Chapter Nine

Charlie Fringate’s Mayfair office was cozy and old-fashioned, with heavy antique furnishings and drapes instead of blinds. A single elderly administrative assistant sat in the reception area, behind a remarkably uncluttered desk. Her computer screen was dark, and when Kate and Bhar entered, she was reading a magazine. She glanced up at the detectives with a vague smile, as if surprised human beings had at last penetrated her sanctum.

“DS Bhar and DS Wakefield,” Bhar said, showing his warrant card as Kate did the same. “Scotland Yard. We’re here to speak with Mr. Fringate.”

“He’s very busy,” the administrative assistant murmured, with practice of one airing out a particularly threadbare lie. “Let me go and check.”

A minute later, the old woman returned from the inner office. “Yes, yes, come along. He will certainly make time for the police. Bad business about Mr. Comfrey.” Still muttering, she led them to Charlie Fringate’s door, which featured his name in overlarge block letters engraved on a brass plate, and ushered them inside.

Fringate stood up as Kate and Bhar entered. He aimed a wide, welcoming salesman’s smile at each of them. Fringate was in his early fifties, Kate guessed; a big, broad shouldered man with a square face, superhero chin, and a head full of hair so dark, it had to be colored. He was handsome in a wholesome, American-cowboy sort of way. But weighty bags drooped under each eye, and there was something in his gaze – something excessively hopeful – that made Kate wonder how many potential clients he frightened away with his naked need.

“Come in, come in,” Fringate said in a hearty voice. Leaning over the desk, he shook each detective’s hand before returning to his seat. He wore a burgundy-striped shirt with a matching tie and braces, the latter of which dug into his shoulders. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to just below each elbow, as if he intended to get down to business. Or perhaps he already had, Kate thought. His desk, like his administrative assistant’s, was clear of work. A large calendar-style blotter covered most of the space, scribbled over with times, names, and phone numbers. His desk also offered not one but two candy dishes: a cut-crystal dish of peppermints, and a porcelain bowl of M & Ms.

“Take your pick,” Charlie said, flashing his hopeful smile. “Please, sit down. Let me know how I can help. But this is just a formality, I guess,” he added, with what Kate suspected was a habit of unwarranted optimism.

“Jules Comfrey mentioned you did business with her father. She said on one occasion, the deal went sour,” Bhar began. “Can you tell us about that?”

“Sure. I did business with Malcolm on and off for almost twenty years. Used his company to ship calculators and adding machines, back in the day, before the Asians cut me to ribbons.” He grinned at Bhar. “No offense. Smart people. Good at miniaturization. Most of us just couldn’t compete. Now I’ve gone into a different line, auctioning factory surplus and what they call ‘seconds’ – merchandise not good enough for Mr. and Mrs. U.K. Consumer – and shipping it round the world. Always need the best price on global freight or the profit goes up in smoke. Malcolm and I agreed on a price for shipping a huge amount of plastics to Poland, Lithuania, and the Ukraine, but just when the freight was ready, Malcolm told me his company’s circumstances had changed. He increased his price by almost twenty percent. I only had an eight percent profit margin, but I was committed on several levels. So I shipped the freight, swallowed the loss, and tried not to take it personally.”

“Did you consider your legal options?” Bhar asked. “Since Comfrey changed the contract without notice?”

Fringate laughed. “Oh, no, it doesn’t work that way. Handshake deals, that’s how it’s done. Never lawyers, never paperwork. And even if we did bother with a written contract, I never would have turned around and sued Malcolm. Never.” Fringate didn’t look or sound the least bit condescending – he had an easy, pleasant way of explaining – but the unspoken meaning rang clear to Kate. People like us conduct business through gentleman’s agreements. People like us aren’t litigious, like you rabble.

“It was still a kind of betrayal. Did it make you want to kill him?” Kate asked.

Fringate gave an astonished laugh. “I really am being questioned by Scotland Yard, aren’t I? Don’t worry, I’m not insulted. Just doing your job, I know. Right. Did I want to kill Malcolm? No, of course not. Fact is, I wanted to ask him if he needed any help. If there was something wrong with his business, or his home life. He hadn’t been himself for at least two years, especially when it came to money. And for him to change the terms of a firm deal, a deal I couldn’t possibly break – that wasn’t like him. I took it hard,” Fringate admitted. Once again, that naked need bobbed to the surface in his large brown eyes. “But no, I didn’t want to kill him. Not then, and not last night. Last night was just an embarrassment, a family row. It upset that dodgy young fellow of Jules’s far more than anyone else. Frieda and I left as quick as we could.”

