The Winds of Change

by Martha Grimes

  ‘Why? I mean why are you going to London this time?’

  ‘Unfinished business.’

  ‘That tells me a lot.’

  Jury smiled, gave Melrose a short good-bye salute.

  Cody Platt was standing in front of Beaminster’s desk, talking to him and Swayle, who looked as if he’d settled into that swivel chair for life, chair back tilted as far as it would go, his arms hanging loose outside the chair arms. He was laughing.

  Jury was surprised a detective as louche as Swayle could survive under Macalvie. But maybe he was different around Macalvie, and his boss could hardly do bed checks.

  Beaminster stopped mid-laugh when he saw Jury. Swayle creaked the chair forward and Cody turned round. Only Cody smiled.

  ‘Cody, can I talk to you for a minute?’ He watched Cody’s eyes widen, his complexion turn a little ashen; probably he was thinking it was yet more about his following Mary Scott and Flora.

  ‘Sure.’ He moved up to the front of the van.

  The other two watched with faces that said Go, why don’t you? Just go. Jury did not return the looks or absorb the hostility. He sat down at the small table serving as a desk, facing away from the two other detectives. They’d have to listen hard to pick up Jury’s end.

  Cody took the chair across the table.

  Jury kept his voice low. ‘There’s something I need to take care of in London. Your boss thinks you might want to take care of it with me.’

  Relief and curiosity replaced the anxious expression. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s related to Viktor Baumann.’

  ‘Baumann.’ He looked by turn angry, sad, hopeless, vengeful.

  ‘That bastard.’

  ‘How much do you know about him?’

  ‘I know he made Mary’s life a misery at the end; I know that he had Flora abducted.’

  ‘You don’t actually know that, Cody.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ he said, simply.

  ‘But we’ve got no proof, and worse, we’re no nearer to finding her’–as if they would or could–’to finding out what happened to her.’

  Cody’s eyes flashed. There was something electric about the boy–Jury didn’t know why he thought of him as a boy.., yes, perhaps he did. He could see Cody all those years ago, in his fringed vest and chaps, snapping those two toy silver guns out of his double holster and looking for any available place to let loose with a fusillade of clicks: stuffed lion or rabbit, maybe? The poster of Queen, whose guitars looked as dangerous as rifles? He let them have it, anyway, and the wall, too, for good measure. This little western unreeled in Jury’s mind as Cody was talking in terrible earnest about Flora and the endless possibilities as to what happened.

  That’s the word Cody used: ‘endless.’ He seemed to have worked up little scenes, cameos that she could be in Dulwich, she could be in Devon or Dorset or another country, for that matter.

  ‘She could be, yes.’ Like your sister. Only, Jury didn’t believe it. ‘You haven’t asked me just what it is I want to do or want you to do.’

  ‘If it means putting Baumann away or even causing Baumann trouble–’ He shrugged, raising his forearms, palms flat in a gesture of I should care ?

  37

  Brian Macalvie stood in Declan Scott’s living room, still wearing his coat.

  ‘Let me take you coat,Commander.’

  ‘I’ll keep it, thanks. I won’t be here long. Where is she, Mr.

  Scott?’

  Declan dropped the arm that he had reached out to take the coat. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Flora. Where is she?’

  Declan came closer, as if some physical proximity would allow him better to understand Macalvie’s meaning. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to explain–’

  Macalvie didn’t explain. He kept his coat on and went on talking. ‘Why it took me so long to work this out, I don’t know. Wait. Yes, I do know. I was taking this case too personally. Still am, probably. A third motive didn’t even occur to me. I mean besides money or a warped desire for a child. Flora was abducted in order to keep her out of harm’s way. Harm in this case meaning Viktor Baumann, who’s relentless when he wants something. Then, when Mary died, the threat doubled–quadrupled, even because you hadn’t a legal leg to stand on when it came to keeping Flora with you. Baumann, as her father, would have gotten custody. So where is she? France? Italy? In Florence? Venice? In a boarding school, maybe? A convent?’

  Without waiting for an invitation, Macalvie sat down while Declan still stood, his face blank as a plate. Now Macalvie did the inviting: ‘Sit down, why don’t you?’

