few, you know. Told Hardwick not to cross him again or there'd be blood."
"You heard Buck say that?"
"Exactly that. 'If you ask me for money one more time, make no mistake, there will be blood,'" she recounted, attempting an American accent. Only after she repeated the threat did she seem to realize what, precisely, she'd disclosed.
"Of course," she quavered, trying to backpedal, "someone who doesn't know Buck might jump to conclusions, but it was just male posturing. Chest thumping. I'll bet Mr. Art Man made enemies everywhere he went. There are probably a hundred men in London who've threatened to kill him this week."
"Quite possibly. But only one was found at the scene of Mr. Hardwick's murder, and only one has been taken into custody." Tony gave her a moment to absorb that, again reining in his private sympathy. Eight weeks didn't seem like a very long time for a romance, particularly between mature adults. But as she'd pointed out earlier, he'd personally experienced the heady madness of attraction, fascination, and love—not in eight weeks, but eight days.
"So. You received a call," Tony said, taking up the thread again. "Hired a taxi to Mayfair. Was let into East Asia House sometime after seven pm by Buck Wainwright. The alarm wasn't ringing, there was no sign of a struggle, and Buck seemed alone, in a state of distress. Did he show you the body? Tell you what happened?"
Fresh tears glistened in Sharada's eyes. Like many before her, she'd been tripped up by habit—the habit of telling the absolute truth. And if she'd related even half of this to the uniformed PCs, it was no wonder Buck was in custody.
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you, Tony." Mopping her wet cheeks with another tissue, she gave a defiant sniff. "I'm not a thickie. This is where I lawyer up."
* * *
Soon after her declaration, Sharada Bhar was permitted to depart, provided she present herself at New Scotland Yard the next afternoon, solicitor at hand, for a taped interview. Yet despite this impasse, Sharada remained stubbornly convinced she had a right to remain near Buck Wainwright, even if she wasn't permitted to see or speak to him. Compelling her to exit the crime scene proved nearly as difficult as ejecting DS Bhar. In the end, the only way Tony could avoid threatening her with arrest was by reminding Sharada her son was surely home by now, awaiting her safe arrival.
"You're right." She dug in her handbag, coming up with that phone again. "Missed call log! Nothing? Messages? Still nothing." She frowned at the screen. "Deepal hasn't called. Hasn't texted. And Tony, you were so stern with him. He idolizes you. I hope he hasn't done something drastic."
As far as Tony was concerned, a truly drastic action from Paul would be to experience contrition, or renounce his reckless ways, or simply arrive at work on time for a change. "I'm sure he's fine," he told Sharada, by which he meant safe in a pub, drowning his sorrows in a pint. "The sooner you're home, the sooner you can reassure yourself."
"I suppose. But will you check your mobile to see if he's called?" She gave him a wide-eyed, pleading look.
Reluctantly, Tony withdrew his phone and turned it on. Immediately he was confronted with three missed calls, all in the last hour. None were from Bhar. All came from his immediate boss, Assistant Commander Michael Deaver, who'd even taken the extraordinary measure of sending a text. Deaver was resoundingly, unshakably negative. Some men saw the glass half empty, but Deaver saw it half full—of hemlock. Yet even by his standards, the text message was bleak.
It's done. Sorry.
Tony stared at the words. He stared at them for so long, his mobile's power-saving scheme kicked in, darkening the screen. He was still staring at the black rectangle when Sharada asked, "What's wrong? Is it Deepal?"
"What? No." He forced a smile. "Go home to him, please. We'll continue our discussion tomorrow. Now I really must carry on. Excuse me."
He wandered back through
"You heard Buck say that?"
"Exactly that. 'If you ask me for money one more time, make no mistake, there will be blood,'" she recounted, attempting an American accent. Only after she repeated the threat did she seem to realize what, precisely, she'd disclosed.
"Of course," she quavered, trying to backpedal, "someone who doesn't know Buck might jump to conclusions, but it was just male posturing. Chest thumping. I'll bet Mr. Art Man made enemies everywhere he went. There are probably a hundred men in London who've threatened to kill him this week."
"Quite possibly. But only one was found at the scene of Mr. Hardwick's murder, and only one has been taken into custody." Tony gave her a moment to absorb that, again reining in his private sympathy. Eight weeks didn't seem like a very long time for a romance, particularly between mature adults. But as she'd pointed out earlier, he'd personally experienced the heady madness of attraction, fascination, and love—not in eight weeks, but eight days.
"So. You received a call," Tony said, taking up the thread again. "Hired a taxi to Mayfair. Was let into East Asia House sometime after seven pm by Buck Wainwright. The alarm wasn't ringing, there was no sign of a struggle, and Buck seemed alone, in a state of distress. Did he show you the body? Tell you what happened?"
Fresh tears glistened in Sharada's eyes. Like many before her, she'd been tripped up by habit—the habit of telling the absolute truth. And if she'd related even half of this to the uniformed PCs, it was no wonder Buck was in custody.
"I'm sorry. I can't tell you, Tony." Mopping her wet cheeks with another tissue, she gave a defiant sniff. "I'm not a thickie. This is where I lawyer up."
* * *
Soon after her declaration, Sharada Bhar was permitted to depart, provided she present herself at New Scotland Yard the next afternoon, solicitor at hand, for a taped interview. Yet despite this impasse, Sharada remained stubbornly convinced she had a right to remain near Buck Wainwright, even if she wasn't permitted to see or speak to him. Compelling her to exit the crime scene proved nearly as difficult as ejecting DS Bhar. In the end, the only way Tony could avoid threatening her with arrest was by reminding Sharada her son was surely home by now, awaiting her safe arrival.
"You're right." She dug in her handbag, coming up with that phone again. "Missed call log! Nothing? Messages? Still nothing." She frowned at the screen. "Deepal hasn't called. Hasn't texted. And Tony, you were so stern with him. He idolizes you. I hope he hasn't done something drastic."
As far as Tony was concerned, a truly drastic action from Paul would be to experience contrition, or renounce his reckless ways, or simply arrive at work on time for a change. "I'm sure he's fine," he told Sharada, by which he meant safe in a pub, drowning his sorrows in a pint. "The sooner you're home, the sooner you can reassure yourself."
"I suppose. But will you check your mobile to see if he's called?" She gave him a wide-eyed, pleading look.
Reluctantly, Tony withdrew his phone and turned it on. Immediately he was confronted with three missed calls, all in the last hour. None were from Bhar. All came from his immediate boss, Assistant Commander Michael Deaver, who'd even taken the extraordinary measure of sending a text. Deaver was resoundingly, unshakably negative. Some men saw the glass half empty, but Deaver saw it half full—of hemlock. Yet even by his standards, the text message was bleak.
It's done. Sorry.
Tony stared at the words. He stared at them for so long, his mobile's power-saving scheme kicked in, darkening the screen. He was still staring at the black rectangle when Sharada asked, "What's wrong? Is it Deepal?"
"What? No." He forced a smile. "Go home to him, please. We'll continue our discussion tomorrow. Now I really must carry on. Excuse me."
He wandered back through
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