Chapter Fourteen

“That’s interesting,” Hetheridge said, glancing at Kate. “Jules Comfrey seemed convinced Ginny Rowland despised her father.”

“Ah, well, love and hate, and the ever-shifting line in between.” Lady Margaret sipped her tea. “I understand Malcolm and Ginny were once powerfully attracted to one another. But such things wane. After a year or so, Malcolm lost interest, and Ginny found Burt Rowland. Burt always struck me as a bit of a dullard, not to mention a cold fish, but who knows what goes on behind closed doors? Never figured Burt for the sort to marry a, how shall I put it – career girl?”

Hetheridge leaned forward, taking Lady Margaret’s meaning at one. Kate, too, made the leap.

“Ginny Rowland was on the game?”

“Just the phrase I was looking for,” Lady Margaret said, delighted. “You sound like my nephew Frederick. He watches a great many crime dramas.”

Kate glanced at Hetheridge. “I’m assuming neither Malcolm Comfrey nor Burt Rowland were the sort of blokes to pick up girl off a curb. Did Ginny Rowland work out of her own flat, or was she part of some posh escort service?”

Lady Margaret beamed at her. “I wish I knew. Fascinating to learn of such things. And mind you, I’m not suggesting Ginny Rowland broke any laws. Frederick has assured me that prostitutes who operate from home are quite legal.”

“One girl, working alone in her own space, is an entrepreneur,” Hetheridge agreed. “Two girls or more makes it a brothel, and thus illegal. We’ll certainly look into Ginny Rowland’s background.”

“Why, Tony. I had no idea you were so involved in the enforcement of morals and good behavior.”

“I’m not. That sort of thing falls to other units. But on the night Malcolm Comfrey was murdered, didn’t Jules claim her father treated Ginny Rowland like a cheap whore?” Hetheridge asked Kate.

Kate reached for her bag, searching for her smart phone and the wealth of notes it contained, and then stopped, smiling at him. “You’re right. I’m sure that phrase is in my notes. Quite a memory you have there.”

“For an old man,” Hetheridge said.

“Hah,” Lady Margaret burst out. She did not look amused.

“Ginny Rowland seems to have propelled herself right up the social ladder,” Kate said. “Protecting a secret that would make her and her husband social pariahs is as good a motive for murder as any.”

Hetheridge nodded. “You and DS Bhar may find tomorrow morning’s interview quite fruitful. I don’t suppose you have any more surprises for us, Margaret? Any nuggets about Jules Comfrey? Or her fiancée Kevin Whitley, whom we currently have in custody for breaking into the Comfrey house on the night of the murder?”

“Jules Comfrey?” Lady Margaret dismissed her with a flick of a hand. “Tedious girl. Verging on the non-entity. I despise this generation who enters adulthood with no idea of who they are, or what they want to be, and flail around for the next ten years like a fish in a blender. If I’d been given access to the possibilities the modern nineteen-year-old female takes for granted, I would have lived a remarkable life indeed. As for her fiancée, I never met him. But I imagine he has a great deal of explaining to do. Can’t you confront him with fingerprints, or DNA, or something like that?”

“It’s in the works,” Hetheridge said. “Forensic Services is overburdened at present, but we may have a complete report by tomorrow, or the next day.”

“More than one house on fire, eh, Tony?” Lady Margaret said. “I wonder you haven’t moved up to Commander by now.”

“Veteran of the public schools though I am,” Hetheridge said, “there’s only so much institutionalized buggery even I will submit to. Chief Superintendent is as far as I will likely ever rise.”

“Commander would be more fitting for a man of your talents,” Lady Margaret said. “Less dangerous. That incident where you were nearly killed on that miscreant’s doorstep comes to mind.”

Startled, Hetheridge shot Lady Margaret a cool, repressive glance. She gazed back at him, eyes sparkling with strange mischief.

“I heard about that before I was even assigned to the Chief,” Kate said. “Legend has it he never flinched. Could have repelled the bullet with his stiff upper lip. And didn’t miss even a day’s work after the experience.”

Still more surprised, Hetheridge was grateful for his lifelong tendency to assume a poker face when ambushed. Instead of coloring or stammering, he said, “Ancient history.” Taking a sip of his now-cold tea, he replaced the cup on its saucer and smoothed his tie back into place. “We’re grateful for your time, Margaret. Now I believe we must return to work.”

“Indeed.” Lady Margaret held his gaze, that mischievous glint still in her eyes. She was communicating something to him, something he was too thick or self-absorbed to receive. Then, with a half-audible sigh, Margaret turned back to Kate with a smile.

“I wish I could be a fly on the wall when you interview Ginny and Burt tomorrow. Burt comes from a family with pretensions that would make the royal family look common. And Ginny long ago shed any signs of her entrepreneurial past. Don’t wear anything like you have on now, my dear, or they’ll eat you alive.”

Kate glanced at the suit she wore – a gray-pinstriped number, pink shot through the weave, and black lace accents. Hetheridge remembered it from her first day in his office. He was no judge of women’s fashions, but he recognized bargain fabric and substandard tailoring when he saw it. Kate’s choice to accessorize the suit with sheer black hosiery and shiny black pumps – fuck-me pumps, as Superintendent Jackson and others around the Yard called them – changed the suit’s original message, which was “shop girl on a budget.” The new message, as Mrs. Snell put it, was “tart subpoenaed to court.”

