Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (13 page)

"Does milord think I
enjoy
being an embarrassment? Does he imagine I pride myself on being the ginormous git who haunts Scotland Yard, destroying airtight cases with a single touch? Well, he can think what he wants, because I did what any son would do. And I will be there tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred, chin up, head high. Unwilling to grovel or beg or otherwise debase myself to atone for the allegedly unforgivable sin of—"

A harsh bark made him stop so abruptly, he stubbed his toe on the uneven sidewalk and went down. No sooner did he hit, hands and knees taking the brunt of the impact, then the dog was upon him, big and black and growling through bared teeth.

"The Grim!"

Since the previous autumn, he'd repeatedly seen a black dog he called, in a nod to one of his favorite book series, the Grim. A psychic had claimed it symbolized forthcoming change. But after Tony and Kate's marriage, after the revelation his mum was dating a mustachioed Texan, after being threatened by Sir Duncan and finding himself helpless to fight back, Bhar had expected the dark personification of his fears to vanish. What more could possibly befall him?

"Will I be sacked? Am I dying?" he babbled at the dog, still on his hands and knees.

Get up. That brute wants to bite you, not psychoanalyze your dreams.

His inner voice had a point. Scrambling up, Bhar tried to remember what to do when facing an aggressive dog. Should he run? No. Whatever this shaggy black beast was—part Newfoundland, part Chow, part hellhound—the race would be unwinnable. Should he try and stare it down? Wrong again. Bluffing a human was one thing. Trying to hoodwink a beast capable of smelling fear might be the last thing he ever did.

"Listen. I'm sure I look delicious. Odds are I probably am. But I've had a pitiless day and a positively catastrophic night." Using his softest, most soothing tone, Bhar focused on the dog's flattened ears. It was less terrifying than looking into those bright yellow eyes. "So if you'd consider not biting me, or tearing my throat out, or chasing me to perdition, I'd be ever so grateful."

The black dog's growl intensified. It poised to spring. Just as Bhar instinctively threw up his arm to defend his jugular, a man called,

"Kaiser! Nein! Lass das sein!"

The growling stopped. Rising out of its crouch, the dog whined, glancing in the male voice's direction. Then it refocused on Bhar, still hostile but less certain.

"Kaiser!
Hier! Hier
!"

With a second, more mournful whine, the dog turned and bounded away, dashing between parked cars and around a corner. As he ran, Bhar saw a flash of metal around the dog's shaggy neck, then heard the rattle of tags.

Your omen of doom appears to be a wayward pet named Kaiser. Not quite worth worrying yourself sick over, eh?
the voice in head said unhelpfully.

Typical. His mum's boyfriend was probably a murderer. His guv was ready to show him the door. He hadn't heard from saucy blonde Emmeline or sensitive brunette Kyla in over a week; now even his own thoughts mocked him. There was nothing for it but to go home, brew a pot of tea, and wait for Sharada.

* * *

If the night Buck Wainwright was arrested was an unhappy one in the Bhar household, the next day proved grimmer still. Sharada, usually cheerful no matter what, arrived home in tears. She spent the night pacing, eating Haagen-Dazs ice cream by the pint, and researching various aspects of the criminal justice system. Naturally, she began her fact-finding mission by asking her son, who, personal failings aside,
did
enjoy the benefit of actually knowing what he was talking about. Alas, Bhar's truthful answers, however gently expressed, did not meet with Sharada's approval. Google, she decided, was a better resource than anything a mere Scotland Yard detective said. By 1:00 a.m., mother and son were no longer on speaking terms. Retreating to the relative sanctuary of his bedroom, Bhar set the alarm for six, hoping for an uninterrupted kip before facing his guv's displeasure in the morning. But soon after five, he was awakened by thudding, thumping, and an enormous crash.

"Mum!" he cried, halfway down the stairs. "What in bloody hell are you doing?"

"Don't be profane, Deepal." Attired in pinafore, kerchief, and yellow rubber gloves, she was taking a hammer to the living room wall. In the process of knocking a hole in the plaster, she'd unbalanced her curio cabinet, the source of the crash. It lay in the middle of room, glass doors shattered, its keepsake porcelain cups and saucers vomited onto the Turkish rug.

"Very well. Without profanity: what are you doing, Mum?"

"Buck needs an alibi. I'm providing one."