“What’s Frieda’s full name and address?” Kate asked. The scent of Fringate’s cologne – strong and woodsy, something that probably came in a plaid bottle – was beginning to make her head ache.

“Frieda Buxton. 28 Sadler, Shepherd’s Bush,” Fringate said. “Do you have to speak with her, too?”

“We do. Now what about your relationship to the Comfrey family?” Bhar asked. “Specifically, Madge Comfrey?”

Charlie Fringate’s face changed. Big, open, and honest by nature, it tried to close, and only succeeded in looking wary. “I’ve known Madge and Jules as long as I’ve known Malcolm. Good people. Best sort of people.”

“It’s been said,” Bhar said, elongating the pause, “you’re having an affair with Madge Comfrey. We’re not here to judge anyone’s private lives. But if there’s any truth to the rumor, it’s much better for you to put it on the table now, rather than have us dredge it up later.”

“It’s not true,” Fringate said. He was careful, Kate noticed, to maintain unflinching, unblinking eye contact with Bhar. “I’m a friend of Madge’s. No more, no less. She isn’t the sort of woman to have affairs.”

Bhar did not reply. The silence stretched out for a full minute. Then Fringate, sounding all too eager to fill the silence, continued, “I really must ask who said such a thing. Gossip of that nature is just plain cruel.”

“Oh, it’s only gossip,” Bhar said, flashing a smile. “We have to follow up on everything. Like whereabouts. After the party broke up, where did you go?”

“I drove Frieda home,” Fringate said. “She was put off by the whole scene. Malcolm always frightened her a bit, with his bad temper and his way of crucifying anyone who got on his bad side. So I dropped Frieda home, went back to my townhouse, and went to bed.”

“Talk to anyone when you arrived home? Neighbors? A maid?” Bhar asked.

Fringate leaned back in his chair, studying Bhar first, then Kate. “I’ll be damned. You really are asking me for an alibi. My God. Very well. There was no one at home. No one but my cocker spaniels, whining and scraping at the door. I fed them, played with them, and went to bed. I had no idea Malcolm was dead until this morning, when Madge called me with the news.”

Bhar nodded. He started to rise, then stopped and lifted a finger, as if jogging his own memory. “One more thing. Mr. Fringate, of everyone who attended the party, you’re the only one with a prior conviction. Domestic violence, 1991. Charges of stalking were also filed in 1992, but those were dropped. Care to explain?”

Fringate blew out a sigh. His expression of dismay was so genuine, and so sadly comical, Kate almost laughed. He didn’t look like a man who’d been convicted of domestic violence. He looked like a man who doted on cocker spaniels.

“That conviction,” Fringate said after a moment, a note of strain in his voice, “will haunt me for the rest of my life, I suppose. Every time I think it’s buried, it climbs out of the grave again. I assume you received the name of the person who filed those complaints.”

“Helen Fringate,” Bhar said.

“My wife, at the time. Our divorce was final in 1993. She even took back her maiden name. Like our marriage never existed. The ‘domestic violence’ was never that. I never raised a hand to her, nor would I,” Fringate said with passion. “She blew it all out of proportion, and the courts decided to teach me a lesson. A lifelong lesson, near as I can tell.”

“What happened?” Kate asked. “We read the police statements, but it’s better to hear it from you. You have to understand, a prior conviction for assault could make you a person of interest in the Malcolm Comfrey case.”

“I didn’t assault Helen,” Fringate cried, his voice rising as his face went red. With a visible effort, he drew in his breath and fought to regain his composure. “I was at a low point in my life. My second business had gone bankrupt. Helen announced she was leaving me. Not for another man, not because she never loved me, but because she thought I was a failure. On the night she packed up and left, I tried to stop her from getting into the taxi. That’s all. I thought if I could make her stand still and listen to me, she would give me another chance.”

“The complaint said you tackled her and falsely imprisoned her until the taxi drove away, and the neighbors called the police,” Bhar said.

Fringate, still red, looked away. “I didn’t tackle her. I got down on my knees and told her I loved her and couldn’t live without her. Then I put my arms round her legs and held her so she wouldn’t get into the taxi. Didn’t put a mark on her. Didn’t rumple a hair on her head. Just held her and told her I loved her.”

“Until the police came,” Kate said. She’d meant it to be a question, but it came out as a statement.

Fringate did not deny it. “The stalking business was nonsense, too. Helen was still my wife. We’d made vows. We’d shared everything for almost ten years. I was just trying to force her to listen to me. And the charges were dismissed, eventually. That time, not even Helen could succeed in turning my devotion into something sinister. And you won’t be able to turn my friendship with the Comfreys into something sinister, either.”

