Ice Blue (3 page)

Kate dimly realized that her eight-year-old
nephew, Henry, would surely benefit from the youth center’s
resources while she was at work. But uppermost in her mind was the
realization that Superintendent Jackson had not been mentioned. The
implication – reassignment – was obvious, yet so sudden, she didn’t
know how to feel.

“I was expecting Jackson,” she said.

“I know.” Stopping at a red light, Hetheridge
shot her a quick smile. “You’ve been reassigned. Superintendent
Jackson already knows. You were meant to receive formal notice next
Monday. But with my other DS tying up loose ends on another case, I
decided to bring you aboard early.”

“And I’m grateful,” Kate said sincerely,
fighting hard to stifle a yawn.

He shot her another glance before the light
turned green, and Lexus resumed its course across the Thames. “Let
me guess. You have some sort of home life.”

Kate laughed. Hetheridge pronounced the
phrase “home life” formally and with care, like an alien inquiring
after a lifestyle his inhuman intellect could not process. “Afraid
so. But when I’m at work, I’m at work. And I’m very glad to receive
this opportunity, sir.” The phrase sounded equally alien to her own
ears, as if she had said the wrong thing. But even if the sentiment
was awkward, it came from the heart. Superintendent Jackson had
been dead set on keeping her tightly restrained. Perhaps Hetheridge
would loosen the lead.

Enlivened by that possibility, Kate continued
to study Hetheridge, taking in his usual impeccable grooming, as
well as the stylish cut of his tuxedo, until he shot her another
quick glance.

“Yes?”

“Oh,” she sighed, grinning at him and feeling
completely awake. “There’s just something about a man in a tuxedo,
isn’t there?”

He kept his eyes on the road. “Evening dress
does counteract a multitude of sins.”

Silence, then, as they crossed the river and
began navigating the West End. Geez, Kate thought, wondering if she
would ever manage to conduct an appropriate conversation with
anyone in authority. He probably thinks I was trying to flirt with
him. And I doubt he appreciates that sort of thing on the job.

Part of Kate wanted to sag with relief at the
realization that while she was assigned to Hetheridge, there would
be no narratives about heartless wives, no requests to meet him
after work at the pub, and no male bits making unscheduled
appearances, bobbing and drooling for her attention. The other part
of Kate thought, but does this mean he’s so correct, I can’t make a
joke? Can’t swear? Can’t tell him he’s a bloody good looking old
man in his bloody tux?

“I can’t recall,” Kate said, defiant as
always, and darting directly into the breach. “Are you married,
divorced, or widowed, sir?”

This time, the sidelong look was curt, and
his tone was aristocratic. “How is that relevant to our working
relationship, DS Wakefield?”

“You mentioned I might have a home life. Now
I’m inquiring after yours,” Kate replied, unruffled by what she
thought of as his Lord Hetheridge voice. It was when he spoke
simply, without artifice, that she felt disarmed.

“I never married,” he replied, still in icy
aristocratic tones.

“Oh. Gay. No problem. Works for me,” Kate
said.

She expected Hetheridge to hook the Lexus
right off the road, or at least hit the brakes and launch into a
lecture. Instead, he seemed to be holding his mouth firm, and
restraining a ripple in his upper body.

“Makes sense,” he said at last. “If you
resisted Superintendent Jackson’s considerable charms, you must be
lesbian. If I never made it to the altar, I must be homosexual.
Then again,” he continued, turning into a neighborhood of wide
lawns and imposing facades that Kate had never driven through
before, “perhaps you never felt compelled to sample the
superintendent’s goods, and perhaps I’m a stallion who never found
a reason to settle down.”

Flashing lights, a lone camera crew from BBC
1, and yards of reflective blue and white crime scene tape awaited
them in front of a brilliantly-lit, stately brick house. Hetheridge
stopped the Lexus, conversing briefly through a lowered window with
a PC. Then the police barrier was moved aside, and he was permitted
to drive deeper into the crime scene.

Kate was prepared to make some other joke
about Hetheridge’s status as a stallion – her mind had been working
overtime since he uttered the word – but when he cut the engine and
turned toward her, his expression quelled all humor.

