Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Hawksworth threw his jacket across his files in the back seat, got in and was down to business straightaway, reversing out of the parking spot. She inhaled a waft of a spicy citrus cologne she recognised and liked. It suited him. Dan didn’t wear cologne, nor did he wear good-looking sports coats. But let’s face it, she reasoned, Dan’s a software engineer. A damn good one too, and on a huge salary working as a consultant to some enormous American bank in the city. Dan had no reason to wear suits with sexy shoes, she thought, glancing down at the chunky chocolate suede shoes her boss was wearing. Dan’s uniform was jeans and his Doc Martens. He looked great in them, she admitted it, but it would be nice to see him in some chinos occasionally or, heaven forbid, some tailored trousers.

  Jack was talking and she forced herself to pay attention, irritated with herself for being so flighty today of all days.

  ‘We’re seeing Michael Sheriff's wife in Lincoln — well, Louth actually. Should take us a couple of hours max.’

  He rolled his sleeves up as they emerged out of the awkward single entrance-exit into Westminster and the watery sunlight of an icy February morning. ‘Freezing in here,’ he commented. ‘Let’s get some heat happening.’

  She unwound her scarf as he turned up the heat on the car’s dial. It would be steamy and warm in the small car before she knew it.

  Victoria Street was teeming with its usual horde of London cabs, now available in maroon, and even white — perhaps they double as wedding cars, she thought. An equally famous convoy of red London buses lumbered past. She noticed most were tourist buses, totally incompatible with Britain’s propensity for sudden downpours in any season. As expected, the open-air upper deck was crowded with Japanese sightseers. Why was that? Other nations happily sat on the lower deck but the Japanese always rushed upstairs, no matter how inclement the weather.

  ‘I’ll take the less obvious tourist route,’ Jack said, echoing her thoughts and swinging left past the Army & Navy Store to head towards Westminster Cathedral. ‘Any excuse to drive by one of my favourite buildings,’ he added, as they glided past the imposing red and cream-coloured stone church that was the home of Catholicism in the UK. ‘I love this piazza, don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Pity about the McDonald’s on the corner,’ Kate replied.

  ‘I’ve taught myself to block it out.’

  ‘Don’t you think it looks eastern?’ she asked.

  ‘I think it looks like crap,’ he replied vehemently.

  ‘I mean the church, sir.’ This was the first time Kate had really noticed the cathedral, even though she passed it almost daily. ‘That surely looks like a minaret.’

  Jack didn’t respond to her question, his gaze darting from the road to quickly grab a glimpse of the building he clearly admired. ‘The tourists should come here at night when it looks its most heavenly and angelic,’ he said.

  Kate smiled. ‘So, our meeting is with Diane Sheriff, right, sir?’

  ‘Listen, Kate, I don’t go in for that “sir” stuff when we’re not being watched over by anyone official. You’re a DI now, so get comfortable calling me Jack, and at the Yard we’ll fall back into the formalities. Okay?’

  Kate nodded, and understood yet another reason why the man that people called Hawk was popular.

  ‘Yes, her name’s Diane,’ he continued, ‘she’s taking the afternoon off work to see us.’ He began negotiating the confusing one-way system around Victoria Station, headed for Grosvenor Place with its line of embassies.

  Kate gave a soft sigh. ‘And I imagine she’s only just coming to terms with her husband’s loss. We arrive to re-open the wound like the typically heartless bastards we are.’

  ‘That’s why I asked you to come along,’ he said gently and glanced at her. She didn’t look at him, touched her hair instead. ‘I knew you’d handle it the right way. Cam and Bill — well,’ he shrugged, ‘you’re the right person.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She cleared her throat, staring at the seemingly endless red brick wall and barbed wire that was the back of Buckingham Palace. ‘Look, I haven’t really had a chance to thank you for bringing me onto this operation. I appreciate it and I’m glad to be working with you.’

  ‘Bored over at Kingston, were you?’

