Chapter Six

Kate made it back to New Scotland Yard by 7:03 am. Hurrying into the lobby with breakfast, a large coffee heavily dosed with artificial sweetener and creamer, gripped in one hand, she swerved around two human road blocks and made for an open lift.

“One more!” she called to the navy blue suits and frowning faces that occupied the half-empty elevator. No one moved, and the doors began to close.

“Wankers,” she muttered, throwing herself toward the lift. Her left hand shot into the shrinking space between doors and wall, and the mechanism halted, opening again. Kate’s shoulder bag rocketed backward as she entered, smacking the nearest navy-suited man, and the slick bottoms of her pumps threw her off balance, almost sending her into the arms of a scowling, thin-lipped woman. Relieved to still be in custody of her coffee, Kate repositioned her handbag, corrected her posture, and smiled at her reflection in the lift’s highly polished metal doors. She’d worn her best suit – a gray pinstriped jacket/skirt combo with a hint of pink in the weave, and a bit of black lace peeking out at the cuffs and hem. She’d even gone so far as to wear those hazardous black pumps, which were already pinching her toes. She looked pulled-together, competent, professional.

“Tarted up for your next cock tease?” a voice said in her ear.

She half-turned to see Superintendent Jackson, one of the navy suits, directly behind her. His face looked fatter than ever. A crumb of something white, probably pastry, clung to the corner of his moist pink mouth.

“Just on my way to Hetheridge’s office,” she said sweetly.

Jackson snorted. “He’s gone soft in more ways than one. Tough sell for the likes of you.”

The lift dinged, and the doors opened on Kate’s floor. Crossing the lift’s threshold, she put her shoulder against its retracted doors and fixed Jackson with a pleading look.

“Now that I’ve been reassigned, I just want to take a moment and publicly ask your forgiveness for saying you had a small penis. A man’s penis size should never be mocked in the workplace. And the way I squeezed my fingers together to indicate something itty-bitty, or just stuck out my pinky finger to symbolize you,” she continued, demonstrating both actions, “was inexcusable. Please forgive me, and understand I’ve learnt my lesson.” With that, Kate released the doors and stepped back. The doors shut, and Superintendent Jackson’s spluttering curses traveled toward the next floor up.

Kate regarded the closed doors for a moment, beginning to blush, as she always did after an impulsive act of defiance. He’d make her pay for that, sooner or later, and probably in a way she could ill-afford. Why did she have to rise to his baiting? Why couldn’t she have the restraint of, say, Hetheridge?

Because I’m not him. I’m Kate, she sighed inwardly, taking a swig of coffee and hurrying toward the Chief’s office. And if he’d lived my life, he’d be a snappish little bitch, too.

She paused before entering the office, tossing her half-full cup in a corridor rubbish bin, and trying on a calm, professional expression. No good looking more interested in sucking down her breakfast than in getting down to business on the Comfrey murder.

Opening the door, she made her way from the reception area, where the administrative assistant’s desk sat empty, toward Hetheridge’s office, and the glorious aroma of bacon and eggs.

A pleasant-faced man in his mid-thirties sat in a chair pulled up to Hetheridge’s wide desk, chomping contentedly on bacon and fried bread. He was dressed in a blue striped shirt with white collar, black vest, and black trousers. His thick hair was glossy black, his complexion was dark, and his eyes looked as black as his hair. Kate had glimpsed him around the Yard from time to time, but still had to look at his ID to recall his name.

“DS Bhar?” she asked, pronouncing it carefully. His first name was Deepal.

“Call me Paul,” he said, wiping his hands on the linen napkin in his lap, then putting out a hand for her to shake. “Sit yourself down. Always another space at the trough.”

Kate grabbed a chair and dragged it close, placing her handbag on the floor and awkwardly crossing her legs at the ankles. That was the worst thing about her best suit – the skirt was exactly the wrong length to sit comfortably. “The Chief mentioned you last night. Said you were wrapping up another case.”

“Wrapped,” Bhar said with satisfaction, popping another piece of bacon in his mouth. “This case is way more interesting, anyway. Murder in Belgravia. That’s what they’ll call the mini-series. And I always fancied being interviewed on telly, explaining the mind of the super-rich killer. Now eat. Seriously. Don’t force me to become fatter than I already am.”

Kate smiled at Bhar, neat and trim despite his rapid style of consumption, and studied the spread on Hetheridge’s desk. “This is amazing.”

Before her, in silver serving dishes, the traditional English breakfast waited: eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, fried bread, and kippers. A tall silver coffee pot sat to one side, with a single remaining china cup beside it.

Happy to cave in, Kate loaded up the china plate someone had provided for her, digging into everything except the kippers. Then she poured a cup of coffee, doctoring it with real sugar and half-and-half before savoring a mouthful. It tasted like the beans had been ground fresh before brewing.

“Who provided this?”

Bhar shot her a knowing looking. “Lady Hetheridge,” he stage-whispered.

Kate blinked at him. Before she could ask, Bhar gave some sort of awkward signal, like trying to point with only his shoulder, and bent his head to his breakfast.

Hetheridge’s administrative assistant, Mrs. Snell, entered. Kate knew that most of the Yard, including the senior officers, were terrified of her. She was a tall, scrawny woman with protruding collarbone, non-existent bosom, and wide, accusing eyes. Her hair was a fierce white, set in waves that would have looked outdated thirty years before. Her style of dress, high-necked with a hem falling to mid-calf, could only be described as somewhere between the Queen and Dame Edna Everage. No one knew Mrs. Snell’s age, which fell between sixty and eighty. No one asked her questions – she asked the questions, and invariably received answers.

“How is breakfast?” she demanded in a crisp, headmistress sort of tone.

“Excellent,” Bhar mumbled, mouth full of egg.

