The Black Cat

43

He would have left, too, had Richard Jury not that moment walked into the pub.

Sally Hawkins chose the same moment to appear behind the bar. She waved, then called to Dora, who ignored her.

“I have the strange feeling that everything’s happening all over again,” he said as Jury put his hand on Dora’s shoulder, smiled, and sat down.

“Meaning?” said Jury.

“There’s yet another black cat, and Dora here says it’s not Morris, either. I can’t stand it. The black cat cosmos is made up of a zillion cats who aren’t any of them Morris. It’s got to be Morris.”

“Don’t you think Dora”-she by now having shoved in next to Jury-“knows her own cat?”

“No,” said Melrose, in a tone that didn’t leave it open to question.

Dora said, “He told me you couldn’t find Morris because cats are too hard to find.”

“Really? It’s always been my experience they were pretty easy. Could you go over and ask Sally to do me a pint of something?”

Immediately, Dora ran over to the bar and was conveying the message. Sally nodded, raised a circled thumb and forefinger, as if having a pint of something were a victory for them both.

“So where’s this new cat?”

“He just dashed by; didn’t you see him? Now he’s gone into that niche by the fireplace.”

Jury looked round. It was just about the size of a drawer. He turned that over.

Dora was returning slowly with Jury’s beer.

“They really shouldn’t let you do that,” said Melrose. “A seven-year-old purveyor of beer.”

Dora, sitting down again, took up the cat cudgel. “Well, he said”-she darted a look at Melrose-“Scotland Yard policemen weren’t any good at finding cats.”

“A misquote! I didn’t say-”

“You did too!” Dora stood up in her seat, hands mashed on hips.

“Never mind,” said Jury. “I found Morris.”

Both of them stared, mouths open in equal astonishment.

Dora’s closed first. “But-” She looked around the room. “Where is she?”

“In London. Don’t worry. She’s okay.”

Melrose’s tone was icy, suggesting no congratulations were in order, “Then why didn’t you bring her?”

“Because I need her in London for a little while.”

“What?”

“What?”

Their “whats” bumped into each other. At their twinned expressions, Jury wanted to laugh. They seemed to have changed selves, Melrose looking seven and Dora forty-seven, with her little creased forehead and startled eyes. “Now, this new cat: just when did it turn up?” asked Jury, who already knew.

“Today… no, last night. It’s always rushing around except when it goes over and sits in that hollow place. We don’t know why it’s kind of crazy. And it has a mean temper. Sally thinks it must belong to someone because it was wearing a collar. But it came off.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Why?” said Melrose.

“Evidence.”

“Oh, please.” Melrose rolled his eyes as Dora slid out again and ran to the bar.

Jury raised his voice and turned toward the fireplace. “Schrödinger!” The others, the old man and racing lady, looked at him as if he’d gone mad. So did Schrödinger, who left her cubbyhole and rushed over to the table, sniffed at his shoe, and rushed off again.

Dora was back with the collar.

The blue collar was the same one the other black cat had been wearing when she’d appeared with Mungo in the Old Wine Shades. Smiling, Jury stared out the window. How in hell had they done it? How? They just had.

“Schrödinger?” said Melrose. “Now, I could be crazy-”

Jury nodded. “You’re getting warm.”

“Funny. But the last I heard, Schrödinger was Harry Johnson’s cat.”

Dora said, “That’s a funny name.”

“The owner is a funny guy.”

“But I want Morris,” Dora said before Sally Hawkins called her away.

If not Morris, then Joey. Or someone. Jury looked down, studied his pint.

“Are you saying this is Harry Johnson’s cat?”

Jury nodded and drank his beer.

“What is it doing here?”

“I expect Harry brought her here.”

Melrose dropped his head in his hands. “Why? Why? Why? Do I want to hear the answer?”

“Probably not. ‘The cat came back.’ It’s Harry having his little joke. Don’t you remember he sucked me into his story about the Gaults with that enigmatic comment ‘The dog came back’?”

“This was a joke?”

“Um-hm. There’s a murder in Chesham and I’m stuck with it. Harry knows it. So he’s just getting his mite of revenge because I’m still on his case.”

“He’s crazy. Why would he bring his cat here?”

“Well, he didn’t know it was his, did he? He thought he was bringing Morris back.”

“So he couldn’t tell his own cat?”

“Not him. Not without the collar. He put a collar on Morris in order to tell them apart. Now, the real mystery is how Morris got the collar off and onto Schrödinger. I suspect Mungo managed that little trick. Easy enough to get it off; it’s just a Velcro closure. Well, we’ll never know.”

“You’re just leaving Schrödinger here and Morris with Harry?”

“No, of course not. You’re going to get Morris back.”

Melrose stared, not at Jury but at some impossible image in his head. Then he collected his cigarettes and lighter, stuffed them into his pockets, drank off his beer, and said, “That’s it.”

When he got up, Jury pulled him down by his sleeve. “It’s perfectly simple. You’ll go to Harry’s. I have a dog, I mean cat, carrier in the car-”

“Why? What would you have a carrier for?” Melrose had sat down again.

“It’s… Wiggins’s. He got a hamster. We’ll put the carrier in your car. You’ll be staying at Boring’s.” Pleased, Jury drank his beer.

“Is there any part of my life you don’t have plans for? Why will I be staying at Boring’s?”

“Because you’re going to London.”

“I have no plans to go to London.”

“You do now. That’s the second thing: Have you ever used an escort service?”

Melrose sat back and regarded Jury through narrowed and suspicious eyes. “No, and I don’t plan to in the future.”

“Here’s a change in your future plans: Smart Set, Valentine’s, King’s Road Companions. You choose.”

“Oh, thanks very much. None of the above. I don’t fancy sex I have to pay for.”

“Who said you had to?”

“Pay for it?”

“No, have it.”

“Well, that’s what those escort places are for.”

“Not necessarily. You can have an escort for a lot of things. Just take her to dinner or a show or for a walk in Green Park or to the Royal Albert Hall or to the Vic-”

“Can you see me taking a woman of that sort to the Victoria and Albert?”

“Christ, but you’re a snob. I never knew you were a snob.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, but you’re not. Look at all your canoodling with the Crippses. Anyone who can hang around White Elite and Ash the Flash by definition is not a snob. Not to mention Piddlin’ Pete.” Jury gave a brief but beery laugh. “And what about Bea? Yes, Bea. You didn’t waste any time taking her to the National Gallery. She’s a lot more EC₃ than SW1.”

“Bea’s an artist.”

“I know. But her accent’s Brixton. So go ahead, choose: Smart Set, Valentine’s, King’s Road.”

Melrose continued to stare at Jury.

“Oh, for God’s sakes. I’ll go first.” Jury was certain that Rosie Moss knew more than she’d told him; now was as good a time as any to ring her. He did. “Rosie, hello. Richard Jury… yes, that one. Look, if you’ve nothing on, how about a drink tomorrow night… No?… Thursday night, then?” He danced his eyebrows at a leery-eyed Melrose Plant. “Okay, I will. Thanks.” Jury rang off. “See? Simple as that? Rosie’s with Valentine’s. So you take one of the others.”

“If you were actually talking to someone just now. You could have been faking the whole thing.”

Jury just gave him a look.

“Oh, very well. Smart Set. I like the name better.”

“Right.” Jury got out his mobile phone. “We’ll call that first.”

Melrose threw up his hands. “Wait a minute: you think I’m going to do this right now?”

“Why not? I did it right now.”

“You don’t trust me to do it?”

“No.”

“Hell.” Melrose reached over and grabbed the mobile. “What’s the number?”

Jury slid a page from his small notebook across to Melrose. “Don’t forget the London code’s just changed.”

Melrose glared. “I’m not a child.” He tapped in the number and waited for the ring. “Yes… hello… I was just wondering… I’m going to be in London-”

Jury held up a page on which he’d been writing. “-tomorrow and I’m interested in your, uh, service.”

Jury went on writing.

“And I was just wondering about the procedure… Yes… Yes.”

Jury held up his note: “They’ll want to know what kind of girl.” “Oh, I’m not particular-no, wait, I’d say a blonde, tallish, good-looking, of course, but then you wouldn’t have one that’s bad-looking, would you, a-ha?”

A twitter came out of the mobile.

“That sounds all right… Where will I be staying? At my club. Boring’s. It’s in Mayfair… Oh, cocktails and dinner, I think… At my club? Well… look, I’ll get in touch after I get to London to pick a place to meet… Yes.” He gave her his particulars, including a credit card number. He had to wrestle the card out of his leather billfold. “Yes. Good-bye.” Melrose gave the mobile and a dirty look to Jury, who smiled and stowed it in his pocket.

Dora was back again, sitting down beside Jury, ignoring Sally Hawkins. “When you go to London,” she said to Melrose, “will you go to this person’s house and get Morris?”

“No,” he said to her. Ignoring Dora’s crestfallen look, he turned to Jury. “Now, what are your instructions? I mean, about how to behave on a first date?”

“I don’t care what you do as long as you get the information.” Jury thought of the cabdriver who’d whisked him to the animal hospital, and smiled. The Knowledge.”

Jury looked at his watch. “Got to go. I want to make a few stops before I head back to London.”

“What about this infernal kidnapping of Morris? When am I supposed to do that?”

“After your hot date tomorrow night. So the day after. And don’t use the Rolls; take one of your other wrecks. The Bentley. It’s pretty old as I remember.’

“There’s the Jag.”

“You don’t own a Jaguar.”

“I could always buy one. I mean, we want to do this right.”

“Why are you sodden with money, whilst I just have to squeak along?”

Melrose shrugged. “Justice? You can have my Bentley.” “Thanks. And remember, this isn’t a kidnapping. Kidnapping is what Harry did. You’ll be going to London anyway for your date.” Jury smiled. “I’ll let you know the exact time to appear at Harry’s house. He lives in Belgravia. You know where that is.”

“‘You know where that is,’” Melrose mimicked. “Yes, sport, I know. What’s his address?”

Jury told him.

“So when Harry comes to the door-incidentally, I’m sure Harry will remember me after that drama in the Old Wine Shades.”

“Harry won’t be coming to the door.” Jury’s smile was even broader. “Harry will be elsewhere.”

44

“They’re calling them ‘the Escort Murders,’ subhead ‘Serial Killer on the Loose?’ At least they made it a question.” DS Cummins had turned the paper around so that Jury could see for himself the headline and the photos beneath it. There were two of the Valentine’s and Smart Set agencies, together with what looked like agency photographs, one of Deirdre Small and one of Mariah Cox using the name “Stacy Storm.” Kate Banks was missing, as was the King’s Road Companions agency. Beneath these photos was a smaller one of Rose Moss, who was “helping police with their inquiries.”

Jury and Cummins were sitting in the Chesham station.

Cummins went on: “I guess they’re all related, only…”

“Only what? I’m open to intuition.”

Cummins scratched his ear. He looked awfully young. Jury envied him the boyishness so close to the surface. He thought of Rosie Moss. He worried about her, to tell the truth. He hoped he wasn’t leading her on, making that date with her.

“Well, it doesn’t feel right, that it’s a serial killer.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s because… Mariah being murdered in Chesham, not London.”

“Exactly. Mariah Cox was murdered because she was Mariah Cox, or Stacy Storm, not because she was an escort. That it would be the same for the other two would follow, wouldn’t it? They’re connected, but not by escort services, by something else. We have to find out the something else.”

David Cummins smiled. “Chris thinks so, too, the escort business doesn’t have anything to do with the murders. Chris thinks it’s all about shoes.”

Jury really laughed for the first time in days. “Tell her I can send someone round to talk to Jimmy Choo.”

“And Louboutin, the red sole guy. Those shoes look like they stepped in blood.”

Edna Cox came to the door looking a little less worn out, but not much. She seemed, oddly, glad to see Jury, maybe because he was one of the few left who connected her with Mariah. He hoped he wasn’t the only one.

He was seated with a cup of tea, not speaking of her niece and the other victims until she’d stopped bustling around and was herself sitting down.

“These other two women, Mrs. Cox-Deirdre Small and Kate Banks-do those names mean anything to you?”

She shook her head. The paper, the same one Cummins had shown to Jury, was lying on a rust-colored ottoman. Edna Cox picked it up. “No. But I’ve seen her somewhere.” As Cummins had done, she turned the paper so Jury could see. Her finger was tapping the picture of Rosie Moss. “Adele Astaire, it says her name is.” A little hmpf! of disbelief followed.

Jury was surprised. “You’ve seen her where? I thought all you knew of her was the name.”

“That’s right. I’d never seen these girls. I mean, their pictures. No, Adele Astaire is a made-up name just like Stacy Storm is. You’d think”-pause for a sip of tea-“they could come up with better names than those, wouldn’t you?”

Jury thought he’d better not prompt her with Adele’s real name just now. “This Adele Astaire-do you recall where you saw her?”

She set down the cup and was prepared to really exercise her brain. “I’ve been trying to bring it to mind ever since I saw that picture.” She shook her head. “But I can’t.”

“Could she have come here at all, I mean, to Chesham, with Mariah?”

Edna Cox’s eyes shut tightly, as if squeezing the last drop from memory. “No. No, I’m sure not. At least that’s not where I saw her.”

Jury waited, but when she added nothing, he said, “Her real name is Rose Moss. Does that mean anything to you?”

Edna frowned down to study either the hands in her lap or the carpet of cabbage roses at her feet. Then she tilted her head a bit, as in the way of one trying to hear an indistinct or distant sound. Her eyes widened. “A film! There was a film long ago that I remember seeing with my sister, Mariah’s mum, when they lived in London. Mariah must’ve heard us talking about it, and laughed and said something like its being funny, the way the film had got the name the wrong way round. It was called Moss Rose. She thought it very funny.”

“You think Rose Moss was someone she knew?”

“Well, it must’ve been a school chum, maybe. Mariah wouldn’t have been more than eight or nine, I shouldn’t think. But you’ve talked to the girl; what did this Moss girl say? Did she recognize Mariah?”

“She knew her by Stacy Storm, you see. And when I told her the real name, she didn’t say she knew your niece.”

Edna Cox leaned her head on her hand, fisted round a handkerchief. A tear tracked slowly down her face. “My Mariah making up such a name. It’s a sad name, isn’t it? It’s so false. It’s so falsely like a film star, isn’t it? My Mariah.”

Understandable that she’d settled on the name instead of the whole charade. Denial, he supposed, our last refuge. “Why do you think Mariah went to such trouble to appear, well, plain, when she was clearly so striking?”

Or was the striking one, the escort, the real Mariah?

Was either identity real? Neither?

Edna Cox shook her head. “She was prettier as a child; she seemed to grow into plainness somehow. Even then, she was fairly quiet and uncomplaining, not a lot of energy. This other self of hers-I don’t know where that came from.”

“You’d have had no reason to think it, but is it possible she was suffering a mental illness, what’s thought of as a personality dissociation? You know-where the sick person splits into one or more other selves?”

The aunt frowned. “Oh, no. At least there’s no history at all of that kind of thing in the family.”

Jury nodded. If it were some sort of personality split, what would it mean to this case? It was certainly not one of Mariah’s selves that had killed the other two women. Mariah had been the first one to die.

Jury rose, thanked Edna Cox, and offered to do for her anything he could, which, they both knew, was nothing. Still, the offer. “I’ll be going back to London. You have my card? You know where to reach me. Please do, if you need me.”

She took some comfort in this and said good-bye.

45

Dr. Phyllis Nancy peeled off the skin-thin green gloves and dropped them into the gutter of the table where Deirdre Small lay, shrunken in death, hollowed out, deflated.

“I wanted another look at the bullet wounds, the trajectory of the bullet. Your suspect, the client she was meeting-if he is a suspect…” Phyllis looked at her notes.

Jury nodded. “Nicholas Maze. DI Jenkins doesn’t think he did it.”

“Then Jenkins is probably right. Maze, I believe, is very tall; the victim was quite short. The trajectory would have been different-”

“Even at close range?”

She nodded. “It would still make a difference.”

Jury looked at the face of Deirdre Small, wiped clean of all expression, and knew the expressions that had once played over it: it would have been a game face, a face put on to meet the demands of her world. Because of her background, her job, her small structure, she must have conceded a lot. More, he bet, than the intelligent and beautiful Kate Banks or the ambiguous Mariah Cox.

Three of you, he thought. Dead for no reason, died for nothing, killed because you were an inconvenience in some way, murdered because of someone’s greed, or rage, or fear, or guilt. How do you connect? How were you alike?

He looked up, nodded back to the body of Deirdre Small. “What did she tell you, Phyllis?”

“Not nearly as much,” said Dr. Nancy with a little smile, “as she told you. Dinner?”

He nodded. She took off her apron, went to collect her things, and they left the morgue.

“The neurologists,” said Phyllis, “aren’t very hopeful. But I expect that comes as no surprise.”

Jury studied his crispy fish, something Wiggins liked to order, but not he. It looked like a puzzle.

Phyllis was studying him. Did he himself look like a puzzle? He was stalling for a reply to the neurologists’ prognoses. He could think of nothing.

“You’re at a loss.” She tilted her head. “There was never anything you could do, Richard. There’s nothing now.”

He shook his head. “I know. It’s not so much what I could do as what I could feel. Should feel.” He looked up from his fish, then back again. He wasn’t very hungry.

“Ambivalence is-”

“It’s more than that. Or less than.” Jury leaned back and took in the room, crowded as always. Here the crowding didn’t bother him; the customers, perfect strangers, seemed familiar. In the familiar din and chatter, there was privacy. He caught sight of Danny Wu, bending over a table, being solicitous of the couple there. Danny could work a room as well as any politician. He smiled. “This place is comforting.”

“It is, yes. It’s one of those home places, a place that’s a stand-in for home, whatever that might mean. For me, there’s a chemist’s near my flat. It’s a little sort of run-down place, but I like to go in it. There’s even an armchair. I sit in it and read labels.”

“Phyllis-” He laughed, more delighted than surprised. This woman was so accomplished. Also beautiful, also rich. The source of her money was a mystery to him.

“For some people it’s a certain kind of shop, for some, book-stores-it doesn’t have to be a place, anyway-what we think of as home. For an artist it might be paint; for a writer, words.” She sighed and cut off a bite of fish.

“I was at the hospital this morning,” she continued. “One of her doctors is a good friend and he told me. It’s still possible she’ll come out of it, Richard. This makes it difficult to decide-well, Lu’s uncle was there.”

Jury waited.

“He’s the closest relation she has or, at least, according to him.”

“You saw him?”

She nodded. “Yes, he was there with Dr. McEvoy. My friend.”

“Lu told me a little about him, the uncle. She was very fond of him. Other than that, she never talked about her life.” He picked up the chopsticks, moved them awkwardly. “Now, what’s left of it?”

“I’m really sorry, Richard.”

She was, too.

It wasn’t, thought Jury, one of Phyllis’s “home places,” the hospital, but he thought the nursing staff made an effort to keep it from being absolutely foreign.

A grandmotherly looking nurse, small and rotund, whose uniform badge gave her name as Mae Whittey, came round from behind the nurses’ station to tell him Ms. Aguilar had been moved earlier that day and that she would take him to her room. He did not want to know to what section, for he was afraid of the answer. It might be the Hopeless Ward.

