by Emma Jameson
“Lady Isabel told me he was sick,” Paul said. “That one look at him would prove it.”
“Yeah, and she said Godington wouldn’t leave London until he’d settled his score with Tony,” Jackson said. “She’s a liar, mate. Just like her brother.”
“Lady Isabel’s manner is nothing if not sincere,” Tony said. “I’ve never seen her appear dishonest, even when she was almost certainly putting on a show. If Sir Duncan hatched a plan that requires us to look in the wrong direction, she’d be the natural choice to bait the trap.”
“That’s my view,” Deaver agreed. “Classic misdirection. Purpose unknown.”
“For now,” Tony said. “So. It seems our friends from Box 500 have covered the bases as far as a hacking threat. We have new mobiles, a secure CPS interface, and absolute certainty that my Bentley can’t be controlled via wireless, since it was manufactured in 1960. We also know Sir Duncan is out of the country. Can we get a definitive heads up, day or night, the moment he sets foot back in England?”
“Yes. I give you my personal assurance,” Deaver said gravely.
Tony looked at Kate. Their chosen profession was dangerous, without respect for the sanctity of the home. If they still resided in Wellegrave House, he wasn’t sure how he’d view their situation. But high above London in the Leadenhall building, he felt secure.
“In the interest of wrapping the Ford Fabian case as soon as possible,” Jackson said, “I’ll assign additional detectives to DS Hetheridge’s team. If the No-Hopers killed Fabian, we’ll pin them down fast with MI5’s help. If they’re a red herring, it’s further proof Lady Isabel is a liar.”
“Well?” Tony prompted Kate. “I feel cleared to proceed on the Keene case. What about you?”
“Same. I’m ready to crack on with the Fabian case. And to deliver Mr. Kipling cakes to the boys upstairs.”
Tony always showered before bed. Early in his career he’d formed the habit and at this point it was a ritual, a way to slough off the cares of the day and prepare for sleep. Five percent of the activity was literally getting clean; the other ninety-five, standing under a spray of hot water as thoughts drifted in and out of his mind. When he emerged from the master bedroom’s en suite, towel around his waist, he was pleased to find Kate already in bed. She had her own ritual before sleep, applying lilac-scented skin crème. Sometimes he helped.
“Did Henry finish his book report?”
“Hmnh? Oh. No,” Kate said, still absently massaging a forearm. “He finished the book, but didn’t write a report. He wants to turn up late to school tomorrow, quote-unquote accidentally, so he can get it done before arrival.”
“That’s a non-starter.”
Kate chuckled. “So I said. He wasn’t best pleased when I said he should wake up earlier and achieve the same result.”
“I’ll get him up.” Tony pulled off the towel, used it to give his steel-gray hair one last bracing rub, and got into bed. No matter how late he retired, he almost never slept past half-five. He liked waking in darkness, brewing strong coffee, and watching the sun rise. While at the Yard, he’d been known to sneak in a power nap in the office of an afternoon, a fact many had suspected but no one could prove. Now that he could nap any time he pleased, he found he didn’t enjoy it as much. Human beings were a contradictory lot.
“Why are you smiling?” Kate slid closer, folding herself against him.
“I was thinking people are endlessly perverse. You’ve had insomnia since the fire. Now, after Paul’s news, which would keep most people awake for years, you look ready to curl up and sleep.”
“I can handle that kind of danger. If I couldn’t, I’d be in the wrong business. Besides, AC Deaver brought the heavy firepower.”
“Michael will do anything to protect his officers,” Tony agreed. “Knowing Sir Duncan has returned to Brunei gives us breathing room. I wonder, though—do you suppose anything Lady Isabel told Paul was true? Sir Duncan seemed healthy and rational the last time I saw him.”
“Healthy, rational, and murderous, eh? I guess that’s healthy for him,” Kate said. “Sometimes I wish you’d killed him.”
“Sometimes I do, too.” He didn’t have to say the rest—that crossing such a bright line would have carried a cost. Probably that cost was different for every person, but without a doubt, the bill would come due. As a bachelor, he’d suffered occasional periods of loneliness or ennui, and the prospect of a psychological penalty might have seemed like no great risk. But as a husband and surrogate father, he’d discovered a well of unexpected joy; fresh waters he didn’t dare poison. Thus he’d chosen not to proactively eliminate Sir Duncan. He hoped he never had cause to regret that choice, even if the other path would have been murder.