  ‘Thank you. I’m beyond sitting down.’ He walked over to the fireplace and leaned on the mantel, arms folded. ‘Let’s assume you’re right–’

  ‘Let’s.’

  ‘What about Mary?’

  ‘Oh, your wife would have been in on it. You might even have done it for her sake.’

  ‘Then there’d be no crime in it, would there?’

  ‘Probably not. Except for sending police all over the damned place on a wild-goose chase.’

  ‘Then–?’ Declan shrugged.

  ‘Well, then there’s still Lena Banks lying on a slab in the morgue. Murder–that is a crime, Mr. Scott.’

  ‘Why would I murder this woman?’

  ‘‘This woman’? That’s a bit standoffish of you, considering you had an affair with her. Why would you kill her? Presumably she meant a world of trouble.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You say she was talking to your wife at Brown’s. We have only your word about that.’

  ‘Why would I lie about it?’

  ‘Perhaps to establish it was Mary and not you she came here to see.’

  ‘But it was Mary. Dora Stout saw them. And why would she disguise herself?’

  ‘So you wouldn’t recognize her?’

  Declan’s laugh was unbelieving. ‘Commander Macalvie, I didn’t even know her at that point.’

  ‘But I believe she thought–or they thought, Lena Banks and Viktor Baumann–that you very possibly would later on, at some point. And would they want someone as memorable as Georgina coming here? I know I’m speculating, but this action wasn’t taken suddenly; it was a long-term plan. There was a threat involved. And the threat, I’d guess, was something like ‘If you don’t hand over Flora, Viktor will get her anyway and that would be far more traumatic for Flora.’’

  ‘And that’s what he did: he took her.’

  ‘No, he didn’t, Mr. Scott. Viktor Baumann is still looking for her. That’s what the whole Lena Banks affair in Paris was about. They both believed you’d talk, given the right person to talk to. But you didn’t.’

  Declan’s laugh again registered disbelief. ‘I didn’t talk because I had nothing to say, for God’s sakes. And in the hotel over three years ago–could we just assume for the moment I’m telling the truth?’

  ‘Okay. She was there on Viktor’s behalf, again. As I said, she threatened Mary.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. But as Mary didn’t tell me what they talked about, I can’t say yes or no.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she have told you? You were her husband.’

  ‘Because Mary was paranoid when it came to Flora. And that’s not a figure of speech. Baumann had always had her tied in knots over that little girl. If she thought telling me might somehow jeopardize Flora’s safety, she wouldn’t have.’

  Macalvie was shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe that. If it had happened, she’d have told you. That’s one reason I don’t think it happened.’

  ‘Look, Commander Macalvie, no one knows. You’re wrong, I can tell you that.’ Declan did sit down then, looking at Macalvie and then looking away. ‘I’m afraid Flora’s dead.’

  ‘Parents don’t usually relinquish hope as long as there’s a tiny chance a child is still alive.’

  ‘I’m not really, Flora’s father. I think faith has a lot to do with blood. It’s like a sixth, sense, like intuition. When you know something beyond all reason.
Mary had it. I don’t mean I didn’t love Flora, for I certainly did. But I was only around her for a short time. All right, I can understand your coming to the conclusion you did, that I might have staged Flora’s abduction. But that still doesn’t explain why I’d kill Lena Banks.’

  ‘Several possibilities there. Rage at Georgina for betraying you.’

  Declan laughed. ‘Oh, really? Well, one problem there is that I’d have had to know Lena Banks was Georgina.’

  Macalvie shrugged. ‘Who says you didn’t? Number two, Lena Banks found out you had Flora, had her somewhere.’

  ‘If that’s the case, Viktor Baumann also knows.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Then he’ll come for her–look, are you going to charge me? It would put paid to at least part of this business.’ His voice sounded very tired.

  Macalvie gave him a long look. ‘No. I can’t charge you, not without more evidence. We haven’t even found the weapon yet.’

  ‘Then why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘I want to know where Flora is.’

