“Oh, it’s quite all right, sir; I was in the kitchen anyway, heating up milk for cocoa. Would you care for some? Or tea?”
“No, no, thank you, Sadie. We’ll just sit in the study for a while. Never mind about us.”
It looked as if she would mind all over the place; it looked as if she could think of nothing she’d rather do than mind Tom Brownell. But she drifted off, leaf-like.
They went into a fire-warmed room with pale blue walls and soft leather chairs. Jury sat down as Tom went to a drinks table and came back with two whiskies.
“Daisy died of an overdose, I understand. Of what?”
“Pain meds. I never could figure out why she had the tablets.”
“Tablets. You could hardly overdose on those accidentally. You’d have to take too many to do the job.”
“There were also traces of an antidepressant.”
“What was she depressed about?”
“Her marriage? Dan Cooke wasn’t much of a husband. I don’t think it ever got through to him that he’d married the girl.” Tom laughed, bitterly.
“Was he there in the house? I mean when she took—?”
“No. That’s probably true, given he spent most of his weekends in the city and the boatman hadn’t seen him. He hadn’t been ferried over from St. Mary’s.” Tom paused. “You’re not thinking he killed her?”
“I’m thinking somebody did.”
Tom rose and went to the fireplace, took the poker and shoved a sparking log back on the pile. “Daisy murdered? That’s preposterous.”
“No more than suicide. That picture of Daisy is all wrong, given what I’ve heard about her. She was like you, Tom; she was a problem-solver.”
Tom reseated himself, picked up his glass and said, “That was a problem I certainly didn’t solve.” He paused. “I do wonder sometimes if she … if there was somebody else.”
“You mean, another man?”
“I have nothing at all to rest that suspicion on, except—”
“What?”
Tom sat back. “There was one night, years ago, I got a call from her telling me she had to go to London right then. I mean, that night. I told her it was impossible from Bryher, but she begged me to help. I did. I found a plane, a pilot. She told me no more but I figured it was someone she needed to help. It must have been, well, crucial, an emergency. Daisy was like that, though. She’d go to any lengths to help someone. So problem-solver, yes, she was.”
Jury smiled. “A fixer. If there’s a good spin you can put on that word.” He recalled Josephine Bewley’s remark “not until the man sat down” at Flora Flood’s table. Jury had wondered at the time who the man had been who had not come to see Flora Flood.
He thought for a moment and then asked, “What is it you miss most about the job, Tom?” For there was no doubt in Jury’s mind that he did miss it.
“The applause.” Tom smiled and drank off his drink.
Jury thought he must have misheard. But apparently not, for Tom continued.
“The acclaim, the acknowledgment, the interviews, picture in the papers, articles about my cases, the way the rank-and-file cops looked at me, at times almost reverently—the praise, the fame, the standing ovation after a talk I gave. As I said, the applause.”
Jury was literally thunderstruck. “You, Tom? Come on!”
“You believe all of that stuff you used to read in the papers or that book about me and my modesty, my self-denigration, my humility, my dislike of publicity? Sorry to disillusion you. I loved it. I think Daisy was the only one who got it. When I balked at doing the book tour, when I said I wanted to avoid all of the admiration. ‘Oh, come on, Dad, drop the pretense. This is me you’re talking to. I know you love it.’”
Jury took a long drink and slid down in his chair. “And I bet you didn’t.”
Tom looked astonished. “I beg your pardon?”
“The pretense was a pretense. My guess is that for some reason you wanted to believe you were that shallow. But I’ve seen you around other people, listening to them. Your focus is immense. You almost become the other person. I’ve seen it. The person you’re trying to describe is utterly self-involved and that’s simply not you.”
“You asked what I missed about the job. And that’s it.” But his tone had changed. “The vanished fame, the lost acclaim, the old success.”
“You feel a terrible loss and all that’s part of it, but it’s the part easiest to talk about. No, what you lost is far more than that. The old success was Daisy.”
