Ice Blue (19 page)

“Kate?” It was Bhar. He sounded excited.

“Hey, Paul. Something new on the case?”

“Yeah. I meant to call you yesterday, but I
had a lot of paperwork to finish, and a thousand e-mails. Anyway –
you want me to break down the last two days chronologically, or in
order of significance?”

“Chronologically,” Kate said.

“Okay. Yesterday, the old man and I
interviewed Ginny and Burt Rowland. She admitted to being a former
escort and having an affair with Malcolm Comfrey. Burt didn’t say
much of anything, but his wife’s past came as no surprise to him.
My lord got Ginny’s back up, and she announced she knew who killed
Comfrey, and why. But she wouldn’t be telling the stiffs at
Scotland Yard how or why, no sir.”

“Course not,” Kate said.

“Next thing. This morning, Kevin Whitley came
clean about why he went back inside the Comfrey house just before
the murder. He left his gear in Jules’s bedroom – weed and some
heroin. He denies sharing it with Jules or selling it on the
streets. He claims it was his, for his own personal use, and he’s
never dealt. Anyway, citing a dearth of material evidence and a
lack of priors, Whitley’s solicitor got him released on bond late
this afternoon.”

“Good for him.”

“Yes. Now. Feel like suiting up and zipping
over to Belgravia for the party?”

“What party?” The small hairs on the back of
Kate’s neck rose.

“The party at the Rowlands,” Bhar said.
“Someone emptied a gun full of hollow point bullets into Ginny
Rowland’s back. Her maid found her dead, face down on the living
room rug. It’s not white anymore. And little red doggie prints are
everywhere.”

Kate blew out her breath. “Wow. Maybe she
really did know who killed Comfrey, and why.”

“And maybe she tried turning that information
to her financial advantage. Think Comfrey’s killer is still trying
to clean up his or her mess?” Bhar asked.

“Yeah,” Kate said, already calculating how
long it would take her to drive to Belgravia. “Be right there.”

When Kate arrived in the Rowlands’
neighborhood, panda cars encircled the house. The constabulary
response was greater than the Comfrey murder had received – even
the media vanguard had been driven out of filming range. Kate
herself was obliged to park two streets down the block, then hoof
it up to the Rowlands’ house. She was also compelled to show her
warrant card time and again, first to one constable and then to
another, as if she was a parasite, intent on feeding off a real
life crime scene. It was a very different experience from riding in
Hetheridge’s Lexus – halted for no more than a few seconds before
the uniforms scrambled to lift away barriers and wave them through.
Hetheridge was known on sight; she was forced to prove her identity
again and again.

I shouldn’t complain, Kate thought, forcing a
smile for the fifth constable who brusquely demanded to see her ID.
They’re just preserving the scene for CID, the way they’re charged
to do.

Cleared at last, Kate veered toward the
house’s side entrance. It was bright with halogen security lights,
as well as ever-shifting blue strobes, and guarded by several
uniformed officers. There she saw a familiar figure near the
rubbish bins, speaking to a tall constable in a flapping black
mack.

“Oi! Chief!” she called. “I made it!”

Hetheridge’s head jerked toward her. Attired
more casually than she’d ever seen him – black slacks, black polo
shirt, and a wool jacket with a miniscule plaid pattern – he looked
younger and better rested than when she’d seen him last. He didn’t
smile or lift a hand. Instead, he turned back to the tall
constable, resuming the conversation.

Kate felt a twinge of worry. This would be
awkward, after all. Perhaps she should venture into the house
alone? Bhar was probably there, and she could glom onto him for
support. Besides, the crime scene awaited, and it would be natural
for her – the junior sergeant with everything to prove – to fling
herself at the evidence in desperation to make a contribution.

Kate weighed her options. She strode up to
Hetheridge and waited at his elbow like a latecomer at a cocktail
party, determined to insinuate herself with the best people.

“Excellent custodianship of the scene. Good
observations, too. Thank you very much,” Hetheridge concluded,
shaking the constable’s hand. The tall young man looked both
pleased and embarrassed. Finally, he shot a smile at Kate – a
“You’re my witness!” look – before flapping off toward his fellow
officers. As the constable passed out of earshot, Hetheridge turned
to Kate, his eyes hooded, still unsmiling.

“Sergeant. I appreciate your presence. Are
you certain you’re ready to return to duty?”