  ‘She’s dead.’ Declan was resting his arms on his knees, his head down, looking at whatever figure in the carpet might disclose something.

  ‘You said that before.’ But Macalvie thought the finality and despair in the words sounded genuine and a doubt crept into his mind. Or was it simply pity? Or was it–much more likely-identification? Remembering the little girl sitting at the table with a bullet in her forehead? He should not be working this case; he was too close to it. ‘Did your wife know she was going to die?’

  ‘Yes. But not when. Until the end. Within the space of a few months her heart grew so weak she could hardly breathe at times.’ He looked away.

  ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  Declan Scott rose and Macalvie, who was just under six feet, still felt Scott towered over him. ‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ said Scott.

  Macalvie looked at the French doors. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll just go out through the gardens. I want to talk to my men in the van.’

  Declan nodded. As Macalvie opened the door, Declan said, ‘You’re wrong, Commander. Dead wrong.’

  Beaminster and Wiggins were in the van, which was cold. Something had happened to the small portable heater. The bars looked anemic. Wiggins, who looked more dreamy than pale, was on the phone, and nodded by way of hello.

  Beaminster, who’d been on the phone himself, laughing at something, quickly put it down, as if laughter, in the service or not of this investigation, was prohibited.

  Wiggins hung up and said, ‘I’ve checked every convent, every school within a twenty-five-mile radius of Paris and Florence. No sign of her. One sister’—he looked at his page of notes–’Sister Anne made it quite clear to me they didn’t welcome the intrusion of police as their convent was a sanctuary and did I really think she’d tell me if such a child was there? Didn’t sound very godly to me, if you know what I mean.’

  Macalvie sighed and sat down at Swayles’s desk. ‘Keep looking. Go another twenty-five miles out. He knows where she is.’ Macalvie was almost certain of this, but .... almost was a long way from a dead cert. ‘I think if Declan Scott confessed, he’d get a pretty light sentence...’

  ‘Yes, probably he would.’

  ‘Viktor Baumann. Lena Banks and Viktor Baumann. If they had my kid I’d kill them myself.’ He looked at Wiggins and added, ‘I hope your guv’nor nails the bastard.

  38

  Cody parked the car at the curb in front of the Islington house. Jury had offered to put him up overnight–or, rather, Stan Keeler would put him up. Stan had gone to Germany again, ‘where they appreciate us.’ That had made Jury smile. So there was a chink in the old Keeler armor, the only self-pitying thing Jury had ever heard Stan say. Anyway, Stone would be delighted to have someone in the flat. Cody was a dog person.

  (Later, after a look at Carole-anne, he made it clear to Jury that he was also a girl person.)

  Mrs. Wasserman recognized Jury’s tread and was suddenly there on her steps (the ones to the garden flat), illuminated by a sliver of light from the moon coming from behind a slate-colored cloud. ‘Mr. Jury, Mr. Jury.’ She shook her head sadly as if it were indeed all Mr. Jury’s fault, whatever it was.

  ‘Mrs. Wasserman. Is something wrong?’

  She was looking at Cody. He was clearly wrong, this stranger, until Jury introduced him as Detective Platt of the Devon and Cornwall police.

  ‘Ah, another policeman! I am glad of that. There can’t be too many. There is a prowler, Superintendent. He was on these steps not ten minutes ago.’

  Mrs. Wasserman’s paranoia came in waves, the biggest ones hitting the shore when Jury was absent for more than a day or two.

  He was her ballast. There might have been someone here, but it could as easily have been the milkman or the postman or the delivery boy from the Chinese restaurant on Upper Street. Carole-anne was fond of shrimp fried rice.

  ‘Did you see him at all?’

  ‘No, of course not; it was too dark, wasn’t it?’

  Jury had his little’notebook out and his pen. ‘Anything at all you remember?’

  She pinched her lower lip, pleating it. ‘Only that he was tall. And thin.’ Everyone was to Mrs. Wasserman, who was herself short and chubby. She said this, looking at Cody. Cody was indeed a rail. ‘I couldn’t see well. I told you–’

  Jury packed notebook and pen away and smiled. ‘Not to worry; if he comes back, we’ll know it. But it might simply have been someone looking for an address.’ Someone, more likely no one.

