The Old Silent

by Martha Grimes

  I watch you turn, I watch you go

  away

  under yesterday's sky

  The feeling contained in the song was beyond words. It was as if the song served as a window to some expansive vista one hadn't raised the curtain on before. Charlie was transparent; he was accessible. And Jury bet it was this quality that must knock out his listeners.

  and when the leaves are blowing down the lane

  I know I'll see your image through

  yesterday's rain

  yesterday's rain

  yesterday's rain.

  It had certainly knocked out Mary Lee. She was crying in the way he'd seen children cry sometimes, silently unaware of the tears that dropped like waterbeads onto the top of the can of Coke that she had clamped in her hands.

  Jury got out his handkerchief, but she was still spellbound, even after that final chord had wavered out on the tremolo. "Come on," he said, wiping her face for her. "He's packing up."

  When Mary Lee realized that Jury meant she was to follow him down the aisle to the stage, she became even more fixed, immobile. Except for her head, which shook and shook, no, no, no. The fellow in the mixing bay was gone, probably to kick the Coke machine or go to the toilet. She had drawn her pale lips in, clamped them shut, as if making sure nothing would explode from her mouth. All she was able to do was make a steady ummmmmmmm-mg sound like a vibrating guitar string.

  Jury put his hand on her arm and gave it a little tug. He knew that later, she'd never forgive herself if she missed this chance. "I'll do the talking. You can just look at him."

  At this she relented, caving in from the temptation of it all. She wobbled down the aisle after Jury on her new heels and her shaky legs.

  "You're Charlie Raine?"

  He turned in surprise, laden down with his two guitars, portable amp, and two small black metal boxes. He came over to the apron of the stage and looked down, squinting. "Yes. Why?"

  Jury brought out his warrant card, hard to get to because Mary Lee was standing behind him, nearly melding herself to his back. He brought it out. "My name's Richard Jury. Metropolitan police." He said nothing about C.I.D., decided to let Charlie Raine think Drug Squad and then felt ashamed of himself for beginning this ridiculous lie. But if he wanted to talk to him, it seemed simpler. And he would have no reason otherwise to talk to him any more than one of Charlie's fans.

  Charlie flicked a glance at the ID, his handsome face still and serious. He looked at Jury. "You didn't like my tunes?"

  His smile was so high-voltage that it seemed literally to pull Mary Lee from behind the wall of Jury's back.

  "This is Mary Lee," said Jury. He didn't even know her last name.

  Charlie said hello and held out his hand. It was met by the Coca-Cola can in Mary Lee's. He looked from it to her.

  "I brought it for you," she blurted out quickly, adding, "I'm sorry."

  He understood the apology. "Thanks, Mary Lee." With his shirttail he mopped the water from the top and popped it open. Took a swig, frowned slightly.

  Jury wondered if it tasted like tears. "I did like your tunes. Your music. Very much."

  "What's this about, then? I've done something-?"

  "I wondered if you'd heard any talk?"

  He frowned, shook his head, no, he hadn't. He turned away to pick up the gig bag.

  "We been having trouble, see." This came, surprisingly, from Mary Lee. Finding her voice still worked, apparently, she stepped away from Jury's protective side and embroidered: "Found a stash of coke-a kilogram, it was-up in the projection room."

  Jury could not look at her, so strong was his desire to laugh. Why Mary Lee was going along with this charade- indeed, that she was swift enough to know it was a game- could only be answered by her desire to prolong the encounter. Or it might have been a desire to let him know she wasn't just any old blathering fan, but someone in a position of authority.

  "Sorry. Like I said, I don't know anything about drugs. I'm not a user."

  Her eyes widened. "Oh, we didn't mean that; I mean, I can tell one from miles away. But look: if your band does get any news about something going down-"

  Something going down? Jury bit his lip.

  "-tell me direct, okay? Don't talk to no one else." She paused, shrugged, tossed Jury a bone. "Except maybe him."

  "I'll do that."

  "Another thing…" Mary Lee's voice arpeggiated upward on a scale of eighth notes: "I was wondering, might I have your autograph?"

