Ice Blue (15 page)

“What’s wrong with this suit?” Kate asked.
Hetheridge had no intention of intervening, but he was glad she
didn’t look or sound angry.

“It’s cheap. Cheap and silly,” Lady Margaret
said. “Lace is for knickers. You should invest in well-tailored
suits that compliment your figure rather than squeeze for dear life
across the hips and bosom. Black hosiery is out altogether. It’s
bare legs now, or if the Yard won’t allow it, sheerest nudes no one
will see. Your shoes should be stylish but sensible. No more
pointed toes and no teetering heels. Take the time to find classic
pieces, pieces that are above reproach, yet do not draw attention
to themselves. A professional woman at your level should be noticed
only for herself, not for the distraction of her sartorial
choices.”

“Thank you, Lady Margaret. That’s food for
thought.” Serene and composed, Kate glanced at Hetheridge, who
nodded. They rose to take their leave.

Lady Margaret also rose. She moved closer to
Kate to deliver her parting remarks.

“If I might be so bold, I suggest rethinking
your hair, too. It’s rather blowsy and wild, isn’t it? Like you
comb it once in the morning and let it muddle through the rest of
the day as best it can. Perhaps a shoulder-length cut? Maybe even a
chin-length bob. That and a can of hairspray – and a mirror, if I’m
honest – would do wonders for your presentation.”

“Of course. Thanks again,” Kate said,
accepting Lady Margaret’s hands in a warm clasp. Before she could
say more, her smart phone rang from the innards of her bag. Kate,
looking relieved, turned back to Hetheridge.

“I’m sorry, but I’m waiting on an important
call. May I…?”

“Go right ahead. I’ll say our good-byes.”

When the front door closed behind Kate, Lady
Margaret turned to Hetheridge.

“I like her, Tony. As much as I like Paul
Bhar, as a matter of fact. And I see you like her, too.”

“I wouldn’t have chosen her for my team if I
despised her,” Hetheridge said, unnerved, as always, by Lady
Margaret’s powers of perception.

She snorted. “Have I become infirm? Feeble?
You can’t puff and prevaricate with me. I won’t have it. And I
daresay I know what’s different about you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Lady Margaret scowled. “I hope that’s a lie.
I adore you, Tony. I always have. But you can’t be a fool your
whole life.”

* * *

Kate was leaning against the Bentley when
Hetheridge emerged from Lady Margaret’s townhouse, directly into
the glare of the late afternoon sun. Shielding his eyes, he crossed
to Kate, who was idly slapping her mobile against her thigh.

“Bad phone call?”

“Telemarketer. I should have looked before I
dashed off to answer. And you should get some sunglasses,” Kate
added. “You’re always peeking out from beneath your hand.”

Before Hetheridge could reply, Kate dove into
her bag, coming up with several wrong items before producing a pair
of black-lensed tortoiseshell sunglasses. “These are Ritchie’s. I
carry them around because he always forgets, then starts whining.
Try them on.”

Obliging her, Hetheridge did so, and was
immediately more comfortable. Using the Bentley’s side mirror, he
studied his reflection, still worried he looked ridiculous, like a
grandfather out to recapture his youth.

“You look fine.” Kate sounded amused. “Not
that you’ll trust my fashion choices. But you can always venture
inside and see if Lady Margaret approves.”

“Your opinion is good enough for me. I should
compliment you, by the way, for standing up to her critique without
losing your composure. You did far better than Paul on his first
foray into her lair.”

“He warned me,” Kate said. “And really, from
what he said, I expected worse.”

Hetheridge regarded her for a moment. He
considered himself a good judge of when his subordinates were
putting on a show of professional bravery, and when they were truly
unshaken. Kate’s serenity seemed genuine.

“You really weren’t offended, were you?”

Kate shook her head. “Grow up where I did,
with your mum on the game, a schizophrenic sister and a mentally
retarded little brother, and believe me – you build up a tolerance
to unsolicited opinions. But you looked a little aggravated, Chief.
When she mentioned your famous brush with death.”

“Ah. Then my poker face isn’t what it used to
be.” Hetheridge told himself to open the Bentley’s door and usher
Kate inside. Instead, he said, “Margaret is one of the few people
who know how difficult that incident was for me. Why she chose to
bring it up over tea, while we were discussing something entirely
different, I can’t imagine.”

