“The group started up by accident. Mark decided that the church should have a lawn fete, a festival, and put out the call for ideas, assistance. Lady Wexford became a driving force, as did as did Ms. Vivianne Lake. “
“I’m sorry,” Hagen interjected. “Ms. Vivianne Lake?”
“The, uh… woman… that I referred to earlier.” Lucas smiled weakly.
“Of course.” Hagen glanced at Pierce, noting that his sergeant was typing again, no doubt noting the name for later inquiry. “We will need a list of the members of this group.”
“No. I mean, you understand, Superintendent… These people live very vulnerable lives. And with what’s happened…” Lucas’ voice caught briefly. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Emotions will be quite… raw. I will speak to them, encourage them to get in touch with you privately.” Lucas stood up quickly. “Is that all?”
Hagen nodded. “For now. Thank you, Mr. Lucas.” Lucas rose quickly and, with a brief nod to Pierce, hurried away down the aisle.
Pierce pocketed his mobile and stepped closer as Hagen rose from the pew and stepped out into the aisle. “What do you think, sir?’
“We need to know who is in that group.” Hagen fingered the brim of his fedora, then joined Pierce in walking back to the vestibule. “Rick, you and Paul are going to attend that funeral tomorrow. If Ms. Lake, and the rest of this group of Father Coyle’s, are as faithful as Mr. Lucas has said, they will be there tomorrow.” Hagen hesitated by the door, his hand hovering over the handle. “They may be difficult to spot if they are dressing down for the service… Brompton has its rules… But I think between you and Paul, you should sort them out quickly.” He pushed open the door, the bright light illuminating the vestibule like a flash grenade. Hagen squinted against the glare as he continued. “Be as discreet as possible, and try not to scare them off.” He winked at Pierce and exited the church.
“Of course, sir.” Pierce followed the older detective out of the church and into the crisp, autumn afternoon.
9
4 November 2011
Photography Lab, FSS Lambeth
Kate leaned back in her chair, her boot-clad feet propped on the desk in front of her, her legs crossed at the ankles. She held up the sheet of proofs, her jeweler’s loupe held carefully in front of her eye as she looked at the tiny images. She loved proofs… Looking at those tiny pictures, their lack of smothering details so refreshing, especially after a day of sensory overload. Kate sighed. Unfortunately, it was only two in the afternoon, with at least three hours left to go on actually shift, and who knew how many in overtime.
She tossed the proof sheet on the desk and reached for another one. So far, the pictures had been useless. Nothing but endless images of grass clippings, mud and…
Kate squinted at the proof sheet in her hand, grabbed the loupe and leaned in close to look at the first image in the upper left corner. More grass clippings, mud and… a footprint. A boot print more accurately, judging by the depth of the print in the mud and the pattern of the tread. Kate mentally rifled through images of boot soles, trying to place the pattern of the print which was looking more and more familiar. She leaned back in the chair, her arms hanging over the sides of the chair, her hands still filled with the loupe and the proof sheet. Kate closed her eyes tightly, a deep frown furrowing her across her brow.
“Are you all right?”
Kate opened one eye and smiled at the source of the voice. Jimi Khan’s hair was in its usual state of spiky, colorful extravagance, a bit of self-expression she got away with because of her isolation in the DNA labs. And because her East Asian background made everyone more than a little nervous about criticizing the “Paki”. Her soft brown eyes sparkled behind the concerned expression on her face.
Kate sat up, depositing the items in her hand back on the desk and looking longingly at the steaming Styrofoam cups full of coffee in Jimi’s hands. “I’m fine, Jimi. Is one of those for me?”
Jimi’s frown quickly disappeared, replace with the kind of wide smile that spread across the entire face. She arched a pierced eyebrow. “Cream and stevia, of course.” She handed Kate one of the cups, then pulled a chair from a nearby desk and sat down. “Found anything enlightening yet?”
Kate groaned. “Yeah, lots of stock footage for a lawn and garden show.” She took a careful sip of the coffee, relishing the feel of the hot liquid burning its way down her throat, leaving a residual scald that made her shiver a little. It wasn’t good coffee, nowhere near as good as hers, but it did the job. “How about you? Got the killer’s DNA?”
