refrigerator, for one thing, and a matching cooker, for another. Beyond that, Tony—who had the distinction, for good or for ill, of never having decorated a room in his life—believed he was looking at another in-home gallery, one even more provocative than the one in which Hardwick died.
It was monochrome for a start, the walls and ceiling painted burnt orange, the floors and backsplashes covered in matching orange tile. In place of normal overhead lighting, two enormous lamps blazed overhead like twin suns. Affixed to adjustable arms, they had clearly been designed for operating theaters. And the art? Black-and-white framed photographs, not so much pornographic as gynecologic, hung above food prep and dining surfaces. The pictures were so large, magnifying that most female of regions to such a degree, the effect ceased to be human.
Is that the point?
Not for the first time, Tony wondered about the victim's tastes, including his seemingly limitless desire to incite. Constructing a house guaranteed to alienate his neighbors, confronting his girlfriend's husband in a hotel pub, even decorating his kitchen in a manner that might put guests off their food—perhaps there was some truth to Sharada Bhar's assertion that Hardwick had plenty of enemies besides Buck?
"Sick, aren't they?" The voice was high, querulous. "Granville loved women. When he didn't hate them, I mean."
The kitchen table looked like a repurposed surgical instrument table, the steel type on four wheels. Metal stools, the kind that swiveled, were arranged around it. On one such stool sat Georgette Sevrin, turning this way and that like a six-year-old, though she must have been fifty. Her floral poplin housedress was zipped up to her chin. Her carpet slippers were stained, her wild brown hair uncombed. As she turned, enormous specs with magnifying lenses transformed her eyes into ping pong balls—very round, very white, and bouncing in all directions.
"Good evening, Miss Sevrin. I'm Chief Superintendent Anthony Hetheridge."
"How do you know my language?"
Beside him, PC Fannon made the tiniest of sounds, a sort of incipient cough.
"Just lucky, I suppose," Tony said. "May I join you?"
"Please yourself." She swiveled a half turn, jerking back as he approached. "Not there! It's occupied."
It was—by a toddler-sized baby doll he'd been on the verge of sweeping aside. As dolls went, it spoke less of idyllic childhoods and more of direct-to-TV horror movies: naked, glassy eyes, yellow hair standing straight up. A crack ran along its forehead.
"That's Ramona." Still riding the stool, Georgette lifted her legs like a little girl, the bottoms of her carpet slippers flashing by. "Question her first. She saw everything."
"Yes, well, thank you very much. Perhaps I'll get to her in a moment." Taking a different seat, Tony glanced at PC Fannon to see if the man had caught what just happened.
If he did, he has a remarkable poker face.
"Forgive the necessity of questioning you during this very distressing time. But as I'm sure you're well aware, Granville Hardwick is dead. Did you see what happened?"
"Told you. Ask Ramona." Seizing the doll, she plopped it onto the stainless steel tabletop. "Talk to her, don't be shy."
Another incipient cough from Fannon.
"Constable, I trust you're taking notes? I intend to revisit that Ministry of Justice guide with you when we've finished."
"Yes, sir." Frantic throat clearing and the tap of stylus on smartphone. "Getting it all down, sir."
Georgette began cooing at the doll, murmuring reassurances, stroking her stiff blonde hair. Every few moments she glanced wildly around the kitchen, eyes ping-ponging in every corner, the Coke-bottle lenses so distorting, it was impossible to gauge her sincerity.
"Do you live here, Miss Sevrin?"
She nodded.
"For how long?"
"Since the accident."
"And when was that?"
Two long, slow blinks behind those lenses. "Don't really do time, actually."
"A week? A month?"
"A year," she said
It was monochrome for a start, the walls and ceiling painted burnt orange, the floors and backsplashes covered in matching orange tile. In place of normal overhead lighting, two enormous lamps blazed overhead like twin suns. Affixed to adjustable arms, they had clearly been designed for operating theaters. And the art? Black-and-white framed photographs, not so much pornographic as gynecologic, hung above food prep and dining surfaces. The pictures were so large, magnifying that most female of regions to such a degree, the effect ceased to be human.
Is that the point?
Not for the first time, Tony wondered about the victim's tastes, including his seemingly limitless desire to incite. Constructing a house guaranteed to alienate his neighbors, confronting his girlfriend's husband in a hotel pub, even decorating his kitchen in a manner that might put guests off their food—perhaps there was some truth to Sharada Bhar's assertion that Hardwick had plenty of enemies besides Buck?
"Sick, aren't they?" The voice was high, querulous. "Granville loved women. When he didn't hate them, I mean."
The kitchen table looked like a repurposed surgical instrument table, the steel type on four wheels. Metal stools, the kind that swiveled, were arranged around it. On one such stool sat Georgette Sevrin, turning this way and that like a six-year-old, though she must have been fifty. Her floral poplin housedress was zipped up to her chin. Her carpet slippers were stained, her wild brown hair uncombed. As she turned, enormous specs with magnifying lenses transformed her eyes into ping pong balls—very round, very white, and bouncing in all directions.
"Good evening, Miss Sevrin. I'm Chief Superintendent Anthony Hetheridge."
"How do you know my language?"
Beside him, PC Fannon made the tiniest of sounds, a sort of incipient cough.
"Just lucky, I suppose," Tony said. "May I join you?"
"Please yourself." She swiveled a half turn, jerking back as he approached. "Not there! It's occupied."
It was—by a toddler-sized baby doll he'd been on the verge of sweeping aside. As dolls went, it spoke less of idyllic childhoods and more of direct-to-TV horror movies: naked, glassy eyes, yellow hair standing straight up. A crack ran along its forehead.
"That's Ramona." Still riding the stool, Georgette lifted her legs like a little girl, the bottoms of her carpet slippers flashing by. "Question her first. She saw everything."
"Yes, well, thank you very much. Perhaps I'll get to her in a moment." Taking a different seat, Tony glanced at PC Fannon to see if the man had caught what just happened.
If he did, he has a remarkable poker face.
"Forgive the necessity of questioning you during this very distressing time. But as I'm sure you're well aware, Granville Hardwick is dead. Did you see what happened?"
"Told you. Ask Ramona." Seizing the doll, she plopped it onto the stainless steel tabletop. "Talk to her, don't be shy."
Another incipient cough from Fannon.
"Constable, I trust you're taking notes? I intend to revisit that Ministry of Justice guide with you when we've finished."
"Yes, sir." Frantic throat clearing and the tap of stylus on smartphone. "Getting it all down, sir."
Georgette began cooing at the doll, murmuring reassurances, stroking her stiff blonde hair. Every few moments she glanced wildly around the kitchen, eyes ping-ponging in every corner, the Coke-bottle lenses so distorting, it was impossible to gauge her sincerity.
"Do you live here, Miss Sevrin?"
She nodded.
"For how long?"
"Since the accident."
"And when was that?"
Two long, slow blinks behind those lenses. "Don't really do time, actually."
"A week? A month?"
"A year," she said
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