Nurse Mae Whittey’s crepe-soled shoes made gasping little sucks at the floor as she walked. She told him that one of the rooms they passed was being “refurbished,” hence the thick plastic across the doorless doorway. The heavy plastic put Jury in mind of one of those temporary tents thrown up at an archaeological dig.

“Mind those tools,” she said, indicating a bucket and equipment left lying against the wall. Her role seemed less nurse and more guide through an excavation, seeing to it that Jury didn’t put a foot wrong.

Their steps echoed in the soundless corridor. He didn’t understand the silence, given many of the doors to the rooms were halfway open.

“Here you are,” she said, but it was apparently “Here we are,” for she went in with him.

And as if she were a member of their tiny family, she stood beside him to look down at the still form of Lu Aguilar, as composed as an effigy in a church. Yet Nurse Whittey’s presence was oddly unobtrusive. Jury had to admit to himself he was even grateful for it. He remembered the heavy weight of aloneness he had felt two months ago, back in March, when his cousin Sarah had died up in Newcastle. He had walked around London for several hours, unable to settle on a park bench or a coffee bar or in his thoughts. There was an orphaned quality to loneliness.

This room looked just like the other room, except for the addition of fresh flowers, sprays of the most gorgeous orchids he had ever seen, sitting in a vase on the bedside table. They reminded him he had always come empty-handed. “Someone’s been to see her. Was it her uncle?”

“Oh, no, it was Dr. Nancy brought those. Aren’t they gorgeous? So many shades of red. Brazilian orchids, she said. Ms. Aguilar’s from Brazil, apparently. Dr. Nancy said something from her own country to keep her company.” Nurse Whittey smiled. “That’s just like her. Doctor Nancy, I mean.” She turned to him. “You know Doctor Nancy, don’t you? I believe she mentioned you. I thought myself that perhaps she must be a friend of the patient, but she said, no, just the good friend of a good friend.”

“Yes.” Jury didn’t know what to say.

“Well, I’m just terribly sorry,” Mae Whittey said. She looked down at Lu. “She’s so terribly young.”

Of course, all rules of protocol should have had the nurse leaving, and leaving him alone. Yet they stood there together for some moments in a companionable silence for which Jury was grateful, but which he didn’t understand. Perhaps Nurse Whittey always had that effect on people.

While she made microscopic adjustments to the bedclothes, Jury went to the window and looked out. A view different yet the same. He looked around to see the nurse rearranging the orchids that blazed in the colorless room. Prometheus returning fire to benighted mortals.

He said, “You know, there was a great actress named Dame May Whitty. Same name, spelled differently.” He smiled at her.

“Oh, my, yes. I remember her well. There was that one where she was on a train-yes, and just disappeared, didn’t she?”

“Hitchcock,” said Jury. He looked off through the window that gave out on the same square of land as the one Lu had been in before. “The Lady Vanishes.”

46

Alice Dalyrimple.

How could one take seriously as an escort a woman with such a Victorian name as Alice Dalyrimple?

“Miss Dalyrimple will be your escort.” Alice Dalyrimple, so snobbily intoned by a Miss Crick of the Smart Set escort service. Miss Crick had been entrusted with the appointment book. Melrose felt he had landed in the middle of a Jane Austen novel.

“Now, Mr. Plant, a bit more information. What is your given name?”

Why, wondered Melrose, had he used his last name? Men seeking the services of escort agencies gave out fictional names, surely. At least he could make up a first name: “Algernon. That’s my first name.” From Jane Austen to Oscar Wilde.

“Algernon. Very good.”

Did the name have to meet with her approval?

“Now, we were to decide upon a meeting place.”

His mind ranged over venues, from the Hole in the Wall underneath Waterloo Bridge to Buckingham Palace, where he fantasized presenting Miss Dalyrimple to the queen. In the midst of these unfruitful thoughts, Melrose looked round at the several sluggish old gents in various stages of slumber and said to her, “Boring’s. My club in Mayfair.”

“Oh. And this is permitted by the club, is it?”

Miss Crick’s question was the first indication that they knew Smart Set wasn’t turning up in Burke’s Peerage. It encouraged him to be fulsome: “Oh, my, yes. Yes, we’re quite an open and wide-awake group here.” He decided this after one of the old men snuffled himself out of a coma. The only thing less awake would be the burial vaults in Westminster.

“Yes,” he began, “all she-”

“Miss Dalyrimple?”

Ah! Had he shown bad escort manners in his overly familiar use of “she”? “Miss Dalyrimple need only present herself at the reception desk and they will inform me.”

“I see. You will not be at the door yourself?”

Only if I’m the doorman. “I’ll be in the Members’ Room.”

“And now, could I just verify your credit card number?”

“I believe I gave that to someone already.”

“But not to me.”

Good God, isn’t that what police said when one objected to being asked the same questions over and over? The woman should work for the Met.

“You know, I’d always thought the payment would be made at the end of things.”

“That’s true. But this is just in case, you know.”

In case of what? A heart event in the middle of things? Miss Dalyrimple’s discovering she had walked not into an exclusive club but into a tattoo parlor? London’s being overrun by rivers of rats? He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through his little stash of cards and recited the number. He and Miss Crick then parted.

Now here he sat in the sleepy environs of Boring’s with a book he was trying to force himself to read, waiting for Miss Alice Dalyrimple. They would have dinner here, drinks and then dinner. There was no quieter place to have a conversation about the murders. Surely it would be on her mind, escorts being murdered. How did she know he wasn’t the one? Here these women were, going out with and having sex with potential serial killers, and seemingly careless of it. Had the snarky Miss Crick shown any concern? No. But then, she wasn’t the one going out.

Well, Jury didn’t think the danger was in the escort business itself.

If the women in this kind of work weren’t being murdered because of that work, and if it wasn’t coincidence they happened to be in it-then what did that leave? It meant, didn’t it, they had something else in common-

“My God! If it isn’t Lord Ardry!”

“Colonel Neame.” Melrose got up to shake the hand of the elderly, pink-cheeked former RAF pilot. “I was just wondering if you were around.”

“Always am, dear boy, except for my brief walks to the Ritz and Fortnum’s.”

Ritz for tea, Fortnum & Mason for silk-worsted suits and caviar counter. “Your itinerary must be the envy of London. And this,” Melrose went on, his arm out flung to take in the Members’ Room, “is the only way to live.”

“Well, it’s restful, of course. But I think a bit more animation wouldn’t go unappreciated. My, my!” He was looking toward the entrance to the Members’ Room.

A buxom blonde in a flimsy dress that looked to be made up of chiffon scarves stood at the entrance. The slowly turning fan of bamboo and palm fronds above her set the multiscarved garment in motion. The rest of the motion of bouncy breasts and churning hips was taken care of by the woman herself.

“Who, in God’s name, is this?” The tone was not unappreciative.

This could only be Miss Dalyrimple.

Melrose answered Colonel Neame, “This would be my guest, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh ho, my boy! Well done, well done!”

Melrose wanted to tell him he could do it himself, if he’d just yank out a phone directory. If anything could awaken the Rip van Winkles in the room, it was surely Alice Dalyrimple maneuvering herself toward him in her silver sandals.

“Miss Dalyrimple? I’m Algernon Plant.” He caught the colonel’s raised eyebrows.

“How j’ya do?”

Given Miss Crick’s rather hesitant description of her escort, Melrose had formed a cloudy image of a passable imitation of gentility. But Miss Dalyrimple, in her gait and her guise, did nothing to present a picture of good breeding. (The last horse to win the Gold Cup had done far better there.) And any hope of even passable credentials was blown to smithereens when she opened her mouth. Melrose wondered if even Marilyn Monroe, before her voice coach got to her, had sounded something like this. Alice’s voice was a breathless squeak.

He introduced her to Colonel Neame, who was staring so hard that his eyeballs looked as if they were on stems. Gruffly, he said, “Yes, yes, so nice.”

“Pleased, I’m sher,” answered Alice.

They all sat, Alice in a flounce and a flutter of the scarf dress. Melrose hoped she wouldn’t start in immediately stripping and settling the scarves round Colonel Neame.

“Miss Dalyrimple-”

“Oh, for heaven’s sikes, call me Alice.” Seated beside him on the sofa, Alice tucked her hand through his elbow and gave the arm a pat. “We’re going to ’ave some fun, sweetie, ain’t we?”

Her eyelids were so heavy with dustings of gold and green, they came down like little shutters. She was wearing a multitude of perfumes, scents that were fighting for prominence.

“Care for a drink?” Melrose asked.

“Wouldn’t say no, would I? I’ll ’ave a tequila and lime.”

Colonel Neame thought this laughable. “Doubt you’ll get anything quite that involved here, Miss Dalyrimple.”

“Involved?” Her eyebrows danced.

“Oh, we only mean that Boring’s runs more to the straight offerings of whiskey and gin.”

“I’ll be a monkey’s. Gin, then.”

Melrose wasn’t surprised as he ordered up drinks for all of them. He and Colonel Neame had been drinking that old standby, eighteen-year-old Macallan’s. The little redheaded porter took their order and whisked himself off.

Opening his mouth to express a thought that hadn’t yet formed, Melrose shut it when he saw Polly Praed standing in the entryway, not looking at all like Alice Dalyrimple. Polly was wearing her old standby mustard-colored suit, a color that Melrose had tried to get her to jettison long ago. It hardly did justice to her eyes, the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. They were a limitless, bottomless purple blue, staring at him-he was sure-accusingly, though too far off to really tell.

Polly was here not by accident, but by design. Melrose had called her and enlisted her help. A mystery writer, he had said, might be expected to grill someone associated with an escort agency as the three murdered women had been.

Yesterday, he had said, “You’d be doing me a great favor, Polly.”

“Good. Then you’ll owe me.”

He hadn’t counted on that. Being in Polly’s debt could result in having to read a new manuscript, a chore she’d asked him to perform in the past. This was a chore he’d always managed to get out of; it was bad enough reading the published books. Or not-reading them. The new book he was not-reading was the one on the cushion beside him. Not-reading required an inventive mind: how to convey to the author he’d read a book when he hadn’t. That usually involved reading the beginning and making it up from there.

He quickly stuffed the book between the cushion and the arm of the sofa. The title alone was enough to kill off brain cells: Within a Budding Grave. The last one he had not-read was The Gourmandise Way. In her personal Search for Lost Time (and he hoped she didn’t find enough of it to write another dozen books), Polly had gone on this Proustian rant. The dust jacket of the latest had disclosed that the plot turned on a mistaken burial-they’d buried the wrong man. God only knew what would follow from that. He wondered why she was squandering her talent, for she was genuinely talented. Why was she messing it about? Letting it drift like a baby Moses into the bulrushes?

“Polly! Over here!” as if they were on the loading deck of the Queen Elizabeth.

Polly made her way over-suspicious, he now could see.

Before Melrose could try to lighten the atmosphere, Colonel Neame was on his feet, pumping her hand, saying, “Miss Praed! We met last time you were here, and I just want to tell you how very much I enjoyed The Gourmandise Way.”

Melrose shuddered. The book about a chef’s deadly dinner, with that nod to Proust.

Polly thanked Colonel Neame and tucked herself into the wing chair beside him. She was staring from Melrose to Alice, who had now received her gin and was downing it. The porter handed over the other two drinks and waited for this new guest’s order.

“Nothing… Oh, no, wait, I’ll have a sherry. Whatever kind you have.”

“Wonderful to see you, Polly. You’ll have dinner?” Turning to Alice, Melrose said, “You won’t mind, will you, if Miss Praed joins us?”

Both women looked at him uncertainly. He gave them both a fool’s grin. What did you expect? I’m an idiot. Polly, he knew, would be happy to subscribe to this, but Alice might feel it a bit insulting.

Alice Dalyrimple, who certainly would mind, shrugged and said, “Suit yerself.” She rearranged her décolletage-would that neckline sink any farther? Could that cleavage be yet more pronounced? Yes to both. Sitting forward with her small hands on her knees, she looked grimly at this mustard-suited woman who was now taking her sherry from the porter. But suddenly and impishly, she returned to her original cuteness level and gave Polly (who jumped) a swat on the knee. “Oh, I get it! Ain’t you two a riot?”

Melrose and Polly, dumb to her meaning, only looked at each other.

Then Alice leaned toward Colonel Neame, laughed as if bubbles were coming out of her nose, and said, “Come on now, sweetie, make it a foursome!” Then, “O’ course, it’ll cost ya!” The laugh was almost silvery, for there was money in it.

The three managed to get into the dining room without further incident (or making it a foursome). Dinner had an impromptu feel: a patched-together quality, insofar as Boring’s could ever seem patched together.

Young Higgins, Boring’s oldest waiter, would never permit it. If Miss Dalyrimple had floated scarves about him, Young Higgins would remain as resolutely unflinching as any of the Palace Guards.

“We have escargots tonight, my lord.” At Alice’s wrinkled nose, he put in, “Snails.”

It was a relief to find Young Higgins was as much of a class artist as he himself. Melrose smiled. “I’ll have them.” Remembering his manners, he said, “Oh, sorry, Polly. What’ll you have?”

“Soup,” she said curtly.

“Me, I don’t think I want a starter,” said Alice. “Watching my weight.” She twinkled. “So just bring me another one of these, love!” She held out her gin glass, which Higgins took with a sniff.

“Madam.”

They all ordered the roast beef.

Enough of this, thought Melrose; let’s get down to it. “Polly, here, is a mystery writer,” he said, leaning over the table toward Alice.

Alice was impressed. “That book the Colonel was talkin’ about, you wrote it? I never!”

Melrose said, leaning even closer into Alice’s disturbing neckline, “Polly’s really good at murders.”

“Oh, Jesus Christmas! Are you going to write about us?”

Young Higgins was slipping soup and escargots before Polly and Melrose and a fresh gin before Alice, then going soundlessly off. It gave Polly a few seconds to take in the “us.”

Alice said, “You know, us escorts.”

“I might,” she said, sotto voce. “That’s what I’m thinking of doing; that’s why I’m in London: research. How lucky to meet you.”

Spearing a radish from the small plate of complimentary crudités that looked hard as enamel, Alice said, also sotto voce, “Well, if you ask me, this crazy person’s nothing but a sex maniac.”

An interesting conclusion, thought Melrose. “Why do you say that? It would appear sex mania is what he’s against. Although, to think it’s sex at all is making an assumption.”

“That’s so true,” Alice said, leaning toward Polly. “People think the wrong ideas about escort services. They think they’re just about sex.”

They are, thought Melrose. For a few minutes, they ate in silence.

“But aren’t they about sex?” asked a braver Polly as Young Higgins appeared with their entrées.

Alice said in a sharpish way, “They most as-sur-ed-ly are not. Just look at the three of us, we’re ‘aving a meal, ain’t we? Whatever comes later, that’s up to you two. Oh, what nice-looking beef! D’ya ’ave any tomato sauce, dear?”

Young Higgins was not used to being called “dear,” nor did the icy look he gave Miss Dalyrimple suggest he was inclined to get used to it. Or perhaps what called forth that stony expression was, rather, the request for tomato sauce. He set down the other two plates and turned to the wine cooler.

Melrose and Polly paid no attention to the Pinot Noir being poured because they were back there a beat, with the “whatever comes later” remark. To keep from laughing, Melrose snatched up his glass and gulped. The wine came out his nose. He coughed.

Polly recovered. “Why do you call this killer a sex maniac?” “Prob‘ly he can’t-you know-perform. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s one of Valentine’s, or one of the others. DeeDee-Deirdre Small, the one got herself murdered-didn’t agree, though. Said he’d probably turn out to be her steady.” Alice giggled and quickly stopped, probably recalling what had happened to Deirdre Small.

Pay dirt! Pay dirt! He could have kissed Alice Dalyrimple, except she’d have him under the table in two seconds flat. “You knew this Deirdre Small?”

“O’ course I knew her. She was with Smart Set, too, don’t forget. Nice girl was DeeDee. It’s such a shame.” She carried on carving up more beef, sans tomato ketchup.

“You knew her well?” said Melrose.

“Oh, yeah. Pretty well. We went to the cinema sometimes, stuff like that.”

“Had you seen her recently?” Polly asked.

“A week ago, maybe.” Alice picked up her empty glass. “Just before she got murdered.” She set down the glass. “She was worried about something…”

“About what?” said Melrose.

“Well, she never said, did she?” Alice looked blankly over the dining room.

Polly asked, “Do you think it could have been one of her… clients, then, that did this? Maybe somebody got jealous of her other men?”

Alice frowned. “You mean you think it coulda been personal?” “Couldn’t it have? I mean, it doesn’t have to be some maniac just killing off escorts.”

“It’d be hard to think DeeDee’d get on the wrong side of anybody, she’s so nice. I don’t know all the ones she dated… Didn’t police arrest her date for that night?”

Melrose said, “From what I read, they only questioned him.”

“If it was Nick, police can forget about it. DeeDee always said he was dull as dishwater. A whiner, too. Whined about his wife, whined about his work. Not much get-up-and-go, you know? ‘My Nick’s not exactly got a steel spine; more like spaghetti,’ she used to say.” She paused. “When I said DeeDee was worried about something… well, it was something she thought maybe she should see police about…” Again her voice trailed away.

Melrose was all ears. “And she didn’t give you any hint at all as to what it was?”

Alice shook her head, played with her fork, looked disquieted. To Melrose she said, “You seem awful interested in the murders.”

“Not him,” said Polly quickly. “Me. Did you ever talk to police? I mean, did you tell them about DeeDee?”

“No. I don’t much like police.”

Then Alice said, “I knew that other one, too, that got her picture in the paper. Calls herself Adele Astaire? Escorts are kinda, I guess you’d say, clubby. I guess we feel we’ve got to stick together. People make it sound like we’re working the curb in Shepherd Market or under London Bridge.” She giggled up some wine. “But it ain’t like that, that’s chalk and cheese, those two jobs.”

Melrose was even more dumbfounded. “You know Adele Astaire?”

Alice’s nod was tentative, as if she weren’t sure she wanted to get into this.

Polly said, “So you didn’t tell police you knew either of these women?”

She screwed up her face. “Why would I? I say let them sort it. Besides, I don’t know anything, really.”

“But tell us,” Polly went on. “What you do know about this Adele?”

“Not much to tell, is there? We was in school together. Adele-what was her real name?-was a cheeky kid. Still was, I bet. Always wanted to be a dancer, she did. I think maybe that’s why she went on the job, thinking she’d get herself the money she’d need to study. I doubt she did, but I dunno. Haven’t seen her in years.” Alice pushed her plate back and now blew out her cheeks as if she’d just run the mile. “What’s the pud?”

Dessert-sticky toffee pudding-came and went, and at about that rate of speed.

Polly put down her napkin and announced she was off to the ladies’ room. This, Melrose knew, was to give him an opportunity to take care of Alice. Melrose did. But not without difficulty. His best excuse was that, really, he and Alice could hardly get together with Polly here. To which Alice acted surprised the arrangement hadn’t been made already and that they could still… No, no, we couldn’t, said Melrose, slipping Alice the money for the evening’s encounter, feeling he had got off lightly; feeling, indeed, twice that sum wouldn’t have paid for the information.

So he paid her twice that sum.

“Polly, you were marvelous.”

“It’s a curse.”

They were finishing up brandies in the Members’ Room. Polly had to make the last train back to Littlebourne.

“You’ve been checking your watch about every thirty seconds, so you obviously want to check in with Superintendent Jury.”