  ‘Dying,’ she admitted and liked how it prompted a chuckle from him. ‘Being on the HAT team sounds great, but there aren’t many homicides around the Richmond-Twickenham borough.’

  ‘Your talents are wasted over there, Kate.’

  ‘Tell that to management, would you.’

  ‘I did. It’s why you’re here.’

  That was the end of the personal chit-chat. He moved back to the case. ‘How did you feel about Tandy’s profile?’

  ‘He’s right, it’s loose,’ she answered, definitely on more solid ground now. Work was safe. ‘Not much for us to go on. A late thirties, possibly early forties, left-handed killer who’s taking revenge.’

  ‘It’s more than we had last night,’ he replied, boldly entering the notoriously hazardous roundabout of Hyde Park that usually had her flinching. He handled the navigation smoothly though, passing the Hilton and Dorchester hotels slowly to join the thickening traffic. ‘I think it’s given us a reasonable platform.’

  ‘Yes, but where to start? If we haven’t already found a grudge against Sheriff, for instance, you and I both know there probably isn’t one, so we’re just going through the motions in talking to his wife. That would have been one of the first questions that Lincoln Police asked, surely?’

  ‘I know, but people forget things. When she was interviewed originally, Mrs Sheriff was likely out of her mind with shock and despair. She’s probably thinking more clearly now.’

  ‘And you believe no one’s bothered to ask since then?’ Kate said incredulously.

  ‘All I’m saying is that if anything has occurred to her, she perhaps doesn’t think it’s important.’

  ‘But Sheriff's death was only three months ago. It would be an active file.’

  ‘Yes, but not everyone’s as diligent as you, Kate.’

  More praise. She felt her cheeks begin to flush.

  ‘The individual officers who originally interviewed her could have been moved to other cases, different departments, retired, been promoted or just got busy.

  They might not have revisited the file for a week or more.’

  ‘Bet they do now,’ she said, staring out the window as they finally gathered some speed and whizzed left at Speaker’s Corner and around Marble Arch.

  Jack touched a button on the CD player and Roy Orbison began crooning a sad song, one of his later ones. She smiled. Jack Hawksworth was an enigma.

  ‘Do you like the Big O, Kate?’ he asked, apparently reading her thoughts.

  ‘Haven’t heard him since I lived at home. My dad liked him.’

  ‘Ouch,’ he said and they laughed. ‘So did my father. I think it’s why I listen to Roy. It keeps the memories of Dad alive. Does that sound corny?’

  ‘No,’ she said, secretly delighted that he would mention such an intimate and obviously painful subject. She’d heard about his parents’ death and had felt sorry for him, but had never gone in for the doe-eyed sympathy of some of the other women officers. ‘And your mother? Perry Como, perhaps? Engelbert Humperdinck?’

  ‘Well, curiously, my mother loved The Police.’

  He laughed and she noticed how clean his teeth were. Definitely a flosser and regular visitor to the dentist.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘No, really, it was nothing to do with my career. She just loved Sting’s music. My father never quite got it.’

  ‘Let me guess, “Every Breath You Take”?’

  ‘Mmm, yes, that’s everyone’s favourite. She loved it all in truth, and I’m glad that before she died I was able to take her to a Sting concert.’

  ‘Wow, hardly a blogsy mum, then.’

  ‘No,’ he said somewhat wistfully, ‘she was never that. Oh, here we go, the Edgeware Road for a while until we
hit the A1 to Grantham, then towards Lincoln and Louth.’

  ‘Very cocky.’

  ‘I’ve done this drive many times.’

  ‘Dirty weekends?’

  He grinned. ‘Well, my grandmother and I did love to bake together and we used to get very grubby with our hands deep in dough.’

  ‘Your grandmother lives in Lincoln?’

  ‘Used to live in Lincoln. She died last year.’

  ‘Oops, sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. She was ninety-two and a great old girl who passed away peacefully in her sleep.’

