Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (21 page)

"There's no evidence of that, beyond the fact he allowed her to stay at his place. But there may have been another reason. You know Hardwick's one and only marriage was to her sister, right? Monette Sevrin?"

Kate took out her mobile. It was time to start taking notes.

"Well," Jackson continued, "PC Fannon must have been hot to impress you, Tony, because he dug up the specifics of Hardwick's divorce from Monette. She named him an adulterer and her sister Georgette as the other woman."

"Interesting," Tony said.

"It does make one wonder what sort of relationship Miss Sevrin and Mr. Hardwick maintained," Mrs. Snell said. "For her to remain in his house, feigning illness, while he romanced a parade of younger women. Either they matured from lovers to co-conspirators, or she was using the possibility of a big settlement to stay in his life."

Kate goggled at the former administrative assistant. She'd never heard Mrs. Snell comment on a case.

"You read up on Hardwick, Mrs. S?" Paul sounded as astonished as Kate felt.

"I could hardly help it. Last night's papers and news reports were devoted to him. And even if they hadn't been, I would have gone looking. I'm committed now, aren't I?" She sipped her tea.

"What about Buck?" Sharada asked. "Have you proven him innocent yet? There must be CCTV camera footage. Eyewitnesses in the neighborhood…."

Jackson made a disgruntled noise but covered it over with more throat-clearing. "You're Mrs. Bhar?"

"Who else would I be?"

"Er, well, Mrs. Bhar, the camera footage is still being gathered, but what we have from East Asia House—that white eyesore Hardwick built—is useless. The last thing it recorded is from three weeks ago. Someone, probably a neighbor, coated the lens with black spray paint. Most likely a member of that protest group, the Society to Reverse Euston Brutality, intending to give Hardwick a piece of his mind and not wanting it caught on tape. Whatever was said, it must not have bothered Hardwick too much. He didn't lodge a police complaint. Didn't even have the camera repaired."

"Given his activity as a drug middleman, shipping contraband along with art, could the visit be related to that?" Kate asked.

Jackson shook his head. "I've spent years dealing with the drug trade. At that level—the level that comes knocking at your door—they're young, twitchy, shaved heads, neck tattoos. This was just a little bloke with a comb-over and loafers, fifty if he was a day. I'll email you the image," he added. "I'll bet he's one of your neighbors."

"So nothing to free Buck?" Sharada was turning plaintive.

"Mum. You promised," Paul warned.

"Well, the Holiday Inn footage corroborates his story," Jackson flipped to another section in his notebook, then fished reading glasses out of his breast pocket in order to read his own handwriting. "Here it is. Buck exited the premises at 2:05. Returned at 5:27. Exited again at 6:45. Each time, he wore a cowboy coat—leather, ankle-length—that hid his clothes. His tab at the hotel pub, as well as time-stamped use of his room key, line up with his taped testimony. But none of it precludes him from killing Hardwick around the official time of death, which has been set at 4:30."

"What about the maid he bribed to wash his clothes?" Kate asked.

"He picked a good one. She won't say a word. Insists it never happened," Jackson said. "We seized everything in his room and sent in forensic techs to check for trace evidence, but so far, nothing."

"Oh, Buck," Sharada moaned. "Why didn't you come to me? I would have washed away the art man's blood for you."

"Mum!"

"I'm a loyal woman. I won't apologize," she said stoutly. "And like Mrs. Snell, I've been reading up, doing my best to solve this case." From within the depth of her handbag, she withdrew a sheaf of papers, all printed from various websites, and placed it on the table triumphantly. "I give you—the wandering wives!"

Paul choked on his tea. Jackson looked like he was about to erupt, and Mrs. Snell became very occupied in spreading jam on her scone. Kate was searching for a something diplomatic to say when Tony picked up the printouts. Then he, too, fished out his reading glasses for a more careful examination.

"This is wandering wife number one?"

"Yes. Fiona Leeds, wife of Barney Leeds," Sharada said eagerly.