“This man died a grotesque death. We owe it
to him, and to society at large, to find the killer. I expect your
best, DS Wakefield. Can you give me your assurance you’ll do
everything within your power to solve this case?”

As if hypnotized by Hetheridge’s gaze and the
steady, melodic sound of his voice, Kate herself say, “Yes,
sir.”

“All right, then. Let’s get on.”

Hetheridge parked behind the two-story house,
easing his Lexus between a panda car, blue lights endlessly
flashing, and a black BMW that surely belonged to the victim, or
his family. He had already received a few details from the
dispatcher, but did not intend on biasing Kate by revealing them.
According to Superintendent Jackson, Kate was a typical flighty
female – too distracted by trivialities to home in on the big
picture, more interested in personalities than hard facts, and
consumed with the desire to solve a big case entirely through her
own efforts. Per Jackson’s six-page recommendation that Kate be
given the sack, her worst failing was wild egotism – trusting too
much in her own inexperience while ignoring the hard work and
invaluable contributions of steadier, more seasoned detectives.
Kate, by contrast, had spent less time crafting her written
explanation of the public row with the superintendent. The
mandatory report had arrived on Hetheridge’s desk with only five
minutes to spare before his deadline, scrawled by hand on a piece
of copier paper. It consisted of one word: Plonker.

“Your neck of the woods?” Kate looked around
the exterior of the detached brick house, with its enormous treed
lot and pea-gravel car park, wide enough to swallow the average
council flat. “Nice.”

“New money,” Hetheridge replied, deliberately
sounding snobbish. Ordinarily, he would have responded with a
shrug, steering any conversation with his juniors away from the
personal – especially as it applied to him – to keep their minds on
the case. But something about Kate made him want to startle her
every chance he got.

“Yes, quite vulgar, really,” Kate agreed in a
passable imitation of his tone. “This is no murder – poor bugger
topped himself from shame.”

“Press are crowding the barrier,” Hetheridge
said, pressing his hand into the small of Kate’s back and pushing
her forward as photographers shot in their general direction.
“Inside. They usually know better than to print photos that include
detectives, but it will only take one to compromise the
investigation.”

He expected her to argue, or perhaps bristle
at his touch. He hadn’t meant the soft push to be offensive, only
imperative, but who knew how the modern career woman might
interpret such an action? Hetheridge had never worked with a female
DS before, but he had worked with a junior officer whose photo,
snapped in front of a corpse and published in the
Sun
, had precipitated the kidnapping and ransom of that
officer’s wife and child. Hetheridge had no intention of allowing
such a tragedy to happen again.

Kate didn’t bristle. Obediently, she led them
into the house – specifically, into a mud room, where two uniformed
constables awaited them. The room, painted stark white and lit by
unshielded bulbs, was home to several metal wheelie-bins, a row of
Wellingtons, and pile of dirty trainers. An assortment of macks and
trenches were hung at staggered intervals along the rear wall.

“Good evening, Chief,” a constable, blonde
and pale-faced, greeted Hetheridge. The man looked as if he’d been
sick. The sharp stink of vomit hung in the air.

“Good evening, Constable,” Hetheridge
replied. “This is my partner, DS Kate Wakefield. Where is the
victim?”

“Upstairs. Library. Forensic called to say
they’re held up, but will arrive before dawn. In the meantime …”
The constable handed both detectives filmy blue booties and blue
latex-free gloves. Hetheridge covered his shoes, then slipped on
the gloves, noting that they were a shade too tight for his hands,
and clearly too loose for Kate. Such was the peculiar genius of
Met-issued gear: guaranteed to never fit any officer, regardless of
height, weight, or build.

“The wife, Mrs. Comfrey, blames an intruder.
She thinks this was a home invasion. The daughter thinks it might
have been a houseguest. The family held a dinner party, but it
broke up before the first course was served. Erupted into one big
row, according to the daughter, though Mrs. Comfrey says otherwise.
Mr. Comfrey went upstairs to the library. Mrs. Comfrey saw the
guests off and went up to her room. Around ten-thirty she went back
to the library to check on her husband, and discovered the body.
According to her, the French doors on the balcony were open, as if
someone broke in that way.”

“Or left that way,” Kate suggested.