  "Sure." Charlie smiled and nearly short-circuited her frenetic search for a bit of paper to write on. When Jury saw her bend down he was afraid she was going to rip the hem off her petticoat.

  She reached out her high-heeled shoe to Charlie. "Here."

  He laughed shortly, baffled. "Wait, it'd ruin your shoes. I must have something…" But he had nothing in his pockets.

  Jury had been about to get out his notebook and didn't. The intensity of Mary Lee's transaction stopped him.

  "It's okay. Never mind. These ones are old; I hardly wear them."

  Jury did reach over his pen to Charlie, who still seemed uncertain. "I don't think the ink will hold on the clear stuff-"

  "That's all right, then. If it don't, I'll find something else," she said reasonably and watched with fascination as he carefully inked up the top of the shoe. He handed it back.

  Mary Lee took it carefully, as if it were really glass. She said nothing, only looked down at the inscription. Beside her, Jury read it, too: To Mary Lee's shoe. Charlie Raine.

  It was too much for her. Without a word Mary Lee turned and limped up the aisle into the shadows.

  "Can I give you a lift to your hotel?" asked Jury.

  Humping the gig bag over one shoulder Charlie said, "Thanks. But I was only just going to the pub round the corner. Haven't eaten all day. Care to join?"

  "I could use a pint myself."

  Charlie Raine turned up the wattage of his smile. "We can talk about drugs."

  Jury carried the flanger and the delay-box-which, according to Charlie he used when he wanted distortion. The lecture on heavy distortion was pretty much lost on Jury. He was wondering about that comment on drugs.

  "Because you're not the Drug Squad," Charlie said in answer to Jury's question inside the pub. "You're C.I.D."

  Jury was getting the drinks, Charlie was standing at the steam table and food counter, absorbed by the large bowls of salads and rice that a girl with rusty red hair was busily covering with wrap.

  The pub was a plain one, deal tables and chairs, long bar whose only color and decoration were supplied by the rows of bottles ranged on shelves. No handsome mirrors, no mock Tiffany shades. But there were a number of framed posters and pictures of musicians who'd probably played at the Odeon.

  Indeed, directly behind the food counter and the back of the aproned girl was the by now well-known poster of the Sirocco band.

  She drew herself up, hands on hips. "It's gone two. No food after two o'clock." She turned icy blue eyes on both of them.

  "You can't just do a ploughman's? Something cold?"

  Her sigh was overwhelming, the roll of her eyes toward the heavens the signal to God that she was a true martyr to her job. "And what's so funny, I'd like to know?"

  This was directed at Jury, who was standing at the bar watching the porky bartender draw the pints. He had looked up at the poster behind her, laughed, and shaken his head.

  "If I were you," said Jury, "I'd give him what he wants." His tone was mildly threatening.

  It fueled her martyrdom. "If you was me... well, you ain't, not from where I stand." Hands on hips she swiveled from one to the other of them, displaying the hips to their best advantage. "So where d'ya get off coming in here and telling me-"

  "Police," said Jury. He shoved his warrant card near her face.

  Under the bronze makeup, her face paled as if a mask were sliding off. "Well, I never… oh…" And she set about uncovering the cheese plate and whacking off a chunk. Not, however, befo
re she'd given them a dismissive wave as if it weren't that she was scared, but that the meal was being prepared out of her infinite largess.

  Look up, Jury silently commanded her. She didn't. Charlie was looking at the face in the poster as if it belonged to somebody else, only mildly interesting.

  Sitting at a table scratched and coal-bitten by cigarette stubs Jury said to Charlie, "C.I.D. You're pretty observant."

  Charlie shook his head, watched Jury over the rim of his pint of lager, said, "No. I didn't get it from your ID; it was your name."

  Jury looked over at the huge poster, apparently useless as identification, and smiled. "I'm so famous?"

  Charlie didn't return the smile. "I read the papers, see-"

  The redhead, still haughty and tight-lipped, set Charlie's plate before him. But she did hover a bit, looking at him more studiously.

  "Thanks," said Charlie.

  "You're most welcome, I'm sure." The edge of sarcasm had crept back in. She rolled off, hips swaying like a sailor who hadn't found his land legs. Her own legs were in no way, however, of being lost.

