Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Emma Jameson
once again impressed with his powers of recollection, which extended even to uniformed officers he saw two or three times a year. "Put us in the picture, will you?"
"Of course, Lord Hetheridge." Kincaid's tone and face were professional, but his unironic use of Lord marked him as an admirer. At the Yard, Hetheridge's inherited title was never invoked, except as a form of reverse snobbery. "The victim is the homeowner, Granville Hardwick. Unclear if the motive is theft, revenge, or a spur of the moment fight. Our efforts to secure the scene were, er, not entirely flawless. We, er, worked hard to follow procedure. I had men everywhere, neighbors kept stopping and hailing us. One tried to peek in a window, and we had to caution her. It wasn't intentional, sir, but—"
"Just say it," Tony cut across him, not unkindly.
"Half the team checked the house's basement and ground floor. The other half searched upstairs. There was, er, a small wardrobe in a bedroom. And because the square footage is so large and all the lights were out, I—that is to say, my team and I—we, er—"
"Passed over a suspect?"
Kincaid winced. "Yes, Lord Hetheridge. I'm sorry, sir. She emerged from the wardrobe just as the techs began dusting for prints. Said the passage to Narnia failed."
"Beg pardon?"
"The, er, wardrobe, sir. It didn't take her to Narnia."
"I see. May I presume she's now in custody?"
"Yes, sir, but she's been no help. No ID on her person. Answers questions with complete rubbish. We're still working on her name."
"What about the forensic team? Still at it, I suppose?" As always, Tony sounded slightly put off by being permitted into the crime scene only after it was processed. In his youth, senior detectives had enjoyed full access, which sometimes allowed them to solve cases more quickly. Other times, they smeared irreplaceable evidence with fingers and ground subtle traces beneath heels, leading to a mistrial or acquittal in Crown Court. Nowadays, in what Kate considered a perfectly rational change of policy, the Forensic Medical Examiner went in first, assisted by a squad of CSIs. They took samples, dusted for prints, photographed key details, and digitally filmed the scene in three hundred and sixty degree slices, assembling a flawless 3-D image for future study. To Kate, it was the best possible use of technology. To Tony, it was another attempt to replace human ingenuity with a web of interlocking policies. Old-fashioned copper that he was, he valued a seasoned detective's instincts above even advanced scientific analysis.
"Tony! We're ready for you." From East Asia House's doorway, a tall man in blue overalls, gloves, and booties beckoned. It was FME Peter Garrett, his plastic-fronted hood under his arm, revealing that trademark deaths-head grin. "Go round to the forensics van and get your protective gear. You and your bride need to do this one by the book."
The van had both back doors propped open. Inside, on a folding chair, sat a tech wearing a dirty yellow vest with highly reflective patches, a copy of the Evening Standard in his lap.
"That's it, step right up ladies and gents, step right up," he called to Kate and Tony. "I'll take your coats, I'll take your scarves, I'll take your purse, too, blondie, and promise not to paw through it too much."
Tony gave the man a sharp look. Kate didn't like the idea of handing over her bag to anyone she didn't know; most of these techs were contract workers, not Met employees, and once in a blue moon, valuables went missing. She glanced at her husband in mute appeal.
"There's nothing for it. Peter always enforces the letter of the law when there's significant blood spatter."
"Oh, there's more than blood in there, guv. Brains, too," the tech continued in his boisterous Cockney manner. "Right slaughter in that house. Someone must've hated the poor bugger."
Tony, in the process of stepping into an overlarge, overlong pair of filmy blue overalls, gave the tech a longer, more pointed
"Of course, Lord Hetheridge." Kincaid's tone and face were professional, but his unironic use of Lord marked him as an admirer. At the Yard, Hetheridge's inherited title was never invoked, except as a form of reverse snobbery. "The victim is the homeowner, Granville Hardwick. Unclear if the motive is theft, revenge, or a spur of the moment fight. Our efforts to secure the scene were, er, not entirely flawless. We, er, worked hard to follow procedure. I had men everywhere, neighbors kept stopping and hailing us. One tried to peek in a window, and we had to caution her. It wasn't intentional, sir, but—"
"Just say it," Tony cut across him, not unkindly.
"Half the team checked the house's basement and ground floor. The other half searched upstairs. There was, er, a small wardrobe in a bedroom. And because the square footage is so large and all the lights were out, I—that is to say, my team and I—we, er—"
"Passed over a suspect?"
Kincaid winced. "Yes, Lord Hetheridge. I'm sorry, sir. She emerged from the wardrobe just as the techs began dusting for prints. Said the passage to Narnia failed."
"Beg pardon?"
"The, er, wardrobe, sir. It didn't take her to Narnia."
"I see. May I presume she's now in custody?"
"Yes, sir, but she's been no help. No ID on her person. Answers questions with complete rubbish. We're still working on her name."
"What about the forensic team? Still at it, I suppose?" As always, Tony sounded slightly put off by being permitted into the crime scene only after it was processed. In his youth, senior detectives had enjoyed full access, which sometimes allowed them to solve cases more quickly. Other times, they smeared irreplaceable evidence with fingers and ground subtle traces beneath heels, leading to a mistrial or acquittal in Crown Court. Nowadays, in what Kate considered a perfectly rational change of policy, the Forensic Medical Examiner went in first, assisted by a squad of CSIs. They took samples, dusted for prints, photographed key details, and digitally filmed the scene in three hundred and sixty degree slices, assembling a flawless 3-D image for future study. To Kate, it was the best possible use of technology. To Tony, it was another attempt to replace human ingenuity with a web of interlocking policies. Old-fashioned copper that he was, he valued a seasoned detective's instincts above even advanced scientific analysis.
"Tony! We're ready for you." From East Asia House's doorway, a tall man in blue overalls, gloves, and booties beckoned. It was FME Peter Garrett, his plastic-fronted hood under his arm, revealing that trademark deaths-head grin. "Go round to the forensics van and get your protective gear. You and your bride need to do this one by the book."
The van had both back doors propped open. Inside, on a folding chair, sat a tech wearing a dirty yellow vest with highly reflective patches, a copy of the Evening Standard in his lap.
"That's it, step right up ladies and gents, step right up," he called to Kate and Tony. "I'll take your coats, I'll take your scarves, I'll take your purse, too, blondie, and promise not to paw through it too much."
Tony gave the man a sharp look. Kate didn't like the idea of handing over her bag to anyone she didn't know; most of these techs were contract workers, not Met employees, and once in a blue moon, valuables went missing. She glanced at her husband in mute appeal.
"There's nothing for it. Peter always enforces the letter of the law when there's significant blood spatter."
"Oh, there's more than blood in there, guv. Brains, too," the tech continued in his boisterous Cockney manner. "Right slaughter in that house. Someone must've hated the poor bugger."
Tony, in the process of stepping into an overlarge, overlong pair of filmy blue overalls, gave the tech a longer, more pointed
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