Ice Blue (23 page)

“They bloody well deserved it.” Bhar was
unrepentant. “Think there’s any chance Hetheridge brutalized
Madge?”

“None.”

“Right. So a night in lock-up was just what
those lying harpies deserved. They refused all questions on advice
of their solicitor, by the way. So I stayed up all night and still
have sod-all new information – well, except for their piss tests,
which were positive. Mum does downers and painkillers. Little Miss
does coke. But because of who they are, Jackson isn’t about to
prosecute them for what amounts to minor indiscretions. And to be
honest, I doubt Hetheridge would have bothered with vice charges
either. God, I’m tired.” Pressing his palms to his eyes, Bhar
yawned mightily, then looked Kate over with something more akin to
his usual good-natured expression. “So what gives with you? I know
Jackson revolts you even more than he revolts me, but puking all
over his Oxfam shoes seems over the top. You’re not preggers, are
you?”

Kate sighed.

Bhar’s eyes went wide. “You’re kidding? You
are?” He stared at her for several seconds, then leaned close and
whispered, “Is it the Chief’s?”

Groaning, Kate pushed him back. “Of course
not. Do the maths. And never mind that now. Can I assume the
Super’s waiting for us?”

“He is. Let us go and hearken to the world’s
greatest detective.”

* * *

When they entered Superintendent Jackson’s
office, the gang was assembled – two junior DCs, two detective
sergeants, and three DIs who fluctuated between one super’s team
and another, depending on need. Clearly, Commander Deaver had grown
weary of the Comfrey-Rowland case, and was willing to provide the
manpower to resolve it as soon as possible.

Superintendent Jackson, who fancied himself
both an overpowering authority figure and a regular bloke, sat
man-of-the-people style in the center of the room. The remains of a
jam doughnut was in his right hand – the empty box, stained with
red goo, lay open on the desk beside him.

“No, no, listen to this one,” he cried over a
shout of laughter. “What about an all-girl threesome? Whaddya call
that?”

“Ménage a twat,” Kate said. She’d heard it
around the Yard at least half a dozen times.

Jackson pressed the doughnut into his mouth
and chewed, studying her as the room went silent. “Watch out boys,”
he said at last, around a mouthful of cake and jam. “The
headmistress will cut off your dicks if you step out of line.”

Kate put on a game smile and shrugged. She
had chosen her place in what was still a man’s world. There was a
time to assert her equality, and a time to let deliberate
provocation slide.

“Done sicking up?” Jackson continued. “Better
watch it, Wakefield. Folks will say you’re in the club.”

“No way,” Kate lied, keeping that
I-know-how-to-take-my-lumps expression on her face. “A shock to
hear Hetheridge was out and I’d been reassigned again, that’s all.
But now I’m here, I promise to do my best, sir.”

“As do I,” Bhar muttered, somewhat less
convincingly.

“Well.” Jackson folded his arms across his
chest. “While we were waiting on you and the boy wonder to turn up,
we were discussing errors in the Comfrey-Rowland
investigation.”

“Really?” Bhar asked in a cold voice, before
Kate could intervene with another simpering reply. “Enlighten
us.”

“First, the obvious: breaking the law.
Coercing a confession is a shocking lapse.” Jackson clucked to his
audience. “Second: dismissing material evidence. The balcony window
was open, was it not? The inside garage door had been forced. Two
clear signs that the killer broke into the house, as I believe the
crime scene photos also indicate.

“Third,” Jackson said, rising and staring not
at Kate, but at Bhar. “Allowing a pair of, shall we say,
inexperienced
detectives to flit from
theory to theory, antagonizing witnesses in the process. A
successful investigation begins with a vision and follows that
vision right down to arrest, trial, and conviction.”

“You’ve read the reports,” Bhar said before
Kate could stop him. “Tell us who you’ve decided is guilty and
we’ll manufacture the evidence to prove it. Sir.”

Jackson’s face split in a triumphant grin.
“No. You’re used to having your head, Bhar. You tell me what your
next move would be.”

Anything but the truth, Kate thought. But, as
she feared, Bhar’s desire to be proven right outweighed his wisdom
in dealing with Jackson.

“I think it’s time we discovered exactly how
much Madge and Jules Comfrey stood to inherit on Malcolm Comfrey’s
death,” Bhar said. “I’d also like to discover if their drug abuse
is new, or part of a long-standing pattern.”

