02 Blue Murder by Emma Jameson Read Free Book Online Page B

surgeon and you’re the inspector.”

    ***

    A fter the bodies of Trevor Parsons and Clive French were
removed for forensic examination, Hetheridge paced the Wardle house’s ground floor, taking it all
in—orange and black crepe streamers, abandoned bottles of cider,
half-eaten snacks. He’d hoped to meet up with Kate and compare
notes—her impressions of Kyla Sloane contrasted with his of
Emmeline Wardle—but Kate was gone. She’d accompanied her witness
back to New Scotland Yard to log their interview with whichever DI
the assistant commissioner had assigned to run the French-Parsons
Incident Room. Hetheridge appreciated this diligence on Kate’s
part, well aware that paperwork was her least favorite part of the
job. Given the Met’s increasing computerization and reliance on
HOLMES—the Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System, an acronym
devised purely as an homage to that greatest of British detectives,
Sherlock Holmes—timely reports were needed to keep the UK crime
database operating at its fullest capacity.
    Perhaps I should use
HOLMES to run an inquiry on axe murderers? Hetheridge wondered. On killers
enamored with neuroscience—with the notion of separating the right
hemisphere from the left?
    He sighed. It was a familiar pitfall of his
career, imagining serial killers with bizarre new kinks beneath
every shrubbery. Experience had taught him most murders could be
traced back to sexual jealousy, financial greed or both. True
serial killers were rare.
    Rare, yes. If no further than a stone’s
throw away. At number 16 …
    The Wardles’ second floor was unremarkable
except for more empties, the sour stink of vomit and the evidence
of sexual intercourse in Mr. and Mrs. Wardle’s master bedroom. The
snowy white sheets were twisted; not one but three used condoms lay
discarded on the berber carpet. Apparently the Wardles’ king-sized
bed had been put to very thorough use. Grateful for the SOCOs who
collected all evidence—repulsive as well as benign—Hetheridge
exited the master bedroom without touching a thing.
    At the end of the hallway a door stood open,
revealing another set of stairs. These were short and steep, the
risers painted in alternating colors of red and black. At first
glance, Hetheridge saw what appeared to be a red paint spatter on
the bottom step. He had to get closer to confirm the splotches were
actually dried blood.
    These must be the attic
stairs . Trevor
Parsons came down them with the axe in his head.
    There were more splotches all the way up.
Crime scene booties still covering his Italian loafers, Hetheridge
managed to climb the stairs without treading on any but the
smallest stains. The Wardles’ attic was a claustrophobic, minimally
ventilated space. The sharp scent of mildew assaulted him, as well
as something chemical—mothballs, perhaps. Cardboard boxes were
everywhere, most of them unlabeled, and an unshielded bulb burned
only a few inches from the top of Hetheridge’s head. Nearby was
another spread of blood drops, mingled with the dust on the rough
plank floor.
    Suppose Trevor Parsons was
lured up here , Hetheridge thought. He’s tall, at least six feet, and hunching under
the low ceiling. Words are exchanged with the killer. Parsons turns
to go. The killer strikes one hard, certain blow. But Parsons is an
athlete, a champion. He doesn’t faint from shock, or fall writhing
on the floor. He tries to seek help. Down the attic stairs … into
the party … till he can’t go any farther. He doesn’t leave much
blood behind because it’s in his hair, it’s in his shirt, and the
axe blade is staunching the worst of the flow. And what does his
killer do, as Trevor tries to save his own life? Slip downstairs.
Disappear back into the party …
    Hetheridge considered that scenario. Of
course, it didn’t include Clive French’s death in the equation, but
these things took time.
    He crossed to the attic window. Like the
boxes and baseboards, the window was coated with