Chapter Two

Kate grasped her mobile phone on the first ring, hand snaking up from the covers and fingers closing unerringly around it, flipping it open to silence the noise. Her first thought was absurd: it’s Mum, calling for Ritchie. Her next thought was just as foolish: it’s Dylan, calling to say he’s sorry. If either of these preposterous notions had dared to surface under normal waking conditions, Kate would have stuck her head in a bucket of cold water, or got herself checked for mad cow disease. Strange enough that such fancies occurred to her in the haze between sleep and waking, when her shoulders loosened, her body curled like a child’s, and the internal list of promises unmet, and aspirations gone stale, flitted away. Maybe, during those few glorious hours, her I.Q. dropped a hundred points.

“Wakefield,” she said thickly, technically awake. It had to be the Met.

“DS Wakefield, sorry to wake you,” the female voice said in a perfunctory tone. “There’s been a homicide in Belgravia. The Yard has been asked to investigate, and your guvnor wants you on the scene as soon as possible.”

“Fine,” Kate said, more awake now, energized by a jolt of surprised pleasure. Superintendent Jackson usually went over the scene himself when it was fresh – the better to form his own unshakable conclusions, without the interruption of another detective’s views. Jackson’s standard operating procedure had been to call her in the next day, after she had already heard most of the details in the press, and assign her some boring bit of research, like pouring over phone records or fact-checking biographies of minor witnesses. Now she was on the case from the first.

“I only need a half-hour,” Kate lied to the dispatcher, suspecting it might take a full hour to get to Belgravia. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

“He’s actually on his way to you,” the dispatcher replied before Kate could flip the phone closed. “He said he was in the area, and asked for your address. Said he could reach you within a quarter-hour, and the two of you could ride together.”

Oh, God, Kate thought, horrified at the idea of Jackson feasting his eyes on her flat. Food-encrusted dishes were stacked in the sink; hampers overflowed with dirty socks and knickers. Not to mention the still-unsolved odor emanating from the bathroom pipes…

“Great. Very thoughtful. Thanks,” Kate muttered. She closed the phone, praying the single ring and low-voiced conversation hadn’t wakened Ritchie.

So Superintendent Jackson had learned her address, and was coming to escort her to the crime scene in his own vehicle. Was it possible, she wondered, sitting up and yawning mightily, that their public row and subsequent interviews with Commander Deaver had actually effected a positive change in the fat-headed old plonker? Or could CS Hetheridge have worked some lordly magic on her behalf?

No, Kate decided, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Something small and sharp dug into her sole. Suspecting a Lego, Kate kicked it aside, then blinked several times, inspecting the rest of the chilly oak-boarded floor for hazards before hurrying to the toilet.

No, she thought again, if Jackson has changed his approach, it’s only temporary, and only until he can find a new way to put me in my place. Is that why he decided to come here tonight? He heard something?

Kate, fiercely private, had long been terrified her personal life might become fodder for the Yard’s gossip. Bad enough that so much of her life – her childhood in and out of care, her schooling, her unlikely rise within the Met – was a matter of public record. Superintendent Jackson had not yet forgiven her for that public reference to his “poor little thing.” What revenge might he seek, armed with a few of her secrets?

Determined to be ready the moment the super arrived, Kate barreled into the bathroom, wincing as the fluorescent light above the mirror flickered back into blue-white life. A quick inventory of the bathroom was as dire as she’d feared – hair and soap scum lurked in the shower, and the toilet was in need of a good scrub. Well, if Jackson wanted a piss, he’d just have to squeeze his knees together. No force on earth would impel Kate to invite him up to the flat.

Her hair was squashed on one side, and sticky with old hairspray. The other side looked almost normal. Sighing, Kate jerked a metal-bristled brush through the sticky side, determined to separate the gluey bits. Then the whole mess would be bundled into the tightest bun bobby pins and more hairspray could manage…

“I heard the phone ring,” Ritchie murmured, appearing in the doorway. At nearly six-one, he loomed over her. Fresh spots had erupted on his left cheek, and his curly brown hair stood out at odd angles. “Heard you talking, too. Going to work?”

“Work,” Kate agreed firmly. Rising on her tiptoes, she gripped Ritchie’s shoulders and gave him a quick peck, sisterly on the lips. “But Cassie’s here. She’ll watch over you until I get back.”

“Cassie’s asleep,” Ritchie said doubtfully. He had never approved of the tendency of others to sleep while he was awake. Cassie, hired as a live-in carer only two months ago, slept far too much in Ritchie’s estimation, and had not yet accrued much leniency with him.

“Yes, and leave her sleeping,” Kate said, turning back to the mirror, “unless you really need her. Unless you’re absolutely sure you need her. Don’t wake her up just to say hello.”

“Henry’s asleep, too,” Ritchie continued, plan transparent on his face.

“Henry especially needs his sleep,” Kate emphasized, beginning to twist her hair into a bun. “He has school in the morning. You don’t want him to fail his geography test, do you?”

Ritchie shrugged. “I’m bored.” He shuffled his feet and glanced behind him, as if someone interesting might have appeared in the parlor. “I miss Dylan.”

“So do I,” Kate said lightly, rummaging in the medicine cabinet for lipstick and mascara. “Watch some telly, Ritchie. Everyone will be awake before you know it.” Closing the bathroom door on him, since Ritchie existed without personal boundaries, and would attempt to carry on a conversation no matter what she was doing, Kate plopped onto the toilet and peeked at the cotton crotch of her thong knickers.

Nothing. Clean and spotless.

She glanced at the calendar pinned over the bog roll. Six days late – well, technically seven, since it was now a few minutes past midnight.

I’ve been late before, Kate told herself, more from bravado than fact. No need to panic. No need to run to the chemist’s for a test.

“Dylan,” she exhaled – but softly, very softly, lest she disturb Ritchie again, who might even now have fallen back under the spell of his old friend, the telly. “Dylan, you bastard, where the fuck are you?”

* * *

Kate was pacing outside her building, trench coat belted against the cold night air, when the silver Lexus appeared, rolling to a slow stop in front of her. The windows were tinted and car’s curving lines and flawless finish gleamed under the sodium lights. Kate, who did not recognize the model, a SC 430, and knew the coupe as a Lexus only because of the stylized L in the grille, was impressed nevertheless, and found herself laughing. Who would have thought Superintendent Jackson, plonker extraordinaire, would turn up in such a ride? First an invitation to a still-warm crime scene, and now this? The passenger door swung open, and Kate climbed in, prepared to see Vic Jackson in an entirely new light.

Hetheridge sat behind the wheel in a tuxedo, his black tie unknotted and hanging loose against his crisp white shirt. “Good evening.”

“G-good evening. Sir,” Kate added hastily, closing the door and fumbling for her seatbelt. “I didn’t know you drove.”

“From time to time,” Hetheridge said mildly, guiding the Lexus out of Kate’s neighborhood and merging back into the light South London traffic. “We should be over the river and into Belgravia in ten minutes or less.”

“If I’d realized crime scenes in the West End are black tie, I’d have worn a gown and heels.”

Hetheridge chuckled. “I was attending a charity ball when the call came in. One of those occasions,” he shot a sidelong glance at her, “when homicide is welcome news indeed.”

“A charity ball? The charity doesn’t happen to operate out of my neighborhood, does it?”

“In the general vicinity. British Youth is planning a new recreational center where a condemned building stands, not far from your home. Good luck that before I left the ball, I checked with the Met dispatcher and discovered you lived just a few streets away. I always do better on the scene with at least one other detective to help catalog the details.”

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.”