed him one way or another, his erstwhile neighbor certainly garnered a lot of hits.

"Constable. Would you be so good as to let me drive?"

"Sure, Chief." Gulls scooted her wheeled chair aside, and Tony seated himself. After a few clicks, he was soon looking at a photo taken just three days before, at a gallery fête. It was captioned
, Granville Hardwick drums up interest in the
Tribal Rhythms
installation by shaking his maracas with Sunny Wainwright.

To Tony, Hardwick looked like most of the male guests, except for his lime green forelock: middle-aged, middle height, expanding middle beneath a red silk cummerbund. His date, Sunny Wainwright, was an altogether different matter. She had long, straight, spun gold hair; a glowing tan that seemed to scream good health, never mind the dermatologists; full breasts, narrow waist, and legs that went all the way up. He'd seen her many times before, albeit with a different name and face, turning up repeatedly in his line of work.

The sort of woman men kill for
.

Yet even as he felt an odd stab of pity for Sharada Bhar, he pushed the idea aside. Men killed for all sorts of reasons. Often they named a woman as the cause: an ex-lover, mother, sister, or boss. The media, and in particular novelists, loved it when the woman was sophisticated, sexy, worldly. Somehow her desirability made the story sizzle, as if the man who'd committed murder couldn't be held guilty in the face of such carnal appeal.

The other society snaps were more of the same. Mayfair's wayward art dealer clearly preferred a certain type: tall, female, and called "Mrs.," yet not Mrs. Hardwick. In photo after photo, Hardwick courted the spotlight beside the not-quite-exes of professional athletes, C-list celebrities, and entrepreneurs. There he was, attending an unveiling beside curvaceous Mrs. Barney Leeds, whose husband was a footballer best known for punching out his coach; clinking champagne flutes with Mrs. Declan East, wife of a noted playwright and opinion columnist; posing on the red carpet next to Mrs. Jimmy Quarrels, married to a TV chef better known for tantrums than soufflés.

If not for Buck Wainwright's arrest at the scene, the spouses of Hardwick's other lady friends would have formed quite an identity parade, Tony thought. The man's dating proclivities made him a crime of passion waiting to happen.

"Chief, I hope you don't mind my asking, but—any chance I could sit in on the interrogation?" Gulls sounded eager. "I always get shut out of interviews unless the witness is a crying child. In that case, they come to me straight away, but only till the kiddo's sorted with a mug of hot chocolate. Then the real questions start, and I'm out on my ear."

That didn't surprise him. Gone were the interrogation rooms of his youth, where tobacco smoke hung ominously overhead, suspects were routinely threatened or cursed, and certain laws were suspended altogether. But even in an era when interviews were digitally recorded and cigarettes were
verboten
, the interrogation room remained a fraught place. Allow a sweet, smiling, optimistic officer into the mix? To many, it must have felt like madness.

"I'm open to the idea. Provided we set some ground rules first," Tony began. But as Gulls nodded eagerly, someone said from the doorway,

"Am I too late, then?"

"Almost, DS Hetheridge," he said lightly, choosing to ignore the note of annoyance in his wife's voice. She was exhausted and on edge. He'd permit her another hour's work, then pull rank and send her home. What unforgiveable selfishness had tempted him to unburden himself to her? Thank goodness his better nature had prevailed. To PC Gulls he said, "I believe two officers at the table is sufficient. But next time. That's a promise."

"No worries, sir. It's only natural you'd prefer her," Gulls said in her usual cheery tone. "Oh!" Her eyes widened. "I don't mean because you're married, sir. Ma'am. I just mean, well, because you've worked together for so long. Well, not
so
long, a few months. But you worked together the entire time you dated, and now that you're married, I should never expect to take priority over…." Mercifully, she stopped.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," Kate said brightly. "You're Gulls, right? The one who analyzed all those hours of Hotel Nonpareil footage? I'm Wakefield, at least in my own mind, but everyone else calls me Hetheridge. Ever so pleased to shake your hand." Crossing the room, she performed the action with gusto. "Well done, that. Maybe next time we'll catch Sir Dunc in the act."

"Oh, if he puts a toe over the line, I'm your man. I mean, woman." Gulls was practically quaking with relief. "We're sure to have another crack at it. Killers like Duncan Godington don't stay quiet for long. Not that I'm
hoping
for another murder…."

"We quite understand your sentiment. Now if you don't mind, DS Hetheridge and I will begin the interrogation of Mr. Wainwright," Tony said. "Observe carefully, PC Gulls. A quiz may follow."