“Shall I turn off the lights?” he asked Kate, playing with a lock of her hair.
“If you want. I hope I can sleep, but I keep thinking about Lady Isabel’s story. It was revolting. But a little sad, too.”
“And quite possibly all an invention. Time to put it out of your mind. Pass me your ereader.”
“I thought you were reading The Guns of August.”
“So I am. Thank you. Ah, here you are, in the middle of Persuasion.” Putting on his reading glasses, he said, “Dim lights by 75%.”
The bedroom lamps obeyed. Kate smiled. “Lord Hetheridge, bending the very appliances to his will.”
He ignored that. “‘Chapter Five. On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs. Croft’s seeing Kellynch Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady Russell’s….’”
“Mmm.” Kate closed her eyes. “The very first thing I ever loved about you was the sound of your voice.”
“Hush,” he said with mock severity, and read on.
Chapter Fourteen
Kate emerged in One-oh-One’s lobby at half-nine, a full hour later than planned. For once, it wasn’t because things had gone wrong. She’d awakened at the same time as Tony. Cuddling up to him, she’d found incontrovertible evidence he wanted more than a predawn embrace. Afterward, he’d gone off in search of coffee and she’d fallen deeply asleep on his side of the bed, contained within the impression of her husband’s body like hot wax poured in a mold. It was the best sleep she’d had since before Wellegrave House burned.
Kate had expected her new secure mobile to wake her. She’d set her preferred ringtone, the obnoxious bell of an old school telephone, a sound that she couldn’t ignore no matter what she was doing. The previous night, she’d ordered TDC Amelia Gulls to ring her as soon as the appointment time to interview Ms. Alfalfa Fabian was confirmed. Instead of receiving a call between six and seven a.m., she’d awakened on her own at half-eight to a text from Gulls that read,
AF’s solicitor says she is a late riser and won’t see us until one’ o clock. Shall I meet you at HQ around noon to prep?
TDC Gulls dictated her texts via voice, which meant they were always in comprehensible full sentences. Kate, an early adopter of texting when 2 meant to and 4 meant for and a mere glance at text exchanges made language purists despair, was retraining herself to use voice-to-text. Alas, her new phone didn’t offer such a program. Inconvenience was, of course, a small price to pay for safety. But Kate hoped Lady Isabel hadn’t been lying about Sir Duncan’s ill health. He was devilish slippery when it came to the law. Maybe the brain tumor, if it existed, would take him down first. Then London would be safer, his victims would receive at least symbolic justice, and she’d have her iPhone back, stat.
To Gulls, Kate replied,
C U @ 12
The best thing about a Blackberry variant was that good old-fashioned Blackberry keyboard. Funny how her thumbs hadn’t forgot.
After a quick shower, Kate threw on a skirted suit—dark and somber for the Fabian interview—and wrestled her hair into a high bun. At some point it would fall down, and she would pin it up again. Instead of applying makeup, she tossed a cosmetics pouch containing her beauty trinity, red lipstick, black mascara, and extra hold hair
spray, into the tote which held her gym kit. As she stepped into heels, low and dark to match the suit, she rang up Paul.
“You’ve reached the mobile of DS Bhar, how may I fail you?”
She groaned. “This is a training date, not a pity party. Are you at the gym?” she asked, meaning the fitness center down the street from his building.
“Not yet. Having a late brekkie with Kyla. She’ll be off to Milan for the weekend, so we’re lingering. When will you be here?”
“Can’t I just meet you at the gym?” While Paul had dated both Kyla and Emmeline, Kate had felt free to offer unkind comments about the former. Now that Paul had made what she considered the wrong choice, Kate was obliged to be kind and loyal. But sustained insincerity had never been her strong suit. Even brief, necessary, I-get-paid-for-this bouts of insincerity tended to go off the rails if she didn’t coach herself beforehand.
“C’mon, Kate,” Paul said softly. “I decided to tell Kyla a little about what’s happening. She practically lives with me. I couldn’t leave her completely in the dark. Suppose you-know-who tries to contact her?”