“Wrong,” Jackson said. “Faulty programming.
Don’t let it get you down, mate. Your correct answer would be,
research previous break-ins around the Comfrey’s neighborhood in
the last eighteen months. That’s the route which will lead to
resolution.”

“Research?”

“Research,” Jackson declared, unable to hide
his pleasure at Bhar’s indignation. “Research and a report on my
desk by five this evening. Or the Commander and I will have a
discussion about your ability to play well with others.” He turned
to Kate. “What about you? What should your next assignment be?”

“I’m a little uncertain,” she lied. “Last
night, I found out Malcolm Comfrey had a mistress named Ivy Helgin.
She was also his administrative assistant. And you know what they
say about no stone unturned … so I thought interviewing Miss Helgin
might be a good idea. As Comfrey’s assistant, she would know if
he’d received death threats at the office. Or if he feared someone
enemy from his business dealings might seek him out at home…”

That last bit struck a chord with Jackson’s
predetermined scenario. He gave Kate a benevolent smile.

“Good. Good!” He glanced around the silent
faces to emphasize his approval. “Never let it be said I won’t
admit it when one of you hits the right scent. Find and interview
this Ivy Helgin, Kate. Pay special attention to any worries or
concerns Comfrey expressed during his last days. Who knows? Perhaps
you’ll unearth something that pertains to the murder.”

Kate, not daring to meet Bhar’s incredulous
stare, forced a self-effacing smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ll get
right on it.”

* * *

Outside of New Scotland Yard, stomach still
twisting ominously, Kate made several phone calls. The first, to
Ivy Helgin’s directory number, was successful. Ms. Helgin answered,
expressed a desire to cooperate with Scotland Yard, and agreed to
meet Kate for lunch in Piccadilly Circus at one o’clock.

Her second call, to Hetheridge’s mobile, was
met only by rings and an invitation to leave a voicemail. On the
third attempt, she finally did, saying only, “Tony. Paul and I are
thinking of you. Catch you later.”

Her third call was more problematic. The
number was ex-directory, so Kate was forced to use the Yard’s
resources to gain the information. Then she had to convince a
Jamaican-born housekeeper her need to speak with the mistress was
legitimate. By the time the person in question came on the line,
Kate had spent twenty minutes trying to reach her.

“Lady Margaret,” she said. “It’s DS Kate
Wakefield. I’m sorry to disturb you. But I need your help.”

Ivy Helgin pushed bits of her duck comfit, a
dish the Criterion Grill was known for doing well, around her
plate. She looked as if her appetite had fled. Kate, who found the
expensive mess’s aroma nauseating, avoided looking at the other
woman’s plate. She herself had ordered mineral water and a bowl of
thin soup, but managed to swallow only a few mouthfuls of
either.

“I haven’t enjoyed much since Mal died.”
Sighing, Ivy put an elbow on the table and plopped her chin on her
palm, like a bored child. “I’ve never grieved before. Never lost
anyone before Mal.”

That came as little surprise to Kate. It
wasn’t just Ivy’s youth – she was twenty-four – that made a history
of serial mourning unlikely. It was her wide green eyes, her
infectious smile, the lack of lines on her forehead, and even the
way her strawberry-blonde hair rippled to her shoulders in
flawless, symmetric waves. Ivy Helgin seemed to be one of life’s
chosen few: a good soul reared by good souls, properly nourished
and educated, treated kindly at every turn and beaming that same
kindness back into the world, with the innocence of a creature who
knows nothing else. After twenty minutes with Ivy, who carried
herself like a duchess and addressed doormen, waiters, and a
detective sergeant from Scotland Yard like a long-lost friend, Kate
had to struggle to keep her jealousy in check.

“How long were you with him?” Kate asked.

“Two years,” Ivy said. “My first real job. I
came on as the junior assistant to Miss Greggor, who’d been with
Mal since he founded the company. Six months in, she retired and I
began working with him more closely. I wasn’t the best assistant,”
Ivy admitted with a charming, self-deprecating laugh. “I muddled
lots of things, especially maths. Sometimes Mal had to tutor me.
But it was wonderful spending so much time in his company. Those
first few weeks after Miss Greggor left, I began to know the real
Mal, and it was wonderful.” She smiled at Kate, her eyes bright
with memory.