* * *

“Is he having an affair with Madge?” Kate asked Bhar, as they walked back to his Astra. It was almost noon now, and the sun felt good on her skin. Her feet, however, ached worse than ever, wedged in those treacherous black shoes.

“Yes,” Bhar said. “Or if he isn’t, he wants to. Gave us the liar’s stare. Keep looking, don’t blink, don’t waver, and they’ll have to believe me.”

“Could he have beaten Malcolm Comfrey to death? Maybe over business deals sealed with a handshake, with no legal recourse? Maybe over Madge?” Kate asked.

Bhar considered for a moment. “Yes. I think so.”

“But did he?” Kate asked, turning the idea over in her mind.

“Don’t know.” Bhar aimed his keyless remote at the Astra, which chirruped obediently as the doors unlocked. “Let’s go meet Kevin Whitley and size him up.”

* * *

Kevin Whitley’s address led Kate and Bhar to a council flat in a tall, charmless building that reminded Kate of one of those sci-fi flicks – the ones where the future is a landscape of white cube architecture and white polyester jumpsuits. The building’s lobby was equally featureless, and fiendishly well-scrubbed. The linoleum floor was grooved by mopping, and the baseboards were scraped with brush marks. Even the call box showing each apartment number had been attacked with a cleaner strong enough to fade some of the tenant names. The lobby smelled overwhelmingly of bleach, and faintly beneath that, urine.

“Lovely place,” Bhar said, examining the call box. “Which name are we looking for?”

“Plaster,” Kate said. “Lisa Plaster is the actual tenant. Whitley just flops here. He used to live with another girl, Nan Cardwell, but Jules said they don’t speak anymore. Whitley wasn’t officially on the lease at Ms. Cardwell’s place, either.”

“Moocher, par excellence,” Bhar said, punching the call button labeled Plaster. After a moment, a female voice barked, “What?”

“Scotland Yard. DS Bhar and DS Wakefield, by appointment,” Bhar recited cheerfully into the microphone. “We’re here to interview Mr. Kevin Whitley.”

Silence. Then the lobby’s inner doors buzzed, and they were permitted entry.

Lisa Plaster’s flat was located on the eleventh floor – a long, off-white hallway where the graffiti had been washed away semi-successfully. The orange carpeting bore multiple ash burns and a deep path worn down the center. As they approached the door, Kate heard the scrabbling of a chain lock slid aside, and deadbolt turned. The door opened, and a tubby blonde in a stained T-shirt and sweatpants faced them, hands on hips. She was about Kate’s age, with a swollen nose and pink, weepy eyes.

“This is my place. Kevin’s just staying here. What’s he done?” Lisa asked thickly, through a cold that sealed off most of her nose. “He gave me some bollocks about being prime suspect for murder.”

“I am a prime suspect for murder,” called a male voice from behind her, over the sound of theatrical kicks, punches, and grunts. “Jules told me I’m meant to have smashed up her pillock of a father with a fire iron. It’s brilliant!”

“Mr. Whitley is a person of interest in a murder investigation,” Kate said, allowing Lisa to examine her credentials. “But we’re not here to make accusations. We’re here to talk.”

“Fine,” Lisa sighed. “Have at. I need to give Benjy his bottle.”

Turning away, she headed deeper into the flat. It looked like Kate’s, at least in her darkest imaginings, if she ceased all housework and allowed a harsh Darwinian landscape to take shape. The orange-carpeted floor was strewn with plastic toys, a crunchy dusting of crumbs, and dried beverage stains. The coffee table was piled with dirty plastic bowls, overflowing ash trays, and crumpled food wrappers.

Kevin Whitley was seated on the floor in a gamer’s chair, rocking back and forth in front of the television as his fingers worked a controller. As the detectives approached, he glanced away from the screen, where two muscle-bound titans pummeled each other mercilessly, and paused the action. “Oi! Am I nicked?” He gave Kate and Bhar a self-satisfied grin.

Kevin was about Jules’s age, with a high forehead, brown eyes, and bleached hair sculpted into a fauxhawk. He wasn’t handsome, Kate thought, and he wasn’t cute. At most, Kevin Whitley was charismatic, with an intense stare and an engaging smile. Other than that, despite the pierced ears and eyebrow, he looked like a thousand other young men she might glimpse in a normal week – maybe a hundred thousand.

“I’m DS Wakefield, this is DS Bhar.” Kate extended a hand.