  "Does this happen to you often?"

  "What happen?" Charlie was arranging some cheese on a piece of dark bread.

  "Not being recognized? She's trying to work out where she'd seen you before and that poster's right over her flaming head."

  "Happens a lot." He put a pickled onion on top of the cheese, bit down. "Recognize Alvaro more than the rest of us. But he's big and he's black. I mean, I don't think Hendrix would've been able to walk down the street without people pawing him and collapsing and… Or Elvis. I'm just a face in the crowd. It's nice."

  "You say you read the papers-"

  "Your name was right there. That murder up in Yorkshire. What happens when a policeman's the witness?"

  "Nothing much. Like any other witness."

  "I'll bet." Charlie put a hunk of crumbly Cheshire on another thick piece of bread, stuck on some Branston pickle, and tried to work his mouth round the clumsy sandwich. All the while he was casting glances at Jury with solder-colored, expressionless eyes. Strangely so, given the light they had projected back in the theater. It was as if the tints of an impressionist painting had vanished, fled from a Monet, perhaps, recalled to be used elsewhere. Jury doubted the smile bestowed on Mary Lee was ever put to much use.

  Jury had never felt so totally off-guard. The comment about the murder was the last thing he had expected.

  They both seemed to be waiting for the other to give out with information-some signal, some clue-like poker players.

  Jury called. "You've been in London for two days to give a concert and your mind's on some obscure killing in the West of Yorkshire?" He smiled slightly.

  "I just thought it was interesting. Scotland Yard detective as witness. You saw the whole thing."

  "Yes." Jury added nothing.

  "I expect you're not to talk about it?"

  "What did you want to know?"

  "Me?" The eyes opened wider. "Nothing." When Jury didn't comment, he added, "Well, I expect I was interested because I was born up there. Leeds. But you probably know that."

  "Why would I know that?"

  "You're a fan." His attempt at a smile was depressing. Jury thought his picking up the paper napkin to wipe his mouth had more to do with wiping away the false smile.

  Jury looked over to the food counter. The fiery-haired girl was standing there, legs crossed, smoking a fag, and still trying to sort it out. A regular customer? Don't be stupid, girl. You know the regulars. A busker, maybe. He has that guitar. That could be it. Passed him in the Hammersmith station. No, that wasn't it. In an irritated little gesture she flicked ash from the cigarette, recrossed her ankles, went back to staring at Charlie Raine.

  Jury could read her mind; he wished he could read Charlie's. "I think it was-a great tragedy, that killing."

  Charlie returned the uneaten portion of his sandwich to the plate, looking at it as if it were an obscure memory, some detail from the past he couldn't fit in. Then he reached into his jeans pocket and brought out some coins, got up, headed for the jukebox.

  He hung there for a while, hands splayed on glass front, looking down. By the time he came back to the table, a voice both rich and ragged had started singing, Iwas born… by a little old river..." The born was sustained in some time warp of the singer's imagination; it was a thrilling voice.

  "Otis Redding," said Charlie. He sat back, tilting his chair, looking past Jury at nothing. Then he said, "His plane went down over Wisconsin; only twenty-six, he was."

  "How old are you? Twenty, twenty-one?"

  "Twenty-three. Why?"

  "Because you're quitting." Jury didn't expect any answer but the same one Charlie had given Jiminez.

  He was surprised, then, when Charlie shoved his plate back and said, "I've gone as far as I want to go." He shifted sideways on the bench, put one grimy Reebok up, and laid his arm across his knee. The pose was listless; he was looking over toward either the redhead or the jukebox. The girl was still washing up, still watching them, still frowning slightly. "Think she'll twig it?" He slipped a cigarette from Jury's pack, thumbed the tip of a match into flame, and inhaled deeply. "Like Otis: 'too hard living, afraid to die.'"He turned with a grim smile to look at Jury, said nothing, studied his cigarette, went on smoking.

  "You're at the top, and you don't want it, when you must have worked like hell to get there. You must have practiced until your fingers bled." Jury was looking at the hand holding the cigarette, the fingers hatched with tiny marks.

  Charlie said nothing.

  "And then what?" asked Jury.

