Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (24 page)

"Well, Arry's not 'inside' so much as on remand," Paul said. "I'm sure he's shaken up, given the number of years he's facing, and not too concerned with grudges against cats at the moment. But to ensure his conviction, and the safety of this entire community, including you and, er, Jinxy, Scotland Yard needs you to commit to—"

"You're not listening," the old woman said. "I'm telling you I can't testify. Jinxy went missing last night. Unless I make peace with Arry, I'll never see her again!"

"Missing?" Paul glanced around the back garden, which could have concealed any number of cats. "But you said Jinxy liked to roam. That's how all your trouble with Arry started."

"It's true, Jinxy's a tom. He can't be tied down," Mrs. Nibley-Tatters said. "But he turns up twice daily at feeding time, and we have tea every afternoon. Today—nothing. Look at his food dish. It's untouched. He's been taken. Only a specialist can get him back now."

"Um, right. How about this? Let's sort out the details about the testimony, shall we? Then perhaps I can get someone from the correct municipal service to come round with an animal van, perhaps some nets, and—"

"Nets? Jinxy's not a wild dog. I don't think you know what he means to me," she insisted, voice quavering. "DCI Jackson did. He spoke nicely to me. Never climbed on his high horse, never rushed me. I should call him and complain about you. Jinxy's all I have in this world. I won't think of testifying until he's safe, and you can promise me he'll stay that way."

"Ma'am?" Sharada pointed to the rustling pile that had frightened her earlier. "That black cat. Is that Jinxy?"

Mrs. Nibley-Tatters squinted. "My specs… need my specs…."

"Jinxy!" Sharada called.

Something fat, black, and rumpled exited the rubbish heap, leaping onto the stone wall that enclosed Arry's back garden. It was the biggest, most malevolent looking cat Paul had ever seen.

"Jinxy, is that you?" Mrs. Nibley-Tatters cried, still fumbling in her apron for her spectacles.

"Jinxy!" Paul hurried down the steps. Eyes on the cat, he stepped in a pile of tangled clothesline and went down flailing.

"No, Jinxy, don't run," Sharada pleaded.

"I didn't see him." Mrs. Nibley-Tatters had her specs on at last. "Are you sure it was him?"

"Get him back," Sharada ordered Paul as he struggled to his feet. "Go! Hurry! I'll stay with her."

Groaning, Paul ran for the garden as Jinxy disappeared into a mass of evergreens.

Five minutes,
he told himself.
I'll give this wild cat chase five minutes. Then it's done, and the old woman will just have to see sense, with or without the wretched beast.

* * *

Three hours later, Paul flung himself onto a Tube train bound for home. Forcing aside two pensioners, he stole the car's last seat out from under a very big, very weary-looking construction worker. Although the man in the highly reflective yellow vest appeared strong enough to twist him into a pretzel, Paul ignored the man's glare, refusing to give up his seat. After the night he'd had, a severe beating hundreds of feet beneath London did not frighten him.

Over the fence. In the bushes. Up a fire escape. On a roof. Off a roof. Down the street….

If at any point the bloody cat had simply run for it, or burrowed into a small space and refused to come out, Paul would have given up. Even if it meant going back to Mrs. Nibley-Tatters empty-handed. Even if it meant returning to DCI Jackson and admitting he couldn't complete one straightforward, murder-free assignment, despite his promise to sort it out. But Jinxy, hideous and green-eyed, seemed to understand all that, and therefore played a different game.

He never ran fast enough for Paul to lose sight of him, nor climbed higher than a detective sergeant in an overpriced suit could follow. More than once he stopped, raised a leg, and went to work cleaning his nether regions while Paul advanced. Seemingly tired of the pursuit, Jinxy had placidly licked his fur, letting Paul get close enough to smell him. Then the big black creature had looked directly at him, as if to transmit some sort of feline curse, and bounded away again.

Paul, reasonably fit and reasonably well-versed in the streets of London, even without GPS or a map, became so focused on the chase, he allowed himself to be lured far from Fitzrovia. At some point he'd turned a corner, blundered into a busy high street, and realized two things: he'd lost track of Jinxy and lost track of himself, too.