Tom looked at the fire. In the reflected light, his face looked like a mask of ice. Visible lines, cracking.
“And she’s gone, gone, gone. I’m sorry, Tom.”
PART II
Fixer
19
The next morning, Jury took the North Circular Road to the Golders Green exit and had only to drive a short distance before he came to a jumble of warehouses and lockups, where he saw CRENSHAW’S CARS and, beneath the name of the business, ALEX CRENSHAW, PROP.
It told him something about Alex Crenshaw: the brevity, the exactness, the lack of flourish. Jury already liked the guy.
Liked him even more when he got out of his car and looked around the lot. If the Porsche next to which he parked his police-issue Cortina was proof of what Crenshaw could do with a fix-up, he was in the right business. The sleek black body looked as if it had never been on the road, let alone had any dents or rust. Jury thought surely it must be a new car until he saw a for sale sign discreetly placed beneath a windscreen wiper. The asking price told him it was definitely not new. And nor could Jury afford this used version. There were a dozen other cars—all European—out here and all in the same pristine, new-looking condition. But what really won Jury over was the repair shop itself. On the far left was a lighted room, small, and clearly the office. The rest of it consisted of two bays. Above the first hung a sign: CRITICAL CARE. And above the second: ON THE MEND.
Jury smiled. Here was a man who could look at cars not as things just to be pushed and pried and hammered on but as objects with feelings.
The cars out here were definitely out of the critical-care unit: the two Ferraris, the Lamborghini, the Aston Martin, the gorgeous red BMW convertible—all looked mended to within an inch of their lives. It was the BMW Jury was inspecting when he heard a voice at his elbow, a North London accent delivered in a mellifluous voice.
“Good car, that. Engine like a hummingbird. You like it?”
“How could one not?” Jury turned to see a middle-aged man, mildly handsome with a welcoming expression.
“I could give you a great deal on it, if you’re interested.”
“Mr. Crenshaw, even a great deal would have my bank account running for cover. But if I had money, believe me, you’d have my business. And I know of at least two people who do have money and whose business you’re going to get. No, three people, although one of them might be too lazy to drive here from Northamptonshire.”
Alex Crenshaw laughed. “Can’t say I blame him.”
“Her. I’m mightily impressed,” Jury added, looking around the lot at cars and bays.
“Thanks. But who do I have the pleasure of impressing? Alex Crenshaw.” He held out his hand.
Jury shook it, and with the other hand took out his warrant card. “Richard Jury, New Scotland Yard CID.”
“My God. What have you done?” Crenshaw addressed the BMW.
“Nothing to be charged with.”
“That’s a relief. I just finished fixing this guy up.” He patted the car. “Okay, then what have I done?”
“Ditto. I’m just after a bit of information.”
“Really? Let’s go into the office.”
Inside was a little overflowing, with a few chairs on which were files and other bunches of paper, a large desk, a half-dozen filing cabinets.
“This is something you’ve already spoken to police about, recently. A detective chief inspector—”
“Brierly. Northampton police. Just a
couple of days ago.”
Jury was surprised he recalled these details, and then wondered why he was surprised, given the meticulous care Crenshaw took with his cars. “Right. A few years ago you sold a car to a man named Servino.”
“Alfa Romeo. Nice guy. Had his wife with him.”
From Crenshaw’s expression, Jury surmised she was, possibly, not a “nice girl.” “DCI Brierly thought I should talk to you, get more information.” Jury knew that Brierly was wrong about the “vague” part; whatever Crenshaw had told him wouldn’t be vague, simply not detailed enough. “The thing is, they had an accident some years back and we’re just trying to sort it out. And you called police, so I’m thinking there’s something here worth pursuing. Why’d you call? And so long after it happened?”
“Understandable. When it happened I was out of the country. When I got back, I found a month-old newspaper in which that accident was reported. Odd that it would be, unless there was something about the Servinos that was newsworthy. Anyway, it was clear that Mr. Servino really liked that Alfa Romeo. It’s just that there were a lot of questions. Like, what would happen to the car in a collision? How would it stand up to, say, going up against an embankment or colliding with anything else? The engine’s in the rear. Would the driver or the passenger be in more danger? What else could go wrong with an Alfa Romeo? Like braking or things coming loose?