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else. This isn’t a hot
scene, is it?” she asked, guessing why the media had been driven so
far back, and why the uniformed response had been so
impressive.

“We don’t know,” Hetheridge said. “Burt
Rowland burst in just as the first responders assessed the scene.
He attacked an officer and had to be physically restrained by two
others. He seems genuinely distraught over the death of his
wife…”

“But that doesn’t mean he’s not the shooter,”
Kate said. “Is he still here?”

“Under arrest, technically,” Hetheridge said.
“His hands have been swabbed for gun powder residue, and his shoes
and clothing will be taken for analysis as soon as we finish his
interrogation. Then we can decide whether to charge him with murder
or release him.”

“Blood on his clothing?” Kate asked.

“Lots. Not a splatter pattern, though, to the
naked eye. Just a mass of blood absorbed into his coat and shirt
when he lifted Ginny’s body and tried to resuscitate her. Some of
his own blood, too, from cuts and scrapes when he scuffled with the
officers.”

“Has anyone found the weapon?”

“Not yet. But come the dawn, we’ll have
constables walk the property from one end to the other and see if
it turns up.”

“Witnesses?”

Hetheridge shrugged. “At this point, I’ll
refrain from dignifying them with that term. Let’s just say there
are dozens of interested parties in the neighborhood queuing up to
speak to the police. From what I can tell, they’re mostly supplying
complaints about what an unpleasant and inconsiderate neighbor Mrs.
Rowland was.”

“Can I see the body before we speak to Burt
Rowland?”

“Absolutely.” Opening the side door,
Hetheridge held it for Kate until she entered ahead of him.
Stepping into the Rowlands’ mud room, half of Kate’s mind
inventoried the details of her rapid-fire exchange with Hetheridge
while the other half wondered what he was feeling. He had looked
and sounded the same, and yet … something was different. Something
was missing.

Hetheridge guided Kate through the mud room
and kitchen, then down a minimalist corridor, decorated with black
and white photos in square black frames. Next came the living room,
where Ginny Rowland was sprawled on the floor, about three meters
from the foyer. Blood was everywhere – soaking her black dress, her
hair, and the shag area rug that had once been white. Blood also
pooled on the hardwood floor, congealing in spots, smeared and
tracked in others. Large shoe prints were visible, like a sloppy
red diagram of a dance routine, as were the doggie prints Bhar had
mentioned. A long stream of animal tracks traveled across the
cushions of the white sofa, each paw print as red and distinct as a
lipstick print.

“Bhar said she was shot in the back,” Kate
said, frowning at the position of Ginny’s body. Ginny’s eyes were
open, and she lay awkwardly on her side, one arm crumpled beneath
her. Her chest was strangely asymmetric – a flat breast on the
right, a round breast on the left. After a second, Kate realized
that one of the bullets had pierced an implant, which had drained
of saline or silicone as Ginny’s body emptied of blood.

“Burt Rowland lifted her up, flipped her
over, and tried to perform mouth to mouth, according to the first
responders,” Hetheridge sighed. “No photos had been taken, of
course. And as you can see from that smear of blood,” he pointed,
“Mr. Rowland obviously dragged her at least a meter from her
original position. But hopefully the blood spatter team can use
that,” he pointed again at a faint red stippling on the sofa, “to
determine exactly where she was standing when she was shot.”

Kate nodded, ashamed to admit she was
slightly nauseated by the powerful coppery odor. “Think it’s the
same killer who did Malcolm Comfrey?”

Hetheridge smiled for the first time, but it
was a professional smile, never touching his eyes. “You tell me,
Sergeant.”

“Right.” Kate folded her arms across her
chest and studied the body. It was cold in the Rowlands’ home, with
a steady stream of icy air emitting from some hidden vent. She
found herself rocking in an involuntary attempt to warm herself.
“The Comfrey murder appears to be a crime of passion, at least to
some extent. The degree of rage directed at him was made manifest
by killer’s need to not only end his life, but to obliterate him –
in that case, by rendering his face unrecognizable. This murder is
more like an execution. The killer premeditated the act, came to
Ginny Rowland’s home to carry it out, and fired multiple times to
make certain she died.”

Hetheridge nodded. “So would you venture to
call it a definite execution?”