“So the story about you staring down the
gunman with your fierce glare isn’t true?”

“No. It was the single most terrifying moment
of my life. And I didn’t go right back to work. I had a bit of a
breakdown. Considered early retirement. Contemplated holing up in
the country, where I’d never risk another gun in my face
again.”

“It changed you?”

“No. It could have changed me. But I refused
to let it. At the time, I thought I’d won a battle inside myself.
Now …” Hetheridge found himself again speaking unguardedly to Kate,
as he had at Wellegrave House. “Now I’m not sure if I didn’t turn
my back on an experience that was meant to change me.”

“And nothing like that ever happened
since?”

“Once.” Something about Kate’s interest, and
his own openness, finally sounded alarm bells in Hetheridge’s
skull. He had to divert this conversation away from himself,
quickly. “So what of Lady Margaret’s fashion advice? Do you plan on
taking it?”

“Think I should?”

“As a matter of policy, I never give women
advice on clothing or accessories.” Hetheridge opened the Bentley’s
door for her, but as she climbed in, couldn’t resist adding,
“Except this once. Don’t cut your hair. She was dead wrong about
that.”

Ginny and Burt Rowland, apparently not
pacified by their complimentary theater tickets and forthcoming
letter of apology from Scotland Yard, managed to miss their flight
from France, postponing the interview another day. So Tuesday
morning passed uneventfully, with Bhar offering confirmation that
Charlie Fringate’s current business was perhaps six months from
insolvency. In the interview room, Kevin Whitley offered nothing of
substance. After a long conference with his solicitor – a
top-drawer litigator retained by Madge and Jules Comfrey – Kevin
changed his original story, that the CC camera photo was misdated
or a nefarious digital fabrication, to something simpler.

“I forgot my phone. Went back to get it,” he
told Kate and Bhar. “Knew the door was busted and got in that way.
Then I met my mates at the Severed Head pub. No crime there.” He
looked pasty, thin, and frightened as he spoke. The cocksure
lady-killer had changed into a mousy boy.

“By the way – sorry I called you an effing
Paki, mate,” Kevin added, eyeing Bhar hopefully. “Racist, innit?
Didn’t mean nothing. Could you tell me how much longer I’ll be in
here?”

Not much longer, Kate thought, although she
and Bhar concluded the interview without ever tipping off Kevin how
close his release might be. Forensic Services had confirmed Kevin
Whitley’s fingerprints were not on the murder weapon. It had, in
fact, been wiped clean, and bore no prints at all. Malcolm
Comfrey’s study had contained a mélange of prints: Madge and Jules
Comfrey, Charlie Fringate, Burt Rowland, and even – interestingly –
Ginny Rowland. (The fact that Ginny and Burt Rowland had been
forced to provide fingerprints for electronic transfer from France
was another outrageous insult, but they had grudgingly complied.)
Only one partial print belonging to Kevin Whitley had been found,
and that was on the door jamb. The print’s location was several
meters from the corpse – hardly the sort of compelling evidence
that might lead a judge to deny bond.

“The fact that Kevin has no priors makes it
even harder,” Bhar said. “It’s also difficult to argue he’s a
flight risk when the victim’s family members are his biggest
supporters.”

“I don’t suppose you learned anything new on
Ginny?” Kate asked.

“No. I hoped the fingerprints might turn up a
prostitution arrest under her former name, Ginny Castle, but
there’s nothing. She either worked alone within the limits of the
law, or else one of her previous employers – all of which look
legit at first pass – was a deep-cover escort service to the
wealthy and privileged. I’m still digging into that possibility.
Might ask the old man to call up a few of the companies, asking for
female companionship, and see if he gets any bites.”

Kate giggled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“How little you know me. It’s always been a
dream of mine to witness his lordship soliciting hot, illicit sex.
Are you heading home?” Bhar asked the question in a way that
implied no criticism – rare among Kate’s peers, who often measured
their career worthiness by how rarely they departed before seven
pm.

“Afraid so. Got an appointment,” Kate called
over her shoulder. Glancing at her watch, she wondered how long it
would take
her
to get to Harrod’s
Knightsbridge.