They both got up. Melrose recalled just then that he’d stuffed Polly’s book in between the cushion and arm of the chair and now dug it out. Naturally, he hadn’t read enough of it to say anything halfway intelligent. He held it out. “Will you autograph this for me?”

She looked at the book, then up at him. “When you’ve read it.” Smiling, Polly walked out.

47

Jury put down the phone and sat staring at Wiggins. He was not really seeing Wiggins, only the images in his own mind, his response to Melrose Plant’s telephone call.

“What?” said Wiggins, indisposed because he couldn’t sort out what was wrong with the plug on the flex to the electric teakettle. “What?” he said again.

Jury flinched a little, Wiggins being as far from his mind as the electric kettle. “Sorry. That was Plant on the line. He said the woman he had a meal with last night knows Rose Moss, aka Adele Astaire.”

Wiggins stopped fiddling with the plug. “What did he find out?”

“They’d been school chums years ago. The woman-the one Melrose Plant was with-is one of Smart Set’s escorts.”

“Mr. Plant…” Wiggins snorted. “Can’t picture Mr. Plant-him who was Lord Ardry-in company with a slag.” But apparently he could picture it, for something was putting him in a better humor. He snickered.

“Don’t enjoy it too much, Wiggins. He did it because I told him to. Her name’s Alice Dalyrimple.” Jury smiled at the name.

“But then if she’s with Smart Set… so was Deirdre Small.”

“Yes. And DeeDee, as she called Deirdre, was worried about something, was even thinking of going to police.”

“Is this Alice involved, then?”

“I don’t think so. She was just the one supplied by the agency.”

“Then if she knows the Moss woman, does she-or did she-know Stacy Storm… Mariah Cox?”

“No.”

“Well, then, it doesn’t sound very significant, boss.” He had finally fitted the plug into an outlet. The kettle had water in it.

“But it is. It’s the connection. Look: we assume because three women working for these different escort outfits are murdered, the connection is the work itself-all three on the game. As the newspapers have made bloody sure people would think that’s the connection. But the connection between the three victims could have nothing at all to do with the sex angle, the escort service. It’s the women themselves. Here, at least, are two who know each other. It was reasonable to assume that the women working for these agencies were going with some psychopath who hated girls on the game. That’s what people think.

“We dug around in the past of the three victims and found nothing. Maybe that’s because we didn’t know what to look for. Now, I want you to look in on Myra Brewer. She knew Kate Banks all her life. I bet she has photos, albums of them, maybe stuff from her school days. I want to know if Kate knew either of the others.”

Jury was up and wrestling his arms into his coat. “Me, I’m off to have lunch with Harry Johnson.”

“You don’t mind my saying so, you seem a little obsessed with Harry Johnson, guv.” The blessed kettle whistled. Wiggins immediately popped a Typhoo bag in his mug and poured water over it.

Self-satisfaction steeped along with the tea.

Coat on, Jury went to Wiggins’s desk and leaned on it. “Harry Johnson was in Chesham the night Mariah Cox was murdered; he was at home, he says-his only witness being Mungo-the night Kate Banks was shot; he was supposed to be in the Old Wine Shades, which is but a few minutes from St. Paul‘s, around eight or nine the night Deirdre Small was murdered at nine o’clock. He showed up at the Shades nearer to ten. I was there.”

“But, sir-what’s his motive?”

Jury turned at the door with a wicked smile. “Because he could.”

The spot of lunch, more a spot of Château Latour, was overseen by Mungo, who unwedged himself from between the legs of Harry’s bar stool to stand at attention when Jury walked in.

“Mungo, how’s it going?” Jury scratched him between the ears.

Mungo sat with his tail threshing the floor.

“And how’s your case going?” asked Harry. Not waiting for an answer, since he knew he wouldn’t get one, Harry went on. “Remember the Poe story? ‘The Black Cat’? Do you believe in evil spirits?”

“Only you, Harry.” Jury nodded to Trevor, who then set a glass before him and poured the Burgundy.

“I’ll just get your lunches.”

“Ploughman’s okay?” asked Harry. “That’s what I ordered.”

“Excellent.”

Harry nodded to Trevor, who went off for the food.

“As I was saying, the cat may have more to do with the whole thing than you credit it with.”

Jury raised his glass and looked at the shifting grape red colors against the light. “Really?” He smiled.

“The cat disappears the night after what’s-her-name…?” Harry snapped thumb and finger together, frowned as if making a real effort.

“Stacy Storm.”

“What a ridiculous name. Anyway, after that night…”

Jury knocked back nearly half of the wine. “That night you were in Chesham. The Rexroth party. Ms. Storm was also meaning to attend but was, you could say, detained.”

Trevor returned with two white oval plates of cheese (cheddar, Stilton, Derbyshire), bread, Branston pickle, and pickled onion and set the plates before them.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Is that a fact?”

“But her gentleman friend attended, the one she was supposed to meet.”

“And you pulled him in and roughed him up and now you can leave me alone.”

Jury shrugged. “For all we know, her friend might’ve been you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Harry was arranging a pickled onion on top of cheese on top of the thick bread.

Trevor had come with fresh glasses and a fresh bottle of another Bordeaux Jury had never heard of, but then he’d never heard of most of them.

Harry nodded at the label, and Trevor uncorked the bottle and poured.

They had four glasses now on the counter. Fine with Jury, who was having a swell time. They ate and drank in a silence that might almost have been called companionable, when Harry said, “Let’s go back to ‘The Black Cat.’”

“The pub?”

“The story. What’s fascinating is the pure randomness of the crime.”

“By random, you mean lacking motive? Any crime that looks as if the perpetrator simply picked off the subject arbitrarily could be said to be motiveless, right?”

“I suppose that’s so. But there’s a sense of power in doing something just because you can.” He smiled and drank off the rest of his wine, then crumpled his napkin on his plate. “Ah, that was good. But now I really have to run. Sorry.”

Then Jury said, “Police want to talk to you, Harry.”

“You are.”

Jury hoped he could ruffle him, but apparently not.

“Will you be in later this afternoon? There’s a City policeman, Detective Inspector Jenkins, who might want to drop by. With me.”

“Fine with me,” said Harry.

“Oh,” said Jury, as if he’d only now thought of it. “I was in Chesham yesterday. At the Black Cat.”

Harry looked at him. “Oh, really?”

“There was a black cat there.”

Having finished his lunch, Harry was pulling keys out of his pocket. How did he make it appear like a rabbit out of a hat? He was off his stool and working his arms into the black cashmere coat that Jury coveted. He smiled. “It’s called the Black Cat. Would the presence of one be surprising?”

“No. But this was a second black cat. Actually a third, but we won’t go into that. No, this was a different one than was there before. Rather, they’re both there.”

“My God! The cat came back! That sounds familiar.” Twirling the keys on his finger, Harry smiled. He took a step nearer Jury. “You didn’t fuck it up again, did you?” Laughing, he was across the room and, laughing, out through the door.

Jury smiled at the remains of his lunch. No, you murdering sociopath, I didn’t fuck it up again.

In the Snow Hill station of the City police, some five minutes from St. Paul’s and some ten from the Old Wine Shades, DI Jenkins was considering what Jury had said and biting the corner of his mouth. “God knows I’m catching enough flak on this that any suspect, including the prime minister, would help.”

“What about Nicholas Maze?”

“I’m getting bugger-all from him. I mean, according to the journalists we’ve got a serial killer loose. You can imagine.” Jenkins folded his arms across his chest. “Is this enough to bring this guy in? Sounds a little”-he rocked his hand back and forth-“squishy. You think it’s enough he was in Chesham at the time of the Cox woman’s murder?”

“That’s not all. He was at the Rexroth party; she was supposedly on her way there. I don’t think Harry Johnson goes to many parties.”

Jenkins brought the chair in which he’d been leaning back down to the floor. “But if he intends to murder Mariah-Stacy, why in bloody hell would he show himself, especially at something as public as a party?”

Jury shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Jenkins scratched his ear. “The other two victims. He didn’t have an alibi either time. But just because he hadn’t an alibi…?” Jenkins shrugged.

Jury scraped his chair closer to Jenkins’s desk and leaned on the desk, arms folded. “Look: if Harry Johnson weren’t Harry Johnson, I’d agree, it’s too flimsy. But Harry Johnson murdered one of his lady friends in a place in Surrey. I couldn’t prove it. He also kidnapped two kids out there and put them in the basement of his Belgravia house-”

Jury paused. He didn’t want to tell Jenkins a dog had actually saved the kids. Here it was again: the absolute ludicrousness of the story. But he plowed on nonetheless. “He told me this involved story about his best friend’s wife, son, and dog-‘The dog came back.’” He heard Harry saying it right now in his head.

“The dog?” said Jenkins.

“The dog.”

The cat came back. Harry, you swine. Jury knew what had happened. He wasn’t going to tell Jenkins. That was the whole point: he wanted Jenkins to hear it from Harry himself. Now it was the cat; the cat was the alibi. Jury smiled.

“What’s funny?” Jenkins smiled, too.

Jury wiped the smile off his face. “Nothing. Look, it’s surely enough to bring him in for questioning, even if not enough to hold him.”

Jenkins nodded. “I expect so.” He rose. “But what was so funny?”

“Relentless bastard, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

48

DS Alfred Wiggins gave the impression of a man who would always tip his hat to a lady, had he been wearing a hat; indeed, he seemed to feel the lack of a hat because he couldn’t raise it.

“Why, Mr. Wiggins, how very nice!” said Myra Brewer. “How very nice of you to look in.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. B.” He walked in the door, which she had opened wider.

“Now, what can I get you? I just made tea and was about to pour myself a cup.”

“Tea would be welcome.” He was shaking free of his coat. “A bit nippy out there, all of a sudden.”

She had his coat folded over her arm and was smoothing it. “And it’s been so warm. But that’s weather for you. Well, you can’t count on weather, but you can on tea.” After putting the weather in its place and hanging his coat in the hall cupboard, she made for the kitchen. “You just make yourself comfortable; I’ll get down another cup and be back in a tick.”

If there was one thing Wiggins knew how to do, it was to make himself comfortable. He sat in the same armchair he’d occupied before. He sighed, shut his eyes briefly, enjoying the quiet of the parlor set off by the homey clatter coming from the kitchen. Yes, this was definitely his milieu, and he was happy to be in it.

He scooted down in the chair and crossed an ankle over a knee and looked around, not with his detective’s eye, but with the eye of a homebody. A little clock ticked on the mantel; a group of fairings sat on the inset bookshelves to the right of the electric fireplace. Above it hung a bucolic scene of cows in a field and sheep lounging beneath a big oak tree. The picture listed slightly. It probably needed two hooks, not just one. Put a hammer in his hand and he could fix it.

A rattle of crockery announced Myra Brewer’s return. He rose smartly to take the tray from her hands and to place it on the table between the easy chairs.

“Thank you. And I brought some of those Choc-o-lots you like.”

“Is that a seed cake there?”

“Fresh baked.”

That must have been what was scenting the air when he walked in.

There was more conversation that might have been considered desultory by anyone who couldn’t appreciate a cup of Taylor’s Fancy Ceylon or a cake as fine as lawn.

The reason why he had come, he said, “not to bring up the painful subject of your goddaughter, but-you remember Superintendent Jury?” But why should she, as Wiggins, sitting here, had nearly forgotten him? “He was interested in anything you might have that would help with her background. What I mean is…” Wiggins helped himself to a slice of seed cake and considered how to raise the subject of Kate Banks’s night work. “I expect you know, I mean, from reading the papers, as it’s been all over them, what sort of other work Kate was doing…”

But Myra Brewer was made of sturdier stuff than Wiggins supposed. Crisply, she nodded and said, “Yes. She was working for one of those escort places. Well, who am I to judge her? No, not Kate. It doesn’t take away from Kate one bit that she was doing that.”

Wiggins admired her attitude. “The point is, we’ve discovered that one woman at one of these agencies knew the third victim. Superintendent Jury thinks there might be other links amongst these women. This is the best seed cake I’ve ever eaten.”

She smiled. Her cup and saucer rested on her lap. She stopped smiling and studied it. “You mean, did Kate know the others?” Myra shook her head. “She might have done, but I don’t think so. There’s no way of telling now.” Her eyes returned to her cup.

“No, of course not. But we thought you might have some old pictures, photographs, snapshots of Kate with friends.”

“Well, now, I do have an album or two.”

“Is it possible she went to school with either Mariah Cox-she who called herself Stacy Storm as a professional name-or Deirdre Small? They were all pretty close to each other in years.”

“Kate attended several schools. I remember Roedean was one. If you’ll just wait a moment…”

“Roedean?” Wiggins was surprised. “But that’s one of our best schools.”

Myra had risen and now looked down at him, still sitting with his slice of cake. “You think a girl working at what she did, being an escort, do you think she couldn’t have the brains for a school like Roedean?”

“No, I wouldn’t have thought so.” It was always a source of delight to Jury that Wiggins was completely literal.

Myra shook her head at such intransigence. “I don’t care what’s said, Kate Muldar was a smart girl, a first-rate student. I told you she liked that big bookshop in Piccadilly, Waterstone’s. She loved to go in there and get books and sit in their café and read. That was what she loved-not pubs, not going dancing or anything like that-just stopping in that bookshop.” Myra sighed. “I’ll get the photograph album.”

49

The mobile was charged, but Jury had just shut it off, not wanting any disturbance while talking to Harry Johnson.

At the same time Wiggins was enjoying Myra Brewer’s seed cake, Jury was enjoying the view of Belgravia from the top of Harry’s steps, flanked by the two stone lions.

The door was opened by little Mrs. Tobias, Mungo by her side (or under her feet). Of course she remembered Superintendent Jury, then took a moment to study Detective Inspector Jenkins’s warrant card.

“I think he’s expecting us,” said Jury.

“Oh, yes, sir. Come in, please.”

She showed them into the living room, or, rather, Mungo did. He was in the lead.

Harry rose from a settee on the other side of a silver coffee service and welcomed them heartily.

Jury marveled that the scene in which he now found himself was an exact replica of the one in which he and DI Tom Dryer had turned up a month or so before to slap the cuffs on Harry. Metaphorically speaking, because the cuffs were never slapped on. It was uncanny, really, the similarity: the settee, the coffee, the Times, that silver cigarette box. In a moment, he would offer them coffee. And cigarettes.

“Coffee, gentlemen?”

They declined. Harry took a cigarette from the box and offered the box to DI Jenkins. He knew better than to offer it to Jury. “Please sit down.” He waved them into a couple of dark leather chairs. Jenkins took one; Jury didn’t. Jury remained in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb.

Jenkins spoke: “Mr. Johnson, I’m investigating the case of a young woman who was murdered two nights ago in St. Paul’s churchyard.”

“Ah, yes. I read about it.” Harry rattled the paper to indicate where.

“Superintendent Jury here is under the impression you knew her. Deirdre Small, her name was.”

Harry smiled one of his blinding smiles. “Superintendent Jury is under the impression I’ve known everyone murdered in London.”

“And have you?” asked Jenkins in a wonderfully affable way before he sat back and crossed his legs.

Jury would recommend him for a citation.

Harry laughed. “No, not all.”

“Including Miss Small? You didn’t know Deirdre Small?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

Mungo, who had left the room, now returned with Morris (sans blue collar, of course, which was in Chesham). Both were sitting at Jury’s feet, both staring upward, hard, in a breath-holding manner.

Jenkins said, “You didn’t know her, then?”

“Of course not. I’ve just said that.”

“And the other two murdered women-Stacy Storm and Kate Banks?”

“No, I didn’t know them, either. Look, am I a suspect in this triple murder?”

But he said it with a smile, and not a nervous one, either. It was the smile of one who’s played an enormous joke on his pals.

Which was, at least, how Jury took it. And just how it was, he was pretty sure.

“Because if I am-I’m remarkably short on alibis.”

“Why do you say that, sir?”

“At the time of these murders, I was alone. No witnesses. I live alone, you see. I’m assuming the news”-he picked up the Times beside him-“was accurate in its reporting of the time of death? I was here by myself. That is, except in the case of the Small woman. That night, I was in Chesham.”

“In Chesham?” said Jenkins.

“That’s right.”

There was a pause. Then Jenkins said, “If you stopped anyplace in or around Chesham, someone probably saw you and would remember.”

“I don’t think so.” He smiled. Harry was eating it up, his exposure to guilt, enjoying being a suspect as most people would enjoy not being one.

“Why did you go to Chesham, Mr. Johnson?”

“Because of the cat.”

Jenkins turned halfway round to regard the cat sitting like a statue at Jury’s feet.

“No,” said Harry. “Not that one. That’s my cat. I’m talking about another black cat.” His glance shifted to Jury. “You can ask Superintendent Jury.” Harry’s smile was all over the place. “I’m sure he’s worked it out that I went to Chesham because of the cat.”

Jenkins turned to Jury, eyebrows raised, looking for some sort of corroboration.

“What cat?” said Jury.

50

It was the first time Jury had ever seen Harry Johnson flummoxed.

Harry said to Jenkins, “It was a joke, Inspector. And Superintendent Jury’s in on it.”

Jury had mastered many looks in his time, but the one of puzzlement he now pasted on his face he knew might be the best. “Joke? I’ve been a little busy with three murders; there’s hardly been time for jokes.” God, how he’d love a cigarette. To light up while he went on holding up this door frame, that would be the image of unbeaten, unbeatable cop. If Trevor had appeared at his elbow with a bottle of Montrachet, Jury’d have drained it dry.

Mungo and Morris looked almost as if they were joining in this celebration, their paws dancing. At least, that’s how Jury preferred to see them.

“Very funny indeed, Superintendent,” said Harry. To Jenkins, he said, “It’s a long story, Inspector.”

“I’m good with long stories, Mr. Johnson. If you’d accompany us to the station, I’d appreciate being told it.”

Harry got to his feet, uttering imprecations under his breath. “Am I under arrest?”

“No, sir, not at all. You’d just be helping us with our inquiries.”

Harry sighed. “You know this is ridiculous. All because of the damned cat.”

Outside, Jury remembered to switch on his mobile and saw he had a half-dozen missed messages. They were all from Wiggins. He told Jenkins he had to make a call.

“I’ve a photo here to show you, boss. It’s important.”

Wiggins didn’t tell him why, refusing to give up that information in the interest of suspense, apparently. No, Jury had got to look at it because Wiggins wasn’t sure.

“As soon as I get through with Harry Johnson, Wiggins.” He looked around for Plant’s car. There was one sitting across the street, an old model Bentley. A hand ventured out of the driver’s side window, and two fingers formed a V. Jury rolled his eyes. Was he supposed to do that back? At least he didn’t have to cross the street and give a secret handshake.

Jury got in the car beside Jenkins.

Melrose waited until the car with the three men pulled away from the curb before reaching into the backseat for the cat carrier and the True Friends cap.

He tilted the rearview mirror to check how he looked. He looked idiotic. The cap looked like a little boat sailing on the pale waves of-Oh, for God’s sake! It was ridiculous enough without waxing poetic about it!

Melrose pushed back the visor. Yes, he had to wear it. There were many things he didn’t look like, and an animal rescuer was right up there at the head of the list, right after Niels Bohr. That impersonation had also been done so that Jury could get into Harry’s house. Were they to spend their lives trying to get into Harry’s house? Harry had gotten a big kick out of the Niels Bohr act.