“No.” Kate continued to rock, hands and face
growing colder. “A professional would have shot her in the head.
This killer shot Ginny in the back. Several times, yes, but in the
back. To me, that means the killer knew Ginny. And even though the
perpetrator wanted Ginny dead, he or she wasn’t an experienced
enough killer to look her in the eye and shoot her.”

“My conclusions precisely. Thank you,
Sergeant. We should proceed to questioning Burt Rowland now…”

“Tony,” Kate interrupted, holding his gaze.
Of course, they weren’t alone. There were constables just outside
the living room, and sounds from the investigation intruded from
every side – harsh male voices, footsteps, creaking floorboards,
yappy dogs barking somewhere. But Kate was too at home in CID chaos
to feel constrained by it, not even the stink of a fresh corpse.
She couldn’t allow this disconnection to persist between her and
Hetheridge, not for another moment.

“Sergeant, it’s imperative we continue
without delay. I…”

“Tony, this won’t take a minute. I just want
to say …”

“Chief Hetheridge?” a uniformed officer asked
from the corridor where they’d entered. His tone was apologetic,
with an undercurrent of urgency. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we
have a situation outside.”

“What situation?” Hetheridge demanded in that
tone of command that came so naturally to him.

“Madge Comfrey and Jules Comfrey tried to
gain access to the scene. They claim to be personal friends of the
Rowlands and attempted to enter through a neighbor’s back garden.
Shall we arrest and hold them, sir?”

“No. This is a bit of a diplomatic situation,
I’m afraid. Cut the wrong wire on this particular bomb and Scotland
Yard will have another mountain of bad press to overcome. I’ll deal
with it. DS Wakefield, I believe DS Bhar is already with Mr.
Rowland. Please join him and begin the questioning. I’ll return as
soon as I’m able.”

* * *

Burt Rowland was being detained, at least in
the formal sense, in the dining room. The officers he had assaulted
kept him under a watchful eye, two standing, another sitting on one
of the high-backed chairs. All three officers appeared unharmed,
except for blood smears on their uniforms, and the suggestion of a
bruise forming on one man’s cheek. Rowland, by contrast, sat
deflated at the head of the table, shoulders sagging, legs apart,
feet pointed in toward one another. His coat and tie had already
been taken for the lab – both items, stiff with drying blood, were
sealed in large plastic evidence bags. They rested bizarrely on the
sideboard, next to the china cups and saucers. Rowland’s shirt,
once pastel blue with a narrow stripe, was decorated with dark
blots, like a Rorschach print awaiting interpretation.

Bhar stood at the periphery of the room,
texting something into his smart phone. He looked cheered to catch
sight of Kate, and gave her a wave. Finishing the message, he
snapped his phone closed, stowing it in his pocket. Coming up
close, he muttered in Kate’s ear: “Did our lord give us permission
to start?”

“Yep. Care to do the honors?”

“Burt’s a wee bit hostile toward me just now.
Maybe you should try your feminine wiles?”

Nodding, Kate took a deep breath, then
started toward Burt. He didn’t look up as she approached, so she
pulled out a dining chair, allowing it to drag across the floor.
Bhar did the same, also with exaggerated slowness and noise, but
Rowland still did not acknowledge their presence. His upper lip was
cut and swollen. There was a plug of dried blood in one nostril,
and his left eye look pink and puffy.

“Mr. Rowland, I’m DS Kate Wakefield. This is
DS Paul Bhar, whom I believe you’ve already met. I’m terribly sorry
about everything you’ve suffered tonight, including your
injuries.”

“Sod off. Both of you.” Burt said. His deep,
resonant voice seemed incongruous coming from his slim, compact
frame.

“I’m afraid we can’t just leave you to
grieve,” Kate said. “We need to find out what happened to your
wife. We …”

“
Sod off
!” Burt screamed. Flecks of
spittle hit Kate in the face, and she saw directly into Rowland’s
eyes – bloodshot whites, dilated pupils, and a shine of terror.
“You, your pet Paki, these gorillas, the whole lot! I won’t speak
to you without my solicitor! I won’t say a goddamn thing!”

Bhar put a hand on Kate’s shoulder. It was
easy to interpret his non-verbal suggestion: de-escalate the
situation. Leave for awhile, then return, preferably with someone
new in tow, like Hetheridge, who Burt might actually consent to
talk to.