by Emma Jameson
“I didn’t want to. But Cecelia left me no choice,” Hannah said. “Told me if I didn’t accept her advice and meet with you, she was firing me and blocking my number.”
“Knowing Ms. Wheelwright only a fraction better than I know you, that seems entirely in keeping with her character,” Tony said. “But she strikes me as the sort who issues threats only to serve the greater good. I doubt she meant to sound unreasonable.”
“You miss the point. I’m the one who’s become unreasonable. Now I must be threatened to act in my own best interests. And it’s the Met that’s driven me to this sorry state.” Hannah’s low voice turned mannish. “Your function at Scotland Yard was to head up murder investigations that intersected with titled or famous individuals. Wasn’t the Earl of Brompton worthy of your attention? Were we too poor? Too ordinary?”
Tony put down his teacup. He knew what he wanted to say; that required no contemplation. But it didn’t take a board-certified psychiatrist to realize that Hannah Keene was adrift in a world mostly indifferent to her and her lost children. For her to hear his reply, she first had to watch him digest her accusation, to be satisfied that it was duly considered. Several seconds ticked by.
“Though I’m retired, I maintain a certain loyalty toward the MPS, and in particular, to my colleagues at the Yard,” he said at last. “I offer that in the spirit of full disclosure. Now. I can answer your question. If you’ll forgive me for answering it truthfully.”
Hannah nodded.
“I understand that your daughter, Mariah, was associated with Sir Duncan Godington. That she became close to him, perhaps romantically, in the final months of her life.”
“Yes.”
“I agree, it’s possible he bears some culpability in her death. At the very least, he may have information that will answer questions and provide closure. As a private investigator, I look forward to exploring that avenue with you. Having said that, I know why Scotland Yard declined to take up the matter. I was the man who reviewed your family’s complaint and put it aside. Not a supervisor or some faceless committee. Me.”
Hannah went rigid.
“Why did I do so? Because I saw no evidence whatsoever that your daughter was murdered. Nor could I find anything in the statements and preliminary data to indicate that your son was kidnapped.”
“If you’d bothered to ask—” Hannah began.
“I didn’t have to. I read your complaint. It was based on feelings. Hunches. Parental intuition. All of which I respect. But there was no evidence. Absolutely no testimony, no physical clues, nothing which would allow the Met to go forward. Scotland Yard can only pursue investigations that can be legally defended. Especially, and it pains me to say this, against a person like Sir Duncan.”
“So it was about money,” Hannah said.
“In part. He can afford the finest legal counsel, the sort that makes mincemeat of weak circumstantial cases. But his history with the Met is also key. His acquittal in his triple murder case left some, if not most, of the public convinced he’d been fitted up, as it were, by the powers that be. To try and connect him to an apparent suicide would have been insupportable without hard evidence.”
“Mariah did not commit suicide.” Hannah’s tone was granite.
“Forgive me. I did say, apparent. The circumstances of Mariah’s death look cut-and-dried to disinterested observers. Surely you accept that?”
She blew out her breath. “Dear God. Are you lying about reading the report, or just terminally thick? No one who knew the details would call it cut-and dried.”
“I do know those details. And more besides,” Tony said serenely. In this case, the soft answer might not turn away wrath, but he’d try it all the same.
“Tell me.”
“On the night of January the second, at approximately three in the morning, Mariah entered the construction zone of the Leadenhall building. To do this, she climbed two fences and cut the padlock on a door. She also set off a silent alarm that went unanswered,” Tony said. “The security firm apologized for the breach and paid a fine. They blamed the failure on extended New Year’s holiday-making.
“Inside the building, which was nothing but girders from the twentieth floor up, Mariah traveled by lift as far as she could go. Then she used scaffolding to reach the top, or close to the top—about thirty stories up. She jumped to her death. The body was discovered on the street below at around half-four by a homeless man and confirmed by officers on the scene at half-five. She was preliminarily identified by her medical alert bracelet, which signaled her severe peanut allergy. Her mobile, handbag, and other personal belongings were not recovered.”