She looked so pathetic, held together by determination, adrenalin, and
Dulce de Leche
, all lingering resentment vanished.

"I see," he said more gently. "How exactly does demolishing our home establish his alibi?"

"It's clear to me what happened. That strange little man dealing his so-called art did something to provoke Buck. Buck punched the wall." Another blow landed with a
blam
. "So I'll say Buck came here, and I provoked him. He punched my wall."
Blam!
"Problem solved."

"Right. Mum, let's think about this." As he went to her, stopping her arm in mid-swing, the phone rang.

"Don't slow me down!" Sharada twisted out of his grip. "Answer that."

"It's probably one of our neighbors." Bhar caught hold of her again. "Seriously, Mum, let's assume you can stage this well enough to fool my guv. Remember my guv? The 'Lordly Detective' himself? In real life he's a lot harder edged than that randy bloke you wrote about. But fine, let's pretend he comes in, looks at all this, and agrees Buck injured his hands here instead of the crime scene. How will you explain your previous statement?"

"I'll recant. Say I'm a liar!"

"Yes. Well. Can't argue with that." As the phone mercifully stopped ringing, Bhar pried her fingers off the hammer. It was one of those tools that had been bizarrely reimagined for the ultra-feminine: smaller than average, with flowers printed on its pink vinyl grip. He held it behind his back.

"The guv's old-fashioned when it comes to self-confessed liars. He never believes anything they say. Same with most prosecutors, most magistrates, and the Crown Court in general."

Sharada's wide black eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Deepal. What am I going to do?"

He took a deep breath. Someone had to take control. And until a more qualified person showed up, that someone was apparently him.

"You're going to bed. No arguing! I'll clean up this mess and say sorry to our neighbors. Then I'll go to work, apologize to my guv, and find out what I can do for Buck."

If you're still employed by the Metropolitan Police Service
, that voice inside his head added.

* * *

He stepped off the lift, expecting to smell breakfast. Despite his dread of facing Tony, breakfast was a constant in their work life, something he could look forward to when everything else went wrong. Even after the office snitches had complained in emails and special meetings, even after the guv had been forced to cover the cost out of his own pocket, breakfast remained a constant, elevating the worst morning. Thick toast, uncured bacon, eggs, baked beans, kippers in lemon butter, tomatoes, fried potatoes, black currant jam, good strong coffee and, if the previous night had been punishing, espresso. No matter how he felt after his morning commute, catching a scent of those dishes was enough to restore Bhar's default good humor.

Today he smelled nothing. Well—nothing edible. There was floor cleaner, a bit of burnt microwave popcorn, perhaps some lemon air freshener. That was all.

He checked his watch. Slightly after eight, which meant the food should have been waiting.

Entering the office, Bhar found the lights on and Mrs. Snell at her desk. She looked terrible. He'd known her to work through laryngitis, sinusitis, and the recent death of her mother, efficient and untouched no matter what the circumstances. This morning, her face was gray and her eyes were as puffy as Sharada's. She, too, looked like a woman who had wept all night.

"Good morning, Mrs. S! You seem a bit under the weather.
Downton
didn't kill off another Crawley, did it?"

"DS Bhar." Her tone dropped the office's ambient temperature by ten degrees.

"Mrs. Snell," he said more submissively, after a quick glance to make sure Kate wasn't around to overhear. "Sorry about that. It's only… where's breakfast? I know some of the yobbos complained, but I thought the guv pinned them to the mat."

"It's true, we were granted a reprieve. Yet that reprieve proved ephemeral, like much of this life." Mrs. Snell cleared her throat. "There will be no more meals served in this office. Health and Safety Regulation 208.1 B."

"I'm not familiar with that one," Bhar admitted.

"I imagine not. It was written yesterday and emailed as an addendum to the relevant manuals at oh-eight-hundred this morning." She tapped her wristwatch. "Which was six minutes ago, DS Bhar."

"Yes, well, traffic being bloody bollixed, I shouldn't think anyone would—" He stopped. "Oh. Right. I really am a disaster, aren't I, Mrs. S?"

She affected not to hear. "He awaits you even now, DS Bhar."

Bhar looked at Tony's closed office door. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, announced himself with a single ceremonial knock, and entered.

The guv was swiveled toward the window and leaning back in his chair—far back in that way which impressed some and alarmed others. A few hoped that some halcyon day, he'd overbalance and fall on his brass.