“‘Not this Alfa,’ I said. ‘Things coming loose?’ For God’s sake. ‘Not unless you just loosened things yourself,’ I said. ‘Take out your lug wrench and—’” He moved his hand and arm in a turn, as if adjusting something. “‘Loosen up the lugs and I wouldn’t be surprised if a wheel went a little wild when you hit that embankment.’ I just laughed.”
“So did he ask more questions then?”
“Not him. Her. All he was doing was going around kicking tires. Don’t you love the way guys do that? As if it really told him anything about the car.” He made it sound like a playground prank.
“She was the one concerned about an accident?”
“Yeah, which is what I thought later was peculiar. There was an accident, but she was the one that bought it—I mean, got hurt.” He paused. “You know, I almost didn’t sell it to them.”
“The Alfa? Why not?”
“Thing is, I thought if something goes wrong with my car, I’m afraid they wouldn’t bring it back to me for fixing. They’d take it to some cowboy repair guy closer to them. If you see what I mean.”
My car. Jury saw. He rose. “Alex, it’s been a real pleasure talking to a man who knows what he’s doing, who’s in the right line. If you think of anything else, let me know.” Jury handed over one of his cards. “And as I said, I’m sending business your way.”
Alex laughed. “Except for the lazy girl.”
“Maybe even her. Good-bye.”
20
Jury stood outside of the heavy glass door bearing the name RICE INVESTMENTS for a few very long moments wondering if he should go in. The thought of Vernon Rice kneeling by the body of Nell Ryder that day on the stud farm kept Jury’s feet pretty much rooted to the spot.
Was it fair to land Vernon in an emotional quandary in order to get something out of Sydney Cooke, who might not even have something to get? To involve Vernon went against his better judgement.
He went against it and pushed open the door.
Here in the outer office sat Vernon’s pretty assistant, going over some papers. It was a small firm that did a large business. It was also very informal. When Jury said he just wanted a few words with Mr. Rice, the assistant smiled, leaned over her desk and looked towards the half open door of her boss.
Jury could see Vernon Rice studying the screens of several monitors, back to the door, hands shoved in pants pockets.
“Go on in, Mr. Jury; he’s just daydreaming.”
Jury knew Rice wasn’t daydreaming, but he went to stand in the doorway. Silently at first, then saying, “Vernon. I need your help.”
Vernon Rice turned quickly around, looking first astonished and then pleased. “Richard Jury. You’ve got it. Come on in.”
Jury relaxed and took one of the Italian designer chairs near a coffee table on which rested a pewter pot, steam coming out of the neck, cups and saucers beside it, cream and sugar.
“You’re expecting somebody?”
“Yes, you. Have a cup? Rosie always puts out extra cups.”
“Good for her. No cream, one sugar. Thanks.”
They sat back with their coffees. “Tell me what’s going on,” said Vernon.
Jury started the story of Tom Brownell and Bryher just as it had started for him and barely stopped to drink or draw breath before Vernon knew as much as he did about Sydney Cooke.
Vernon then rested his head back against his chair and silently warmed his hands on his cup, sipping occasionally from it.
Jury finally broke the silence by saying, “Look, sorry, Vernon, I don’t know what I thought you could—”
“Sure you do. You think I can get this something about her mother out of her—this secret. The question is, though, what secret?”
“Her mother—”
“We’re assuming it’s to do with her mother’s death, but why not one of the others? Or something else entirely.” He fell silent again and then said, “Shergar.”
Jury looked puzzled.
“That great Irish race horse. The one that was kidnapped, possibly by the IRA, and never heard from again.” Another silence. Then Vernon said, “When do you want to go?”
“How about now? But I’m barging into your day.”
“Oh, go ahead and barge. I’m only doing money. Can we take my car? It’s probably faster than yours.”