“And you, a detective, consider what you’ve just described an open-and-shut case, do you?” Hannah laughed harshly. “Is it typical for twenty-one-year-old university students to break into construction sites?”
“No. But risky behavior of all types is most common in that age bracket. Moreover, Mariah was fit and athletic. She ran track, jumped hurdles, and so on. She was certainly capable of the act.”
“Godington might have forced her to break into the site. Threatened her with a gun or knife.”
“There’s no evidence of that.”
“But is there evidence he didn’t?” Hannah shot back. “People tell me he was in London for all of January and most of February. Can you prove he didn’t?”
Rather than lecture a grieving woman on the impossibility of proving a negative, Tony decided to share a privileged detail instead.
“The alarm Mariah set off was a motion detector. The system is sophisticated. It can differentiate between a small animal, like a cat, and a human being, or multiple human beings. Only one person trespassed on the site.”
“I’m expected to trust the device installed by a company too incompetent to monitor its own alarm?” Hannah scoffed. “How ridic—” She stopped. “They never told me it was a motion detector. In fact, the company refused to tell me anything at all. Said disclosure was against their policy.”
“That’s not unusual. But in preparing to meet with you, I made some off-the-record inquiries,” Tony said. “Being a retired lawman helps. So does subletting a condominium in the building Mariah jumped from.”
Hannah flinched. “What?”
“There was a fire at my family home in Mayfair,” Tony said. “No one was hurt, but renovations proceed at one of two speeds: slow and stop. A friend located a condo for us in One-oh-One. We accepted long before I had any idea of offering my services to Ms. Wheelwright. Rather a morbid coincidence, certainly.”
“I’m not sure I believe in coincidence anymore,” Hannah said. “From a scientist, that’s tantamount to heresy. Have you heard of the Law of Truly Large Numbers?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s an adage, really. Not a true mathematical law. In science, we use it to help folks understand that in a world of seven billion human beings, the sample for any given occurrence is so enormous, statistically improbable things happen every day.” Hannah seemed to remember her tea. She picked it up, tasted it, scowled, and set it down again. “Ice cold. Anyway. As a scientist, I’m meant to believe that events are random. Any apparent coincidence—any highly improbable event that seems ironic or reinforcing of some idea—is an illusion. Just our minds’ attempt to impose meaning on the meaningless.”
“We are pattern-seekers,” Tony said. “Some of us more than others.”
“Yes. For you, it’s a way of life, clearly.” Hannah sighed. “Same with Mariah. She was one of those crafty young people. When I was twenty-one, I would have sooner been stood up against a wall and shot than so much as hold a pair of knitting needles. That was a symbol of the bad old days. But Mariah and her friends thought all those homey skills were wonderful: knitting, crocheting, needlepoint. She would knit the most complex patterns. Mark, being a computer gamer, was even more keen on discerning patterns. Almost religious about it. There’s another concept. Sacred geometry….” She trailed off. “My God. I just
referred to him in the past tense. What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” Tony said. Contentious as Lady Brompton was, he instinctively wanted to give her comfort, even if the only comfort he could offer was closure. “Before you decide whether to hire me, permit me to make one final point. What I couldn’t do as a policeman, I can do as a private investigator. Of course, there are other detectives in London. Ones who had nothing to do with Scotland Yard’s decision not to pursue a criminal inquiry. But I may be the only PI at your disposal who’s actually met Sir Duncan. Who knows beyond a shadow of a doubt what he’s capable of.”
Hannah sighed, folded her arms across her chest, and said nothing.
She needs time, Tony thought. This was new to him—pitching his abilities and waiting for a client to ponder his fitness in real time. It didn’t particularly discomfit him, so long as he conducted himself with dignity. He’d made the case. To keep talking would descend to the level of salesmanship, and that he could not abide.