“What’s wrong with this suit?” Kate asked. Hetheridge had no intention of intervening, but he was glad she didn’t look or sound angry.

“It’s cheap. Cheap and silly,” Lady Margaret said. “Lace is for knickers. You should invest in well-tailored suits that compliment your figure rather than squeeze for dear life across the hips and bosom. Black hosiery is out altogether. It’s bare legs now, or if the Yard won’t allow it, sheerest nudes no one will see. Your shoes should be stylish but sensible. No more pointed toes and no teetering heels. Take the time to find classic pieces, pieces that are above reproach, yet do not draw attention to themselves. A professional woman at your level should be noticed only for herself, not for the distraction of her sartorial choices.”

“Thank you, Lady Margaret. That’s food for thought.” Serene and composed, Kate glanced at Hetheridge, who nodded. They rose to take their leave.

Lady Margaret also rose. She moved closer to Kate to deliver her parting remarks.

“If I might be so bold, I suggest rethinking your hair, too. It’s rather blowsy and wild, isn’t it? Like you comb it once in the morning and let it muddle through the rest of the day as best it can. Perhaps a shoulder-length cut? Maybe even a chin-length bob. That and a can of hairspray – and a mirror, if I’m honest – would do wonders for your presentation.”

“Of course. Thanks again,” Kate said, accepting Lady Margaret’s hands in a warm clasp. Before she could say more, her smart phone rang from the innards of her bag. Kate, looking relieved, turned back to Hetheridge.

“I’m sorry, but I’m waiting on an important call. May I…?”

“Go right ahead. I’ll say our good-byes.”

When the front door closed behind Kate, Lady Margaret turned to Hetheridge.

“I like her, Tony. As much as I like Paul Bhar, as a matter of fact. And I see you like her, too.”

“I wouldn’t have chosen her for my team if I despised her,” Hetheridge said, unnerved, as always, by Lady Margaret’s powers of perception.

She snorted. “Have I become infirm? Feeble? You can’t puff and prevaricate with me. I won’t have it. And I daresay I know what’s different about you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Lady Margaret scowled. “I hope that’s a lie. I adore you, Tony. I always have. But you can’t be a fool your whole life.”

* * *

Kate was leaning against the Bentley when Hetheridge emerged from Lady Margaret’s townhouse, directly into the glare of the late afternoon sun. Shielding his eyes, he crossed to Kate, who was idly slapping her mobile against her thigh.

“Bad phone call?”

“Telemarketer. I should have looked before I dashed off to answer. And you should get some sunglasses,” Kate added. “You’re always peeking out from beneath your hand.”

Before Hetheridge could reply, Kate dove into her bag, coming up with several wrong items before producing a pair of black-lensed tortoiseshell sunglasses. “These are Ritchie’s. I carry them around because he always forgets, then starts whining. Try them on.”

Obliging her, Hetheridge did so, and was immediately more comfortable. Using the Bentley’s side mirror, he studied his reflection, still worried he looked ridiculous, like a grandfather out to recapture his youth.

“You look fine.” Kate sounded amused. “Not that you’ll trust my fashion choices. But you can always venture inside and see if Lady Margaret approves.”

“Your opinion is good enough for me. I should compliment you, by the way, for standing up to her critique without losing your composure. You did far better than Paul on his first foray into her lair.”

“He warned me,” Kate said. “And really, from what he said, I expected worse.”

Hetheridge regarded her for a moment. He considered himself a good judge of when his subordinates were putting on a show of professional bravery, and when they were truly unshaken. Kate’s serenity seemed genuine.

“You really weren’t offended, were you?”

Kate shook her head. “Grow up where I did, with your mum on the game, a schizophrenic sister and a mentally retarded little brother, and believe me – you build up a tolerance to unsolicited opinions. But you looked a little aggravated, Chief. When she mentioned your famous brush with death.”

“Ah. Then my poker face isn’t what it used to be.” Hetheridge told himself to open the Bentley’s door and usher Kate inside. Instead, he said, “Margaret is one of the few people who know how difficult that incident was for me. Why she chose to bring it up over tea, while we were discussing something entirely different, I can’t imagine.”

“So the story about you staring down the gunman with your fierce glare isn’t true?”

“No. It was the single most terrifying moment of my life. And I didn’t go right back to work. I had a bit of a breakdown. Considered early retirement. Contemplated holing up in the country, where I’d never risk another gun in my face again.”

“It changed you?”

“No. It could have changed me. But I refused to let it. At the time, I thought I’d won a battle inside myself. Now …” Hetheridge found himself again speaking unguardedly to Kate, as he had at Wellegrave House. “Now I’m not sure if I didn’t turn my back on an experience that was meant to change me.”

“And nothing like that ever happened since?”

“Once.” Something about Kate’s interest, and his own openness, finally sounded alarm bells in Hetheridge’s skull. He had to divert this conversation away from himself, quickly. “So what of Lady Margaret’s fashion advice? Do you plan on taking it?”

“Think I should?”

“As a matter of policy, I never give women advice on clothing or accessories.” Hetheridge opened the Bentley’s door for her, but as she climbed in, couldn’t resist adding, “Except this once. Don’t cut your hair. She was dead wrong about that.”