Free Ice Blue by Emma Jameson Page A

had
positioned Kevin’s most slavish devotee to reveal his motive for
murder – because the details of Malcolm Comfrey’s monologue began
pouring out of Jules.
    “Daddy started by pretending to congratulate
Kevin for being such an intelligent young man. Proposed a toast to
him. Then he said he’d never heard of an artist who had never sold
a single piece, or managed to beg a grant off the socialists.”
Jules twisted her hands together, coloring slightly. “Daddy said
he’d called Kevin’s references from his portfolio, and found out he
was a rotten student. And that was so unfair,” Jules continued,
voice rising, “because Daddy didn’t bother to find out what was
happening in Kevin’s life at the time, or why he had trouble at
school. He just soaked up a lot of wank from the instructor who
hated Kevin the most, and told everyone a story about Kevin
botching his papier-mâché project. He was sixteen years old! Then
Daddy said Kevin wanted to marry a disaster like me about as much
as he wanted a job in a sewer. So his hat was off to his future
son-in-law, who was prepared to shovel shit for the rest of his
life, as long as he had a wife who could grant him all the money
the arts foundations had denied.”
    During the retelling, Jules had grown teary.
Before Kate could decide what to do – actively comfort the girl, or
politely pretend not to notice – the mobile phone on the coffee
table began to emit a dance tune. Eagerly, Jules snatched up the
phone, squealing, “Kevin! Kevin, where are you?”
    * * *
    “The best part,” Bhar said as he and Kate
walked back to the Astra, “was when she said Kevin had a hidden
side, a vulnerable side he wouldn’t let anyone see. If he wouldn’t
let anyone see it,” Bhar asked with a grin, “how the hell did she
know it was there?”
    “Because it has to be there,” Kate replied
with a lightness she didn’t quite feel. “There has to be a good
side to him that loves her and appreciates her. If not, she’s just
a silly git, latching on to anything male to prove she can land a
mate. And she’s way too invested in the fantasy to start
disbelieving now.”
    “So do you think Kevin murdered Comfrey?”
Bhar asked, unlocking the passenger door for Kate. “Think the
public revelation about his collapsed papier-mâché pushed him over
the edge?”
    “Won’t know until I talk to him.” Kate said,
clicking her seatbelt back into place as she inhaled new car scent
again. “I’ll go out on a limb and say this much. I don’t think
Jules did it.”
    “No,” Bhar agreed, taking his place behind
the steering wheel. “The story that she went running after Kevin to
apologize for her father’s behavior, and only went back to the
crime scene because her mother called, is pretty convincing. Then
there’s statistics. Most women kill by a method that allows them to
maintain at least a meter’s distance – longer than a man’s reach.
That means a gun, it means poison, it even means a contract hit.
Taking a hot poker and beating a man to death, that’s more of a
male approach, statistically speaking.”
    “But Jules would cover for Kevin, if she knew
or suspected he was the killer,” Kate said, thinking aloud.
    “Goes without saying,” Bhar agreed. “What
about Madge Comfrey? Would she cover for her daughter’s fiancé, if
she knew he was guilty of such a violent crime?”
    “I don’t know,” Kate said. “It might depend
on her relationship to Kevin – and how happy her marriage was.
Let’s go see Charlie Fringate and ask him about the rumors of an
affair. Then let’s finally meet Mr. Kevin Whitley,” she said,
consulting her notes, “of 68-B, New Junction Road.”

Chapter Nine
    Charlie Fringate’s Mayfair office was cozy
and old-fashioned, with heavy antique furnishings and drapes
instead of blinds. A single elderly administrative assistant sat in
the reception area, behind a remarkably uncluttered desk. Her
computer screen was dark, and when Kate and