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unused to any superior
allowing her to speak at such length uninterrupted, shot Hetheridge
a sidelong glance. In return, he gave her his most neutral look.
Even with the case uppermost in his mind, it was amusing to keep
Kate off balance, and quite possibly had the effect of making her
sharp intellect work even faster.
    “What else?” she continued. “Um, right. The
Comfreys have an alarm system. But, like most people who live in
safe neighborhoods, they didn’t turn it on. The Comfreys only arm
it when they leave, or after everyone’s in for the night. Since it
was relatively early, and Jules wasn’t home yet, no one set the
alarm. So if the killer had keys, he could have let himself in and
walked up to the library while Madge Comfrey slept.
    “As for the open French doors on the
balcony,” Kate said, “maybe Comfrey did that himself. Unless the
killer brought a grappling hook, I doubt he broke into the house
through the balcony. And it definitely looked too far a drop for
anyone but Batman to exit that way without breaking a leg. Of
course, we’ll need daylight and crime scene photos to be sure.”
    She paused for breath, shot another glance at
Hetheridge, and then continued.
    “Impressions of the family. Madge Comfrey.
Her make-up and hair were perfect. I think she freshened up before
the police arrived. Jules Comfrey. Might be anorexic. Something
about her isn’t healthy. She also wasn’t wearing an engagement
ring. You’d expect someone in her position to be wearing an iceberg
set in platinum. Oh, and…” Kate broke off. “Never mind.”
    “Uncensored,” Hetheridge repeated.
    Shrugging, Kate turned that cheeky smile on
him. “I think Madge Comfrey expects her previous friendship with
you to work to her advantage. Not sure exactly how yet, but she
does. That’s all. No more impressions. Brain empty.”
    “Very well.” Tires crunching against the
pea-gravel car park, Hetheridge turned the Lexus around, then
rolled up to the police barrier, waiting as the constables moved to
pull it aside.
    “I’m going home to change clothes,” he told
Kate. “I’ll expect you in my office at seven o’clock to begin
analyzing statements and checking backgrounds. Would you like me to
drop you home now, or do you prefer to go directly to the
Yard?”
    Kate paused. The correct answer, for an eager
junior officer on her first major murder case, was obvious: just
fling me out near the Yard’s revolving sign, guvnor, and I’ll
fortify myself on stale coffee and nicotine until I’ve obtained a
full confession and a commendation from 10 Downing Street.
Hetheridge sensed that Kate wanted very much to give him that
answer, and prove what a good chap and a hard-charging lad she
really was, but that something in her private life made such
single-minded careerism impossible.
    “I need to go home,” she said at last. “Tie
up some loose ends. But I’ll be ready to work at seven, I
promise.”
    Nodding, Hetheridge steered the Lexus toward
the river, and South London. It was still shy of three o’clock, and
serene along the open highway – the endless, soul-shriveling crawl
of morning traffic wouldn’t happen for at least another two
hours.
    “So,” Kate began, that satisfied needling
tone creeping back into her voice, “what exactly was the nature of
your friendship with Madge Comfrey, Chief?”
    Hetheridge repressed a smile. He had expected
this, and was prepared. “How precisely is that relevant to you,
Sergeant?”
    “I like to be as thorough as possible when
evaluating personalities, sir.”
    “I told you she was once a friend. We lost
touch completely, as you may have guessed. That should be
sufficient to satisfy your professional interest.”
    “Sauce for the goose should be sauce for the
gander,” Kate said.
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning if I were the one who had a prior
connection to an individual who, frankly, has to be considered a
prime suspect, you would require complete transparency on my part.
If