Bhar took two steps toward the desk. Silence.

He took another step, well short of the guest chairs. It had been impressed upon him since boyhood not to take a seat before he was invited. Besides, this was England, and in England a man stood up for his dressing-down.

He cleared his throat. Still, Tony didn't turn.

There was nothing for it. "Good morning, sir," Bhar said. There was a bit of a quaver in the "good." Otherwise it sounded reasonably grownup.

The front legs of Tony's chair made contact with the floor. When he turned, he looked tired rather than angry. "Sorry I didn't hear you, Paul. Just enjoying the view. After all these years, I don't suppose the one on Victoria Embankment will be quite the same."

Bhar didn't know what to say. The move from the Broadway office, which had been New Scotland Yard since 1967, to the north bank of the Thames, wasn't on his radar. The slings and arrows of daily life kept him too busy to worry about new facilities, much less new views. "I'd best come straight out with it. I was dead wrong last night. I didn't think about anything except my mum and her welfare. Whatever reprimand you give me, I deserve."

Tony studied him. "Yes, well, I can't disagree. We've discussed this before. Every time you behave without thinking, you potentially damage the case, or even the Met. A letter has been entered into your file. And it goes without saying you're to have nothing to do with the Hardwick investigation."

Despite his willingness to accept any reprimand, news of yet another letter in his file cut deep. It took him so long to process the idea, Bhar nearly missed the implication in his guv's words.

"Investigation? I thought Buck confessed."

"He did. Yet the matter is far from settled. Beyond that, as you've proven yourself incapable of maintaining professional distance in this and other matters"—Hetheridge smiled strangely as he said those words—"I'm afraid I cannot discuss the particulars any further. Rest assured Kate and others to be determined will settle the matter, and Mrs. Bhar will be kept informed of Mr. Wainwright's ongoing status, as much as the letter of the law permits."

"You're saying it's not a wrap. He might be innocent. He might be innocent!" Bhar whooped. "Good grief, that's it, I'm saved. Just the
hope
of his innocence should be enough to keep my mum from going postal. No more rending of garments, no more gnashing of teeth. I might even eat a hot dinner tonight."

"Yeah, speaking of food," Kate said from the doorway. "Where's breakfast? And why does Mrs. Snell look like somebody died?"

"Take a seat, both of you," Tony said. That strange smile disappeared.

"I'm still knackered after last night, and I was really counting on coffee, or at least a cuppa, to bring me back from the dead," Kate said. "Give me two minutes, guv, just two minutes, I promise. Let me steal a mug of last night's brew, maybe a jam doughnut if Jackson didn't plow through them all, and—"

"Detective Sergeant Hetheridge. Be seated."

Dropping into the nearest chair, Bhar patted the one beside him. His pleading look to Kate went unnoticed—she was glaring at her husband, color already rising.

"He just took me off the Wainwright case," Bhar announced before she could say anything foolish. "Next step, the sack. You don't want to get it before I do, hey, Kate?"

That had the desired effect. Still looking mutinous, Kate sat down at last.

Tony didn't speak. The silence stretched out for ten seconds, twenty, thirty. Just as Bhar was seriously considering asking if they'd heard the limerick about the man from Capri, the guv said, "About the sack. I fear I've outdone you both. Assistant Commissioner asked for my resignation first thing this morning. I've given it to him, which was my only course beyond a protracted legal battle."

"What?" Bhar thought that stunned word came from his own lips, but after a moment's disbelief, he realized Kate had spoken. All he'd emitted was a faint wheeze.

"See for yourself." Hetheridge pushed a one-page letter across the table. Of ivory linen, it was folded once in the middle—hand-delivered, not posted.

Dear Chief Superintendent Hetheridge
After long reflection, I have no choice but to remove you from command, effective immediately. Given the many complaints received by fellow officers, public servants connected with the Metropolitan Police Service, and indeed various individual citizens over the years, your effectiveness is compromised beyond repair. Moreover, your personal relationships with certain other officers has given rise to frequent and persuasive charges of nepotism, particularly with regard to DS Deepal Bhar and DS Katherine Wakefield Hetheridge. As you've proven yourself incapable of maintaining professional distance in this and other matters, I request you resign your post and vacate your office by the end of the week.
Respectfully,
Michael Deaver
Assistant Commissioner, Metropolitan Police Service