  In an effort to regain some ground from the slippery slide she felt herself permanently on this morning, Kate tried for levity. ‘And do you still bake?’ she said archly.

  Tragically, he answered her seriously. ‘Occasionally. She left me her KitchenAid mixer and I can’t not use it. Besides, I find that sort of indulgent cooking relaxing.’ Then he flushed. ‘Quite embarrassing really. If Geoff knew, he’d have me publicly tarred and feathered.’

  Was he for real? ‘Do you bake for anyone in particular?’

  ‘No.’

  Ah, that thread was tied off fairly quickly, she thought.

  ‘Do you wear a pinny when you bake?’

  ‘No, just a mint and pale pink striped shirt.’

  Now they both relaxed into genuine mirth. His birthday shirt had been the butt of endless jokes, which even Kate had heard about over at Richmond.

  ‘What do you think the blue paint means?’ She asked. It was an odd segue but she noticed he didn’t skip a beat in responding.

  ‘No idea. Not even a hunch, other than that it could be some form of humiliation.’

  ‘I agree. It seems like some kind of ritual, so we have to presume it carries significance for both killer and victims.’

  ‘I have a feeling that the paint will be his real message.’

  ‘If it’s any help, the colour blue in Feng Shui means relaxing.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Twenty pounds says it is, and you’d lose.’

  ‘No,’ he said with a grin, ‘I mean, it’s not any help.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But you’re right, Kate. That’s how we have to think. What does blue mean to this killer, rather than what does it mean to us? What is its significance in the scheme of murder?’ He sighed. ‘It could be anything.’

  ‘The obvious one is woad. You know, the Pict warriors painting themselves. Although real woad is indigo in colour, almost black.’

  ‘Our killer has been very deliberate and organised,’ Jack mused. ‘Care has been taken in choosing when and where. One would presume he’s taken the same care in choosing that paint, especially if it is meant to be meaningful to the victims.’

  ‘So the colour, that brighter blue, is deliberately chosen too,’ she finished.

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I think we should consider painting or tattooing the body as an ancient warrior practice — in fact, it’d be worth putting Sarah on to that — but even so it doesn’t fully gel in my mind.’

  ‘Blue means depressed,’ Kate said, warming to the task.

  ‘Injury,’ he countered, ‘as in black and blue.’

  ‘Or sexually explicit.’ Kate sat up at this. ‘Actually, that’s quite intriguing, isn’t it? Depressed, sexual, injury — they all relate to our crime scene.’

  He nodded, concentrating on the road ahead as he considered this.

  ‘Blue law relates to morality,’ he finally said.

  Kate ran her hand through her hair, messing up the careful style she’d taken so long to blow dry in order that the highlights she’d paid a fortune for appeared precisely where they were meant to. They were onto something she was sure. ‘What else is blue?’

  ‘Sky, sea, swimming pools.’

  ‘Nothing helpful there. Blue, blue, blue . . . credit card.’

  ‘An expensive one, gets you into a lot of trouble.’

  She smiled but was thinking hard. ‘Blue blood?’

  ‘Royalty? I don’t think so. But the blue and blood link might mean something. The blue flag in motor racing forces the car in front to give way to faster cars coming up.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s relevant,’ she said, her tone laced with sarcasm. They passed a snooker hall. ‘Is there a blue ball in snooker?’ she asked absently.

  ‘Yes, worth five points.’

  ‘Perhaps there’ll be five murders then,’ she said as a throwaway line.

  ‘I hope not. Blue chip? Blue ribbon, Blue Pages, blue moon, Big Blue?’

  She tried not to laugh as she shook her head. ‘No, it has to be more visceral than those.’

  ‘Veins. They carry blood. And they’re blue. Is that visceral enough?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Okay then, what about the university blues?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know, the sporting colours of Oxford and Cambridge. Perhaps our killer and victims were all scholars.’