His silk wool suit was a bit upmarket for the pittance of a salary he must’ve been getting from an animal shelter. He exchanged the suit jacket for an ancient canvas one that looked starched enough to stand up to several attack dogs. With that on, and the hat, he got out of the car, pulling the carrier after him.

Had Jury said that Wiggins just got himself a hamster? That sounded unlikely.

Melrose walked up the stone steps. It was a handsome brick edifice with white steps that looked just scrubbed, and stone lions that managed to complement the house without being pretentious.

He rang the bell, waited, hoped no one was there-wrong, here was someone opening the door: a very small woman, looking puzzled, who he assumed was the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Tobias? My name is Melrose Pierce.” He must have been thinking of Mildred. “I’ve come for Mr. Johnson’s cat?”

Mrs. Tobias went from puzzled to suspicious. “F’r his cat? What? Come for Schrödinger? What on earth for? Don’t tell me-” She flapped her hand at him. “Take her and good riddance. There she sits. I’ve got my pies in the oven.”

Melrose stared after her. That was it? That was all? Pies in the oven? And he’d been prepared to be extremely clever. Well, he hadn’t needed his hat after all. He could have forced his way in with a mask and a gun and she’d still have said, “Take the silver; I’ve got my pies in the oven.”

There she sat: Morris, looking black and blameless.

And beside her a dog that surely must be the incomparable Mungo. “It’s an honor,” said Melrose, bowing.

Do I know you? thought Mungo. This one did look a little familiar. He was wearing a funny hat with a bill, like a duckbill. And why was he putting Morris in that carrier? Why didn’t Mrs. Tobias object? But then Mrs. Tobias thought the cat was Schrödinger. Now he was closing the flaps and all Mungo could see was Morris’s eye. And now this Daffy Duck was carrying Morris to the door.

Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. The Duckbill opened the door and went out, with Mungo right behind him before the door closed. Mungo was right on the Duck’s heels. Down the steps, stealthily. How stealthy could you be in bright sunlight on marble steps? But the Duck didn’t notice.

The driver’s side of the car was against the curb. The Duck opened the door, started to slide in the box, changed his mind, opened the rear door, and leaned in with the box-

Mungo was in the front seat in a split second.

– back out the rear door, into the front door.

Mungo was over the front seat into the back just as the Duck slid himself into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and started the car.

Were they all completely blind, these people? A whole animal sanctuary, a whole Noah’s Ark of animals, could have followed the Duck down those steps and he’d never have seen them. Are humans all so self-entranced they just don’t see what’s going on around them?

Although this diatribe was not aimed at Morris, Morris answered: Yes.

Mungo was up now on the backseat beside the box, looking at Morris’s eye. Even though he couldn’t see the rest of her through the holes, he knew Morris was sitting with her paws clapped to her chest.

Am I being kidnapped again? Wasn’t once enough? asked Morris.

You’d think so.

But maybe we’re going home.

Home. Mungo mused. If Hansel and Gretel had been forced to depend on humans to get them home, they’d have had to drop ordnance maps all over the woods.

Mungo raised up and looked out the window. He thought he saw Westminster. They were still in London.

He lay down. Morris’s eye wasn’t there anymore at the hole. Morris was asleep.

Mungo sighed. All of these people, all over the place. Why’s it always down to me?

51

Languidly, Harry smoked. No, he didn’t want his solicitor. He hadn’t done anything except borrow a cat for a few days.

“To be precise,” said Jenkins, sitting across the table from him, “the word is ‘kidnapped.’ Or ‘stolen.’ That’s pretty much the way we look at it, and it’s illegal, sir. That dog of yours, Ringo? How would you like it-”

Ringo. Jury laughed silently.

“Mun-go,” said Harry. “How would I like it if somebody kidnapped Mungo? Nobody could. Mungo’s too smart. I wouldn’t have a dog around who wasn’t.”

Jury raised his eyes heavenward. He was leaning against the wall, letting Jenkins take care of Harry.

“If we could go back to the Monday night, Mr. Johnson. You were in Chesham? But you’ve no one to substantiate that story?”

“That’s right. And this is repetitious. That certainly isn’t enough to charge me. You have no evidence that I even knew this woman, Debra whatever-”

“Deirdre Small.”

“-so you’d hardly have any evidence to show I killed her.”

“Let’s go back to the first victim, Mariah Cox, or Stacy Storm, as she called herself. She was also on her way to that party at the Rexroths’. The one you attended.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“A coincidence, is that?”

“Well, it must be, since I never met this Storm woman. Never even saw her.”

Jury shoved himself away from the wall and moved over to the table. He sat down on one corner. “You know what bothers me about this, Harry?”

Harry checked the lit end of his cigar, blew on it softly. “What?”

“You don’t go to parties.”

Harry looked completely surprised.

Jury smiled.

“Are you trying to say that I wasn’t there?”

“Oh, you were there all right. What I’m wondering is why you were there. Do you know a man named Simon Santos?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was Stacy’s date for that evening.”

Harry looked from Jury to Jenkins and back again. “Then why in hell have you dragged me in for questioning? It would seem he’s the one you want.”

“Unless, of course, you thought Stacy was your personal property and you didn’t much like her meeting Mr. Santos.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” said Harry. “You know me better than that.”

“I do?” said Jury, looking genuinely puzzled.

Jenkins said, “You didn’t know either one of these women?”

“Of course not.”

“You went to Chesham to return a cat-the one you’d taken. Why would you do that? Why not just keep it or get rid of it some way? Take it to a shelter.”

Jury thought Jenkins didn’t realize he was using reason to try to explain completely unreasonable behavior.

“Because I wanted the cat to reappear, to come back. I’ve told you, it was a joke. A joke on Superintendent Jury.”

“Yet Superintendent Jury doesn’t get it.”

“Oh, he gets it all right. He seems to be returning the favor.” Harry turned partway in his chair, not far enough that he could actually see Jury, just enough to let Jury know he was aware he was there.

Jury smiled, saying nothing.

“All right,” said Jenkins in a tone that suggested it was not “all right,” that it was indeed idiotic. “Perhaps someone did see you. A man with a cat carrier might be noticed.”

“No one saw me, Inspector. I took pains that no one would.”

Mention of the carrier reminded Jury to check his watch. It was by now nearly five, almost an hour since they’d left Harry’s house. Plant would be well away by now. Halfway to Chesham.

“Let’s talk about the second victim. Kate Banks. On the night she was murdered, you were at home?”

“Yes, again.”

“You were alone.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, as I said.”

“Are you familiar with the King’s Road Companions escort service? Or Smart Set or Valentine’s?”

Harry’s expression was contemptuous. “Inspector, I’ve never used an escort service in my life. Highly paid and well-organized prostitution.”

“Perhaps not all of them. King’s Road Companions claims to work just that way. Companionship, either alone or at social functions. No sex.”

“You believe that, do you?”

“I’m inclined to after talking with several of the women who work for it. It’s different from the escort services.”

Jury wondered if the difference was significant. Poor Kate. Her death moved him in a way the others’ hadn’t. Perhaps because she seemed such a good person.

Fifteen minutes later, he left Snow Hill after Jenkins said to him, “You know we can’t hold him much longer.”

“Try.” Jury thanked him and left.

Jury didn’t take off his coat so much as cast it off, aiming it in the general direction of the office coatrack. “Is it getting cold or am I getting old? You don’t really have to think about it, Wiggins. So where’s this photo?”

Holding the picture, Wiggins slapped it down on Jury’s desk. “It’s from Myra Brewer’s album. Taken on Brighton pier. Prepare to be surprised, boss. The girls are friends of Kate Banks.”

Jury glanced at the line of girls. “I don’t see Deirdre Small or Mariah Cox here.”

“I didn’t say they were. Look again.”

Jury did so. His glance stopped on the face of the unsmiling girl-aggressively unsmiling, if there were such an expression. As if she hated the person holding the camera.

“Bloody hell. Christine Cummins.”

“Her name’s not Christine, sir. It’s Crystal, Crystal North back then. Which is probably why we missed any connection to Mrs. Cummins when we were checking these women’s backgrounds. Not that we’d’ve come up with every single friend or acquaintance… But what do you think, guv?”

Jury sat staring at the photo. “I don’t. I don’t have one bloody idea, Wiggins.”

“Maybe this time it is coincidence. I know you hate that word, only…”

Jury leaned back. “The trouble with coincidence in this case is that Chris Cummins didn’t say anything about knowing Kate Banks. Not a word.”

“Maybe she just saw the write-up in the papers or heard the news and didn’t put the murdered Kate together with her old Roedean chum Kate. Of course, we don’t know she went there. And these girls in the photo didn’t necessarily go there. Although Myra Brewer seemed to think they were all school chums.”

“‘A pricey public school on the coast,’ that’s what David Cummins said. That could certainly have meant Roedean. It’s near Brighton.”

“There’re a lot of pricey schools. That could just be coincidence, too.”

Jury shook his head. “Could be, but…” He checked his watch, got up. “I’ve got to get back to my place and change my clothes. I’ve got a date with our girl from Valentine’s. Stacy Storm’s flatmate.”

“You mean Adele Astaire?”

“Right. Aka Rose Moss.” He retrieved his coat, which had fallen to the floor. “Come on, it’s nearly six. Good job, Wiggins.”

Walking down the corridor, Wiggins said, “What about Harry Johnson?”

“Jenkins took him in for questioning. ‘Helping us with our inquiries.’ ” Jury snickered.

“Do you honestly think he killed these women?”

“No.” Jury smiled.

52

After a scanty half an hour’s presence in the Black Cat, Mungo had already divested a tubby man sitting at the bar of half a banger; been offered a hard-boiled egg, which he’d turned down, not knowing what to do with it; got a large portion of beans on toast (eaten the beans and left the toast) belonging to a couple who’d been having a quiet meal at a table by the fireplace.

Sally Hawkins, who was having no success at all in shooing Mungo away from the tables, complained bitterly to Melrose. “Who’s that dog that’s been all over the room begging food off my customers?”

Melrose put down his book and looked puzzled. “What dog?”

“That dog!” The finger she pointed had a cutting edge. “That mutt that’s begging his dinner.” It was a table where a lone man sat. Melrose stood up, hoping the “mutt” attribution hadn’t reached Mungo’s ears. Mungo had now drifted from the beans-on-toast couple to a man by himself with a paper and a ploughman’s. The man was handing Mungo down a bit of cheese.

Melrose adjusted his glasses, as if the fractional realignment of glasses with eyes would reacquaint him with the dog. “I have no idea.”

She stood with hands on hips. “Well, he came in with you!”

Melrose leaned back from her. “With me? I believe you’re mistaken. I brought Dora’s cat back.” His injured tone suggested that this act of mercy and heroism was being unkindly repaid. “Dora is certainly happy.”

“Well, the dog was with Morris, is what I’m saying.”

Melrose laughed. “With Morris? I don’t think so. Morris-” Here he ran his hand over Morris, who was in her favorite spot by a window, where light was fast deepening into dusk. “Morris strikes me as a cat who would hardly strike up a friendship with a gypsy dog.” He picked up his book. It was called A Dog’s Life. Not the best choice for a man who had no interest in dogs.

“You’re telling me the dog’s a stray?”

Melrose shut his eyes as if his patience were wearing thin. “I’m not telling you anything, other than I don’t feel I should be held responsible for knowing the dog’s provenance. He appears to be well-mannered-that is, he’s not fighting your customers for food-so I’d assume he belongs to someone in Chesham here.”

“He’s been round all the tables.”

“Just as long as he’s not eating with a runcible spoon.”

“A what?”

Melrose was saved from reciting “The Owl and the Pussycat” by the return of Dora, who veritably bounced into the chair beside Morris (never mind Melrose).

Mungo chose this moment to turn up, too, at their table. Great.

He hauled himself up beside Morris, lay down, and tried to fold in his paws.

Sally Hawkins nodded toward the two. “There’s something awful matey about those two. The dog acts like it knows Morris. Like they’re mates.”

Just as she said that, Schrödinger (if it was Schrödinger) raced by with the other black cat (unless that was Schrödinger instead) on her heels. They pulled up under the table of the elderly lady with the racing form. The two cats nearly brought her down as all of their ten legs got caught up together.

“Bloody beasts,” the elderly lady muttered, and went for them with the racing form. “You know, Mrs. Hawkins, you’ve got three cats in here. You might think more about that problem than about the one dog.”

Melrose checked his watch. Why in hell didn’t Jury call? What was he supposed to do now?

53

On his way to Islington, Jury got out his mobile, found Plant’s number, and punched it in.

“Where are you?… You’re still in Chesham? Why haven’t you started back with Schröd… What do you mean you can’t tell the difference?… Well, look at their eyes, what color are they?… Yellowish… what does that mean?… Oh, for God’s sake… we can’t keep Harry at the station for bloody ever…”

On Melrose’s end, he asked, “How was I to know there’d be three black cats to deal with? They all look alike… Dora? Well, of course I asked Dora. She knows Morris; Morris is all she’s sure of. She could tell Morris on a moonless night in an alley of black cats. But she can’t tell Schrödinger, she’s never seen him before, and the other one Sally Hawkins dragged in-”

“Listen,” said Jury, “just stuff one or the other into that carrier, shove it in the car, and get back to Belgravia. You’ve a fifty percent chance of being right, which is what you usually have, and Harry himself might not even know the difference. At least it’ll do for a bit.”

“All right all right all right. What do you mean, ‘what I usually have’?”

Melrose found himself talking to a dead phone. He shook it, as if Jury might fall out.

He tossed his mobile on the table and turned to Dora, who’d been listening to the call with great interest. Adults saying dumb things. “What’d he say? What’re you going to do?”

“What are we going to do, you mean. You are going to help me get those cats into the carrier and the car.”

They both checked to see that Morris was still here and not over there. Yes.

Schrödinger (whichever one she was) and Morris Two were behind the bar. They were at opposite ends of a piece of something-rope, meat, fishbone, who knew?-pulling it in opposite directions.

“You go for one cat; I go for the other. That’s the only way I can think to do it.”

Dora said, “I don’t want to get scratched.”

Melrose ignored that and pulled out the carrier from under the table in the window. “I’m going to put it right on this side of the bar so they don’t see it.” They moved to the bar, and he opened the top of the box. “We’ll go about this slowly.”

Dora looked dubious.

Stealthily, they approached.

Melrose grabbed one cat, which rewarded him by slicing the air at his ear with its claws.

“I’ve got her, I’ve got her!” yelled Dora, wrestling the other one to the ground.

“Okay, we’ll take both.” He pulled over the carrier and together he and Dora shoved in the cat she was holding; Melrose then shoved in the other one with great effort and a good deal of yowling. He shut it, then grabbed it up and headed, once again, for his car and London.

54

The phone rang as Jury was tying his tie. He picked it up and eyed the tie, wondering if it was sending the right message. It had bunnies on it; they were minute ones, but you could tell they were bunnies if you looked closely. Where in hell had he got it?

“Jury.”

It was DI Jenkins, calling from the Snow Hill station. “I really have nothing I can hold him on.”

“Then just cut him loose. He didn’t do it.”

During the brief silence on the other end of the line, Jury wondered where he had got this tie. And was that a speck of egg or just another bunny?

“You know he didn’t?” said Jenkins.

“No, but I’m pretty certain.” He was more than “pretty” certain.

“Well. The reason nobody saw him in Chesham was because he went to pains that nobody would see him. He didn’t want to be associated, he said, with the bloody swine of a cat-”

“‘Swine of a cat’: I like it. Go on.” The phone’s flex was long enough to get him to the bottle of Macallan on the little table beneath the window, which was what mattered, he had pointed out to Carole-anne. He poured out a measure.

“He’s still saying it was a joke. On you. And you knew it.”

Jury knew all right, but it annoyed him that Jenkins seemed on the verge of believing Harry Johnson, pathological liar. No, wait, this story actually wasn’t a lie. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.” Jury observed that his glass was too tall for a whiskey glass, and he told himself to get some proper ones.

“It’s to do with a dog,” Jenkins labored on. “The one at the house that took a fancy to you.”

“Mungo.”

“He says he told you a very convoluted story about his friend disappearing with that dog and, well, frankly, the man sounded a little mad.”

“He is. He’s a nutter. He told me the story and later denied ever telling it. It was a series of stories, actually. Don’t let him con you, Dennis. He’s a great con artist.”

“But I’m not going to get any more out of him.”

“Thanks for doing this. Sorry you had to waste your time on him.”

As Jury said this, Carole-anne walked into his living room so he could waste his time on her.

“Think nothing of it,” Jenkins said. “I rather enjoyed listening to him. He reminds me of Bruno. You know, the calculating, manipulating bastard in Strangers on a Train.”

Jury said, “You know, you’re right. I never thought of that. Good night, Dennis.” He put down the phone and said to Carole-anne, “Make yourself at home.”

Carole-anne had sat herself on the sofa and started flicking through the magazine she’d found there. One of hers, not Jury’s. He didn’t read BeautyPLUS. “Why’re you wearing your best suit?” Her tone was thick with suspicion.

“Because I’m going out.”

Apparently puzzled, she said, “Out?” as if there were no such place, at least not for him.

Was he really supposed to expand upon out-ness?

“With somebody?” she said.

“Yes. You don’t know her.”

She shut her eyes against the news. Not just a woman, but a new one, as if he kept a stable of women to which he was always adding.

“Who is she?”

“You don’t know her.” He said it again.

Carole-anne slapped over another page of BeautyPLUS.

If there was one thing Carole-anne didn’t need, it was PLUS. The building would be in meltdown.

Jury leaned over to tie his shoe, getting eye level with Carole-anne’s silver-and-gold sandal, straps intertwined. Strappy. “What kind of shoes are those?”

She shut the magazine and looked at her feet as if she needed reminding. “Manolo Blahnik.”

“Another pair? You have that kind of money?”

“That consignment shop on Upper Street.”

He wondered what reversal of fortune could make a woman sell off her Manolo Blahniks. “Tell me: why would a woman spend hundreds on Manolo Blahnik when she could get a perfectly good sandal like that at the Army-Navy?”

“Are you daft?” She actually put by the magazine to assess his daftness.

Jury waited for shoe guidance and got none. “Well? Why? It’s a reasonable question.”

Apparently not. She retrieved BeautyPLUS and continued sorting through it for nuggets.

“You think the answer is that obvious.”

“Of course.” She stretched out one leg and let the silver sandal dangle from her toes.

Definitely designer legs, he thought.

She said, “Did you ever see a shoe like this at the Army-Navy?”

“No, but then I’ve never looked for one.”

“Believe me.” Thinking this an adequate response, she drew back her foot.

“All right, then listen to this, Miss Shoe-savvy: I’ve got three women murdered and the only connection between them is they were all escorts and all wearing designer shoes.”

“You mean those ‘Escort Murders’ they keep talking about?” When he nodded she said, “Well? Tell me about it.”

“No. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

Aggrieved, Carole-anne said, “What about the shoes? What designer?”

“Jimmy Choo.”

“Sweet!”

“Not so much for the victim; she’s dead.”

“Well, Jimmy Choo didn’t do it. Were they all his shoes?”

“No. There was the French designer… Christian Lousomething.”

Carole-anne consulted her shoe memory bank and her eyes widened. “Christian Louboutin? Red soles?”

“That’s the lad, yes.”