“V-very nice,” Kate said, stammering in spite of herself.

Mrs. Snell’s eyes narrowed behind her large lenses. “I hope,” she said suspiciously, “there will be no problems, now that you have joined us, DS Wakefield?”

Kate found herself speechless – a sparrow enthralled by the gaze of a cobra. Bhar used his foot to poke her in the leg.

“N-no,” Kate quavered. “I’m grateful to be part of the team.”

Mrs. Snell studied her in cool disbelief. Then, drawing herself up, she said “Good,” in a skeptical tone and exited the office, presumably returning to her own desk.

“Oh, God,” Kate said, turning to DS Bhar and shuddering in relief. “She’s ghastly.”

“She’s someone you’d better learn to please, if you want to survive with the old man,” Bhar cautioned. “She irons his shirts when he pulls an all-nighter. She chooses his dinner when he works past eight. I heard she and his ‘manservant,’ Harvey, got into a hissing, hair-pulling catfight when…” Bhar broke off again, sitting up straight and smiling as the office’s door reopened. “Sir,” he cried, hitting a grand, false note as Hetheridge appeared. “Great to see you.”

“Good morning,” Kate said, her sausage pausing on the way to her mouth. Was she supposed to stop eating, now that he’d arrived?

Hetheridge had changed from his tuxedo into his usual attire – smartly cut suit, silk tie, and polished Italian shoes. He looked rested, as if he’d enjoyed a full eight hours’ sleep, though she doubted he’d had any.

“Do continue,” he said with a slight smile, a coffee cup in one hand. “Mrs. Snell is cross when her breakfast offerings are neglected.”

“Oh, sir,” Bhar said, adopting a sinuous Indian accent quite different from his usual way of speaking, “since I came to this country, I have begged and prayed for a woman. And now, at last, you grant my request. When may I marry and beget my dynasty on this fertile female?”

Hetheridge dropped into his black executive armchair, studied Bhar for a moment, then turned to Kate. “Moving on. Any fresh insights into the scene last night? I’ve already written up a preliminary report and given it to DS Bhar to read.”

“Gripping stuff,” Bhar breathed, returning to his normal manner of speaking, and placing his empty plate on Hetheridge’s desk. “It moved me as no writing has moved me before.”

Kate repressed a giggle. She could see the amusement buried in Hetheridge’s eyes, and wondered if Bhar could, too. Or would he keep going, riffing in new and absurd ways, until he made his superior laugh out loud?

“Almost moved my bowels,” Bhar added.

“Thank you,” Hetheridge said repressively. “DS Wakefield. Last chance to add anything before I give you a copy of my report, and determine assignments for the day.”

“I’d like to track down Jules Comfrey’s fiancée,” she replied. “Also the guest named Fringate, the one she said her father screwed on a business deal, and that Rowland woman – the one she said her father treated like a whore. For that matter, I’d like to speak with Jules Comfrey herself. Her mother silenced her a few times last night. I think she might say more on her own.”

“I intend to re-interview Jules Comfrey myself today,” Hetheridge said. “And Madge Comfrey, too, but not until Forensic Services has results for us. Good observation about her hair and make-up looking fresh, Wakefield. I called Forensic Services and asked them to check the pipes of every sink and shower for evidence of blood and human tissue. Also asked them to check every outdoor dustbin in the neighborhood, not just the Comfreys’. ”

“And Forensics told you?” Bhar asked.

“To mind my own damn business and let them get on in peace,” Hetheridge grinned. “But Forensic, as we know, will sometimes cut corners in a house that large.” He took a sip of coffee. “They’re under tremendous pressure right now. First to solve every crime from nothing but a wad of chewing gum and a partial shoe print, the way forensic teams do on telly. Yet also to spend less money, and justify the number of special tests run. Knestrick is our man this time, and he would have been content to only examine the library, balcony, and front door, if he could get away with it. He wasn’t happy to be asked to dismantle the house’s entire plumbing system, more or less, but he’ll do it, since I could link the request to a specific investigator’s observation.”

Kate put her own empty plate on top of Bhar’s. “If I may ask, sir, why do you want to handle the Jules Comfrey interview personally?”

“Belgravia,” Bhar hinted.

“There has already, if you can believe it, been a certain amount of pressure brought on our unit,” Hetheridge replied. “These are the sort of cases that always come to us. The expectation from the top, and from other offices within the government, is that I will handle it with a minimum of fuss. And, I might add, with zero complaints from any influential people who might be touched in the course of the investigation.”

“Can’t have Kate Wakefield bulldozing in, being impertinent and working her betters into a froth,” Bhar said.

“I understand,” Kate sighed. “But is there any way you could give me a chance with Jules? I really think I’m the better choice, sir.”

Hetheridge regarded her levelly. “Why?”

“Because I’m female, and not too far from her age. Because I’m not married,” Kate said. “Because there’s something odd about the fact she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring, yet she claimed her father ruined her engagement party. She also mentioned that Malcolm Comfrey didn’t think her fiancé was good enough for her. I have a feeling dear old dad might have been right about that. I can’t see Jules Comfrey telling you – a man who will probably remind her of her father, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, sir – about her boyfriend troubles. But she might tell me.”

Hetheridge said nothing for a moment. He put down his coffee cup and leaned far back in his chair, which creaked in protest. “You’re right,” he said at last. “Very well. Bhar and Wakefield, I’d like you to work together today. Interview Jules Comfrey, Charlie Fringate, and Ginny Rowland. If the PCs succeed in rounding up the fiancé, Kevin, I’d like you to interview him, too. Report any breaking details directly to me. Otherwise, we’ll meet again this time tomorrow. And remember, Wakefield – go softly with Jules Comfrey. I see enough of Commander Deaver as it is.”