His mobile had gone dead during the chase. Forced to ask directions of a street vendor, Paul headed back to Fitzrovia in a state of defeat. Maybe the chase would inspire Jinxy to return home on his own. If so, maybe Mrs. Nibley-Tatters would give him credit for that, if Sharada hadn't said or done something offensive in the intervening time.

It was gathering dark when he approached the old lady's house. Despite the blocked front door and tinfoil covered windows, a sliver of light should have been visible from within. But the place looked dark, deserted. Paul was making for the back entrance when a deep growl startled him.

The black dog moved slowly, head down, growling. Tonight he wore a collar, and his lead trailed behind him.

"Hey, mate, remember me?" Paul lifted both hands in an instinctive show of friendliness. "The guv's been sacked. I'm probably next. Your work's done here. Go haunt someone else."

"Kaiser! Nein!" A tall man approached, his bright blond hair shining under the streetlamps. Paul would have known that handsome, hateful face anywhere. It was Sir Duncan Godington.

"DC Bhar! Good evening. Sorry about my dog. He's developed a bit of a fixation on you, hasn't he?"

"It's DS Bhar," Paul said. "And I should have known you'd be involved. Have you been following me?"

"Oh, you sound a touch paranoid, Paul." Sir Duncan showed his teeth in that trademark grin, the one some called shark-like and others called cannibalistic. "Do you consider me your nemesis? Is so, I'll have to do better. I never consider you at all. But what's that you told Kaiser?" he asked eagerly. "Something about Hetheridge getting the sack?"

"I, er… no. I meant someone else at the Yard. Um…."

Kaiser growled. Picking up the lead, Sir Duncan issued a command in German. The dog fell silent, though his gaze remained hostile.

"Don't lie. You do it poorly. What happened to the chief superintendent?"

"He retired." Paul spoke with all the confidence he could muster, trying not to think of how much he feared this man but only of Tony. "I'm happy for him. Don't take it too hard. You'll love my new boss. He's a huge fan of your work."

"I doubt anyone at Scotland Yard will ever interest me quite as much as Anthony Hetheridge. Or the lovely Kate. Or you, Detective Sergeant Bhar. Keep an eye out. And if you've come back looking for your mum… she and the old lady got into a cab a half-hour ago."

And so Paul had been forced to turn his back on Sir Duncan, never a cheerful proposition, as well as the black dog, Kaiser, and walk away as fast as his aching feet could carry him. During his last high-profile murder case, Sir Duncan had approached him in public, issuing a few silken, playful threats. Now, it seemed, the never-convicted murderer had traded his verbal threats for something more physical. Had he intended to let Kaiser tear his throat out? Or was it just another game, the sort of predator-prey interplay Sir Duncan so enjoyed?

That was a sobering thought. It made courting death on the Tube by snatching a bigger man's seat seem like child's play.

By the time Paul reached his house, the moon and stars were out. Mrs. Nibley-Tatters's home might have been dark as a crypt, but at his own, light spilled from every window. That was unusual, but he liked it better than darkness. He'd just started up the steps when another bark interrupted. But this one was both playful and familiar.

"Mani!"

The friendly Alsatian stretched her lead to reach him, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Behind her, Haresh Bhar walked more slowly. He wore his usual expression, a look of faint suspicion.

"Hello, Deepal."

"Dad. What are you doing out here?"

"What does it look like?"

"Um, well, stalking, actually. Given that you live miles from here."

"I don't. I'm renting a room not far away, thank you."

"Why? Did Neer throw you out?"

"Deepal. Remember who you are talking to."

Paul shuffled his feet. His father's disdain always had a way of making him feel eight years old again, in trouble for cheek.

"Fine," he told Haresh. "It's a free country. Any particular reason you chose to walk Mani past Mum's house? Planning to knock on the door and say hello?"

Haresh made one of his inscrutable noises, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. "Perhaps. Is the American still in jail?"

"Not for long." He had no way of knowing that. He just wanted to see how his father would react.

"He's a drunk," Haresh said angrily. "And a killer. What sort of job are you doing, you and that man you work for, letting these people go? Bad enough the mistakes you made with Godington. My son freed a serial killer. I should be dead of shame."

"I didn't—" Paul took a deep breath. "Never mind. Know what? Mum said you finally read her book. The fictionalized, I assure you, entirely fictionalized novel based on Lord Hetheridge. You don't really think she had an affair with him, do you? She never looked at another man till you left her. And left her high and dry, I might add. If she hadn't written those books, we'd have lost the house by now."