“Those shoes cost a fortune. How does your average working girl afford them?”

“Sales or shoplifting. Anyway, would these escorts be considered ‘average working girls’? They’ve probably got rich clients. You’re beautifully silvered up tonight. Where are you going?”

“Clubbing.” She lay on the couch, ankles crossed. She must be the only woman in London who would get herself up, looking perfect, and then toss herself down any old way.

“Anyone I know?” said Jury.

“No. We don’t know each other’s anyones.” Head on the sofa arm, she held the magazine up to the light of the lamp. Her red gold hair burned in the light.

“Does yours have a name?”

“Monty.”

“And what does Monty do?”

“Sells pricey cars. You’re awful nosy tonight. I never asked you a lot of questions.”

“No, but my date isn’t pleasure. It’s work. It’s part of the investigation.”

Carole-anne brightened considerably, which was hard to do considering her hair was already on fire and her silver dress and strappy shoes were soon to follow.

“Get out from under that light before you blow us all to hell and gone.”

“Huh?” She swung herself around, but not at his insistence, plunked her Manolo Blahniks on the floor, and leaned toward him, her elbows on her knees.

It was a view not without merit. It was a good thing she was young enough to be his daughter! Excuse me, mate, but why’s that a good thing?

“Are you going undercover, then?”

“No, I’m going above cover.”

Her brow tightened in a kind of frown. “You mean this person knows who you are?”

“She does indeed. She just doesn’t know why I asked her out. She thinks I fancy her.”

“Well, you don’t.”

It wasn’t a question. “She’s a bit young for me.”

“So’s the queen. What’s she look like?”

“Like a schoolgirl. Apparently, her clients go for that kind of look.”

“Pervs.” The buzzer rang downstairs. “That’ll be Monty. You can tell me the rest later.” She rose and pulled up the back strap of her silver shoe, then wriggled a little in her dress, which she pulled down.

“Be careful,” he said.

“Careful?”

“Well, I’ve got these women on my mind, I guess. Some man did for them.”

She brushed back her hair. “Well, it wasn’t Monty. Anyway, what makes you so sure it was a man? I know girls that’d kill for a pair of Christian Louboutins. ’Night.”

And she was out of his flat and clicking those four-inch heels down the steps while he was still pondering that last statement.

55

By the time Melrose got to Belgravia, day was night, or nearly. He sat-they sat, Melrose and the two cats-in his car, watching Harry Johnson’s house on the other side of the square. He had let one out of the carrier so they wouldn’t kill each other. What he wanted to do was simply take the one in the carrier around in back and shove her through a doggie door, if there was one.

Well, he could do the animal shelter bit again, but not if Harry Johnson was in the house.

Melrose pulled out his mobile and, fingering the scrap of paper from his wallet on which he’d scribbled it, punched in the number.

When the housekeeper answered-it must be she, for it sounded like the woman who’d opened the door before-he asked for Mr. Johnson. Oh, too bad, he wasn’t at home.

“No,” said Melrose, “no message. I’ll just ring him again. Thank you.” He flipped the mobile shut and turned around to have a look at Schrödinger, if it was. The second cat, looking equally annoyed, had stuffed herself under the seat. Mean eyes peered out.

The first cat, on whom he was betting his 50 percent chance of success, was not at all happy to see him. Every time he looked at her, she hissed. She despised him, which irritated Melrose to death, considering he was making this effort on her behalf.

He got out and opened the rear door and reached across the backseat for the carrier. This was done to the tune of numerous hisses. He put on his True Friends cap and dragged out the carrier. The cat hissed mightily.

“Put a sock in it,” he said, and slammed the door.

“Mrs… Toby, isn’t it?” Melrose raised his cap.

“Tobias, sir.” She looked down at the carrier. “Well, I’m happy to see Schrödinger’s not come to grief.”

No she wasn’t. She was frowning all over her face. Melrose said, “I feel rather awful about this mix-up.”

“Mix-up? I don’t understand.” Her arms crossed over her bosom, she was scratching at her elbows.

“I got the wrong address, the wrong Johnson. It was not Mr. Harry Johnson’s animal I was to collect, but a Mr. Howard Johnson’s. And he lives in Cadogan Square, not Belgravia. It’s so stupid; I was given the wrong information. At any rate, here’s your cat back. Now, can you assure me it is your cat?” If not, I’ve got another one in the car.

Mrs. Tobias bent down and got a hiss for her trouble. “Oh, that’s Schrödinger”-it came out “Shunger”-“nasty-tempered thing.”

“Yes, I’d have to agree with you there.” Melrose opened the carrier and the cat made straight for the bureau in the room across the hall.

“I guess she did miss them kittens.” Mrs. Tobias sighed.

Relieved of the one cat, he said, “I do apologize again.”

“Oh, never mind, sir. ’Long as the cat’s back before Mr. Johnson.” She opened the door for him and, after he passed through it, looked out and around. “But I do wonder… you didn’t happen to see a little dog about, did you?”

“Dog?”

This would come to tears, he just knew it.

56

Cigar was a West End club so cool and laid-back, you could walk right past it and never know it was there.

Which was what Jury did. He wondered if that wasn’t a great metaphor for most of what passed for life. Most of the time you could walk right past it.

Its brick facade, its small brass plaque (that no one would be able to see from more than three feet away), its little wrought-iron fence, and its un-uniformed doorman-unless the black turtleneck sweater, black wool jacket, black jeans, all of the black pretensions, were to be taken as a uniform-all of this made the place look helplessly hip.

The black-garbed gatekeeper didn’t do anything except smile slightly and nod. He wasn’t there to check credentials; he was only there to assure customers that this was Mayfair, WI, and Cigar was exclusive.

Inside, he thought about checking his coat with the blonde in the small gated enclosure but decided to keep it in case of the need for a quick getaway. He was a few minutes late, so unless Rosie Moss decided to keep him waiting, she’d be here.

The room put him in mind of last century’s London before the coal fires were damped down and the city was called “the Smoke.” The club meant its name. Through vistas of smoke, he looked the wide room over: the gorgeous brunette sitting at the bar, eyeing him; a tawny-haired woman at one of the roulette tables, where a villainous-looking croupier whipped the wheel around; two blondes, like paper cutouts, sitting close together, dripping a lot of jewelry.

His eye traveled back; he had missed her just as he had missed the club itself-but why wouldn’t he? She turned out to be the gorgeous brunette at the bar, smiling at him. The hair was all curls, no bunches; the candy stripes exchanged for a long black skirt, slit to the knee; black halter top; black fringed shawl; and jade green Christian Louboutin shoes on her feet, one of which she was swinging so that the shoe hung precariously from her toe. So this was Rosie Moss: Dark hair. Black dress. Red soles.

Killer looks.

“You didn’t recognize me.”

“You could say that.”

“I don’t always look twelve years old.”

“I can see that.”

Red-soled shoe now firmly on her foot, she pushed out the stool next door. “Here. Saved it for you. I had to turn a few guys away.”

“Half the male population of London, more likely.”

The barman was there in a blood red suede waistcoat. Jury looked at Rosie’s glass, questioning. She raised a fairly fresh martini. He ordered whiskey, then when the fellow waited, he realized he’d have to name it. This wasn’t Trevor, after all.

“Macallan?”

The barman nodded and drifted off to whatever crypt they aged the whiskey in.

Jury said, “Do you transform yourself this easily and often?”

She was plucking a cigarette from an ebony case and offering him the case. He refused for the thousandth heartbreaking time in three years.

“Who says it’s easy?”

“All right. I was merely observing your chameleonlike qualities.”

“I have other, even better qualities.”

Oh, hell, it was to be a night of double entendres. He wasn’t up to it. “Do you mind if I call you Rosie, instead of Adele?”

She shrugged, obviously disappointed that he couldn’t come up with a better question.

“How did you get into this work?”

“Took my clothes off.”

The barman was back with his whiskey. This, he could use. He drank off half of it. “And saw your future.”

“Pretty much.” Her smile was unpleasant, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. She sipped her martini. It was a strange color, probably one of those boutique martini mutants that were popular among drinkers who didn’t like martinis.

Jury took a chance. “You didn’t like her, did you?”

An artfully arched eyebrow went up. “You mean Stacy? I didn’t mind her; I hardly knew her. Why? I should be unconsolable now she’s dead? I should wrap myself in sackcloth and ashes? Throw myself into the Thames? Jump from the top of Nelson’s Column?”

Jury laughed. “No, but you seem to have given some thought to it.”

The pale look, the whiteness that had suddenly touched her cheekbones, now was swept away as if it were snow in the wind. It was a rather dramatic turn. Her next move was another.

Rose leaned into him, her hand on his wrist, the hand then traveling slowly up his arm. “This is supposed to be a bit of time together, a few drinks, a few laughs, a meal, and then who knows?”

He did, for one. Strange he felt no desire for her, no ardor. He felt himself to be almost clinically cold. It was, of course, as he’d told Carole-anne, not a date for pleasure but for work. Still, that wouldn’t have been reason for feeling he was made of ice. Was it because of the terrible condition of Lu Aguilar? Guilt? No, because it certainly hadn’t stopped him getting into bed with Phyllis (the very thought of whom started the ice melting). No, there was something missing, something not coming across.

Then he thought, She’s acting. That was part of it. Of course, he imagined she often did. The thing was, there was no real ardor on her part, either. All of her actions were rote, which wouldn’t be surprising except that she wasn’t here in the role of escort; he hadn’t hired her. It was a plain old date. Why did she need the act? He said, “This chap in Chesham Stacy was engaged to…”

Abruptly, Rose polished off the rest of her drink and held out the glass for another, held it out not to Jury but to the barman, who nodded. “Engaged? Don’t be daft. That what he told you?” Her tone was strangely spiteful. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Bobby never meant anything to her. He was just for laughs.”

The serious, sympathetic Bobby Devlin was hardly a fellow a girl would keep by her “for laughs.” He thought Rose had it exactly the wrong way round. It was the men Mariah-Stacy was having casual sex with who were there for laughs.

“Anyway,” Rosie went on, “he wasn’t her type at all. That bewildered-little-boy act? Oh no, that wasn’t-” She stopped mid-sentence. She had said too much.

Jury watched her try to backtrack.

“I mean, that’s the impression she gave me.”

“‘Bewildered-little-boy act’? That’s more of a thing you’d see, rather than something you’d be told, and certainly not told you by Mariah herself. So when did you meet him?”

She looked off, round the room. “Oh, I just ran into him once, you know, by accident.”

“Bobby Devlin told me he rarely went to London; he hates it. So I’m assuming you ran into him in Chesham. You didn’t mention that. Indeed, it’s strange, especially since you know so little about Mariah’s life. But you did know about her, didn’t you? You knew her intimately. She pretty much kept Bobby under wraps.”

Rose ignored the martini placed before her and slid the cigarette case back into her bag. She snapped the bag shut and reached for the pashmina shawl that she’d draped across the back of her chair. “This is getting boring, you know that? I don’t know why I’ve got to spend the evening talking about Stacy Storm.”

“You don’t have to. But it’s either here or later at the station.”

Her eyes hardened. “This wasn’t a date at all, was it, not a proper date? This was just to get something out of me, find out things.” She pulled the black shawl around her and leaned toward him. “Next you’ll be saying I had something to do with her murder, won’t you?”

“No. You were in London. Don’t worry; we checked out your alibi.”

She looked so stunningly self-satisfied at that, Jury wanted to laugh.

“You mean you don’t think I ran over to Chesham in my Manolo Blahniks and shot her? Well, good for you. Ta very much for the drinks.” She slid from the stool and walked across a room that was growing ever more crowded.

But Jury hardly registered her departure.

Manolo Blahniks?

While he was walking toward the Green Park tube station, his mobile ding-ding-dinged and he considered throwing it down in front of the Mayfair Hotel and stomping it to death.

How childish. “Jury.”

“It’s me,” said Wiggins. “I did find somebody connected with Roedean. Taught there twenty years ago and remembers ‘her girls,’ as she called them. Specifically, Kate Banks. Name’s Shirley Husselby. You want the Brighton address?”

“Yes.”

Wiggins gave it to him. “You going there, then?”

“First thing tomorrow. Thanks, Wiggins.”

Jury didn’t stomp the mobile to death. Reprieve.

57

How did these places seem never to change? It was pleasant, he thought, looking across this shingle beach toward the sea. Time seemed to have stopped here and, without meaning to, stayed.

He turned and walked along King’s Road, facing the sea. Years ago he had been here on a case, one of the saddest cases of his career. But they were all sad, weren’t they?

Walking on, Jury had no trouble finding the house. It was on a narrow street just off Madeira Drive with a long view of the sea. It was one of a line of terraced houses, the numbers uniform and easy to see on the white posts to which they were attached. He used the dolphin door knocker, wondering what it was about dolphins that made them so popular as door knockers. He heard an approach and then what seemed to be a mild argument on the other side of the door until finally it opened with a yank.

The woman who yanked it was elderly and fragile-looking and, he assumed, must be Shirley Husselby. She was the one Wiggins had found. He took out his ID, saying, “I’m Superintendent Richard Jury. My sergeant called?” He didn’t know why he made a question of it, unless it was to give this small woman the opportunity to say, “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry for the delay opening the door. This door will be troublesome.” She gave it a little kick. “You don’t look like a superintendent. I expected someone short, stout, gray, and squinting.”

Jury thought of Racer and smiled.

“Do come in.” She threw out her arm, ushering him in. Then she explained further. “It’s the ‘superintendent’ part. That’s a very high rank of policeman for one so young.”

“Me? I’m not young at all, I’m-”

Her finger to her lips, she stopped him. “Superintendent, don’t tell people your age. It’s none of their business. I never do. Anyway, you look young and quite handsome. Please”-she held out her arm again, toward the front room-“just go on through, but watch that runner! The fringe wants to catch at your heel and send you sprawling.”

Jury thanked her for the warning. The fringe said nothing.

In the living room, he was warned not to sit on the armchair to the left of the fireplace unless he wanted a good pinching. “The springs in that chair are so temperamental I never know what they’ll do. Just sit beside me on the sofa; I think it’s on its good behavior.”

Jury looked around at this quite ordinary, very comfortable-looking room: a crisp fire burning, old but good chairs and tables, pretty cream linen, and tulip-patterned slipcovers-all of them looking welcoming but apparently full of traps for the unwary.

“Now, I’ve just made fresh coffee.” The silver tray and coffee service sat on a coffee table before the sofa, steam rising from the spout. There were cream, sugar, and small biscuits. All of it looked quite nonthreatening.

“Be careful of the coffee. It’s hotter than you might think. Cream? Sugar?”

Jury declined cream and sugar but took the china cup and saucer carefully. “Thank you.” The coffee was no hotter than coffee ought to be. He thought she had a watchful air, as if she were prepared to call Emergency if the first sip had him on his back on the floor. Then he said, “I expect you’ve heard about this series of murders in London?”

“Yes. You want to talk to me about Kate Banks, is that right?” He thought her cup rattled against the saucer as she set it down. “She was one of the best students I ever had. I felt absolutely terrible when I read about her. I just couldn’t believe it. Why, of all people…” She shook her head. Her mouth shut tightly, as if holding back emotions that threatened to overflow.

“You think it so unlikely something such as that would happen to her?”

“Of course. She was universally liked at school. Roedean, that is. Really, she was a remarkable person.” Miss Husselby rose and went to the fireplace, saying, “Oh, this fire is unbelievably lazy, and then sometimes it will just shoot out!” She poked at the recalcitrant logs, burning by whim. Nothing in Miss Husselby’s world cooperated.

When she’d reseated herself, Jury said, “Please go on about Kate.”

“She was very smart, intelligent, and just a very good person, liked, as I said, by everyone. She was the sort who could settle disputes-you know, who could act as go-between. The girls trusted her, and deservedly so.” Miss Husselby sipped her coffee, then sat back. “It was too bad her mother was so flighty. Undependable. The very opposite of her daughter. Kate was simply a rock. One could lean on Kate, young as she was.”

Jury said, “There was another girl, I believe a friend of hers. Crystal North.”

“Oh, Crystal.” The tone changed, suggesting that Crystal North was an entirely different kettle of fish. “I don’t know that I’d call her a ‘friend’ of Kate’s, though she certainly wanted to be. She wanted to be best friends-in fact, I think she wanted to be Kate, if you know what I mean. Kate didn’t like her very much. But Crystal generally got what she wanted; unfortunately she had no tolerance for frustration. And she would play with other people’s lives.”

“How?”

“I remember once she cheated on a test; she copied answers from the paper of a girl beside her. The girl came to me about it. It came down to one of them, one of them had to have copied, but which one? The tutor favored Crystal; Crystal was a great manipulator, see. The tutor gave them an ultimatum: if one of them didn’t admit to cheating, he’d have to fail both of them. And Crystal let that happen. She was going to fail in any event, so telling the truth gained her nothing. It’s one thing to act stupidly when the only victim is you yourself; it’s quite another thing to make someone else, some innocent person, pay.”

Jury thought of the zebra crossing. The hand stretched out to stop traffic. The car unable to stop. The miscarriage.

Miss Husselby continued: “There was a boy here in Brighton. Crystal had been going out with him. He was only the son of a greengrocer and had no money at all, whereas the Norths, Crystal’s family-well, they had plenty. I was surprised Crystal took to him, but she did. He was charming. I used to buy my vegetables at their shop. Charming and handsome.” She looked at Jury as if to include him in the little circle of charm and looks. “A number of the girls were mad about him. Which probably was the reason Crystal wanted him. No one else could gain a toehold-

“Until he saw Kate. And that was the end of Crystal. Kate didn’t do anything; she wouldn’t have. But even though she wouldn’t go out with him, he was still a goner. She was like a field of lavender. One whiff and you were out cold.” Miss Husselby laughed, rather liking her analogy.

“When he broke it off with Crystal, she was beside herself. But there was nothing she could do.” Miss Husselby sighed and sat looking at the mantelpiece. Or, rather, the painting over the mantel. “There it goes again.” She rose and walked to the painting and adjusted its slight imbalance with the tip of her finger. She walked back. The minute her back was turned, it resumed its uneven keel. “Forgive me,” she said. “What was I saying?”

“About Kate and this young fellow.” He didn’t reintroduce the lavender field.

She sighed and poured them both some more coffee. He knew it would be tepid but didn’t mind. “Thank you.”

“I did keep up with Kate until a few years ago. But I lost all trace of Crystal.”

Jury took out the photo, the snapshot of the girls on the pier. “Is Crystal among these girls?”

She took the picture, looked, nodded. “Right there. Frowning. These are Kate’s friends. But I don’t see… Oh, of course, Kate would have been the photographer, wouldn’t she? That explains the frown on Crystal’s face.” She handed the snapshot back to Jury.

“Then you don’t know about the accident.”

“What accident?”

“Crystal’s.” Jury told her.

Her eyes widened. “That’s terrible. But what foolishness, to cross when traffic’s coming. Just because the pedestrian has the right of way doesn’t mean a car’s going to stop. Those crossings can be treacherous. There, you see.” She spread her hands wide. “There you have it. Playing with her unborn child’s life. Just to make a point. What happened to Crystal? I assume she must have been hurt.”

“Yes, rather badly. Almost completely paralyzed from the waist down. She pretty much lives in a wheelchair.”