* * *

The complimentary services of the personal
shopper took five hours – four hours and fifteen minutes longer
than Kate, in her innocence, had budgeted for herself. She’d been
measured, fitted, re-fitted, quizzed about the minutiae of her work
life, and led to pinpoint preferences she’d never known she had.
Did she like earth tones or power colors? Did she value clean,
elegant lines, or prefer the edgy and up-to-the-minute? Did
designer labels matter, or only fabric and cut? Were cuffs or
pleats strongly objectionable? What about scent, shoes, and the
eternal debate – silver or gold?

Famished and suffering from sensory overload,
Kate retreated to the Green Man Pub on Harrod’s ground level. At
home in the smoky, old-fashioned pub atmosphere – a fabrication, of
course, but a loving one – Kate ordered a roast beef sandwich,
chips, and a beer. Then she was forced to ask the waitress to
replace the beer with cola when she recalled, still with that sense
of the surreal, that pregnant women weren’t supposed to drink
alcohol. Even without a beer, the late lunch did the trick. After a
half-hour in hiding, Kate forced herself to climb via escalator
back up to the brightly-lit world of the personal shoppers, to view
what they’d assembled for her.

Six suits were the foundation of her new work
wardrobe – black, chestnut, gray heather, and navy pinstripe. Each
suit was silk, and accompanied by both slacks and skirts. They
fitted beautifully – so beautifully, in fact, Kate decided to
confide her pregnancy to the personal shoppers. The skirts, she
learned, could easily be adjusted, and Harrod’s would be happy to
provide tailoring to accommodate her changing figure. The other
accessories, including modest leather shoes that looked
grandmotherly, but won Kate over with their cloudlike support,
would carry her through the ninth month just fine.

“Career women don’t drape themselves in sacks
anymore, just because baby’s on the way,” a cheerful assistant told
Kate. “These days, you make fashion fit you, and display your bump
with pride.”

Not quite convinced, Kate consigned that
image of herself – the same, except for a beach ball of a belly,
knocking over evidence as she examined crime scenes – to the
recesses of her mind. She probably had two or three more months to
enjoy her new clothes before the jig was up. And although she
didn’t consider herself a clothes person, she had to admit, it was
fun to let a team of professionals fuss over her until they got it
right.

“I realize this is a substantial outlay,” the
saleswoman continued, presenting Kate with the bill. “But you’ll
never regret investing in yourself.”

She’s not sure I can pay for all this, Kate
thought, handing over her debit card. She wished Henry, who often
accused her of meanness, could see her release her grip on so many
pounds. She scrimped on rent, her car, their groceries, and – until
now – her wardrobe. She never revealed to any lover, including
Dylan, precisely how much she earned, or how much she saved. Ever
since she assumed responsibility for Ritchie, including the hiring
of Cassie – a necessity partially subsidized by government
agencies, thank God – Kate had guarded her finances. She had a fair
idea what Ritchie’s lifetime care would cost, and she meant to be
ready.

But this really is an investment, Kate told
herself. If I look more professional, I’ll get better assignments
and quicker promotions. And that means more money for Ritchie, for
Henry, and for Baby Whatsit, too.

Trailed by a team of smiling salespeople
carrying Harrod’s bags, Kate stowed the entire purchase in the boot
of her car, grateful for the experience and relieved to escape it.
Perhaps it was a sad commentary on her as a person, but when she
missed work, she really missed it. And before she returned home to
Henry, Ritchie, and whatever amazing dinner Cassie was preparing,
shouldn’t she drop back by the Yard and make sure she hadn’t missed
any new developments?

The offices had mostly cleared out. The lifts
were blessedly swift, and the only sound was of vacuums and
floor-polishing equipment as the cleaning staff tackled another
day’s filth. When Kate arrived in Hetheridge’s office, she found
Mrs. Snell still at her desk, typing with demonic speed.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” Mrs. Snell said,
barely glancing at Kate. “I thought you’d taken a vacation day.”
Her tone contained all censure Bhar’s earlier question had
omitted.

“That’s right. Just dropped an obscene amount
of money at Harrod’s. Can’t spend every night here, hunched over my
computer, or I’ll end up a mad old bat without a life. Looks like
Tony’s in his office. I’ll let myself in.”