Jimi snorted and ran her free hand through her hair, simultaneously smoothing it and making it even spikier. “I wish. I did identify the trace DNA from the statue you and Sergeant Pierce found. Definitely belonged to Peter Hamilton. The thing is, there were a number of samples from the statue, and from inside the sacristy, that should have a lot of common alleles with Hamilton, but it wasn’t him.”
Kate frowned. “So the DNA was… related?”
“Yeah.” Jimi took a tiny sip of her coffee before continuing. “And, based on what I’m seeing, this person was a male relative.”
“Maybe a brother? Father?”
Jimi shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. Although…” She trailed off a moment, sipping again from her cup and wincing as the hot liquid burned her tongue. “
“What?”
“Well, I certainly don’t have any proof yet to back me up, but I think this relative may have been connected through Hamilton’s mum.”
“Male?”
“Yeah, for sure.”
Kate nodded thoughtfully and took another sip of her coffee. It was cooling already, making the drink a more enjoyable one, while at the same time a bit sad, since that meant the coffee would be disappearing quickly now. “So, maybe a brother. Or an uncle?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Kate quickly drained the final sips from her coffee cup and tosses in the waste bin beside her desk. Her eyes drift down to Jimi’s boot-clad feet…
“Jimi? Can I see the bottom of your boots?”
“My boots? Why?”
Kate quickly turned to the computer, clicking through files until she hit the right one…
“Put your left foot up here, will you?”
Jimi arched her eyebrow again as she leaned back in the chair and propped her foot on the edge of the desk. “What’s this about?”
Kate looked at the bottom of Jimi’s boot, then back at the computer monitor. A slow smile spread across her face, and she quickly turned the monitor so that Jimi could see. This is a photo I took at the crime scene, in the mud near the back entrance to the sacristy. It’s the same pattern as the bottom of your boot. What are these, Doc Martens?”
“Of course.” Jimi pointed at her head and the combination of spiky pink-and-purple-streaked hair, pierced eyebrow and nose, and the multiple earrings in her ear lobes. “Punk here, don’t cha know?”
“Of course.” Kate grinned. “You can put you foot down now, thank you.” She watched as the other woman removed her foot from the desk and crossed her legs.
“So, someone was on the property wearing Doc Martens.” Jimi crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, her long legs splayed out in front of her. “Were the prints anywhere near those piles of cigar ash?”
“Yep. Same places.” Kate pulled up her legs, resting her cheek on her knee. “I think that there have to be cigar ends out there. At least one. This guy left the murder weapon, I don’t see him being that careful with the stubs, you know?” Kate hesitated. “I’m going to go out there tomorrow, in the morning.”
Both of Jimi’s eyebrows shot up this time as she looked at Kate with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. “Won’t they be holding the funeral?”
“Not there. Sergeant Pierce told me it will be at the Oratory.”
“Sergeant Pierce, eh?” A knowing smirk spread across Jimi’s face. “You two are getting cozy.”
“Cozy? No.” Kate frowned slightly a
s she shook her head. “We’re… friends, I would say.”
“Well, it’s cozy for him.” Jimi pulled her legs back, exchanging her relaxed position for a conspiratorial one, leaning forward toward Kate and dropping her voice slightly. “Sergeant Pierce doesn’t really have friends. At least none that anyone ever sees or hears about.”
“So no girlfriends?”
Jimi smiled. “Two that I know of. A girl who used to work in Trace… Victoria… They went out for about five minutes, then it ended and a few months later, Vic got married, quit the FSS and moved to Ghana.” She glanced around, then dropped her voice even lower. “The other one was a reporter. Hermione Hart.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Jesus, I can’t stand her. She’s got the worst journalistic manner I’ve ever seen.” She hesitated. “They’re not together anymore, then?’
Jimi shook her head. “Uh-uh. Rumor has it he dumped her cold, and rumor also has it that she did something to deserve it. Big time.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah.” Jimi smiled sweetly. “He kind of got more insular afterward, if that was even possible. Unfortunate. Someone that good-looking shouldn’t be so… dull.”