  She groaned. ‘I doubt it, but please don’t tell me you went to either of those?’

  ‘No, Warwick.’

  ‘Good. Anything else?’

  ‘Chelsea.’

  ‘Right, thank you. Leave it with me, Jack. I do love a puzzle but you’re hindering rather than helping now.’

  She was already wondering if Jack was right that this paint might be the message. The ‘boys in blue’ referred to the police after all, and then there were blue collar workers, which might refer to the killer, although that felt entirely wrong.

  ‘What did Farrow and Sheriff do for a crust?’ she asked.

  ‘Farrow was a contract glazier who turned permanent casual courier when he arrived in London. And Sheriff was a teacher. Why?’

  ‘Random thoughts. Blue is a political colour, of course.’

  ‘It’s also a musical genre.’ He pulled a face in apology. ‘Information overload, I think.’

  She nodded and looked at his watch to work out the time. She liked the shape of his fingers, and the way his thumb crooked and didn’t quite grip the steering wheel.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said. It was the first thing that came into her mind to distract her from his hands.

  ‘We’ll get you something. I know a couple of good spots in the old quarter. You can take your pick from the Wig and Mitre pub or the rather famous Brown’s Pie Shop. But I warn you — there’s an almighty cobbled hill to climb first. Ah, I’ve just thought of something else. Blue-tongued lizards. They live in Australia, with my sister.’

  ‘What, all of them?’

  He grinned at her quip as he overtook a car, narrowly missing it and making her hold her breath.

  ‘And Cashel Blue is delicious,’ he added. ‘It’s the most famous cheese in Ireland, I’m told.’

  ‘Shut up, please, and drive.’

  Kate wished he didn’t make her feel quite so warm inside. She covered her left hand with her right and twirled the beautiful diamond solitaire that Dan had given her when he’d proposed on a romantic spring weekend in Marlow last year. It had been directly after some ‘morning glory’, as he liked to call it, and they were both tousled and drowsy in that warm, sticky cocoon of arms and legs that lovemaking provokes. Kate recalled how she’d wept when he pulled a black velvet box from beneath his pillow and, without hesitation or awkwardness, kissed her deeply and asked her to marry him. She hadn’t been able to speak for a few moments, and had always believed it was because of the rush of the emotion, the tears, the happiness, but now she was beginning to understand why she’d cried and taken that time to answer Dan. It was because she really wasn’t sure that she loved him in the way he loved her, in the way that people who plan to marry, have a family and grow old together should. But she was already into her early thirties, and her two sisters, both younger than her, were married and starting to tease her about still being a spinster.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Jack said into the heavy silence.

  ‘I was just thinking whether to be a thoro
ughly modern bride and not get married at all. Or whether to go through the whole ceremony thing so my mother won’t feel robbed and just opt for white chocolate cake as my act of rebellion.’

  ‘Mmm, that second option is definitely subversive. Very modern.’

  ‘Yes, maybe that’s the way to go. And Dan likes white chocolate.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m a bitter chocolate kind of a gal, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Milky Bars are for babies, I agree.’ He gave her one of those soft smiles, and Kate realised he had sensed her awkwardness about her forthcoming wedding, perhaps even about Dan.

  He changed the subject and began regaling her with tall stories of how he and Geoff nearly didn’t make it through their cadetship. By the time they caught sight of Lincoln’s magnificent cathedral through the drizzly haze that the windscreen wipers did little to improve, she was laughing delightedly, lost in his tales, but she also noticed she hadn’t stopped twirling her engagement ring.

  Clare felt Garvan’s hand squeeze her shoulder. He’d been acting strangely for the past couple of days: distracted and forgetful. After being so close for thirty-five years of marriage, Clare was suddenly feeling left out from her husband’s life.

  ‘Want a coffee, love? I could murder one,’ he said.

  ‘Who was that on the phone?’

  ‘Nothing important,’ he said, moving to put water in the kettle.