As Hannah considered it, he rose and took a turn around the living room. It was “lived-in,” as Kate liked to say, without spendy designer pieces or ostentatious heirlooms. On the mantelpiece, a row of pictures in silver frames, round, square, and rectangle, told the family’s story. Peter Keene grinning next to a campaign poster; Hannah in a white lab coat, hugely pregnant with the twins; Mariah and Mark as infants, then toddlers, then first-formers, and so on. Mariah was usually smiling at the camera, her dark hair often in twin braids. Mark didn’t seem to appreciate being photographed, and never smiled.
“There’s more recent ones. Just there,” Hannah said, pointing to a console table across the room.
Tony stepped over for a look. Mariah hadn’t changed much from tween to teen, except to bob her hair and attain her full height of about six feet. She was a capable-looking young woman, shoulders squared, chin down, feet planted confidently. It was easy to imagine her running track, jumping hurdles, breaking into a construction site, or knitting the complicated shawl draped around her shoulders. It was hard to imagine her taking her own life.
Mark’s photos between age twelve to twenty documented more of a transformation. The slender, camera-shy child became a spotty young man with thick specs who stared intently at the photographer but never smiled. In the end, a boy seemingly constructed entirely from acne eruptions, elbows, and knees resolved into the mirror image of his twin. Same height, same deep-set brown eyes, same large nose and firm chin. Only the stance was different. Mark kept his head down, shoulders slouched, as if willing himself smaller. Perhaps invisible.
“Thank you for allowing me time to collect my thoughts,” Hannah said at last. “Now. If we’re to work together, there’s one thing you must understand, and understand completely.
“Mariah did not commit suicide. I can’t bear to hear the word spoken in conjunction with my daughter. She loved her life. She made a terrible mistake, cozying up to that lunatic. She wasn’t a perfect child, far from it, but I’m telling you as her mother, she didn’t want to die. Now, Mark… Mark is the image of his great-grandfather. He’s bone china. Easily hurt and easily led astray. Losing his sister threw him over the cliff. I think that’s why I referred to him in the past tense. I know that if I don’t find him, he might —might—”
She dissolved into tears. Tony cast about for a box of tissues. Finding none, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a silk handkerchief. He was never without one. He had a long history of making women cry. As for their tears, he was immune to them, unless they were Kate’s.
Pressing the silk handkerchief against her face, Hannah wept with abandon. As Tony waited, unwilling to press her until she was ready, he heard the front door open.
“It’s only me,” a man called from the foyer. He sounded hesitant.
Tony turned. He expected a trespasser; an intrusive social worker, perhaps, or a nosy neighbor who’d already been warned off. Instead, he saw the Earl of Brompton, Peter Keene.
Judging by his suit, tie, and leather briefcase, he’d come from the House of Lords. He looked from Tony to Lady Brompton, still sobbing brokenly into that white handkerchief, and rounded on Tony.
“What the ruddy hell is going on? Who are you?”
Before Tony could remind him that they’d met before, Peter went rigid. His briefcase slipped from his fingers, struck the floor, and burst open on impact. Out spilled the tools of the bureaucrat’s trade onto the red Turkish rug: papers, folders, letters, a couple of jump drives. He seemed not to notice.
“It’s Mark,” he whispered, eyes wide. “You’ve come to say he’s dead.”
“Nothing of the sort.” Tony stood up. “Forgive me, Lord Brompton, for blindsiding you with my presence. I’m not the bearer of tragic news. Or indeed, any news at all.”
“Oh. Well. Only….” Peter closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and started over. “Who are you? And what have you done to my wife? Darling—”
“Don’t,” Hannah interrupted. The word was a cut; an amputation. “Why are you here?”
“I—I still live here.”
“Why are you here in the middle of the day,” she boomed in that mannish voice.
This was an unseemly display. The typical Englishman would’ve perhaps cringed, mumbled an excuse, and departed, or at least ducked into the front garden to hide while husband and wife sorted things out. The typical detective, including Tony, couldn’t have been persuaded to leave at gunpoint. Now was the moment when people told the truth, if asked the right questions.
“Again, forgive me,” he said, interposing himself between Peter and Hannah. “As for who the ruddy hell I am, I’m Tony Hetheridge. Baron Wellegrave and all that. From the board of the Bootstrap Stratagem. How do you do?”
