the house, half-aware of what he was doing, taking in details with a dispassionate eye. In East Asia House's gallery, the scene had been properly sorted. Granville Hardwick's corpse was gone. FME Peter Garrett had departed. Even the CSIs had packed it in, leaving behind only key areas marked with yellow crime tape.
Tony's usual habit, when an unwelcome turn of events disordered his thoughts, was to painstakingly reorder them, sorting valid concerns from rubbish ones until he felt balanced again. Yet Deaver's text had done more than disorder his thoughts; it had swept them away altogether. What remained was an ominous swirl of emotions, circular as a whirlpool and leading down, down, to some place inside himself he'd never been and didn't want to discover.
Kate. The thought came to him like a life preserver. Almost an hour ago, he'd ordered her to interview Buck Wainwright. If Buck had proven obstructive, she might still be in East Asia House. He could ask a PC to help locate her. If Buck had been cooperative, she might be escorting him to the Yard. He could ring her mobile and—
Wait. Was he actually proposing to interrupt a crucial interview? To ring Kate in the midst of what might be a taped murder confession? All so he could moan and whinge? Bleat about his feelings , for heaven's sake?
Bugger that. Those Wakefields put her back to the wall. Even after I cleared them off, she didn't ease up, not till we reached the crime scene. Work is her salvation. I can't poison that for her. I won't.
"Chief?"
Turning, Tony found himself confronted by PC Kincaid and another young constable, this one pale and stout as a blond fireplug. "Yes?"
"DS Hetheridge accompanied the suspect to New Scotland Yard," Kincaid said. "But she asked us to keep the other witness in the kitchen till you could speak with her."
"Other witness?" Still struggling inside, Tony spoke without thinking, and immediately regretted it. PC Kincaid looked taken aback, as though he'd witnessed an embarrassing mental lapse.
The old lion opens his mouth to roar, revealing toothless gums . That black inner whirlpool threatened again, ready to swallow him whole, even as the shorter, stouter PC piped up.
"He means Mrs. Tumnus. The lady in the wardrobe looking for Narnia."
"I see. Thank you. And you are…?"
The blond fireplug tried to exchange glances with PC Kincaid, who chose that moment to examine the floor. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir. PC Fannon, sir."
"Very good. Tell me, Constable Fannon, what is the definition of a vulnerable witness?"
"Er. Yes, sir. Definition of a vulnerable witness, sir," Fannon stalled. "Er… below the age of eighteen. Or physically disabled. Or mentally impaired. Sir."
"Correct. And what constitutes mental impairment?"
Fannon again looked around for assistance, but Kincaid remained in a fugue state while the other uniformed officers drifted away. "Er… low IQ? Learning disability?"
"PC Fannon, I'm disappointed. You don't sound terribly familiar with the Ministry of Justice's Vulnerable and Intimidated Witness Guide. It specifically includes persons who suffer or appear to suffer from psychiatric disorders. Now what did you tell me? That this potentially frightened, traumatized witness is married to—whom? Mr. Tumnus?"
Fannon coughed into his fist. "Sorry, sir. Took us awhile to find her ID, but her right name is Miss Georgette Sevrin, sir."
"I see. Then who is Mr. Tumnus?"
"He's… er… you know…." Fannon grew increasingly desperate as Tony waited. "Well, he's a faun , innit? But sir, I'm not just taking the mickey. That woman isn't off her trolley. She's putting it on, I swear she is."
It was time to show mercy. "Perhaps you're right. Let's find out, shall we? Constable Kincaid, see that we're not disturbed. Constable Fannon, take me to her."
* * *
PC Fannon led Tony into the room he called Granville Hardwick's kitchen. Evidence did suggest it was, indeed, a kitchen: the presence of a stainless steel
Tony's usual habit, when an unwelcome turn of events disordered his thoughts, was to painstakingly reorder them, sorting valid concerns from rubbish ones until he felt balanced again. Yet Deaver's text had done more than disorder his thoughts; it had swept them away altogether. What remained was an ominous swirl of emotions, circular as a whirlpool and leading down, down, to some place inside himself he'd never been and didn't want to discover.
Kate. The thought came to him like a life preserver. Almost an hour ago, he'd ordered her to interview Buck Wainwright. If Buck had proven obstructive, she might still be in East Asia House. He could ask a PC to help locate her. If Buck had been cooperative, she might be escorting him to the Yard. He could ring her mobile and—
Wait. Was he actually proposing to interrupt a crucial interview? To ring Kate in the midst of what might be a taped murder confession? All so he could moan and whinge? Bleat about his feelings , for heaven's sake?
Bugger that. Those Wakefields put her back to the wall. Even after I cleared them off, she didn't ease up, not till we reached the crime scene. Work is her salvation. I can't poison that for her. I won't.
"Chief?"
Turning, Tony found himself confronted by PC Kincaid and another young constable, this one pale and stout as a blond fireplug. "Yes?"
"DS Hetheridge accompanied the suspect to New Scotland Yard," Kincaid said. "But she asked us to keep the other witness in the kitchen till you could speak with her."
"Other witness?" Still struggling inside, Tony spoke without thinking, and immediately regretted it. PC Kincaid looked taken aback, as though he'd witnessed an embarrassing mental lapse.
The old lion opens his mouth to roar, revealing toothless gums . That black inner whirlpool threatened again, ready to swallow him whole, even as the shorter, stouter PC piped up.
"He means Mrs. Tumnus. The lady in the wardrobe looking for Narnia."
"I see. Thank you. And you are…?"
The blond fireplug tried to exchange glances with PC Kincaid, who chose that moment to examine the floor. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir. PC Fannon, sir."
"Very good. Tell me, Constable Fannon, what is the definition of a vulnerable witness?"
"Er. Yes, sir. Definition of a vulnerable witness, sir," Fannon stalled. "Er… below the age of eighteen. Or physically disabled. Or mentally impaired. Sir."
"Correct. And what constitutes mental impairment?"
Fannon again looked around for assistance, but Kincaid remained in a fugue state while the other uniformed officers drifted away. "Er… low IQ? Learning disability?"
"PC Fannon, I'm disappointed. You don't sound terribly familiar with the Ministry of Justice's Vulnerable and Intimidated Witness Guide. It specifically includes persons who suffer or appear to suffer from psychiatric disorders. Now what did you tell me? That this potentially frightened, traumatized witness is married to—whom? Mr. Tumnus?"
Fannon coughed into his fist. "Sorry, sir. Took us awhile to find her ID, but her right name is Miss Georgette Sevrin, sir."
"I see. Then who is Mr. Tumnus?"
"He's… er… you know…." Fannon grew increasingly desperate as Tony waited. "Well, he's a faun , innit? But sir, I'm not just taking the mickey. That woman isn't off her trolley. She's putting it on, I swear she is."
It was time to show mercy. "Perhaps you're right. Let's find out, shall we? Constable Kincaid, see that we're not disturbed. Constable Fannon, take me to her."
* * *
PC Fannon led Tony into the room he called Granville Hardwick's kitchen. Evidence did suggest it was, indeed, a kitchen: the presence of a stainless steel
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