That possibility had crossed Kate’s mind, too. Kyla had severed all contact with her elder sister Tessa Chilcott, who remained in a secure psychiatric center and would probably never emerge. She’d also renounced her brief connection to Sir Duncan as youthful foolishness. He’d made a few introductions for Kyla in the fashion world, and she’d lied for him to Scotland Yard. Paul had forgiven her instantly, and Tony clearly wasn’t bothered, but Kate still held it against her. Kyla was stylishly emaciated, high-cheekboned, and good-haired. She’d get along just fine without Kate’s approval. But if Paul was asking Kate as a friend….
“So she’s bricking it and you need backup?” Kate asked.
“Yeah. If she sees you’re calm, she’ll be easier in her mind.”
Kate sighed. “Fine. If you’re still eating, stop. I don’t want you getting sick all over me when I kick your arse in the gym.”
Before leaving, she queued up for her usual, a double espresso latte. As she waited, she watched the French concierge bustle here and there, nostrils flaring. He passed a gleaming brass dust bin, noted a bit of rubbish on the floor nearby, and made a beeline for the cleaner on the lobby’s opposite end. Dutifully, the woman put down her flannel and furniture polish, left her cart sitting beside a half-polished table, picked up the wadded rubbish and dropped it in the bin. This, Kate reckoned, was world-class hotel management on display.
“Here you are, love,” said the barista with the afro ponytail, handing Kate her drink. “Please tell me you bought that man his classic Lego Death Star play-set.”
“With Harrods-exclusive Darth Vader figure,” added the barista at the cash stand.
“And collectible trading card.” Kate grinned. One-oh-One wasn’t all bad. For every despotic concierge, there were three regular people just doing their jobs, and doing them pleasantly. “Sorry. Sometimes Ritchie talks in an endless loop.”
“Does it work?” the barista with the afro ponytail asked.
“More often than not,” Kate admitted.
“Might as well get it for him, then.”
She’s probably right, Kate thought.
She had a sip of her double espresso latte. It tasted like pure energy. As she headed for the revolving doors, the concierge swept past her, packaged sandwich and juice bottle in hand. He was making for a scarecrow figure in a dirty coat and balaclava. Another day at One-oh-One. Kate was growing used to it, but she hoped never to become too used to it.
Paul’s little flat in Lambeth overlooked Streatham Common. It was absurdly small for one person, and outrageously small for two, like an episode of Black Mirror in which future Londoners were required to dwell in lockers at Paddington Station. Still, Kate approved. It was clean, neat as a pin, the bog flushed, the kitchen came with a hotplate and mini fridge, and the Murphy bed folded back into the wall when not in use. There was no tub, only a shower stall with the approximate dimensions of a vertical coffin. But Paul could afford it, and he was proud of it. If he asked Kyla to move in with him, he’d need something larger, but until then, Kate thought it suited him fine.
“Hiya,” she said when Paul let her in. “Good morning, Kyla. Lovely day.” Why was she trying to be chirpy-cheery, like Gulls? You had to mean it with every fiber of your being or you sounded barking.
Kyla was sitting at Paul’s postage-stamp kitchen table, which was only big enough for two chairs. In a white silk wrap over matching nightgown, she looked pale, frail, and older than her years. Stylish emaciation? Check. Couture cheekbones? Check. Good hair? Not even close. It was a rat’s nest, held together with clips and dyed an unflattering shade of chestnut.
She must rely on wigs or extensions. How thick can I be?
“Hello.” Kyla offered her a cool smile. Her late breakfast, a cup of low-carb yogurt, sat unopened before her. “I’m having detox tea. Would you like some?”
Judging by the size of the mug in Kyla’s hands, this detox was one for the ages. It was one of those giant gift mugs usually sold wrapped in cellophane, along with chocolates and a pink teddy bear. Patterned with red hearts, the mug read, FOREVER YOURS. Who knew Paul had a soppy side?
“Sit yourself down,” Paul said, removing his breakfast plate from the tiny table so Kate could occupy the other chair. “I was just telling Ky that Godington made no specific threats against me. And while our unnamed informant is well-placed, other evidence suggests they may be lying.”
