Chapter Fifteen

Ginny and Burt Rowland, apparently not pacified by their complimentary theater tickets and forthcoming letter of apology from Scotland Yard, managed to miss their flight from France, postponing the interview another day. So Tuesday morning passed uneventfully, with Bhar offering confirmation that Charlie Fringate’s current business was perhaps six months from insolvency. In the interview room, Kevin Whitley offered nothing of substance. After a long conference with his solicitor – a top-drawer litigator retained by Madge and Jules Comfrey – Kevin changed his original story, that the CC camera photo was misdated or a nefarious digital fabrication, to something simpler.

“I forgot my phone. Went back to get it,” he told Kate and Bhar. “Knew the door was busted and got in that way. Then I met my mates at the Severed Head pub. No crime there.” He looked pasty, thin, and frightened as he spoke. The cocksure lady-killer had changed into a mousy boy.

“By the way – sorry I called you an effing Paki, mate,” Kevin added, eyeing Bhar hopefully. “Racist, innit? Didn’t mean nothing. Could you tell me how much longer I’ll be in here?”

Not much longer, Kate thought, although she and Bhar concluded the interview without ever tipping off Kevin how close his release might be. Forensic Services had confirmed Kevin Whitley’s fingerprints were not on the murder weapon. It had, in fact, been wiped clean, and bore no prints at all. Malcolm Comfrey’s study had contained a mélange of prints: Madge and Jules Comfrey, Charlie Fringate, Burt Rowland, and even – interestingly – Ginny Rowland. (The fact that Ginny and Burt Rowland had been forced to provide fingerprints for electronic transfer from France was another outrageous insult, but they had grudgingly complied.) Only one partial print belonging to Kevin Whitley had been found, and that was on the door jamb. The print’s location was several meters from the corpse – hardly the sort of compelling evidence that might lead a judge to deny bond.

“The fact that Kevin has no priors makes it even harder,” Bhar said. “It’s also difficult to argue he’s a flight risk when the victim’s family members are his biggest supporters.”

“I don’t suppose you learned anything new on Ginny?” Kate asked.

“No. I hoped the fingerprints might turn up a prostitution arrest under her former name, Ginny Castle, but there’s nothing. She either worked alone within the limits of the law, or else one of her previous employers – all of which look legit at first pass – was a deep-cover escort service to the wealthy and privileged. I’m still digging into that possibility. Might ask the old man to call up a few of the companies, asking for female companionship, and see if he gets any bites.”

Kate giggled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“How little you know me. It’s always been a dream of mine to witness his lordship soliciting hot, illicit sex. Are you heading home?” Bhar asked the question in a way that implied no criticism – rare among Kate’s peers, who often measured their career worthiness by how rarely they departed before seven pm.

“Afraid so. Got an appointment,” Kate called over her shoulder. Glancing at her watch, she wondered how long it would take her to get to Harrod’s Knightsbridge.

* * *

The complimentary services of the personal shopper took five hours – four hours and fifteen minutes longer than Kate, in her innocence, had budgeted for herself. She’d been measured, fitted, re-fitted, quizzed about the minutiae of her work life, and led to pinpoint preferences she’d never known she had. Did she like earth tones or power colors? Did she value clean, elegant lines, or prefer the edgy and up-to-the-minute? Did designer labels matter, or only fabric and cut? Were cuffs or pleats strongly objectionable? What about scent, shoes, and the eternal debate – silver or gold?

Famished and suffering from sensory overload, Kate retreated to the Green Man Pub on Harrod’s ground level. At home in the smoky, old-fashioned pub atmosphere – a fabrication, of course, but a loving one – Kate ordered a roast beef sandwich, chips, and a beer. Then she was forced to ask the waitress to replace the beer with cola when she recalled, still with that sense of the surreal, that pregnant women weren’t supposed to drink alcohol. Even without a beer, the late lunch did the trick. After a half-hour in hiding, Kate forced herself to climb via escalator back up to the brightly-lit world of the personal shoppers, to view what they’d assembled for her.

Six suits were the foundation of her new work wardrobe – black, chestnut, gray heather, and navy pinstripe. Each suit was silk, and accompanied by both slacks and skirts. They fitted beautifully – so beautifully, in fact, Kate decided to confide her pregnancy to the personal shoppers. The skirts, she learned, could easily be adjusted, and Harrod’s would be happy to provide tailoring to accommodate her changing figure. The other accessories, including modest leather shoes that looked grandmotherly, but won Kate over with their cloudlike support, would carry her through the ninth month just fine.

“Career women don’t drape themselves in sacks anymore, just because baby’s on the way,” a cheerful assistant told Kate. “These days, you make fashion fit you, and display your bump with pride.”

Not quite convinced, Kate consigned that image of herself – the same, except for a beach ball of a belly, knocking over evidence as she examined crime scenes – to the recesses of her mind. She probably had two or three more months to enjoy her new clothes before the jig was up. And although she didn’t consider herself a clothes person, she had to admit, it was fun to let a team of professionals fuss over her until they got it right.

“I realize this is a substantial outlay,” the saleswoman continued, presenting Kate with the bill. “But you’ll never regret investing in yourself.”

She’s not sure I can pay for all this, Kate thought, handing over her debit card. She wished Henry, who often accused her of meanness, could see her release her grip on so many pounds. She scrimped on rent, her car, their groceries, and – until now – her wardrobe. She never revealed to any lover, including Dylan, precisely how much she earned, or how much she saved. Ever since she assumed responsibility for Ritchie, including the hiring of Cassie – a necessity partially subsidized by government agencies, thank God – Kate had guarded her finances. She had a fair idea what Ritchie’s lifetime care would cost, and she meant to be ready.

