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tightly across her modest
chest, Jules shifted again, as if animated by a dangerous energy
that refused to be contained. “And now that I’m sure, I can’t
really say I’m sorry.”
    “Jules!” Madge said.
    “He didn’t care about either of us. He only
cared about himself!” Jules screamed at her mother, tears starting
in her eyes for the first time. “What if Kevin never forgives me
for the way Dad treated him? What if I never get him back?”
    Madge Comfrey drew in her breath sharply, but
did not attempt to answer. It was Hetheridge who filled the
silence.
    “Ms. Comfrey, do you think Kevin was angry
enough to break into the house and kill your father?”
    Jules swung toward Hetheridge. “Of course
not!” she cried, her once-pale face growing redder by the second.
“And it didn’t have to be Kevin. You couldn’t throw a stone in
Belgravia without hitting someone who hated my father!”
    “Jules, you’re hysterical,” Madge snapped.
“You know your father had no personal enemies. He was respected, he
–”
    “He screwed Charlie Fringate over that
shipping contract!” Jules shrieked. “He treated Ginny Rowland like
a cheap whore! They came to our house and smiled in his face
because he had all the power, but they hated him as much as I did.
As much as Kevin did. As much as you did, Mum, even if you’re too
much of a saint to admit it!”
    Madge Comfrey said nothing. Slowly, her eyes
slid to Hetheridge’s face. Kate saw another glimmer of that
pleading look – restrained this time, but present nonetheless.
    Hetheridge leaned back in the armchair. He
regarded Jules Comfrey for a long moment. Then he stood up,
glancing peremptorily at the two constables. “We’ll need to locate
and speak with the guests, Kevin chief among them. Ms. Comfrey,
would you be good enough to supply these gentlemen with Kevin’s
full name and address?”
    “I hope you can find him.” Voice breaking
into a sob, Jules pulled her knees under her chin, clutching her
legs like a desolate child. “Because I sure as hell can’t.”

Chapter Five
    Hetheridge left it to the constables to
manage the final details – caution Madge and Jules Comfrey not to
leave London, escort them to the hotel of their choice, and
maintain guard on the house until CID arrived. Once he and Kate
were back inside the Lexus, engine started and seat belts clicked
into place, Hetheridge turned to her.
    “Now. Give me your impressions. Don’t try to
organize them. Just stream of consciousness.”
    Kate, who had instinctively flicked on her
smart phone, blinked at the small blue-lit screen for a moment,
then returned it to her coat pocket. “Is this a test of the
relevant details I noticed?”
    “More for me than for you,” Hetheridge said
honestly. “I want to see where we coincide, and where we
differ.”
    “But it will come out unfiltered, and
possibly inaccurate…”
    “Don’t censor yourself. Just begin.”
    “Right.” Kate stared out through the
windshield toward the Comfreys’ home. It was still lit by flashing
blue lights, as well as the reflected white glare around a
television news correspondent, reporting from as close to the house
as the constables would allow. “Impressions. As far as the crime
scene, I think the killer was someone Malcolm Comfrey knew. There
wasn’t much sign of a struggle. Seems like Comfrey either allowed
someone to take a hot poker out of his hand, or else he sat in his
chair and watched, unafraid, while his murderer stirred up the
fire.
    “As far as intruder access – the front door
wasn’t forced. But the side door, which enters directly into the
garage, has scuffs and dents along the bottom, and the jamb is
cracked. Someone could have gotten in the way. But the damage
looked old, not fresh, like the break-in happened a few months ago
and no one bothered to repair it. Neither Madge nor Jules Comfrey
knew anything about a break-in. They just said the door was due for
replacement.”
    Kate, apparently