  Carole-anne, who was equally adept at picking up signs of Jury’s return, was rushing down the stairs from her third-floor flat as Jury was trudging up to the first floor. ‘Super!’ she cried, launching herself at him like a missile. If he hadn’t caught her in a hug, she’d have flown down the stairs, headfirst.

  ‘You lead a complicated life, Mr. Jury,’ Cody said, gazing at Carole-anne as if the sun had risen at midnight.

  Carole-anne left Jury’s embrace and might just have flown into Cody’s if he’d had his arms open. Unlocking his door, Jury introduced them, saying, ‘I thought maybe he could stay in Stan’s flat.’

  Nominal resident manager, Carole-anne held extra keys to all the flats. There were only Jury, Mrs. Wasserman and Stan Keeler, who was seldom there. So right away, Carole-anne pulled at Cody’s hand and marched him up to the second floor. Jury watched her departing back. How was she dressed tonight? Some vibrant shade of lavender that had never seen the inside of an old lady’s clothes cupboard. Luscious silk top and short, short skirt.

  Jury stood catching a sight of this before he turned into his living room and levered himself, like an old arthritis sufferer, into his armchair. He sighed. He had been out of hospital for two months and had to admit to a wistfulness to return, even if it did mean Nurse Bell. He tired too easily now. Too easily for what, for God’s sakes? The center court at Wimbledon? Riding point to point at Newmarket? Poor you.

  Clatter on the stairs. It could have been a herd of zebra but was instead Carole-anne returned from orienting Cody to Stan’s place–’Guitar here, piano there, anything else you need?’–to orient Jury to his life. What did she think of Cody? He was someone to go down the pub with, which is what she said.

  ‘Cody’ll be down in a minute. Thought we’d go to the Angel.’

  You?’ She raised her eyebrows in question as she sat down on the sofa.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Oh, pardon me for asking.’ She picked up one of the beauty magazines that she kept on Jury’s coffee table in case she got bored–at least that was always the impression–and sat flicking through it and swinging her foot.

  It was the shoes that made the clatter. Why did women wear wooden blocks? It looked as if they’d shopped in a lumberyard instead of a shoe store. Jury looked at the magazine. ‘Why do you bother with those?’

  ‘To get beauty tips, you know’–here she lifted a
handful of copper-colored hair that would have had the fire brigade here if the hair had any more highlights, pointed to her skin, her eyes ‘makeup and clothes, of course.’ She lifted one corner of the lavender skirt.

  Jury laughed. ‘Carole-anne, you should be giving tips, not getting them. Coals to Newcastle, that is.’

  She looked round the room as if to discover the source of this alien voice, as if the very air were clogged with suspicion. ‘Is that one of your compliments?’

  ‘Not mine. God’s. How’s work?’

  She was still frowning over the Jury compliment. Then she stopped and started flipping through Beauty Secrets, vol. 1,000,000.

  ‘Andrew’s up on a bit of a high horse.’

  This was Andrew Starr, a man not given to high horses; too much patience might have been his problem. He owned a shop in Covent Garden called the Starrdust. It sold horoscopes, magic effects, dreams (all the same, in other words). It was a fascinating little place that catered as much to kids (such as Wiggins) as to grown-ups (Jury tried to think of one).

  ‘High horsing about what?’

  ‘You know, that Lady Chalmers, the short one with the loud voice. We can’t even hear our stereo over her. Well, she’s blind deaf, ain’t she ? You know who I mean.’

  ‘Actually, no.’

  ‘So she had Andrew do her horoscope, and that’s really complicated at best and near impossible at least if you haven’t got your dates sorted. Anyway, he told her eighty–’

  (Andrew did not come cheap.)

  ‘–and she claimed he’d told her twenty. Twenty poundsl that’s just ridiculous, that’s just cheek, you ask me. For one of his horoscopes. And he gives all of his customers a price list. This one is the most detailed horoscope–’ She made a big circle with her arms, as if embracing sky, planets, stars. ‘And all the work that goes into it, well, he’s a perfectionist–’