“He is not dull!”
“Apparently not.”
Kate held up a hand, shaking her head vehemently. “No, no, no! Jimi, Rick and I are just friends. Really.”
“Okay.” Jimi said archly, and stood up to go. “What time do you want to go to the church?”
Kate looked at her watch. “I don’t know… Ten o’clock? Why? Do you want to tag along?”
Jimi nodded. “Yeah. I’m working evening shift tomorrow, so it will be an excuse to get me out of bed and in the fresh air before I’m locked in for the weekend. I can meet you there at ten.”
“Sweet.”
Jimi turned to leave, then stopped, turning back. Her expression was strange, her eyes narrowed and a small frown furrowing her brow. Yet she was smiling as she spoke. “It will be a great chance to continue our Pierce conversation away from prying ears.” She dropped her voice as she continued. “Victoria was rather generous with… details.”
“Details?”
Jimi winked and waggled her eyebrows. “Oh yeah. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Jimi made a quick exit, leaving Kate behind in a stunned silence.
It certainly wasn’t the first time that her friendships with co-workers had been questioned or presumed to be more than they were. For Kate, being viewed as “that girl” had always been her lot in life. Forming friendships with men was easier than women. She had women friends, to be sure, but she was rarely friends with couples and she didn’t have enough fingers on her hands to count the times that a female friendship had ended because that friend had started seeing one of Kate’s male friends and didn’t want the “competition”. Which was stupid, because Kate just didn’t compete. She wasn’t a flirt or a phony. She was just… Kate. “Photographic” memory, sensitivities and all.
Jimi hadn’t seemed jealous about the friendship, probably because Jimi was currently going through a “woman” phase and, while admitting that Pierce was certainly more than appealing, he wasn’t her particular cup of tea at the moment. Details… Kate thought to herself, pulling together her proof sheets and paperwork as she did. What sort of “details”? She shook her head, trying to banish the very un-friend-like thoughts that had just popped into her head as she asked the question. Kate tried to overwrite her thoughts, bringing up mental pictures of the ash piles from the crime scene. She doubted they would be that lucky, but if she and Jimi could find even one cigar stub on the property, they might be able to lift some DNA from the end and find out who was out there watching the property. And watching they certainly were, judging from the depth of the boot impressions and the ash piles. Plus, Kate doubted very much that either Peter Hamilton or that sullen Deacon Lucas fellow were cigar smokers, and based on the autopsy results, Father Coyle most definitely was not.
Kate knew that those piles of ash were important, that they had secrets to reveal, but she didn’t know anything about cigars, and really didn’t want to spend her evening bogged down with online research. However, research accompanied by a lovely glass of Laphroaig…
Kate quickly locked up her proofs and papers in the desk, grabbed her jacket and messenger bag, and headed for the door. Mobile in hand, she made a beeline for the elevator as her thumb typed in the words “Cavendish Square” and “cigar”.
10
4 November 2011
Cigar Bar, No. 5 Cavendish Square
Jerome Wilkinson puffed one, two, three times on the hand-rolled Cuban cigar, letting the smoke ease out from his mouth and around the end. He sighed, enjoying the slight rush as the nicotine flowed into his system, then took a languid sip of his scotch, relishing the flavor as the delicious smoky taste of the spirit mingled with the nutty flavor of the cigar.
Laughter broke into his reverie, and Wilkinson reluctantly pulled his mental focus from the refreshments in-hand to the small group of five gentlemen he was sitting with. Once a week, he and this group of university mates took over the terrace at Cavendish, indulging in more restrained vices than they had in their school days, back when they had all been members of the same exclusive dining club at Oxford.
“So, I told him… I said, ‘Monty, I’ve reviewed all aspects of the case, and there is only one way to go with this, which was clear enough at the committal.’ He started to argue with me.”
“Then he mentioned Cup Finals again, didn’t he?” The asker, a long-limbed blond with a patrician look to his face and edge to his bearing, leaned forward eagerly, his amusement at the story barely contained as he sipped his gin.
The storyteller pointed at the asker with his cigar. “Yes! The wanking idiot! And I remember I just snapped. ‘Christ, Monty,’ I said. ‘Cup Finals are not, in fact, relevant to this case, because when your client called the victim a Yid, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Tottenham.’”