"Yes, sir!" Gulls burbled happily. Kate didn't roll her eyes—she'd come a long way in professional deportment since exiting Vic Jackson's team—but Tony could practically feel the energy his wife expended not to scowl, sigh, or otherwise express disdain for the junior officer's enthusiasm.

"I know you have a thing for hard luck cases," Kate began the moment they were out of earshot.

"Yes, indeed."

"I mean, Paul can be a nightmare…."

"Ah, the near-incalculable sins of Paul Bhar," he agreed archly.

"And probably some people thought I was hopeless…."

Tony managed not to smile.

"… but
she
ought to be a primary school teacher! She should be reading nursery rhymes on the CBeebies bedtime show. She's not cut out for police work," Kate finished, one hand on the door of Interrogation Room Two. "What will she do in an interview, offer the suspect tea and ask about the time his mummy made him cry?"

"Perhaps."

"But that's just—" Kate stiffened, releasing the doorknob as the light dawned. This time, Tony did not conceal his amusement.

"Certain things, like black ties and firm handshakes, never go out of style. Good cop-bad cop is as classic as they come. But I'm too, let us say,
seasoned
to make a believable good cop. The moment I'm introduced as Chief Superintendent, no suspect worth his salt will believe I'm in his corner. As for Paul, he performs better now—a sense of humor helps—but you, my love, couldn't play the good cop if your life depended on it. In most interrogations, I fear you might surge over the table and try to beat the truth out of our man."

"I would never," Kate muttered. "Too many cameras."

"Indeed. But PC Gulls, despite her yearning for truth and justice, is polite and kindly right down to the marrow. Would she ask some hardened, uncooperative detainee to unburden himself about his mum?" Tony chuckled. "Perhaps. And who knows what such an individual might reveal to an officer who seems so harmless?"

Kate studied him. Tony thought she'd argue the point, or perhaps shrug it off. Instead she looked right, looked left, seized him by his Windsor-knotted tie, and kissed him, long and hard. When she let go, he pulled her back into his arms, not caring who passed through the corridor and witnessed their embrace.

"What was that for?"

"Because you're you, and I love you. Besides, I needed a kiss, after all the hell I've been through."

"When did you start thinking of investigations as hell?"

"Not the murder. My family. Now." She jerked a thumb at the door behind her. "Would you rather go in cold or hear what he told me?"

* * *

Despite three wall-mounted video cameras, all of New Scotland Yard's interrogation rooms included a tabletop audio recorder to commit the interview to posterity. Tony had no idea if such duplication were deliberate, as in a failsafe, or accidental, as in typical bureaucratic waste. In some branches of UK government, the right hand didn't know what the left was doing; in the Met, as far as Hetheridge was concerned, the right had no notion the left existed, much less how it entertained itself in the dead of night. But he hadn't survived, even thrived, in such a complex environment by tilting at windmills. Therefore, despite multiple audio/video feeds, he switched on the tabletop recorder, reciting his name, Kate's name, the date, and all other salient details. And as was his habit, he did so as slowly as possible, drawing out the process for one reason: to test Buck Wainwright for guilt or innocence.

It was a ludicrous yardstick, one he'd never disclosed to anyone, not even Kate, lest she conclude he was losing his wits. But perhaps two-thirds of the time (according to his unscientific estimate) the test yielded fruit. An innocent detainee was impatient. Eager to make eye contact, eager for reassurance. Innocent detainees often started babbling before the first question, or gasped aloud when the charge was read. The very words "charged with murder" produced a visceral reaction in people who'd never knowingly broken the law, who prided themselves on a blameless life. To be consigned to a featureless, forbidding room and be forced to listen as Hetheridge oh-so-slowly recited the identifying data in an equally forbidding tone? It made them desperate to speak, to argue, to leap out of that institution-style plastic chair and make someone, anyone, listen.

Then there was the guilty. Killers tended toward manipulation. Some tried to seize control with a calculated facade. They smiled happily ("Observe how innocent I am.") or they smiled sadly ("I shall forgive your allegations.") or they assumed Zen-like calm, believing that to appear untroubled was the key. Still others adopted stony silence. Legs locked together and arms wrapped tight across their chests, they scowled at the floor as he made them wait, wait, wait. Perhaps they imagined an innocent man would be too furious to speak. Anger was, after all, their go-to emotion, how they responded to virtually every situation.

Last came the habitual criminals, those who committed their crimes as a way of life, either to make a profit or fulfill some deep, dark need. Many remained blank as Tony went through his routine. Sociopaths did whatever they wanted, examining their fingernails or picking at scabs. Psychopaths, prone to thinking themselves dead clever, liked to gloat. Such flashes of sly contempt had often convinced Tony of their guilt long before questioning commenced.