He read on. "It says she left her husband when he punched out his coach. I remember that. And according to this story, she dated Hardwick for the better part of last year."

"Yes! And look at this interview she did last week." Sharada dug out an article originally published in the
Daily Mail
. "It's supposed to be about her book tour. But all she could talk about was cheating men and lying men and men in general, how women are better off without them. I think she was angry at her husband
and
the art man."

Tony placed a picture of Barney Leeds in the center of the table for everyone to see. A big man with a perpetually angry face, he'd cleaned himself up for a red carpet photo op. To Kate, the effect was rather like putting a shaved gorilla in Prada—the designer clothes looked worse by association, and the gorilla didn't like it much, either.

"Has she returned to her husband?" Tony asked.

"No. And he's known to be violent," Sharada said happily. "Maybe he's the killer. Then there's this one," she added, fishing out a picture of a mousy looking woman with limp hair and sad eyes. "Patsy East. Another wandering wife. Her husband's Declan East. The bloke who's always going on about how Starbucks is ruining civilization."

"I know him," Paul said. "He thinks Britain is going the way of the Roman Empire, and men getting manicures is proof of it."

"She looks a bit outside Hardwick's usual type," Kate said. "Are we sure Patsy was dating him? They weren't just friends?"

"They were seen together quite often to just be friends," Sharada said. "I have a picture somewhere of her in sequins. Sequins! Must have taken that dress out of mothballs. But it looks like Patsy was the last woman to date Hardwick before he met Sunny. Maybe Patsy didn't like being replaced, eh? Maybe she turned up at his house and bashed him in the head."

"Supposition can be fun," Kate said, trying to inject a bit of sanity before Jackson exploded. He'd gone a quarter hour without that taut rubber band snapping; she wanted to help him continue the streak. "But did you find any hint of an actual motive, like a rant on social media?"

"There's this," Tony said, holding up a Declan East column less than a month old. It was called "Infidelity: How Its Widespread Tolerance Cheapens Us All." "I've skimmed his writing. The man seems to take virtually every facet of daily life as a personal insult. No surprise he didn't take kindly to his wife's extracurricular activities with Hardwick."

"Hang on." Jackson reached for the printout, studying East's portrait beside the op-ed piece. "I know that face." Withdrawing his mobile, he went through some lengthy maneuvers with apps and passwords, obtained what he sought, and placed the phone on the table for all to see.

It was a picture, obviously a security still, of a gloomy-looking man with a comb-over and loafers. He frowned up at the camera, spray paint can in hand.

"Well, if it isn't Declan East," Kate said.

"I told you the cuckolds should be suspects." Sharada smiled. "There's a person of interest!"

"Not only that. He's one of our neighbors," Tony told Kate. "I've seen that face, now and again, for twenty years or more. He must live on Euston Place, though I'm not sure which house."

"One last wandering wife." Sharada riffled through some pages, squinting. Then she stopped, located her bejeweled reading specs, and tried again. Kate and Paul exchanged amused glances. They were now the only people in the room who didn't require magnification to read, unless one counted Harvey standing in the corner, and his half-glasses were on his head.

"Here it is." Sharada passed the correct page to Tony. "Tabitha Quarrels, wife of Jimmy Quarrels. I used to watch his cooking show, until he browbeat that poor single mum for doing meatloaf in the final round. Someone should wash his mouth out with soap."

Tony placed the couple's picture in the center of the table, and Kate studied the celebrity chef. Like his more famous counterpart, Gordon Ramsey, Jimmy Quarrels often looked fraught. On his cooking shows, he always verged on a tantrum, even in the first five minutes. Perhaps there was something deeply satisfying about taking such offense at the shortcomings of others. It made him a victim, and a comfortably superior victim at that.

Quarrels' wife, a leggy redhead name Tabitha, was pictured beside Granville Hardwick. Posed at a gallery opening, they stood near an aggressively incomprehensible statue called
Peace.
To Kate, it
looked a bit like a Dalek.