“I should feel sorry, you know. I wish I did.” She leaned toward Jury, imparting a confidence. “She’d have done anything, beg, borrow, or steal, to hold on to Davey-”

“Davev?”

“The greengrocer’s son.”

For a long moment, Jury just stared at her. Then he asked, “His name wasn’t Cummins, by any chance?”

“Why, yes. Do you know him?”

“I do.” Jury sat silent, thinking. Then he rose. “You have no idea how much this has helped, Miss Husselby. I can’t thank you enough.”

She reclaimed his coat from the small closet, saying, “I’m glad I could be of help. I’ve so little to do these days. I do hope you can untangle things.” She made to open the door, but it was stuck. “Oh, blast this door. It’ll get me in the end.”

Jury opened it, smiling. He doubted much would get Shirley Husselby down.

58

It was the anonymity of train rides that Jury liked. The presence of other people who didn’t know you and didn’t want to. No one felt obligated to speak. A train ride was a small-talk vacuum.

There were only ten or a dozen other passengers traveling to London, all engaged in reading or gazing out of windows at the Sussex countryside, or else plugged into earphones or mobiles.

Across the aisle sat a pretty woman in her late thirties or early forties. It was hard to guess ages anymore, especially of children, who these days seemed to peak at thirteen or fourteen and go downhill from there. Children looked older than they were, adults younger.

It wasn’t the woman’s face that had caught his attention, but her shoes. Strappy. What a great word. He wished there were some quality in a person that word would fit.

Strappy sandals. Jimmy Choo? Tod’s? Prada? No, he didn’t think so. She was nicely but not richly dressed, not enough to be wearing Jimmy Choo. The shoes were sea green, very graceful. He had never noticed women’s shoes before, unless he’d a reason to look; the ones he’d seen of late, the shoes, he had to admit were quite beautiful. More works of art than shoes-which was, of course, what the designer meant them to be. He shut his eyes and pictured Carole-anne’s shoes.

What he was doing here was deliberately distracting his attention from the case. He was trying not to go over the conversation with Shirley Husselby because he thought he should leave it for a while; if he could let it settle, maybe something would surface. It had certainly been worth the trip to Brighton: that Chris, or Crystal, Cummins had gone to school with Kate Banks yet hadn’t admitted how well she had known her.

There was a point in a case when Jury felt it was all there and finding it was rather like shooting a pinball machine; like a series of steel balls in the channel of a pinball machine, all waiting for someone’s hand to shoot them onto a field of possibilities, targets, numbered holes, rubber bumpers, and the players needing to exert just the right amount of pressure to send the balls into the holes.

Chris, or Crystal, had, in the end, married Davey.

Jury’s question was, why hadn’t David Cummins been more forthcoming about their having known Kate Banks, and known her well? David was a policeman; he knew that kind of information could be vital.

He must not have wanted it to be.

At Jury’s signal, the porter stopped and Jury asked for tea and a jam roll that he eyed but did not eat.

He rested his head on the headrest and sipped his tea while the train throbbed into Redhill station. A few people rose to get off, looking bleary-eyed, as if they’d just been hauled by the Trans-Siberian express instead of the Southern Railway from Brighton. A few got off, a few got on. He tried not to notice, trying to hold on to the pleasure of anonymity.

Soon to be breached. Through half-closed eyes, he watched a small, stout man settle himself opposite with a rustling and crackling noise that turned out to be a sandwich and a bag of crisps placed on the table between them. Then a slurp and smack that turned out to be coffee. His fellow passenger did not take closed eyes as a barrier to conversation or companionship. The train clung stubbornly to Redhill; he wished it would move. It did.

“Care for one?” He was holding the bag of crisps across the table.

Some people didn’t appreciate the finer points of train travel. Jury opened his eyes, smiled, shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“That looks good.”

Jury realized he meant the jam roll. “Got it from the tea trolley.”

The man looked over his shoulder but didn’t see the trolley. “Think I might have one myself when it comes by.”

“Might not be by again before London. We’re not far out. Have this one.”

“Oh, now-”

“Really. Go ahead. I’m not hungry. I don’t know why I got it.” He smiled. “Throwback to childhood, I guess. Jammies.”

The man pulled the jam roll toward him, smiling, too. “Thanks. Name’s Mattingly, incidentally.” Mr. Mattingly held out his hand.

Jury shook it. “Richard Jury.”

“Speaking of childhood. I’ve just been with my sister for two days. We had great times, we did, as kids. She’s in a bad way now. Real bad.” Looking away from the jam roll to the scenery sliding past, he sounded sad.

“I’m sorry.”

Mr. Mattingly nodded and went on. “It’s a trial, no doubt about it. She’s holding on. I don’t see how, and neither does she. Nothing but skin and bones now.” He wrestled the plastic off the jam roll.

Skin and bones. Which was probably why Mattingly was intent on stuffing down whatever he could. Not so much for himself, but in aid of his sister. He bit off half the roll. “Quite nice, this.”

Jury could think of nothing to say. He looked out at the building up of urban scenery, the gray, uneven edges of London’s outlying landscape.

Mattingly went on about his sick sister, dying sister, apparently. He finished his jam roll, drank his coffee, still talking ten minutes later when the train whined and screeched into Victoria.

Where had all the rest of these people got on? he wondered. Over twice as many as there’d been leaving Brighton. They stood in the aisle and managed to stumble forward as if they were being prodded with guns and bayonets. Jury didn’t know what brought this violent image to mind.

Behind him, Mr. Mattingly was still discoursing about life and death. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s not more merciful, the people that help you out of it… That’s what she said herself and asked me if I knew anyone. ‘Cora, where’d I ever meet up with anyone like that, my dear?’ Still,” Mattingly went on, “I could hardly blame the woman. God.”

They were down the “Mind the Gap” step and onto the platform now. “Sorry,” said Mattingly, switching his small bag to his other hand so that he could shake hands with Jury again. “Not much more boring than to have to listen to some stranger on a train talking at you.

It went through Jury’s mind then: Bruno.

Reminds me of Bruno, Jenkins had said. The steel ball was rolling across the surface of the pinball machine injury’s mind. He watched it fall into the hole and said, “No, I’m very glad you did talk to me, Mr. Mattingly.” It was the truth. “I’m terribly sorry about your sister.”

“Yes. Thanks. Well, I’ll be off. Thanks again for the cake.”

Mr. Mattingly swung on down the platform, while Jury stood in place and watched him go. No, he wasn’t really seeing anything except his own mental images.

That was what Jury had been trying to remember. Bruno. Hitchcock.

Strangers on a Train.

59

Instead of fighting his way through the underground rush hour, Jury stood in the queue for a taxi. It was long but manageable. While he waited, his mobile sounded and he grabbed it to hit the talk button, but not before he’d picked up a few smug smiles from those who’d recognized the ring. A grown man, imagine. He thought he’d done well by simply remembering to charge it.

It was Jenkins.

“We’ve got something here, Richard. I can’t say if there’s any significance. It’s a receipt for a book. From Waterstone’s. Date is the day Kate Banks was murdered. It was found by a uniform when he was helping to take down crime scene tape.”

Jury was next in line. He said, “Hold on, Dennis,” as the next cab pulled up. “I’m getting into a cab.” He gave the driver his address, climbed in, shut the door. “Right. Receipt found where?”

“Wedged down between pavement stones. Why didn’t forensic find it that night? Beats me.”

But not Jury. “Your SOCO people would have found it; they didn’t because it wasn’t there.”

Jenkins pondered this. “You mean it was planted?”

“Yes. What’s the book? Is it on the receipt?”

“It’s been rained on, wait a minute… Shoe-aholic, whatever that might be.”

Jury looked out the window; they were just passing through Clerkenwell. “I know about Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik because I know a ‘shoe-aholic.’ I’ll save you some legwork, Dennis. The person this is going to lead to is a detective with Thames Valley police. Detective Sergeant David Cummins. He bought the book when he was in London. You’ll want to talk to him.”

Jenkins sounded disbelieving. “Thames Valley police? A detective? You’re way ahead of me.”

“Not at all. I just happened to know about the book because I saw it in Cummins’s house.”

“This is pure gold, isn’t it.”

Jury smiled. “That, or at least plate. Worth the trip, I assure you. I’ll be going to High Wycombe headquarters tomorrow. Want to come?”

“Yes, but I can’t. I’ve got some bureaucratic nonsense to take care of.”

“I’ll fill you in later.”

Jenkins said he’d be waiting and rang off.

The cab pulled up to Jury’s house. Lights everywhere. Were they having a rave? Why were the lights on in his flat? Carole-anne could be in there teaching the salsa to a roomful of Mexicans. He paid the driver, gave him a big tip.

As the cab pulled away, Jury thought about the receipt left at the crime scene. He shook his head.

On the part of the shooter, that had been a huge mistake. That person should have let well enough alone.

He was right about Carole-anne. He was wrong about the Mexicans. She was talking to Dr. Phyllis Nancy, both of them standing in his living room.

Oh, Christ, he’d done it again-forgotten.

Yet she smiled at him. That was Phyllis. “Who,” she said, “would want to eat at the Ivy when they could dine here? Its charming ambience, its mood lighting, its early-detective decor.”

Said Carole-anne, “She’s being funny.”

“Phyllis, I’m so sorry.” He turned to Carole-anne. “I’m glad to see you’ve met Doctor Nancy. Which of you got here first?”

“Had to let her in, didn’t I?” Carole-anne’s tone was querulous. It would be. Jury would be hearing about this for weeks. She turned on her heel and went into the kitchen. “She brought food: sausages and eggs, cheese, bread, some red wine. Good. I can do a nice fry-up.” She reappeared at the kitchen door. “Okay with you, Super?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking if it’s okay with Phyllis?”

“It is. She brought the food, after all.”

Phyllis said, “It’s certainly okay with me if you’re doing the cooking.”

“Good,” said Jury. “Phyllis and I will sit here and drink wine. Sounds like a winning scheme to me.”

Carole-anne was reevaluating her KP duty. “I’ll have some wine too between turning the sausages.”

Jury pulled glasses from an old armoire he’d picked up from a sale of Second World War stuff held at the Imperial War Museum. They were used to hold guns, originally. This fascinated him. He set the glasses on the coffee table and looked at Phyllis. “This was really sweet of you, Phyllis.”

“Yes, it really was thoughtful,” Carole-anne called from the kitchen. “I’ve had it in mind all day to get eggs and sausages, and hash browns too. Only you didn’t get any hash browns.” She pointed out this weak spot in their menu when she carried in the bottle of wine.

“You’re right,” said Phyllis. “I should have thought of that.”

“Probably just as well. I’m watching my weight.” She appraised Phyllis, who was sitting not on the sofa but in a chair, making her hold on Jury speculative.

Carole-anne noticed this. She smiled.

Jury knew this small act of generosity on the part of Phyllis was beyond Carole-anne to work out. She wouldn’t understand it, much less perform it. Jury poured wine into three glasses.

Carole-anne said, “That’s a nice one, that. Had a glass at the Mucky Duck the other evening.”

As the wine was in a gallon jug-Phyllis had a keen sense of humor-Jury wasn’t surprised that the Mucky Duck featured it. “Maybe I should have Trevor taste it.”

“Who’s Trevor?” asked Carole-anne, taking a drink of her wine.

“The wine guy at the Shades. Knows everything.”

“Quite nice, this. Of course, I don’t purport to be an expert. Like Trevor.”

Jury laughed. Conversation could be a minefield for Carole-anne. It was so easy to put a foot wrong.

“How was Brighton?” asked Phyllis. “Worth it?”

Carole-anne, who, to her chagrin, hadn’t known about Brighton, went back to the kitchen as if she couldn’t care less.

“It was, definitely,” said Jury. “Except I missed our date,” he added sotto voce.

And sotto voce, Phyllis answered, “But we’re having it.”

An awful clatter came from the kitchen, as if a half-dozen pot tops were being bowled across the floor.

“Sorr-ee!” yelled Carole-anne, sticking her head round the kitchen door. “Dropped the skillet!” The head disappeared.

Jury leaned across the table, his hand stretched toward Phyllis. “Sit over here.”

Phyllis smiled but shook her head and was about to say something when another series of rattles came from the kitchen.

“Oh, God, but I’m clumsy tonight!” The ginger hair poked round the doorway. “A plate. Hope it wasn’t the good china!”

“It better not be the stuff I bought at Christie’s.”

Carole-anne shrugged as she studied their relative positions: a coffee table apart, good. She moved back into the kitchen. There came a bright sizzle from (Jury supposed) the reclaimed frying pan.

“I forgot, I forgot,” said Jury, putting his hands through his hair, “the uncle, Lu’s uncle. You said-”

“No, not yet,” said Phyllis quickly, reaching across the table. “He hasn’t done anything yet. There’s still a chance, you know, I think more of one than-”

“Here we are!” fluted Carole-anne, ushering in two plates filled with fried eggs, buttered bread, and sausages.

Jury frowned, taking the plate she held out. “That was awfully quick.” He inspected the sausages. “You sure these are done, Carole-anne? It’s only been a few minutes.”

“Of course it is. I’ll just get mine.” She hurried off, hurried back, carrying a nonmatching blue plate, and sat down beside Jury.

The phone rang. Jury rose to answer it, his plate in hand.

It was Wiggins. “Guv, Harry Johnson called several times today.”

“Out of jail, is he?” Jury sniggered and forked up a bite of sausage. He had the phone wedged on his shoulder.

“What he wants is, he wants to know what you did with his dog. You know-Mungo.”

60

“DI Jenkins sent it over. Said you’d want to see it,” said Wiggins.

Jury had just come into the office carrying a plastic bag and now looked at the receipt from Waterstone’s. He heard the voice of Kate’s godmother, talking about her love of books: that big Waterstone’s bookshop in Piccadilly. The date was the day of Kate’s murder. The time registered was 11:00 a.m. Chris Cummins had mentioned David bought it in London Friday.

“I was thinking about it, you know, being found at the crime scene.” Wiggins was stirring his tea slowly, as if the spoon were a divining rod. “It doesn’t have to be Cummins’s receipt. Other people bought that book.”

“Two other people, Wiggins. I was just over in Piccadilly. Water-stone’s sold three copies that day. Not many people would be that interested in a glamour book about shoes on any one day. It’s coffee table, a lot of photographs, pricey. On top of that, do you think one of the other two buyers, he or she, just happened to drop the receipt at the spot Kate Banks was murdered? I might be able to stretch coincidence that far if the book had been a best seller-but not this book.” He took out and held up the glossily jacketed book he’d just bought at Waterstone’s. He’d been standing since he’d come in; now he sat down.

“What does it mean?”

“It means the killer did a stupid thing-went back and planted the receipt.”

“You mean to make it look like Cummins-”

“Yes.”

“So what you’re saying is, Cummins didn’t kill Kate Banks.”

“No, he didn’t kill her; he loved her. According to Shirley Husselby, he was besotted with her.” Jury paused to look at Wiggins’s cup. “You must have added eye of newt to that tea instead of sugar the way you’re stirring. Get your skates on.” Jury opened the door and was through it before Wiggins could ask where they were going.

He didn’t drink his tea; he frowned at it. Eye of newt rather put him off.

Not much over an hour later, they pulled into the car park beside High Wycombe police headquarters. Jury had called David Cummins from the car and asked to see him there.

Cummins was in the muster room with a dozen other detectives and uniforms when Jury and Wiggins walked in. He looked pleased to see them, which wrenched Jury’s heart, really. He liked Cummins; he was sorry about what was going to happen.

“What’s all this about?” Cummins’s smile went from Jury to Wiggins. He pulled a couple of chairs around to the desk for them.

In proximity were three or four other detectives at their desks. Jury said, “Can we find someplace a little less public?”

The smile dimmed, but Cummins said, “Come on.”

They walked down a hall to an interview room, went in, and sat down, Wiggins off to one side, notebook out.

Jury said, “Have a look at this, will you, David?” He’d pulled out the copy of the receipt and placed it before Cummins.

“Yeah. For that book I bought Chris the other day. About shoes-but why…?”

“Police found this yesterday at the crime scene, on the pavement where Kate’s body was found.”

The head that had been lowered to look at the bit of paper didn’t rise. Jury left it for several seconds. He knew it was the mention of Kate. Cummins wasn’t a controlled-enough actor to put on a blank face at that.

Finally, Cummins picked up the receipt again, as if it would change by alchemy into a thing that would explain all of this. He just shook his head. “You lost me; you’ve completely lost me. But the receipt, I didn’t lose that. It’s at home. There’s a box Chris keeps receipts in.”

“No, I don’t think it’s there, David.”

There was a silence except for Wiggins’s pen scratching on paper.

David looked up at Jury. “You think I was there-where Kate was…” But he didn’t seem able to say “murdered.”

“How could this receipt have got there?”

David made the same point that Wiggins had earlier. “It belonged to somebody else who bought the book. That’s obvious. At least to me.”

“You were in Waterstone’s, weren’t you, on the Friday? You went to London on Fridays.”

He nodded. He was too much a detective not to see where this was going. Where, he knew, it had already gone.

“Two other copies of the book were sold that day, later in the afternoon. Of the three of you, how many would happen to be at the spot where Kate Banks was murdered?”

Cummins shook his head. “No matter how improbable, it must have been one of the others because I know I wasn’t there.” He became agitated, running his hands through his hair, down his tie, fiddling with a pencil.

Jury leaned across the table and put his hand around David’s arm. “David, you knew Kate Banks when she was Kate Muldar; you knew her much better than you’ve led us to believe. And Chris knew her, too.” He leaned back. “Why don’t you tell me about back then?”

David nodded. “The truth-”

That would be nice, thought Jury. But he didn’t say it. Cummins was having a bad time, and it was soon to get worse.

“It was in Brighton. Chris and I were going together, more or less. But when I saw Kate”-his smile said he was seeing her again-“I forgot everything else. I forgot I was just a grocer’s son; I forgot I had no career and no prospects. I forgot I had no money. I forgot Chris. That sounds impossibly exaggerated, I know, but it’s literally true. Nothing I did could set Kate aside. It wasn’t her looks, though God knows they were grand. Kate was the nicest person I ever knew.”

“That’s what I’ve heard from her godmother. She was a very good person.”

David nodded. “I can’t explain except to say I was dazzled, if you know what I mean.”

Jury knew about dazzle. The first time he’d seen Phyllis Nancy, that night of the Odeon shooting, coming toward him holding a black case, wearing a long green gown and diamond earrings that hung beneath her dark red hair. That was dazzle.

“Yes. Go on.”

“I was working for my dad, filling bags with onions, lettuces, potatoes. I can’t imagine a job less… sexy. I can still remember wishing I were a copper, a CID man.” He laughed. “God. Has anybody got a cigarette?” He looked at Jury, then around at Wiggins.

Jury said, “Wiggins, go out there and see if you can scare up some smokes. And matches.” As Wiggins left, Jury said, “How did Chris react to this? To Kate and you in Brighton?”

“You can imagine. We broke up. They-Kate and Chris-were in school; it was their last year at Roedean. I didn’t see Kate after that. I think Chris got rid of her. I think she told her something that really put her off. I don’t know. Kate just seemed to dissolve into the past.”

“And then she was back in the present. Maybe sitting in that coffee bar in Waterstone’s.”

“How did you know that?”

“You liked books. She liked books and the coffee bar there. Her godmother, Myra Brewer, told us.”