“Er. Um. How do you do?” Peter mumbled automatically. They shook hands.
“Now to explain.” Tony pivoted to include Hannah in the discussion. “Countess Brompton was telling me about how the MPS declined to investigate your daughter’s death as a murder, or your son’s disappearance as a kidnapping. Naturally, things became a bit fraught. Making this the perfect time for you to help put me in the picture.”
“What picture?” The light dawned. “Oh. You’re the detective Cecelia mentioned. No offense, mate, but piss off. Sorry you got the sack. But you won’t revive your career at the expense of my children.” Still boyish at almost fifty, Peter’s anger made him look sulky rather than dangerous.
“How bracing,” Hannah said. “The man of the house takes charge. This isn’t a flag of surrender.” She tossed Tony’s white handkerchief on the table. “Who are you to tell anyone to piss off? You’re unasked. Unwanted. Unfit to offer an opinion.”
“I do live here. Still,” Peter insisted, looking and sounding all the more like a boy resisting his comeuppance. “Listen to me. I happen to know this is no reputable detective. Forgive me, Lord Hetheridge—”
“Of course,” Tony inserted dryly.
“—but if you find my daughter’s suicide worth investigating—”
“It wasn’t a suicide,” Hannah shouted.
“—you might’ve done so in your professional capacity,” Peter continued inexorably. “And please don’t try to sell us on your supposed connection to Sir Duncan. You’ve never done anything but let him slip away. The police are impotent enough. We don’t need their rejects.”
Casting a look at Hannah, Peter swallowed hard before continuing. “Unlike my wife, I accept that our daughter took her own life. That doesn’t mean Sir Duncan isn’t partially responsible. There’s such a thing as a pernicious influence. Words can be deadly weapons.” A tear spilled onto his cheek.
“Oh, yes. There it is,” Hannah said savagely. “Metrosexual daddy brought to tears.”
“You weren’t there for her.” Peter dashed the tear away. “You weren’t even there for Mark. And we all know he was your favorite.”
“Is that so?” Hannah stood up. Like her husband, she was over six feet tall, and her heels gave her a slight ad
vantage.
“Someone had to balance the scales, given the way you mooned over Mariah, always making cow’s eyes at her. Do you know,” she told Tony, “around Whitehall, Mariah was often mistaken for Peter’s bit of stuff? I used to laugh about it. How I didn’t have to worry about my husband taking up with a younger woman because he’d done it already, the day Mariah was born. When he started an actual affair, I missed the signs. I heard the rumors, but I assumed people had mistaken our daughter for his lover once again.”
Peter’s shoulders sagged. “It wasn’t an affair.”
Hannah didn’t seem to hear. “I’ve done my due diligence on Sir Duncan Godington. They say he sleeps with his sister, Lady Isabel Bartlow. A normal young woman would’ve been repulsed. Perhaps given her father’s not-so-subtle behavior, Mariah was drawn to someone a bit more upfront with his proclivities.”
Peter swore under his breath. “Hannah. Torturing me won’t bring them back.”
“I simply want Lord Hetheridge to know everything. Perhaps that’s where we went wrong. We weren’t honest in our family life. We weren’t honest with anyone,” Hannah said. “Now I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I was an absentee mother. My career consumed me. Our twins were raised by au pairs and tutors. You were an inappropriate father. You treated Mariah like your child bride. And Mark? Mark was a burden to you. I once overheard you tell a neighbor, ‘The boy’s a retard. Pretend you don’t see him and he’ll go away.’”
Tony expected Peter to defend himself, but the man hung his head and said nothing.
“Our son is different, no one disputes that, but he isn’t mentally challenged,” Hannah continued. “I was on point of explaining that to you, Lord Hetheridge, when my husband burst in. Mark’s IQ is actually rather higher than average. He’s on the spectrum, as we say now. And to give Peter his due, once the official diagnosis was made, he began to treat Mark with the bare minimum of consideration. I suspect someone on his re-election campaign advised him that plenty of individuals on the spectrum are voters.”