“No sign of forced entry from outside,” the
constable replied. “The area below the balcony has been roped off,
and photos will be taken as soon as it’s light.”

“Who besides Mrs. Comfrey was in the house
when the victim was killed?” Hetheridge asked. Something about
family name seemed familiar to him, especially in conjunction with
Belgravia, but he couldn’t yet place it.

“No one. The daughter, Jules Comfrey, left
when the party broke up to go after one of the guests. She said her
father had been highly offensive, and she was trying to repair the
damage.”

“Live-in help?”

“The Comfreys don’t have any. When the dinner
party was called off, the cook and her helpers packed up the food,
cleaned the kitchen, and left. We’ve already taken down names and
addresses, and will round them up tomorrow for questioning.”

“Is there a groundskeeper, or gardener?”
Hetheridge asked.

“Yes. Lives in Cricklewood; takes the train
in. He had already left for the day before the guests started
arriving.

Hetheridge glanced at Kate. She was taking
notes, not on a pad, but on a Blackberry-style smart phone, using a
stylus with astonishing rapidity.

“Who is being detained in the house now?”
Hetheridge asked the constable.

“Mrs. Comfrey and Jules Comfrey. The daughter
returned to the house when Mrs. Comfrey called her, after finding
the body. Apparently that was her second call, right after 999.
They’re together now in the parlor. Oh, and Mrs. Comfrey asked to
be allowed to ring for her physician. Both ladies are very upset,
so I allowed it.”

Kate’s stylus stopped clicking. She shot a
glance at Hetheridge.

“Has the doctor arrived?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Send him away without granting him
entry. Furthermore, the Comfreys will make and receive no other
phone calls to anyone until I say so. Are we clear?”

“Clear, sir,” the constable croaked,
embarrassed. He jerked his head at the second constable, who
hurried away to make certain the Comfreys’ physician was denied
access to the crime scene.

“Excellent. Now lead us to the victim.”

Taking a deep breath, the pale young
constable turned and guided Hetheridge and Kate out of the mud
room, through an old-fashioned scullery and a gleaming white-tiled
kitchen, outfitted with every conceivable modern appliance. From
there, they entered an oak-paneled corridor dominated by a steep,
narrow staircase – the upstairs route intended, in another era,
only for servants. At the foot of the stairs, the odor of vomit was
sharper, and beneath it lurked two fainter smells Hetheridge knew
intimately – the coppery scent of blood, and the sweet, sickening
tang of burnt human flesh.

As the constable started up the stairs,
Hetheridge paused, gesturing for Kate to precede him. Still
engrossed in note-taking, those hazel eyes widened as they had in
the elevator, when he first insisted on letting her precede him.
Then she scooted in front of Hetheridge, ascending the stairs with
a quick, light tread. Smiling to himself, Hetheridge followed
behind somewhat more slowly, ignoring the twinge of protest from
his left knee. Arthritis, he had long ago learned, could only be
managed with two things: denial, and an absolute refusal to stop
moving.

At the top of the landing, the constable
veered right, stopping before an open door. “In here, sir.”

Kate, only a meter away from the young man,
raised her eyebrows. Hetheridge glanced from the blonde constable
to Kate, then pointedly back at her, as if inquiring, do you see
what I see? The constable, rather slow on the uptake, caught on to
Hetheridge’s rebuke at last, clearing his throat.

“Sir and ma’am,” he corrected. His two-way
radio blared, and the constable, looking relieved, turned aside to
listen to his fellow officer’s question.

Kate was smiling at Hetheridge, eyebrows
still raised.

“I don’t like to see my junior team members
treated with disrespect,” Hetheridge said, “male or female.”

“Not sure it had anything to do with me being
female, at least not this time,” Kate replied in the cheeky tone
that came so naturally to her. “Not when you swept in with that
voice and that ice-blue glare, Lord Hetheridge himself, scaring the
hell out of everyone, and in a tuxedo, no less. Of course, poor
little DS Sod-All faded right into the woodwork.” Fitting the smart
phone’s stylus into its slot, Kate tucked the device into her coat
pocket. “I’ll take thorough notes on everything, I promise. But
first I want to see the scene, you know, really see it, without
trying to distill it into words at the same time.”