“I thought I was seeing things. Nearly twenty years and Kate Muldar hadn’t changed, not by…” He looked round as if searching for some measuring device to explain to Jury how much she had not changed by.

There was gut-wrenching pathos in it.

“Not by a hairsbreadth.” He settled on a cliché. Sometimes starved language was all you had.

The door opened then, and Wiggins came through with the smokes, a half-pack of Rothmans. He set this on the table, a book of matches on top.

David thanked him, shook out a cigarette, and sat smoking.

“Not all of these London trips were undertaken to visit the shoe emporiums of Upper Sloane Street, were they?”

David was silent, flicking ash from his cigarette into a dented metal tray with “Bass” written across it. He looked at Jury. The look was the answer.

“How many times did you meet with Kate Banks?”

“I can’t say exactly, a dozen, maybe.”

Jury smiled. “You can say exactly, David. You could recite it as surely as a prisoner of war giving name, rank, serial number.”

Weakly, David smiled. “I expect so. We met a dozen times in the last four months.”

“And before that? In London? Three years ago?”

His head went down again, as if dodging a blow. “What makes you think I was seeing her then?”

“Because of the way you’re acting right now. I was merely guessing before. But I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the reason you left London.”

He said hastily, “Chris didn’t know…”

Jury just looked at him. “Yet Chris insisted you leave, didn’t she?”

The nod was the barest movement of his head.

“Did Kate know you were married?”

The nod was more emphatic. “But not to Chris. I didn’t tell Kate that.”

“Why not?”

David blew out his cheeks. “Kate would think it was happening all over again, and she wouldn’t’ve let it.”

“It was happening all over again.” Jury leaned closer to him across the table, so close they might have breathed each other’s breath. “And Chris knew it.”

His alarm all too evident, Cummins looked at Jury and then past him, as if his wife might be waiting there in the shadows. Then he was consumed with panic-anger: “That’s ridiculous! Where do you get that idea, for God’s sake?”

“For one thing, to state what’s a cliché, wives seem to sense these things; they know if their husbands are straying. But more than that: you were careless. Which isn’t surprising, given your feelings for Kate. You said it earlier: she shut everything else out. Nothing else mattered. If she could do that to you at age eighteen, how much more could she at age thirty-seven?”

“But what do you mean by ‘careless’?”

“You’d have to have been; you were besotted. You’d have come home with perfume on your coat, lipstick on your shirt-”

“Of course I didn’t-”

“Not that precisely, maybe, but you were so preoccupied, you couldn’t have taken great care in rubbing out all of the signs of another woman. Kate Banks was lovely. And other things. I saw her. Dead, there was still something ineffable. I wished when I saw her I’d known her.”

David Cummins sat looking at his hands, fingers laced on the table.

“How did you feel when you found out she was working for an escort service?”

“It wouldn’t’ve made any difference; nothing made any difference except being with her. This one service wasn’t really a sex thing. There are men who really do want companionship. But, still, it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“You were going to leave Chris, weren’t you?”

He nodded, wiping the wetness from his face with the heel of his hand. He sniffed. “But I didn’t know what to do. I mean, with Chris in that wheelchair.”

Wiggins heard the tears even though he didn’t see them. He was on his feet in an instant with a fresh handkerchief, which he laid on the table before Cummins, who picked it up, shook it open, and held it like a flag of truce.

Wiggins sat down again, tilted his chair against the wall, and reclaimed his notebook and pen.

Cummins picked up the copy of the receipt, tossed it down. Jury scraped back his chair. Wiggins rose, too, but David still sat. “Next you’re going to tell me Chris killed her.”

“No, I’m not going to tell you that. She could hardly have managed to get herself to the city, could she? Though God only knows she’d have wanted to.”

“She didn’t know it was Kate.”

Poor sod, thought Jury. “Yes.”

“I don’t think-”

“And you’re wrong. Bring the crime scene photos of that shoe impression.” Jury got up. “Come on.”

“What?”

Jury knew Cummins had heard him, but probably any answer he gave at this point would be “What?”

“I want to talk to your wife. Bring the photos. Chris might recognize something.”

David nodded. “The photos are in the incident room.” He went off.

Wiggins watched Jury. “It really looks as if you think-”

Jury cut him off. “I do.”

In another moment, David was back. He held up the photos. “I still say she didn’t know.”

“The moment you made the mistake of bringing home the despised shoes by Kate Spade, I’ll bet she knew. My guess is she hated Kate Spade just because of the name. You must have been out of your bloody mind, David.”

61

Chris Cummins wheeled herself to the door in what Jury thought was record time. Her husband had called her in that moment he’d gone for the photos. Jury knew he would; he wanted to see what his wife would betray if she thought her husband was in big trouble.

His guess was, nothing.

“Three more somber faces I’ve never seen. Be sure you leave your shoes at the door.” Chris Cummins’s laugh was just this side of combative.

Wiggins smiled. Neither of the other men did.

“Come on, I’m making tea. The kettle’s about to go.”

They followed her, even David, as if this were no longer his house, his wife. As if he were merely stopping by like the others.

In the kitchen, the tray was ready with cups and saucers, milk and sugar. So she’d been expecting company. Jury didn’t comment.

The kettle screamed and she reached for it, but Wiggins got there first. Wiggins would always get there first, thought Jury. And he was always undervaluing Wiggins. He felt ashamed about that, about a lot of things. Perhaps he was sharing in the general shame.

“Thank you, Sergeant Wiggins,” said Chris.

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

They moved into the room she called the old parlor, the “shoe room.” Glinting like jewelry, the shoes in their miraculous flashes of turquoise, rose, amber, red, made him see why women were seduced by them. One couldn’t have found a more alluring arrangement of jewels in all of Hatton Garden.

And Chris Cummins couldn’t walk in any of them.

They sat around the table in the comfortable floral armchairs. Chris poured the tea, Wiggins helped. David waded right in: “Police found the receipt for your book, the one I bought in Waterstone’s. It was found at the scene where Kate Banks was murdered.”

About to pick up her teacup, she frowned, looking from her husband to Jury to Wiggins. “What are you talking about? The receipt-”

Jury knew she would use the same argument her husband had, and she did.

“-must be someone else’s.”

And Jury made the same objection to this theory.

She stared at him. “This is ridiculous. It was in the book and I put it in the box where I keep receipts. That inlaid box, David. Go look.”

David got up and went to the heavy piece of furniture, pulled out a wooden box, inlaid, fancy for a receipt receptacle. He was riffling through the bits of paper. “It’s not here.”

“Here, give me it.” Impatiently, she had her hand out for the box.

Jury said, “He’s right. It’s not there.”

“How do you know that?” At Jury, she leveled a disdainful expression. It wasn’t very convincing. “Look. Look. If you’re… Look. David scarcely knew her, and nor did I. I’d-we’d forgotten all about her. The name really didn’t register.”

Wiggins spoke: “It registered a bit more than that, didn’t it?” Chris looked again at Wiggins, Jury, and came to rest on her husband. “David? What’s going on?”

The alarm, thought Jury, was pretty convincing.

“Kate and I met again. We met a number of times.” David had turned to gaze out the window.

From Chris came the standard proofs of surprise, thought Jury. He said, “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about? Of course I didn’t.” Her voice caught on the tightness in her throat, the unshed tears.

“That’s why you wanted her dead. It had already happened once before, when the three of you were young. In Brighton. To have it happen again would be unbearable.”

“Are you trying to say I killed her? I got myself to London, to that street she died on, and then back? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in a wheelchair.” She slapped the arm of it, almost as if to show it was solid and she was in it.

“I’m not saying you murdered her. You had her murdered.”

Chris’s face was set in a convincing semblance of shock. “What? I paid someone-?”

“No. You’re too smart not to realize that if you hire a shooter, blackmail might soon follow; you’d be forever in the grip of a hired killer.”

“Well, then, I obviously didn’t do it myself, and I didn’t pay anyone to do it. How did I manage it? A curse?” She laughed.

It was the most unpleasant laugh Jury had ever heard. “You did the only thing that would secure the killer’s silence: you traded murders.”

David, if it was possible, went even paler, more drawn. His skin looked stretched. “What?”

Jury did not look at him; he kept his eyes on Chris, who lost, with this last statement, her careless laughter. “Your victim pretty much came to you; I mean, you didn’t have to go all the way to London. She was your half of the bargain: Mariah Cox. Stacy Storm.”

Her mouth worked, but she said nothing for a moment. Then, “What earthly reason…? I had no reason to murder Mariah Cox. The librarian?”

“I know you didn’t have a reason. That’s the point. There would be no motive. But the irony is, you thought you’d be killing a complete stranger. You didn’t know Stacy Storm would wind up being someone from Chesham whom you knew. You didn’t recognize her at first. But she recognized you. But at that point, facing her there in the Black Cat’s patio, you couldn’t think quick enough to rationalize the meeting. You didn’t have much choice, so you shot her anyway.

“Neither did Rose Moss have a motive for killing Kate Banks. But you did. Just as Rose Moss did have a motive for murdering Mariah Cox. For what I imagine was a very brief time, they were lovers, until Mariah called it off. Yes, it was all about to change, and not in Rose’s favor. And that, she couldn’t stand.”

The silence in the room was so dense, it was like a heavy material, weighted as the velvet curtains in Simon Santos’s living room. He stopped. No one spoke. Chris’s look of deep concentration told him her mind was working furiously to counter what he’d said.

So he said more. “That Waterstone’s receipt. You managed to get it to Rose Moss. What you were thinking was that David was the only person who could possibly have dropped it. You worked out the same thing I did: that probably no more copies of that book would be sold at that time on that day. But what you seemed to forget was that you were the only other person who possessed that receipt. You overcorrected, Chris. You tried to frame David, forgetting that you could also be pointing to yourself-”

“Chris.” David still stood, his head against the cold glass of the windowpane. He was not really speaking to her; the name came out as a breath, a sigh.

Jury went on. “But that was an easy mistake to make, since who would suspect you of murdering Kate Banks?”

Chris said, “This is all highly imaginative, but I don’t see any evidence at all.” As if to mock him, she made an elaborate survey of the room. She smiled.

Jury ignored the comment. “The Manolo Blahnik heel print was especially inventive.”

Her smile widened. She seemed to be enjoying herself now. “Then whose, if not his?”

“Well, it wasn’t a heel print, was it.” Jury walked over to the corner of the wall of shoes. “It was this.” He pulled out one of the crutches. “You could hardly ride your wheelchair to the spot where you killed Mariah Cox. So you had to use crutches-”

“What do you mean? I can’t manage on crutches!”

“Of course you can. Given your well-muscled arms, I’d say you’d gotten in a lot of practice. At first I assumed that came from getting the wheelchair about; stupid of me, as it’s electric, isn’t it? It was the one detail you didn’t think through. Strange the way the mind works: in solving one problem, we create another. You solved the problem of going to Lycrome Road in a wheelchair. If you used crutches, under that long black coat”-here Jury turned to the coatrack-“probably no one driving in a car would notice. And of course you had the advantage of the roadworks, didn’t you? Hardly anyone in the pub and no cars in the car park. But the crutches created a problem. You did a pretty good job of staying on the hard surface-the car park, the patio-but there was that one deep little print left in the earth.” Jury paused. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Chris. If anyone did think that print wasn’t the heel of a shoe, you’d be sunk, wouldn’t you? You think fast. Manolo Blahnik!

“That was the very thing that put me onto Rose Moss as the other party in this whole thing. It’s funny, or vain, but I thought Rose Moss rather fancied me. Wrong. She went out with me to find out how much I knew. She wasn’t turned on to me at all. Rose isn’t interested in men; she’s a lesbian. She thought Mariah was, too. And she isn’t like you, Chris. She hasn’t your nerve; she hasn’t your acting ability; she’ll cave in an eyeblink; she’ll give you up in a second if it means saving herself.

“Before she left me in that club, she said, ‘You mean you don’t think I ran over to Chesham in my Manolo Blahniks and shot her?’ Very careless of her. That supposed Manolo Blahnik heel print was never mentioned in the media. The only way she could have heard that was from you or police. And she certainly didn’t hear it from David or me. So it was down to you, Chris. It’s pretty much all down to you.”

In the only out-of-control moment she’d ever had around Jury, Chris Cummins picked up the teapot and threw it at the cubbyholes full of shoes, where it shattered.

62

Not terribly refreshed by his night at Boring’s, Melrose pulled up (yet again) in the Black Cat’s car park. He felt his life to be pretty much circumscribed by Chesham-London, London-Chesham, Chesham-London, et cetera, et cetera. He might as well buy some hovel here in Chesham and settle down.

Melrose got out of the car and trudged wearily round the corner of the pub, when he heard the cat yowling. He stopped and trudged back and opened the rear door. The cat, Morris Two, electrified by its stint in the car and its overnight stay at Boring’s, streaked out and around back to who knew where. Melrose’s life seemed to be nothing but waiting on animals. Instead of settling down in Chesham, why didn’t he get a job at the London Zoo? He pulled the cat carrier out of the backseat and plodded back.

At the side entrance he looked through the window, where Mungo and Morris stared out at him, as if he were the troublemaker here and not them. Wearily, he opened the door, wondering how in hell he was going to get Mungo in the car and back to London.

Oh, well. He went up to the bar, greeted Sally Hawkins, and asked for a double Balmenach.

“Oh, now,” she said cheekily, “a bit early in the day for a double, isn’t it, love?”

“You’re right, so give me two singles.”

She laughed and slid the glass under the optics.

Whiskey in hand, he walked over to the table by the window, peering as he did so at elderly Johnny Boy and, under the table, his dog, Horace. He sat down at the table and glared at Mungo, who wasn’t interested.

Here came Dora to slide in beside him and ask, “Did you get the cat back all right?” He could tell from her tone that the prospect of failure excited her more than that of success.

Melrose nodded. “Now, all I have to do is get you-know-who to London.”

He wasn’t fooling Mungo, who slid off the chair and trotted to the bar.

Melrose looked after him. “Maybe I could fob off Horace on Mungo’s owner.”

“Horace and Mungo don’t look a bit alike.”

“They’re both dogs, aren’t they?”

“Listen,” whispered Dora. “Mungo’s behind the bar-”

“Knifing the foam from those glasses of Guinness, is he?”

Two fresh pints sat beneath the beer pulls, settling.

“I think Sally’s put down food for him,” whispered Dora as if Mungo might hear her. “We can get him if we’re careful. His back’s turned. I’ll go over and you come with the carrier. But you keep out of sight.”

Dora started over, and after slugging back his whiskey, Melrose picked up the carrier and went toward the bar, skirting the tables. Dora must have grabbed Mungo, for he heard an uncustomary “yip!” and he quickly opened the top of the carrier so that Dora could shovel Mungo in. “Good work, Dora!”

But Dora was looking toward the front of the pub and in a raging whisper said, “Your friend’s just come in!”

Melrose turned and saw Jury. “Sit on it!” he whispered back.

Dora flopped down on the carrier and nearly squashed Mungo. It wasn’t substantial enough to sit. Quickly, she rose and stood in front of it.

Melrose picked up the two pints of unclaimed Guinness, cried out, “Richard!” and walked toward him.

Johnny Boy tried to stop him, saying, “’Ere now, that’s my beer.”

Melrose ignored him. “Have a drink!” he said to Jury. “Let’s sit. There’s Morris! Told you I did it.”

But Morris was more interested in Mungo’s fate than in Jury. She was sitting staunchly before the carrier.

Jury drank some beer and watched this.

Dora slewed around and was petting Morris, making it appear that this was the reason for Morris’s move. It wasn’t. Morris wanted to talk to Mungo.

Can’t you get out?

Probably. I haven’t really put my mind to it.

The Spotter just came in.

Mungo was alert and sat up and tried to look back at the table, but of course he couldn’t turn around in the carrier to see out in that direction.

If you wanted to, you could get him over here. Just bark.

I only bark as a last resort.

Oh. Isn’t this?

I don’t know yet.

“What’s in the carrier?” asked Jury. He gave Melrose a level look. “It’s not Schrödinger, is it?”

“What? What? Of course not. I told you I took Schrödinger back to Belgravia. It was rather slick, if I do say-”

“You could be lying.” Jury started up.

Melrose yanked him down. “Well, ta very much. All the trouble I went to. It’s just Karl.”

“Karl? Who’s Karl?”

“The other black cat. If you remember, there were three.”

“Karl. My Lord, don’t people name their animals Boots or Princess or Spot anymore?”

“Guess not.” Change the subject. “How’s the investigation going?”

“It’s close to the end, I think.” Jury started up again. “Right now-”

Melrose pulled him down again.

“What’s the matter with you? I’ve got to get back to London. This is still an ongoing investigation and I’ve got to interview someone.”

“Oh, London! Yes, by all means. Remember, you’re coming to Ardry End after.”

“When I get done with this, yes.” He took another swallow of beer. “Thanks for the drink.”

Dora waved from the carrier, and Jury sketched her a salute just as his mobile went into its performance of “Three Blind Mice.” He was out the door.

Melrose rushed to the carrier, picked it up, and moved to the door that led to the car park.

“He’s back!” cried Dora.

Melrose dumped the carrier and turned. There was Jury again.

“Guess who that was on the phone? Harry Johnson, if you can believe it. He wants to know what in hell happened to his dog.”

Melrose squinted. “What dog?”

63

Mungo was having none of it.

Well, some of it, perhaps. There’s not much you can do against four hands stuffing you into a box and then sitting on you. It’s always a battle between cleverness and brute force, isn’t it? Then into the car, heave-ho, and the Duck into the driver’s seat, and they were off.

He wished he could have got free of the carrier before the car left the Black Cat car park so that he could have pressed his face against the rear window and waved good-bye, good-bye, as was always done in films.

But he could still send the message to Morris: Good-bye, I’ll see you soon. Morris had very nearly jumped in the car but had been torn between leaving and staying and had made the wrong choice, of course, and stayed.

Cats. How much fun could a cat have sitting on a table in the sun for endless hours without going stark raving mad with boredom? Never mind, he would see Morris again.

But at the moment, he was intent upon working his way out of this carrier. It wouldn’t be too difficult as long as someone wasn’t sitting on it. It was closed only by a couple of stuck-together flaps, and the Duck hadn’t even done them up properly. He’d been all in a hurry to get Mungo out the door of the pub. What Mungo couldn’t understand was why the Spotter hadn’t twigged it.

Come on, is it that difficult to sort out? Cat carrier. Cat outside it. Something inside. Dog missing. What conclusion would one draw from that? What might the something inside the carrier be? If the Spotter couldn’t work out that equation, how could he sort a murder case?

Mungo had worked his paw up against the flap, wedged it into the flap, and worked it back and forth patiently. He got it open. He climbed out, stealth being his middle name. The Duck was driving, humming away…

Mungo pulled up to a window. He wanted to see just where they were, for instinct told him the Duck was going the wrong way-

Slough? What in God’s name were they doing in Slough? He watched as the car plowed round the roundabout twice. The Duck didn’t even know where-oh, there he went, missed it again!

LONDON RING ROAD

M4 M25 M40

Missed it again! What was it with humans? Had they no instinct for direction? Had they no maps in their minds? Good grief, even eels could swim from Europe to Bermuda; monarch butterflies could fly from Canada to Mexico; cows in a field could all point true north-but the Duck couldn’t manage to get out of Slough?