But this really is an investment, Kate told herself. If I look more professional, I’ll get better assignments and quicker promotions. And that means more money for Ritchie, for Henry, and for Baby Whatsit, too.

Trailed by a team of smiling salespeople carrying Harrod’s bags, Kate stowed the entire purchase in the boot of her car, grateful for the experience and relieved to escape it. Perhaps it was a sad commentary on her as a person, but when she missed work, she really missed it. And before she returned home to Henry, Ritchie, and whatever amazing dinner Cassie was preparing, shouldn’t she drop back by the Yard and make sure she hadn’t missed any new developments?

The offices had mostly cleared out. The lifts were blessedly swift, and the only sound was of vacuums and floor-polishing equipment as the cleaning staff tackled another day’s filth. When Kate arrived in Hetheridge’s office, she found Mrs. Snell still at her desk, typing with demonic speed.

“Good evening, Sergeant,” Mrs. Snell said, barely glancing at Kate. “I thought you’d taken a vacation day.” Her tone contained all censure Bhar’s earlier question had omitted.

“That’s right. Just dropped an obscene amount of money at Harrod’s. Can’t spend every night here, hunched over my computer, or I’ll end up a mad old bat without a life. Looks like Tony’s in his office. I’ll let myself in.”

Kate entered quietly, in case Hetheridge was on another conference call, or in the midst of something private. Instead, she found him sans jacket, tie loosened, leaning back in his executive chair with his eyes closed. He looked like a man who had stayed too late at work, and fallen asleep.

Kate continued to clutch the door handle, wondering if she should go back the way she came. As she leaned against the door, indecisive – and not relishing the prospect of re-engaging Mrs. Snell so soon – the door creaked, and Hetheridge opened his eyes.

“Kate. I thought you went home hours ago.”

“I did. Sleep in here often?” She took a seat in front of his desk.

“I wasn’t sleeping. Thinking. Best time to do it, when most people have gone. There’s little chance of phone calls and e-mails and drop-in visits interrupting me.”

“It looked like sleeping,” Kate said, smiling. “Did I miss anything?”

“Bhar found a possible lead in one of Ginny Rowland’s former employers, Venture Perfect Temporary Services. It’s almost certainly a front for an escort service catering to the sort of men who would never go curb-crawling, or risk a walk-up. I’d like the two of you to ask Mrs. Rowland about it tomorrow.”

“Of course. Did Bhar tell you Kevin’s stonewalling us?”

“That’s to be expected. If he’d really returned for something as simple as his phone, he would have said so at once. Yet I still find it difficult to imagine him as the killer whom Malcolm Comfrey allowed to stir up the fire in front of him. I also have trouble seeing Kevin wiping down the murder weapon while it protruded from Comfrey’s eye socket. Again, we return to someone with considerable self-control.”

“So why did Kevin return to the house? It couldn’t have been to talk to Jules. He ignored her calls all night.”

“My first guess would be drugs. Perhaps he left his stash in the Comfrey house, and didn’t want to go the night without it?”

Kate raised her eyebrows. “Interesting. But based on what?”

Hetheridge laughed. “Years and years of investigating suspects like Kevin Whitley. Also his arrest toxicology report, which was positive for marijuana and heroin.”

“That could be why he looked so deflated today. He may be having trouble finding gear in lock-up.”

“Whereas if he enters Her Majesty’s prison system, he’ll have no trouble at all. By the way, there’s one other development,” Hetheridge said. “An eyewitness has come forward – Patsy Mather, the Comfrey’s neighbor the next street over, where the Comfrey’s back lawn abuts Mrs. Mather’s back lawn. She says she waited this long because she felt disloyal to her neighbor – which I take to mean, her class – by speaking to the police. But when she read we’d arrested a male, she decided to tell us she saw a woman exit the Comfrey house around half-nine or ten pm, on the night of the murder.”

“Did Ms. Mather give a description?” Kate asked, excited.

“Not really. Dark hair, which sounds more like Madge and Ginny Rowland than Jules, who might look blonde from that distance, even with the security lights. Ms. Mather saw a female exit the back door, walk out of the lit area, and re-enter the house about five minutes later. She was carrying something small in both hands when she exited the house, but returned empty-handed. Ms. Mather thought it was odd, but not remarkable, not until the police lights and sirens gathered around the Comfrey house. I think…” Hetheridge broke off as Kate’s mobile rang inside her bag.

Sighing, Kate thrust a hand into the bag, coming up with the phone on her first attempt for once. The blue screen indicating the phone number, unfamiliar to Kate, began with 0121 – Birmingham.

“Sorry,” she said to Hetheridge, and put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

The woman on the other end asked Kate her name, gave hers, and then said something incomprehensible. The tiny hairs on the back of Kate’s neck rose, and her stomach went cold, although she never remembered those sensations later.

“What? What did you say?” Kate demanded, raising her voice, as if the caller was hard of hearing instead of speaking words she found impossible to process. Those words issued into her ear again, faster now – frustrated, demanding, impossible.

“I don’t – you can’t – no!” Kate said, or meant to say, but it came out as a scream. Before she knew what happened, she’d screamed again, an ugly sound like a snared animal. Then Hetheridge was there, Mrs. Snell was there, and her phone was on the floor, the sight of it distorted by tears.

“What it is?” Hetheridge demanded, arm going around her shoulders and holding her tight.

“Dylan,” Kate breathed, sure she was dreaming – she must be dreaming, because nothing else made sense. “He’s dead.”