  He shrugged. "Go home for a bit."

  "To Leeds?"

  "To Leeds. Find a regular gig." He looked over at Jury, his eyes narrowed against the scrim of smoke. "Dusty answers, right?"

  This time, Jury didn't comment.

  "I gotta go, man."

  The British accent had taken on the edge of the American and the idiom he'd been used to hearing for several years. "Who plays keyboard?" asked Jury.

  That surprised Charlie at least enough to make him stop counting out pounds and pence. "Caton Rivers. Why?"

  "Just wondered. Do you ever play keyboard, then?"

  He stacked up the pound coins, the ten- and fivepence ones, and beckoned to the redhead. "No, not much." He zipped up his jacket, started gathering his gear together.

  "Nell Healey won't get off with a lecture, you know. It took all the weight of the Citrine-Healey name-not to mention money-to keep her out of custody after she killed her husband. Now-"

  He froze. "She probably had one hell of a good reason for killing him." The waitress, eyes glued to him, swept the money off the table. But Charlie didn't even see her. "And it'll be God knows how long before the trial."

  Jury got up. "I'm going to Haworth tomorrow. Want a lift to Leeds?"

  "Sirocco's got a concert tomorrow night. Remember?"

  "I remember."

  "You coming?"

  "I hope so. Perhaps I can talk Mary Lee into a couple of tickets."

  Charlie reached into his back pocket. "I'm sure you could, but here." He handed Jury two tickets. "Friend of mine can't make it."

  Jury smiled. "I'll be mugged on the way back to the Yard. They're that hard to come by."

  Charlie Raine ran his hand through his long hair. "Look-" Then his eye went past Jury to the bar. Jury followed his gaze and saw the redhead, the expression on her face, standing there, her feet together, holding the money with a sadly knowing look. "Hold this, will you."

  Jury watched him walk over, look around, take one of the paper plates from the stack and the pen hooked onto her belt. He wrote, handed it to her, almost had to force it on her because she stood there, stiff and wide-eyed.

  He would never, thought Jury, let anyone suffer if he could do something to stop it.

  "Thanks for the beer," said Jury. "Want a lift?"

  They stood looking up at the cold, hard sky. "I'm not going a
nywhere much. Schmooze around. I like to walk in London."

  "So do I," said Jury.

  29

  When Jury walked into his office at New Scotland Yard, Wiggins was studiously turning the pages of an uninvitingly thick book whose bindings seemed to resist this mild assault upon a volume that had lain dormant for so long.

  "Hullo, Wiggins." Jury stuck his raincoat on a peg and sat down in his chair that creaked as if it had some symbiotic relationship with the old book. Books. Three others, all equally thick, were open and the pages held down by weights that Wiggins had found at his disposal: a small ceramic pot that Jury had noticed him taking spoonsful from to put in his tea; a tin of Sucrets wedged between pages of another; a black biscuit as a bookmark. In the one he was now reading he had marked several different places with Aspergum.

  "What's that? Gray's Anatomy?"

  Wiggins favored him with a crimped smile and went back to his book, marking yet another page with a cylinder that looked like a stick of incense.

  He was so deep in his research that nothing was about to make Wiggins risible.

  Jury pulled his In box over and rifled through the messy collection there as Wiggins looked up politely and said he'd got several reports he must sign and, incidentally, what did the doctor say?

  "Hmm? The usual." Jury signed the two papers marked Urgent and tossed them in his Out box with half the other stuff he knew was red-taping its way past his eyes. Then he swiveled round and stared out of the viewless window and thought about Charlie Raine. "Get hold of that band."

  Surprised, Wiggins looked across his desk. "Band?"

  "Sirocco. They're at the Ritz, aren't they?"

  "Yes."

  "I want to talk to them-to Jiminez."

  Wiggins looked pained. "Not Jim-inez, yhem-in-ez. Yhem."

  "You sound like you're coughing up. Ring the hotel. Tell him I want to see him. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. Sir." Wiggins said this with a good deal of snap.

  "You don't have to salute."

  "They have a concert tomorrow."

  "So what? I'm talking about today. And Morpeth Duckworth and Mavis Crewes."