Kevin took the hint. Giving the paused game a sorrowful glance, he stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans, and shook with each detective. Sweeping aside dirty plates and an action figure, which he chucked to the floor, Kevin indicated the now-cleared sofa. “Have a seat.”

Easing herself down to avoid a grease stain, Kate said, “I understand your engagement party last night was ruined by Mr. Comfrey.”

“Hey?” Whitley frowned, glancing over his shoulder toward the room Lisa Plaster had disappeared into. “It weren’t never an engagement party. Did Jules tell you that? She’s always exaggerating.”

Kate exchanged glances with Bhar. “That’s interesting. Both Jules Comfrey and her mother described the occasion as an engagement party. One of the guests, Charlie Fringate, made reference to that, too.”

“Oh, well, maybe Madge said it because she wants me in the family. She’s always liked me, and I’ve always managed to keep her sweet. In fact,” Kevin continued, giving Kate an appraising stare, “I quite like older women. They’re more settled. Easier to talk to. Madge liked me from day one, and …”

Breaking off, Whitley glanced over his shoulder again as Lisa re-entered, a toddler on her hip. He was sucking contentedly on a bottle of fizzy soda.

“You know, as far as this engagement business, Jules’s family is too pushy,” Kevin announced with new authority. “They know I like Ju. They know we have fun, and she’s into my art. In their minds, that equals marriage. But I’m not ready to settle down. Not for one girl, much less a wife. Marriage is an institution and I’m not ready to be sent to an institution. Know what I mean, mate?” he asked Bhar.

Bhar nodded. “Sure. So – did you explain your philosophy to Jules?”

“About a hundred times,” Lisa said, shifting Benjy from one hip to the other. “Let me tell you about Jules Comfrey. She’s a toffee-nosed little bitch who thinks she can buy herself a man. Once she called here for Kevin, and I told her to get stuffed. Kev’s been trying to break it off with her for a year. If he’d just show some balls,” she grunted, her anger suddenly shifting from Jules to Kevin, “he could send the silly bint down the road.”

“So you’re acquainted with the Comfrey family, too?” Kate asked Lisa.

“Just by reputation, luv,” Lisa said. “And that’s plenty. Kev tells me everything, and I do mean everything. If he’d just take my advice once in awhile, he’d be the perfect man.”

Bhar turned his winning smile on Lisa. “So, just for the record. You and Mr. Whitley are…” He trailed off, inviting her to fill the gap.

“Friends,” Kevin said.

“Fuck-buddies,” Lisa said in the same moment. Shifting Benjy back to her other hip, she tried to look tough and territorial as the boy grabbed at her breast. “Whaddya think’s going on here? Kev’s like all men, born to stray. Don’t mean he ain’t smart enough to come home at the end of the day.”

“That rhymes,” Kevin laughed. He was visibly puffed up by Lisa’s declaration, like a vampire glowing with fresh blood. “You’re a poet, my love. Now tell me, detectives, am I nicked or not? I’m pleased as shit the old man’s dead. But I’d really like to hear how I did it, since I was out with my mates all last night.”

Kate took Kevin through his recollection of the previous night, which agreed with Madge, Jules’s, and Charlie Fringate’s accounts. The party had gone sour from the beginning. Malcolm Comfrey had warmed up by needling his other guests, then focused his attention on Kevin. Kevin had finally stormed out, gone to his favorite hangout, the Severed Head, and proceeded to crawl from pub A to pub B until passing out on the street. At dawn, he’d awakened and made his way back to Lisa’s. Kate took down the names and phone numbers of six different friends, and five different pubs, all of which Kevin claimed as his alibi. It would take the junior DCs at least three days to fact-check his statement.

“What about that story Malcolm Comfrey told his guests?” Kate asked. “About an old teacher of yours, and a papier-mâché project?”

“That limp prick,” Kevin said, a flash of anger in his eyes. “Mr. Butterman. He had to go and tell that pillock Comfrey something that happened ages ago. I was supposed to make a papier-mâché project for class. A burro,” Kevin said. “Something fucking stupid like that. Butterman turned up over my shoulder, stumping around on his cane, and said my burro looked like a sperm whale. Motherfucker,” Kevin said. “You know what I did? I snatched that cane out of his hand and beat the whole thing to pieces. Fuck papier-mâché. Fuck burros. Fuck bloody Butterman.”

“Ever felt like doing something like that again?” Kate asked, holding his gaze. “Beating something to a pulp?”

“Every day,” Kevin grinned. “Every fucking day.”