“Anything’s faster than mine.”
21
In Vernon’s Ferrari it took them less than two hours to drive to Ardry End from London.
Vernon was talking about Aggrieved as they pulled up before the columned steps of the house. “Wonderful horse.” They were halfway up the wide marble stairs when that very horse came around from the side of the house, Sydney in the saddle.
Vernon Rice stopped cold and stared.
For one heartbreaking moment, Jury thought he was turning away to go back to the car. But then Jury knew Vernon would never turn away. He had looked away for only the moment it would take to master his emotions.
Had she met him at the door in the usual way, Jury knew she would still have reminded Vernon of Nell Ryder, for she had the same coloring, although not as ethereal, and the same build, although not as fragile. But up on a horse, Sydney Cooke would become Nell Ryder for Vernon Rice. There’d have been no escaping it. Even though she did not sit that horse as if she were born to it, the pose was identical, and it was the last view Vernon had ever had of Nell.
But what he said to her was, “Remember a horse named Misty Mountain?”
“You must mean Misty Morning,” she answered.
“Oh, right.”
Jury knew the mistake was deliberate, giving Sydney the tiny victory of correcting him.
“Remember she was ridden by a female jockey?”
“I do,” said Sydney.
“You and that horse are the spitting image.”
Sydney was out of the saddle and on her feet in front of Vernon in two seconds, immeasurably pleased. It was the first bright smile Jury had seen.
“They didn’t win,” she added.
“Lost by a hair. Three strides.”
“Four.”
“Nope. Three.”
“I’m sure I’m right.”
“I’m sure you’re not. I’m Vernon Rice.”
Her smile only grew brighter. She liked this little argument. She put out her hand. “Mr. Rice, I’m delighted to meet you. Come on in the house.”
In the middle of this sunniness, Melrose Plant came to the door. “Vernon Rice! How are you?”
“Hello, Lord Ardry.”
“Don’t start that. Melrose will do.”
“Then, hel
lo, Melrose.”
“See you’ve met my horse.”
“I already knew your horse. But not its rider.”
“Keeper, more. Aggrieved has been a bit sick. Stable cough.”
“I’m glad he has a stable. When you led him away, I wondered what fate had in store for him.”
“Very funny. He’s got a goat, too.”
“A goat, a girl. Lucky horse.”
Sydney’s eyes, Jury saw, seemed to be swimming a little, if water could spark.
As they entered the library, Ruthven appeared with two decanters. “M’lord: Talisker or this Lagavulin—” Ruthven turned the bottle to look at the label. “Sixteen-year-old?”
“Wow!” said Vernon. “That’s old enough. I’ll have a slug of it.”
“Let’s slug away,” said Melrose. “Sit down.”
Jury took his usual chair near Melrose’s wingback. Vernon sat on the sofa near the fire, and Sydney, without hesitating, sat down beside him.
Ruthven took orders, poured, and said to Melrose, “If it’s not a bother, m’lord, Martha would like to see you about the dinner.”
“No, of course.” Melrose followed Ruthven to the kitchen.
“Do you recall her name?” Vernon asked Sydney.
Sydney looked bewildered. “Whose?”
“The female jockey.”
“Oh. Melissa—Herfeld, I think.”
“Only female jockey I ever saw.”
“Only one there.”
“Do you want to be one?”
“Me? God, no. I’m not really in favor of horse racing.”
“For not favoring it, you seem to know a lot about it.”
“I think it might be inhumane.”
“Really? You mean the training the horses go through? But all training is rigorous: baseball, soccer, tennis. It doesn’t have to be cruel. I’ve never known a trainer to mistreat his horses.”
“Is that what you do, Vernon? I mean, is your business to do with horses?”
Vernon laughed. “No, except as far as investing is concerned. I have an investment firm in the City. But my stepfather owns a stud farm. I spend a lot of time there. It’s where Mr. Plant got Aggrieved. He’s a great horse.”
The Old Success Page 9