“Didn’t bother you that he was married?” Kate
didn’t succeed in sounding neutral. Some shriveled part of her
wanted to shame Ivy, to wipe that smile off the younger woman’s
face.

“Oh, it bothered me a great deal,” Ivy said,
still pushing duck comfit here and there. “And I didn’t dare
discuss it with my parents, or Father Vernon. It’s not that I
worried about their disapproval. I just didn’t want to put them
through the pain of feeling disappointed in me. And to be fair,
Mal’s situation wasn’t the typical one, of a straying husband out
for what he could get. I couldn’t subject his conduct to the
judgment of those who wouldn’t understand.”

Kate forced herself to take another sip of
water. Her left side still ached, and she suspected dehydration was
as much the culprit as that morning’s violent retching. “So in what
way was Malcolm Comfrey’s marital situation atypical?”

“Well, his wife had drawn a line in the sand.
She wanted to remain married only for the sake of their daughter,
and their social standing. Mal agreed because he was a gentleman
who believed in the sanctity of marriage. But he was only human,”
Ivy said. “He hadn’t been allowed to experience love or passion in
years. He was starving for affection. And I …” Breaking off, Ivy
shook her head, pausing to master herself. “I believe we were fated
to meet. I believe when two people share such a deep love, there
can be no sin. It’s meant to be. It’s destiny.”

“I don’t know if Mrs. Comfrey would agree
with the in-name-only characterization of her marriage to Mr.
Comfrey,” Kate said, striving to keep the cynicism from her voice.
No sense alienating a witness so unguarded. “Did you observe some
interaction between them that convinced you Mrs. Comfrey agreed to
her husband arranging an alternate relationship? How did she get on
with you, for example?”

Putting down her fork at last, Ivy covered
her plate with her linen napkin. “Mrs. Comfrey treated me with a
sort of cool courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing less. And I didn’t
push. I thought it might be somewhat hard for her, to see her
husband – even though she had rejected him – with a much younger
woman. So I tried to be discreet and professional in her presence.
As if Mal and I were nothing but business associates.”

Recalling Ginny Rowland’s belief that Ivy was
too attractive, sharp, and upwardly mobile to accept a man like
Comfrey unless marriage were on the table, Kate asked, “Didn’t it
bother you that Mr. Comfrey couldn’t offer you marriage?”

“Oh, you have it wrong. For the last few
months, we were engaged,” Ivy said, surprised. “Want to see the
ring?”

The waiter, a rotund man with a natural
tonsure, chose that moment to appear. Before Kate could retrieve
her jaw from the floor, he scooped up Ivy’s rejected plate and
Kate’s nearly untouched soup.

“Can I offer you anything more?”

“I’d like to be bad,” Ivy confided to the
waiter, then shot a glance at Kate. “What do you think? Want to be
bad this once?”

Kate shrugged.

Ivy turned back to the waiter. She gave him
that smile again, a smile which expected all the world to return
her good will, since it had never failed her yet. And to Kate’s
amazement, the naturally-tonsured working stiff visibly thawed.

“What do you have,” Ivy asked, “that’s
really, really bad?”

“We have crème brulee,” the waiter said. “But
the molten volcano cake is much worse. A small chocolate Bundt,
filled with brandy-laced fudge, set afire. To die for,” he
concluded, enjoying the excitement in Ivy’s eyes.

“We’ll take two!” Ivy squealed.

“I can’t have anything brandy-laced,” Kate
said. “Pregnant.”

“Crème brulee for you, then,” Ivy said.
Nodding, the waiter hurried off to place the order.

Kate, motivated by frugality rather than
actual need, muttered, “I didn’t get a look at the prices …”

“Oh, don’t worry, detective, this is on me,”
Ivy said, her generosity too unforced to be anything but genuine.
“My little side-line business has succeeded beyond my wildest
dreams. I’ve had to hire an accountant and a personal assistant
just to keep up. So treating you is my pleasure. But I mentioned
the ring…” She dug in her bag, producing a burgundy velvet box.
Opening it, she removed a ring and placed it on the third finger of
her right hand.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” She extended her hand
to Kate.

Kate stared at the ring. A bright center
diamond of at least two carats was set in platinum or white gold.
Clustered around that center stone, smaller canary diamonds were
arranged alongside bright red rubies. On Ivy’s hand, the ring
blazed, impossible to ignore – the cold purity of a diamond
encircled by both light and heat.