"Don't lecture me about my business. I've seen how she carried on with that American. I know she's sleeping with him."

Mani, sensing the tension, barked anxiously. Paul, who'd missed the dog, knelt beside her, scratching between her ears and murmuring reassurances. When he rose, he was composed enough to reply without raising his voice. He'd been brought up to be a respectful son; to behave otherwise went against the grain. But his recent encounter with Sir Duncan had caused certain aspects of the Hardwick case fall into place, making it impossible to stay silent.

"Dad. I don't know what happened between you and Neer. I don't know what you think is still possible for you and Mum. But I know you were outside Hardwick's house the night his body was discovered, and I think I know why. You've been watching Buck for some time now, haven't you? You even talked to him, outside the Yellow Earl. He was drunk. Probably ranting about Hardwick. Did you encourage Buck to confront him? Have it out?"

"Certainly not."

"But you followed him, didn't you? To see what would happen?"

"I was going that way. Deepal, don't interrogate me. I have nothing to do with—"

"Dad, this is important. What time in the afternoon did Buck leave East Asia House?"

"I don't remember."

"But you saw him go."

"Yes."

"Did he seem upset?"

"Of course. The man with the green hair was shouting at him from his front step, saying he'd have the police on him."

Paul let out his breath in relief. "So Hardwick
was
alive when Buck left. The blood on Buck's clothes must have been his, from his own hands. But later Kate saw you outside the police barriers. Why did you go back?"

"I was here, walking Mani. I thought perhaps I'd call on your mother," Haresh said coolly, as if stalking first Buck, then Sharada, was perfectly rational behavior. "Sharada came out but didn't see me. She met a taxi at the curb, and I heard her give the address. East Asia House. I wanted to know what she was doing. She's my wife. I have a right to know. Maybe she was carrying on with the green-haired man, too!"

Paul groaned. "So when you realized a murder happened inside, you just loitered about, enjoying the show? Bragging to Kate about all the lawyers in our family? Saying Lord Hetheridge will get what he deserved?"

"He will," Haresh said, so furious Mani barked again. "He had no business doing those things with a married woman. With my wife!"

Paul didn't know whether to groan again or laugh in his father's face. Perhaps it was a testament to his mum's skill as a writer that at least one reader had bought the Lord Kensingbard story, lock, stock, and barrel.

"Dad. You're a material witness. You can corroborate Buck's version of events and testify that Hardwick was alive when Buck left the house. You have to come with me to the Yard and give your statement."

"I won't. I'll say nothing. And if you contradict me, Deepal, I'll say you're lying to help her and the man she's sleeping with. No one will believe you. Your word is worthless."

Paul stared at Haresh. He wasn't hurt, or even surprised. His father had always been a stern man, prickly about his dignity, and given to threats. But this was more than Paul could swallow.

"You know what, Dad? Fine. Keep doing what you're doing. Follow people, eavesdrop, drag poor Mani all over London. Scotland Yard will prove Buck innocent. Whether you do your duty as a citizen or not, we'll make it right. And tomorrow I'll convince Mum to call up one of those fourteen solicitors and divorce you, once and for all. We'll be better off without you. You're a—a—
an unpleasant person
!" It wasn't much, but it was the worst thing a respectful son could hurl at his father on short notice.

Haresh never had a chance to answer. Sharada's door opened, spilling more light into the street. Two squat figures, both with towering hairstyles and flowing pink caftans, stood silhouetted in the doorway. Then they were down the steps and upon Haresh like a plague of locusts.

"What are you doing here?"

"Do you think we can't see you through those windows?"

"Sharada doesn't need you!"

"Why turn up unwanted after all these years?"

"Where's your fancy lady now? Washing your stink out of her satin brothel?"

Hurriedly, Paul escaped inside. When Aunt Gopi and Aunt Dhanvi stepped onto the battlefield with voices shrill and fingers pointing, it was impossible to stop them or even slow them down. A wise man got out of the way.

"Mum!" he called, closing the door behind him. "I looked for you at Mrs. Nibley-Tatters' house, but someone said you'd gone. I tried to catch Jinxy, but…."