“These things happen,” Kate agreed, trotting out the standard reassurance patter she’d developed over the years. “I know if you watch telly at night, it seems like every detective ends up in a shootout with a suspect who also just happens to be a criminal mastermind. But the truth is, most of the bad guys are all mouth and no action. They lie, they threaten—half their stock-in-trade is pure intimidation. Maybe our informant,” she said, pleased that Paul had declined to name Lady Isabel, whom Kyla had surely met, “had a beef against the Met and decided to wind us up, that’s all.”
Kyla sipped from her ridiculous mug, watching Kate over its rim with her big, sad eyes. Then she said in a small voice, “It’s just that we know what he’s capable of.”
“Yes,” Paul agreed earnestly, turning away from the sink, where he was applying hot water and Fairy liquid to the dirty dishes. “We know Godington kills poachers and people who do terrible things to the environment. We know he kills family members for fun and profit. We know he stalked me all over London with a big black dog just for kicks. What he hasn’t done is go after the police. Or their friends and family.”
Kyla, silent, stared straight ahead as if unmoved. Was she on the brink of tears, or just practicing a fashion advert look? Kate thought she looked like one of those supposedly cursed pop-art paintings the Sun used to write about, the ones with a crying lad that were rumored to magically burn down houses. She wanted to grab Paul, spin him around, and shake out the stupid. But he had a right, she supposed, to be attracted to a waifish nonentity, just as homeowners had a right to hang rubbish “art” near fireplaces that hadn’t seen a chimney sweep in forty years.
“So if I’m not meant to be upset, why did you tell me?” Kyla put down the mug. Her hands were shaking. “Why poison my peace of mind for a windup?”
Kate turned to Paul. He looked like he wanted to stick the fork he’d been washing into his eye.
“I only wanted to be honest,” he said. “Share what’s happening, even if the risk to us is purely theoretical.”
“This is why people don’t like cops,” Kyla said.
Paul groaned.
“Wait. What?” Kate snapped.
“It’s true,” Kyla said, those big eyes achingly earnest. All they lacked was glued-on lashes. “You stick your noses into everything. You stir up the public against Sir Duncan. Then you muff the prosecution so he gets off. Then you stir him up again in Mayfair,” she continued, referring to the case that had introduced her to Paul. “I�
��m not taking his side. But the truth is, cops make everything worse, don’t they? Now she gets a death threat, her and her millionaire baron husband,” Kyla pointed a trembling finger at Kate, “and suddenly I’m told over breakfast that maybe I’ll be hacked to pieces in my bed or slashed to death in the street?”
The last few words were a sob. With a sweeping gesture, Kyla knocked the mug off the table. Then she retreated to the tiny flat’s only private space, the loo. The bolt shot home with a resounding click.
“Sorry,” Paul murmured. “She didn’t….”
“Didn’t mean to bring up the so-called muffed prosecution?” Kate asked loudly, determined that Kyla would hear, unless she was sitting on the bog with her fingers in her ears. “That sounded like a cut against you, love. Even though her bloody sister is the one who betrayed you and her bloody sister is the one who got nicked for slashing someone to death in the street!”
Pulling a dishcloth off the hook, Kate knelt to wipe up the spilled tea. The FOREVER YOURS mug, apparently made from some diabolical space age polymer, was intact.
“Would you look at that?” Kate picked it up and slammed it down. The handle snapped off. “Broken. Sorry. I’ll buy you another, promise. The next time I’m in hell shopping for eyesores.” She chucked the pieces in the bin.
Paul looked like he was in agony. He obviously didn’t want Kate to say or do anything more to antagonize Kyla. Snatching up his keys and coat, he hurried to the front door and opened it wide.
“We’re going,” he shouted toward the locked loo, and ushered Kate out.
There was no better Close Quarter Battle training session than the one that came after an ugly row. Fortunately, Kate and Paul had plenty of room and no other gym rats offering advice or tapping their watches. That morning, the gym’s other clients skewed to the machines—elliptical, Pilates, treadmill, or rowing. Kate and Paul had the far corner, bare except for a stack of orange and purple mats, to themselves.