"Tabitha Quarrels seems familiar. I've seen her down the street, haven't I?" Kate asked. "Screeching at the postal carrier over a dented package?"

"Yes, she's another one of our neighbors," Tony said. "Resides at No. 22."

"Oh? So you managed to notice where that pair of legs lives but not Declan East?"

He winked at her, then turned to Sharada. "Well done. I agree Mr. East is a person of interest. Given the public behavior of Barney Leeds and Jimmy Quarrels, they may be of interest, too. None of this exonerates Buck, but it does suggest legitimate avenues of investigation. If," he added with a deferential nod toward the head of the table, "DCI Jackson concurs."

"I do." Jackson sounded a bit surprised by his own declaration. Eyes on his teacup, he said, "DS Hetheridge and I discussed canvassing Euston Place yesterday. An evaluation of that protest group, the REB, is wanted, too. I could do it myself, but something about my manner puts off the poshies. DS Bhar can't be involved, and DS Hetheridge is slated to spend the afternoon with Miss Sevrin, AKA Miss Bloody Carpet Slippers. So it's probably best for me to enlist the help of a local. Someone trusted, who's lived here a long time." He looked up at Tony at last. "Are you willing? To talk to your neighbors, I mean?"

"Of course. I'll even return an invitation I've ignored since Christmas, or longer," Tony said. "From the organizer of the REB herself. Tabitha Quarrels."

Chapter Thirteen

Paul, who had endured the cream tea with equal parts trepidation (regarding Jackson) and mortification (regarding his mother) breathed a sigh of relief when the chief departed. Then Mrs. Snell excused herself, citing new duties elsewhere within Wellegrave House. Soon, Tony joined her, and Sharada announced her intention of powdering her nose, which Paul recognized as code for snooping in the loo. Her departure left him alone with Kate at last.

"Whose idea was it to invite Jackson?"

"Tony's. And it seems to have worked well."

"Weird how Harvey knew to offer him a Bloody Mary. Think Vic's been a guest here before?"

"I'm sure of it. Tony socialized with them all for years," Kate said. "Christmas parties, dinner parties, drinks down the pub. He never mentioned it to us because, as his subordinates, we didn't need to know."

"I always thought Jackson hated him."

"Me, too. But maybe hate's too strong a word. I think Vic was, and probably is, envious. Definitely more than a little intimidated. You saw how his neck sort of gradually disappeared as he poured tea?" She chuckled. "But now that Tony's been forced out, I guess even Vic feels secure enough to be generous."

"Asking for help with the local interviews, though…."

"I think it's brilliant. And you know Vic, he always used to complain about the powers that be. Using Tony unofficially, despite their decision, sends a message up the line, a little…." She made a rude hand gesture.

"Yeah. Vic does enjoy that sort of thing. Still, not to beat a dead one, but Kate. I thought
you
hated him. After… well…."

She shrugged. "I don't have to like him to work with him. He keeps it zipped, we'll see. By the way, your mum did all right, didn't she? When she pulled out her research, I was ready to sink under the table, but a lot of what she ferreted out has merit."

"Please don't tell her that. Unless it means she'll stop writing the sexy books and start doing mysteries." Paul seemed to rally at the notion. "Yeah. Good, clean mysteries. No descriptions of anything rippled, rigid, or covered with hair."

"But she's brilliant at that stuff! I realize she's moved on from obsessing about Tony to actually dating Buck. But I was re-reading
The Lordly Detective
, and you know what? There are parts that are surprisingly accu—"

"Don't tell me that. Bad enough she makes me read everything she writes. No son should be forced to know his mum's fantasies. Protection from that should be a basic human right." Paul's tea had gone cold, but he drank it anyway. "Speaking of the lordly one. How is he?"

"Made of steel."

"Kate. I'm serious."

"So am I. That's what he'd want me to tell you," she said, smiling. "So that's what I'll say. We've become a united front."

"You always were."

"Er, well, it got a little rocky once or twice. But now we—"