Ice Blue by Emma Jameson Read Free Book Online Page B

curses
traveled toward the next floor up.
    Kate regarded the closed doors for a moment,
beginning to blush, as she always did after an impulsive act of
defiance. He’d make her pay for that, sooner or later, and probably
in a way she could ill-afford. Why did she have to rise to his
baiting? Why couldn’t she have the restraint of, say,
Hetheridge?
    Because I’m not him. I’m Kate, she sighed
inwardly, taking a swig of coffee and hurrying toward the Chief’s
office. And if he’d lived my life, he’d be a snappish little bitch,
too.
    She paused before entering the office,
tossing her half-full cup in a corridor rubbish bin, and trying on
a calm, professional expression. No good looking more interested in
sucking down her breakfast than in getting down to business on the
Comfrey murder.
    Opening the door, she made her way from the
reception area, where the administrative assistant’s desk sat
empty, toward Hetheridge’s office, and the glorious aroma of bacon
and eggs.
    A pleasant-faced man in his mid-thirties sat
in a chair pulled up to Hetheridge’s wide desk, chomping
contentedly on bacon and fried bread. He was dressed in a blue
striped shirt with white collar, black vest, and black trousers.
His thick hair was glossy black, his complexion was dark, and his
eyes looked as black as his hair. Kate had glimpsed him around the
Yard from time to time, but still had to look at his ID to recall
his name.
    “DS Bhar?” she asked, pronouncing it
carefully. His first name was Deepal.
    “Call me Paul,” he said, wiping his hands on
the linen napkin in his lap, then putting out a hand for her to
shake. “Sit yourself down. Always another space at the trough.”
    Kate grabbed a chair and dragged it close,
placing her handbag on the floor and awkwardly crossing her legs at
the ankles. That was the worst thing about her best suit – the
skirt was exactly the wrong length to sit comfortably. “The Chief
mentioned you last night. Said you were wrapping up another
case.”
    “Wrapped,” Bhar said with satisfaction,
popping another piece of bacon in his mouth. “This case is way more
interesting, anyway. Murder in Belgravia. That’s what they’ll call
the mini-series. And I always fancied being interviewed on telly,
explaining the mind of the super-rich killer. Now eat. Seriously.
Don’t force me to become fatter than I already am.”
    Kate smiled at Bhar, neat and trim despite
his rapid style of consumption, and studied the spread on
Hetheridge’s desk. “This is amazing.”
    Before her, in silver serving dishes, the
traditional English breakfast waited: eggs, bacon, sausages,
mushrooms, fried bread, and kippers. A tall silver coffee pot sat
to one side, with a single remaining china cup beside it.
    Happy to cave in, Kate loaded up the china
plate someone had provided for her, digging into everything except
the kippers. Then she poured a cup of coffee, doctoring it with
real sugar and half-and-half before savoring a mouthful. It tasted
like the beans had been ground fresh before brewing.
    “Who provided this?”
    Bhar shot her a knowing looking. “Lady
Hetheridge,” he stage-whispered.
    Kate blinked at him. Before she could ask,
Bhar gave some sort of awkward signal, like trying to point with
only his shoulder, and bent his head to his breakfast.
    Hetheridge’s administrative assistant, Mrs.
Snell, entered. Kate knew that most of the Yard, including the
senior officers, were terrified of her. She was a tall, scrawny
woman with protruding collarbone, non-existent bosom, and wide,
accusing eyes. Her hair was a fierce white, set in waves that would
have looked outdated thirty years before. Her style of dress,
high-necked with a hem falling to mid-calf, could only be described
as somewhere between the Queen and Dame Edna Everage. No one knew
Mrs. Snell’s age, which fell between sixty and eighty. No one asked
her questions – she asked the questions, and invariably received
answers.
    “How is breakfast?” she