Free 02 Blue Murder by Emma Jameson

infraction of
using his Christian name. “Have you even slept?”
    “ Sleep when I’m dead. Or
this afternoon, whichever comes first. Coffee and breakfast await
you, as always,” he added, looking mildly surprised that she had
not yet loaded up a plate.
    “ Ate on
the run this morning,” Kate lied, trying to ignore the aphrodisiac
aroma of strong coffee and a wide array of breakfast foods,
including sausage, eggs and her childhood favorite, fried bread.
Truth was, her favorite slacks were a shade tight, and that was a
situation that had to be arrested, post-haste. Especially since the
possibility of being seen au
naturel seemed increasingly likely. When
and if she and Hetheridge took their relationship to the next
level, Kate was determined to look as good as a stint of short-term
starvation could render her.
    A second glance at Hetheridge’s neglected
plate revealed several tempting morsels, including buttered toast,
eggs over easy and a wedged orange. Kate tried not to ignore each
distinct aroma. “You don’t seem to have much of an appetite,
either, guv.”
    Hetheridge cast a longing look at the plate.
“Last thing I need,” he rumbled, tossing his linen napkin over the
food and concealing it from view. “Besides, I’ve been composing my
preliminary report.”
    “ I’ll have mine for you by
noon,” Kate said, taking a seat. “But as far as motive, it still
boils down to a big question mark. On the face of it, Trevor
Parsons and Clive French have nothing in common. They attended the
same university but shared no classes. Parsons majored in
communications; French had a double major, engineering and maths.
This morning I was so wrapped up thinking about them, I nearly
struck the boot of some slow plonker ahead of me, trying to imagine
how our two victims might be connected.”
    “ Must they be?” Hetheridge
leaned back in his chair. From his tone Kate knew it was a genuine
query, not a veiled rebuke. And even if it had been a rebuke, Kate
would not have been deterred from her opinion. Especially so early
in the game, when one point of view was as valid as any
other.
    “ Same mode of death. Same
venue,” she said, ticking off the points on one hand. “Same time,
approximately. Same murder weapon …”
    “ Precisely the same murder
weapon,” Hetheridge said. “I noticed that upon closer inspection.
Each axe was previously unused, I think, although we must wait for
the FSS to confirm that. One axe still bore a UPC price sticker
from W. C. Marsden’s. Do you know the company?”
    “ Never heard of
it.”
    “ Nor I. Looked it up.
Appears to be a family-run hardware shop in Peckham,” Hetheridge
said. “I’ll send some PCs down there this afternoon to check it
out. I suppose it’s too much to ask that the owners might have CC
surveillance tapes of their customers. Much less some recollection
of a young man seeking the best tool for splitting skulls. But you
never know.”
    “ A young man, eh?” Kate
pounced on the word. “So you’ve decided our killer is
male?”
    Hetheridge, who’d apparently used the noun
unconsciously, considered for a moment. “For some reason — yes. The
crime seems masculine to me — the brutality, the need for a certain
degree of upper body strength, the brazen aspect of killing two
people during a party. And the choice of weapon — an axe — is
plainly masculine.”
    Kate snorted. “Ever hear of Lizzie
Borden?”
    “ Touché,” Hetheridge smiled.
“But she was part of a long murderesses’ tradition ...”
    “… Which consists of
slaughtering inconvenient family members behind closed doors.” Kate
smiled back. She’d heard Hetheridge say that before, when he’d
lectured to her class back in her academy days. “True. Whereas
Trevor Parsons and Clive French weren’t related and had no
relatives at the party, at least as far as we yet know. You don’t
suppose French and Parsons were connected by a mutual partner? A
romantic partner, I mean?”
    “ Perhaps.