Wilkinson joined the others in laughter as the tale concluded. Raising his glass in salute, the storyteller downed the scotch in it and smiled broadly. “God, I miss the law!” He exclaimed, his gaze drifting toward the doors leading back inside. His smiled faded slightly as his eyes widened. “Now THAT is lovely.”
The other gentlemen all turned and craned their necks to see what the storyteller was looking at. It only took Wilkinson a moment to process that the “that” was a “who”, and that the “who” was… He groaned internally, his eyes closing wearily. Bullocks, there goes the evening…
“Mr. Wilkinson?”
Wilkinson sighed. “Miss Gardener.” He slowly opened his eyes, noting the quizzical looks of his friends as their gazes shifted from him to Kate, then back again.
“Uh, Jer?” The asker pulled his own eyes away from Kate just long enough to turn them on Wilkinson. “Are you going to introduce us?”
Wilkinson set down his glass and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, this is Kathleen Gardener. She is a forensic photographer at Lambeth.”
“Oh, a scientist!” The storyteller practically leapt out of his chair as he stood and offered his hand to Kate. “Oliver Devereux.”
Kate took the proffered hand, grinning broadly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Devereux, but no, I am in no way, shape, or form a scientist.”
Devereux released her hand, shrugging good-naturedly and making a point of appraising Kate’s figure, which her skinny jeans revealed, at least in part. “Well, I’m sure you know a hell of a lot more than most of us do.”
The asker snorted. “Speak for yourself, Dev.”
“This indignant fellow,” began Devereux, “is Ethan Warwick, solicitor extraordinaire.” Kate nodded politely to Warwick, who smiled tightly. With his lean build, long legs, aquiline nose and thin lips, he reminded Kate of a weasel. Probably an apt comparison, she thought, as she tuned back to Devereux, who had taken it upon himself to do all of the introductions.
“This is Antonio Lusk, real estate mogul.”
Kate steeled herself internally as she looked at Lusk. He was broad-shouldered, with well-defined muscle straining beneath his expensive suit. He had Latin coloring, perhaps Italian or Spanish ancestry, and a crooked eyebrow that created an asymmetry to his face, at once appealing and distracting. It was his eyes, though, that forced Kate to brace herself. His gaze was intense, searching, the kind of look that gets under your skin and strips your soul naked.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Gardener.” Lusk spoke with a refined Edinburgh accent. Scottish… Italian ancestry, then…
Next to Lusk was a compact figure, his round face accentuated by his closely-cropped hair. His eyes were gun-metal blue behind his dark-rimmed glasses, and those same eyes continued to move around the room at intervals, even as he offered his hand to Kate in introduction.
“Laurence Grayson.”
Kate smiles genuinely. “Nice to meet you.”
Grayson smiles tightly. “And you. I’ve heard… interesting things… about you, Miss Gardener.”
Kate’s smile fades into an amused frown. “Really? How is that?”
Devereux quickly jumped in before Grayson could respond. “Grayson is our man at the Met.”
“Oh!” Kate turned back to Grayson, her smile emerging again. “You’re a cop. Cool.”
Grayson smiles tightly again, then nodded. His eyes began roaming around again, and Kate found herself wondering if he might be a hyper-sensitive like her… or, perhaps, just a bit of a spazz.
“And last, and most certainly least…” Devereux motioned toward the last member of the group. “This handsome devil is my little brother, Parris.”
This must be what a deer feels like right before the car hits, Kate thought to herself as she looked at the young man standing up in front of her. To call Parris Devereux handsome was an unbelievable understatement. The man was gorgeous, beyond gorgeous. His hazel-blue eyes were framed by miles of dark eyelashes, and Kate thought it might be physically possible to drown in them if she looked for too long. His jawline was square and covered by a well-kept growth of “five o’clock shadow” beard, a sensual mouth with soft full lips finishing off his face. He was slender, but athletically built, though Kate noticed his hands were like those of a musician as he offered one to her.
De Profundis (Kate Gardener Mysteries Book 2) Page 6