Mungo slid down to the seat and went back to the carrier. Might as well have a kip. It’s all going to come to tears anyway.

He crawled back into the carrier and didn’t bother pulling the flaps or this shambles of the human race in with him.

And the Duck drove on.

64

Rose Moss came to the door, looking as she had the first time Jury had seen her: cotton dress, hair in bunches, feet this time in a different pair of furry slippers, white with floppy ears. It made Jury wonder for a moment if he must be wrong, if this was the woman who had sat with him in Cigar; if this was the woman who had killed one person and probably two.

“Hello, Rose.”

It looked as if she might shut the door in his face but thought better of it and opened it wider instead. “Come to give me a hard time, have you?” she said as he entered.

He smiled. “Yes.”

“Me, I’m having a drink. If you want one.”

“I don’t mind. Whiskey’s fine.”

“Ha! Listen to him. It better be, as it’s all I have.”

Jury tossed his coat onto a chair and watched her walk toward the small tray table of faded flowers where the bottles were. How could the woman in Cigar, her feet encased in Christian Louboutin heels, be here now wearing bunny slippers?

“Rose…”

“Pardon? Adele to you, love.”

“Oh, we’re no longer friends?”

She handed him a glass with barely enough whiskey to copper-line the bottom. “Let the good times roll.”

Jury held it up.

Rose took a seat not by him on the sofa but in a small armchair opposite with her half-finger of whiskey.

“Tell me about Stacy, will you?”

She stopped the progress of the glass to her mouth and recrossed her legs. The slippers were outsized, as big as Ping-Pong paddles.

“What’s to tell, may I ask?”

“Well, she lived here for upwards of six months with you, off and on. Both of you worked for Valentine’s. You must have known her a little better than you seemed to last time I was here? You knew she wanted to marry Bobby Devlin.”

This made her look at anything else in the room but Jury. Her gaze drifted.

Jury’s silence made her look at him. Finally, he said, “I’ve met him, talked to him, of course, as police are always suspicious of family and lovers. He’s a nice guy, was really in love with Stacy, only he knew her as Mariah Cox, village librarian.”

Her eyes glittered, metallic. “She didn’t love him.”

“Why do you say that? She was going to marry him; at least that’s what she told her aunt.”

She shook her head in a wide arc, side to side, eyes tightly shut, as Jury had seen children do, denying whatever they wanted to shut out. “She didn’t love him. She loved me.” Her hands clapped against her chest.

The point, its awful implications thrown to the winds, had to be made. It had to be known, whatever betrayal Stacy Storm was intent on committing, that she, Rosie, had the final claim on Stacy and that Mariah Cox was a masquerade, a persona Stacy had invented to throw everybody off the scent.

“Who cooked the idea up, Rose? Was it you or Chris Cummins?”

Rose sat back, turning her glass in her hands. For a long time, she was silent.

She was not stupid. Jury knew she was assessing the situation, wondering. How much had Chris told Jury? Would it be a better tack to deny knowing her? Or to blame it on her?

Her legs were thrust straight out, toes slanting inward. He wished it weren’t Rosie; he tried to form some scenario in his mind that would let it not be her.

“Chris Cummins,” she said, blaming it on her. “She’s clever. I’m not. She wanted her husband to keep away from this woman.”

“How did Chris know about her?”

Rose shrugged and lit a cigarette. “I don’t know. But she said they’d been seeing each other-him and this Kate Banks-for a long time. This woman was someone both of them had known before, when they all were young. She told me her plan.”

“How did you two come to know each other?”

“Chance. I was in Amersham several weeks ago. I stopped off for a drink at the White Harts bar. She was sitting at a table by herself, reading a paper. One of the rags, you know, and I just sat down on the other side of the table, and the newspaper stretched out with its juicy sideshow murders. Not that I’d’ve taken a blind bit of notice, not of the paper or her or much else, because I was in a right sweat over Stacy. Stacy’d started talking about this fellow and that she might be leaving me. I couldn’t believe it. Her talking about getting married. To a man. Talking about it like we’d never meant a thing to each other. I just grabbed my keys and got out and ran to my car and drove. Drove around London, then out of it.”

“That was taking a chance, wasn’t it, that someone would remember? Chris Cummins was in a wheelchair.”

“Crutches. She got around pretty good on crutches. Only she didn’t use them, she said, in Chesham. She didn’t want people to know.”

“How did she get to Amersham?”

“Bloke she knew, someone that could keep his mouth shut. It was like a game with her, you know. What she could get away with. Even murder.”

“Still, crutches would have called attention to her, to both of you.” But it hadn’t called attention to them because no one had inquired at the White Hart in Amersham if anyone there had seen… what?

Rose said, “We thought it was worth the chance. You don’t know what it’s like to be so-to want somebody dead before you’d see her with someone else.”

“No, I suppose I don’t. How did you know Kate Banks would be where she was that night?”

“I followed her, didn’t I? All Chris knew was Kate used to live in Crouch End, so I called up the King’s Road place and told ‘em I was a messenger service and I was given the wrong street address in Crouch End. I just chose a street there at random to make it sound more believable, and this stupid cow gave me the right address. She shouldn’t’ve done.” Her expression told him she wished he’d comment on the artfulness of her plan.

And he did. “Couldn’t have done it better myself, Rosie.” He waited a moment so that she could be pleased with herself, then asked, “What did Deirdre Small have to do with all this?”

Rose was biting the skin around her thumbnail. “Nothing, really, except she knew about it.”

Jury tried not to look shocked. She had said it so casually, as if it were hardly worth spending time on. “How? How did Deirdre know?”

“I told her.” She stopped chewing on her thumb. “It was her gun. I didn’t know how to get hold of one, and I remembered Deirdre’d told me about this gun she’d got at a pawnshop somewhere. North London, I think it was. She carried it for protection, even though it was illegal. Deirdre”-Rose picked up her warm drink-“was a friend of mine.”

A friend of mine. And look what the friendship bought her.

“And she wondered what you wanted the gun for-”

“I said to take care of somebody. That was stupid; I should’ve made up something. Chris wasn’t happy about that. It was Chris told me what to do. See, Deirdre had told me about her date with this creepy guy, at least I thought he was, and meeting him at St. Paul’s. So I went along there a little before nine. And she was there. I waited for the bells and then shot. That was smart, wasn’t it?” Again, her self-satisfied smile seemed to want him to note her artfulness.

“It was,” said Jury, feeling forlorn.

“And I left the gun. I thought it would be traced back to Dee, and since it was the same gun that killed Kate, well, police would think DeeDee Small had done it. Killed Kate and then shot herself. That wasn’t bad thinking, was it?”

“No. Very clever. Except the site of the bullet wound made it difficult for her to have turned the gun on herself.” The plan had backfired, he didn’t say, in more ways than one.

“Oh.” She sighed. “I wanted to go to Chesham, you know, make up some excuse to see the boyfriend, just to see what sort of person Stacy preferred to me. But, of course, I had to stay right away from Chesham and Chris.” She frowned and asked, as if it were strange, as if she’d only just thought of it, “How’d you know it was me?”

“Shoes.”

Her frown deepened as she looked down at her big slippers, as if they might be the ones that shopped her.

All of them, really, he thought. All of that fascination with Jimmy Choo and Louboutin and Manolo Blahnik. “Red soles.”

Rosie seemed amazed that this copper would know Louboutin. “You mean the ones I was wearing on our date?”

Our date. Rosie seemed to retreat further and further from the world of a grown-up here and now into a past of dates and furry slippers. It must be difficult for her to integrate the persona of the sultry woman in Cigar. She was, he thought sadly, crumbling right before his eyes.

“It was your comment about Manolo Blahnik, remember? Did I think you rushed out in your Manolos and shot Kate Banks? The only person who could have told you about that supposed heel mark is Chris Cummins. She’s the only person besides the police who knew.”

“That wasn’t very smart of me.” Again, she was studying her feet.

“How did you two communicate?”

“With those toss-away mobile things.” She looked up at him then, as if he might not know. “You can’t trace calls on them.”

He nodded. “Rosie…” Her face looked small and pinched. “You’re going to have to come along with me.” Jury felt even more forlorn. He shouldn’t feel this way. She had shot two people in cold blood.

And yet it hadn’t been cold, had it? For her, probably even more than for Chris Cummins, it was all a parlor game, and his being here was the last move in it. What she said next confirmed this notion.

“I guess so. I guess I lost.” She got up. “I have to change my clothes.”

He knew he shouldn’t let her out of his sight, but he did. It was a terraced house, a second-floor flat, with no means of egress except for the door, unless she meant to throw herself out a bedroom window. He doubted she would do that.

While she was gone, Jury looked around the room, whose details now he better understood: the row of Beatrix Potter figures on the shelf of the arched bookcase, the Paddington Bear lamp, the display of shells-the accoutrements of childhood. With its high ceiling, long windows, arched shelves, the room had the bones of sophistication, but she had drawn over it the skin of naïveté.

When she walked back in, she was once again the woman who’d surprised him in Cigar. Her outfit, a blue shawl-necked sweater and straight black skirt, was not as clingy as the dress she’d worn, but it was still potent. She had applied makeup, not too much, and had traded the slippers for dark-brown-and-black-ribboned shoes with skyscraper heels.

She swung the strap of a small handbag up to her shoulder. It matched the shoes. “Whose shoes, Rosie?”

“Valentino. You like them?” She held out a foot as if he were about to fit it with a glass slipper.

“I certainly do.”

“Okay, let’s go,” she said to him.

Once through the door, she locked it. She preceded him along the narrow hall that led to the top of the stairs. At one point she stumbled, the skyscraper heels proving too much even for her, but she righted herself and went on, a girl dying to be grown up, stumbling in her mother’s high-heeled shoes.

65

Jury found him, not surprisingly, in the garden on the narrow path screened by masses of tulips and foxglove. He heard the snip of the shears and saw the floppy hat. The sun was hot on Jury’s head. The willow and Japanese maple spilled sunlight across the path.

“Hello, Bobby.”

Bobby was standing near a canvas of creeping phlox so variously tinted in watercolors that it might have been painted by one of the Impressionists. He was immersing an armful of purple tulips in a bucket of water. He rose from his kneeling position. “Mr. Jury.” He took off his hat and wiped his arm across his forehead and smiled bleakly. “I’m just cutting some flowers for the church.” He paused. “A funeral.” Again, he paused. “Will police ever release Mariah’s body for burial?”

Jury could tell from the look-a drowned look, as if Bobby himself had been plunged into water like the stems of the cut nowers-that any news would be bad news. Jury hoped this wasn’t. “Very soon, I expect. Look, we’re fairly certain we’ve got the person who murdered Mariah, Bobby. Not much of a consolation for you, but at least something.”

Absently, Bobby clicked the garden shears. “Who?”

“It’ll be public soon enough.” He went on to tell him about the double murder, Chris Cummins and Rose Moss.

Bobby sat down hard on the white iron bench. “Good God.” He looked up at Jury as if trying to assess his presence. Real or not?

Jury sat beside him. “Not that it makes it easier to understand, but Rose Moss was obsessed with Mariah. Well, that pretty much goes without saying.”

“Are you saying Mariah was gay?” He frowned in disbelief. “That’s not-”

Jury shook his head. “Gay? No. The affair-if it can even be called that-was probably very brief and for Mariah, probably an experiment, or just something she was curious about. And there’s only Rose Moss’s account, so how much is true, how much wishful thinking, I don’t know. Anyway, Mariah knew in a short while, sex with another woman just didn’t appeal to her. I know you thought Mariah was very retiring, but-”

Bobby was shaking his head. “Not that way. She was good at sex, she was very good, a lot better than me. It was as if she had some old knowledge of it. I don’t know how to say it.” He scratched his head. “As if it came naturally. Not from a lot of experience of it, but as if she were discovering it as she went along, almost as if inspired her or something.” He laughed abruptly. “Talk about wishful thinking.”

“I don’t think it is, Bobby, not where you were concerned. She was giving up that life. She wanted to be with you.”

Bobby smiled ruefully, pinched a dry leaf from the stem of a daisy near the bench. “You’re saying that to make me feel better.”

“I’m not. She really loved you. It’s what got her killed.” Jury was sorry he’d said that, for it sounded brutal when he’d meant to be consoling. “I’m sorry. That sounded as if you were at fault.”

“No it doesn’t. I’m glad you told me. I really didn’t know if Mariah loved me, because there was always something held back. I knew there was more to her than what she was letting me see. I knew all of those weekend absences had to do with something other than visiting some old school chum or working an extra job. I knew there was more than that.”

They sat for a few moments in the generous light and silence of the garden where Bobby Devlin seemed completely at home. Jury thought there was solace here, his gaze traveling up the path with its deep borders of dianthus and lavender and roses, the soft air pungent with their perfume; at the drifts of snowdrops, cornflowers, and poppies, at life illimitable.

“It bloody sucks, doesn’t it, life?” Bobby eventually said, his voice verging on tears.

Jury wasn’t about to tell his companion beside him on the bench that he was a fortunate man. “It bloody does,” he said. Then, as if to appease some god of the garden, added, “Sometimes.”

66

“So what,” asked Jury, “were you doing in Slough?”

“Trying to get out of it,” said Melrose.

They were tromping along the old road that led to the Man with a Load of Mischief, which sat atop a gentle hill that overlooked the village of Long Piddleton. They were looking for Melrose’s dog, Mindy, who often came up here to sleep in the courtyard. Joey was walking beside Jury, occasionally rushing at some small rustling in the undergrowth.

Melrose went on: “Haven’t you noticed the motorways all mass together there? There’s the M4, the M40, the M25-”

“M25’s the Ring Road.”

Melrose stopped. “Thank you. I know it’s the Ring Road.”

“Why were you going back to London, anyway? You’d done all that. And I will say done a fair job, too.”

“A ‘fair’ job, is that all I get?”

“A fairly good one, then.”

Melrose stopped again. “Don’t knock yourself out with the approval. Has it occurred to you that I get all the rum jobs? The fools’ errands? You, on the other hand, get the glamour stuff. You get to shoot up half of London-”

“I don’t carry a gun, as you know. I can’t imagine what you might have forgotten that was worth a trip all the way back to Boring’s.”

Melrose sighed. “What difference does it make?” He turned to clap at the dog.

“Aggro,” said Jury, then repeated it, in case Melrose was missing the annoyance in his voice. “Aggro. What a bloody awful name.”

Melrose shook his head. “No it isn’t. It fits with the names of my horse and my goat.”

How could he say that without strangling?

Melrose continued: “Listen, just be glad Theo Wrenn-Browne didn’t get to name him. He was all for Aardvark.”

Jury winced.

“I pointed out the word ‘Aardvark” didn’t have the ‘g’ sound, so that was out.”

“Really? The only reason you stood against Aardvark was because it lacks a ‘g’?”

“Aggrieved, Aghast, Aggro. Horse, goat, dog. It’s brilliant.”

Jury rolled his eyes at the empty air. A waste of time rolling them at Melrose Plant. “His name’s Joey,” he said for the umpteenth time.

For the umpteenth time, Melrose ignored it.

Jury sighed. “Anything decided in the Jack and Hammer will end in tears.”

Joey (aka Aggro) was trotting along beside Jury, who stopped every once in a while to rub the dog’s head. Every time he did this, Joey would make a sound in his throat and bounce up toward Jury’s hand.

Melrose picked up a long stick and was brandishing it at nothing in particular. It was the time of day in which everything-trees, road, hedgerows-looked burnished. “The idea was that neither of these women had any connection with their victims.” They’d been discussing the case. “But Chris Cummins did know Stacy Storm; she knew her as the librarian.”

“True,” said Jury. Only she didn’t know before she appeared that night at the pub that Stacy Storm was Mariah Cox. If she had, she might not have gone through with it. It gave her a bad scare to find out who the woman she’d murdered really was.”

“Good Lord, it must be hard on her husband. Hard in any circumstances, but for a policeman…? Is she in the nick right now?”

“Yes. But not for long, I expect. She’ll be arraigned, and then who knows? What’s worse for David Cummins is that the woman Chris Cummins arranged to have shot was the love of his life. He’d lost her a long time ago. Now, he lost her again.”

“That’s terrible.” Melrose tossed out a stick for Joey to chase, but the dog didn’t. He walked amiably along by Jury’s side.

“I don’t know why he likes you more than me,” Melrose said.

“Because I don’t call him Aggro.” Jury wondered if Joey remembered the dark doorway where he had found him and the mince he’d bought and tried to feed him, and Dr. Kavitz, and Joely at the animal hospital.

It had been on that night after Jury had left St. Bart’s Hospital, after he’d seen Lu. The night he’d actually talked to her. There had been no talking yesterday.

After his lunch with Phyllis, he’d gone to the hospital, walked down the same white corridor with the same feelings of inadequacy-worse, the fear of feeling the wrong thing again.

Either the room was cold or he had brought the cold with him. He shivered inside his lightweight raincoat.

She lay as she had the last time, as if she hadn’t moved a finger since he’d last seen her. She looked frozen; that had caused his shivering. The tangle of wires and tubes led to what was keeping her alive or recording her body’s functions.

He pulled over the straight-backed chair and sat down. He watched over her for a long time, he was not sure how long. The light had changed by the time he left.

The way he’d been with her before the accident tumbled through his mind. Her skin, her lips, her hands on him. Her black hair.

He reached out and took her hand. “Wake up, Lu.”

Mindy was asleep in the courtyard and opened her eyes only when Melrose and Jury came along. But she did show an interest in Joey, who was walking about, sniffing.

Neither of them could understand why the dog Mindy felt this connection to the past. She had belonged to the owner of the Man with a Load of Mischief. That person had, of course, abandoned the dog, just as he abandoned everything else. Pub, people, honor, decency.

They stood looking at the half-timbered facade of the meandering building, its white paint chipped and faded, its rear door sinking into the ground. The small leaded-glass windows were strangled by the vines that grew around them. The place hadn’t been tenanted in years.

“It’s a handsome old pub, charming, too, despite its unfortunate last days,” said Melrose.

“What I think is that all of you should chip in and buy it. Then you can sit around and talk uselessly anytime you want.”

Melrose was appalled, but not at their uselessness. “You can’t just up and change things that way. You can’t change the mise-en-scène. No, we’ve got to sit at the same table, in the same chairs, with the same longcase clock ticking in the background-”

“What clock? I don’t remember a clock.”

“All right. I just tossed that in. There’s always a longcase clock in stories. My point being if you start changing anything, then the whole cloth unravels. Come on, Mindy.”

Mindy struggled up but didn’t come on.

“Don’t be silly; it wouldn’t unravel if the Jack and Hammer got blown to smithereens. That’s assuming you and your gang weren’t idling along inside. You’d all get back together around some rock. Yes, you’d manage to meet at Stonehenge if no other venue were possible.”

They had left the pub and were proceeding along the road back to Ardry End, with Mindy behind and Joey keeping a slow pace with the old dog.

Melrose said, “That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.”

Jury didn’t think so; he was enjoying the image. Weren’t there a few big rocks lying on the Stonehenge site that could serve as a table? He turned and looked back at the Man with a Load of Mischief and was glad somehow that it had remained tenantless. As if it were waiting for them all to come again.

Melrose threw another stick and ran after it, as if to fetch it himself, as if teaching the dog how to do it. “Come on, Aggro! Fetch!”

Jury didn’t even bother raising his voice. “His name’s Joey.”