The Black Cat

by Martha Grimes

  “It’s amazing. What you drivers know.”

  The driver laughed. “It’s called the Knowledge. You know.”

  Jury nodded. “There ought to be a pub by that name. The Knowledge.”

  “Maybe there is.”

  Even if the driver hadn’t got “the Knowledge,” it wouldn’t be hard finding Bidwell Street. Not given all of the activity—lights and vehicles, CID, uniform, fire brigade, ambulance, photographers, forensic, medical. It was astonishing what one murder in the streets of a city could call out.

  The doctor was a man Jury didn’t know, maybe pulled over from Bart’s, which was nearby. He was kneeling beside the body.

  Wiggins said, nodding in that direction, “Pathologist got here ten minutes ago. His name’s Bellsin.”

  Dr. Bellsin rose at Jury’s approach. He was a small, sad-eyed man who looked as if he were permanently stationed in the outskirts of regret. The first words out of his mouth were “I’m sorry.” He shook Jury’s hand as if the loss had been personal. To one or the other or both.

  Jury looked down at the body and then knelt. The doctor did so, too.

  The woman was young—in her thirties, as Wiggins had said, which surely must still qualify as young. And she was pretty— beautiful, when there’d been life in her. Her hair was dark and wavy, her eyes now shut.

  “The shot that killed her caught her just under the right breast, made a messy exit out the back. A twenty-two, probably. Second or probably the first shot to the stomach. Well, let’s get her in and I’ll nip round to the morgue.” He paused. “Looks like she might have been partying.”

  Jury looked around at what he could see of the street. No pubs, no restaurants, but a few shops. “Doesn’t look much like a partying street, though it’s not far from a lot of partying places. She’s dressed up, certainly.” The dress was a midnight blue of some crepey material. More strappy sandals, these a dark satin. He rose, motioned to Wiggins. “Has she been ID’d?”

  Wiggins shook his head. One of the uniforms handed Jury a bagged purse. “Sir.”

  Jury thanked him and asked for gloves. Through the plastic, he saw a small black bag, an evening bag with a silver clasp. He snapped on the plastic gloves given to him, removed the bag, and opened the little silver catch. Inside were lipstick, comb, pack of fags, and bills: 750 pounds.

  “I know,” said Wiggins, reacting to Jury’s look. “That’s a lot of money to be carting around dark and silent streets. I mean, in that small bag, at night. It’s suggestive.”

  The notes were held in a silver money clip. He closed the purse, handed it to Wiggins, who had been joined by someone Jury didn’t know.

  “This is Detective Inspector Jenkins, sir.”

  Jenkins smiled and put out his hand. The smile was sardonic, but Jury didn’t think its mood was aimed at him.

  “Dennis Jenkins,” the detective said, setting things on a first-name basis.

  There was something about Jenkins that made one relax. And, Jury imagined, that went for suspects, too. Probably foolish of them. Jenkins’s manner was too laid-back not to be dangerous.

  “And you’re,” Jenkins went on, saving Jury the trouble, “Superintendent Jury. I’ve heard about you.”

  “Not, I hope, from the tabloids.”

  Jenkins smiled his sardonic smile. “That, too. But I meant from Mickey.”

  That “Mickey” was Mickey Haggerty was crystal clear. Jury would rather not have to keep up one end of that conversation. He said nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” said DI Jenkins, actually looking it.

  Jury nodded. “And I’m sorry to be stepping into your patch. Hope it’s okay.”

  “Walk all over it, if you like. Your sergeant here told me there’s the possibility that this is connected to a shooting in Chesham.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  Jury hesitated, then said, “Age, appearance, possible occupation, and clothes.” He looked down at the victim’s feet. “Shoes, for example.”

  Jenkins turned to look, too, then turned back. He said nothing. He waited.

  “Christian Louboutin. It’s the red soles. They’re his trademark.” Jenkins looked again. “Right. I know sod-all about women’s footwear. Was the one in Chesham wearing the same kind?”

  “No. Those were Jimmy Choo.” Jury added, “Both of them dressed for something: party, big date, or client. The victim in Chesham worked for an escort agency.”

  Jenkins frowned. “Tell me more.”

  Jury hesitated again. He knew he could be completely wrong about any connection. “The Chesham murder: we had a hard time ID’ing the victim, eventually discovered she was indeed a local named Mariah Cox, but was working under the name Stacy Storm, working for an escort service. She was to meet a man at a party in Chesham named Simon Santos, but she didn’t show up. There was a difficulty in identifying her; not even the aunt she’d been living with recognized her. The clothes, the hair, the cut, the color.” Jury didn’t know why he went on to tell Jenkins about Santos and his mother, Isabelle, and the portrait.

  “I think that’s why Santos was so adamant that Stacy be his escort. Santos had asked her to change her hair color so that she looked even more like the woman in the portrait—”

  “Vertigo,” said Jenkins.

  “What?”

  “Kim Novak. You remember Vertigo, don’t you?”

  “Oh. You mean the Hitchcock film?”

  Jenkins nodded. “Look, I know you probably agree the connection is kind of wobbly—” He rocked his hand to demonstrate. “But I will say this: she was carting around a hell of a lot of cash for just cab fare. Seven hundred quid”—he nodded toward the black clutch—“in that little bag. It’s the kind of money a high-class pro might get, and just to look at her, I’d say very high class. She was dressed for something, certainly. A party? Coming or going? Early to be coming back from one; it’s not gone ten yet. Where might she have been going? This is hardly party land or the sparkling center of the West, is it?”

  Bidwell appeared to be a street of small enterprises, shut down for the night: a leather goods store selling mostly luggage that probably wasn’t leather; a launderette on the corner; a jeweler, probably not doing much trade in diamonds; an electronics shop; a small grocery. That and the launderette were the only businesses open now. Inside, Jury could see a customer, a woman, staring out the window at the general tumult, the cars and lights and uniforms.

  Jenkins scanned the areas over the shops. “I’ve told my men to visit the flats over these shops. If there’s a grocer and a launderette, there are residents. Those two places wouldn’t be depending on the shops themselves for business. And she’ll need talking to.” He indicated the woman in the launderette.

  “I think I’d like a talk with that shopkeeper at the end of the street, the grocer.”

  “Go ahead. I’m about finished here.”

  “Could I get one of your photos for an ID?”

  “Sure.” Jenkins went up to one of the crime scene technicians and asked him if he’d got a picture. He handed it to Jury. “Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.”

  The grocer was Indian, a tall, thin man with brilliant brown and anxious eyes. Ordinarily, this part of London was not an immigrant enclave. That was more the makeup of outlying areas, East Ham, Mile End, Watford.

  His name was Banerjee. Jury asked Mr. Banerjee if he’d seen anything at all, heard anything.

  The grocer shook his head, hard. “No. Never.”

  “Does this woman look familiar to you?”

  Mr. Banerjee didn’t dismiss the photo out of hand but studied it carefully. Nor did he flinch from the face of the dead.

  Jury expected an immediate no, but he got a thoughtful “I believe so. I think I see her here in the shop. More than once.” He looked off through the black window, as if something in the dark had caught his attention. But it was only the dark.

  “You’ve seen her? Did she live here in Bidwell St
reet?”

  “I would think so, though I do get customers from other streets, mainly. But more likely, yes, she lives in this street. Lived.” He looked sadly at the photo. “A pretty woman. Maybe that’s why I remember. She bought cigarettes. Yes, and food—milk, eggs, bread—basic things.” He handed back the photo. “I’m sorry I do not know her name. I can’t help you more.”

  “You’ve been an enormous help already, Mr. Banerjee. Thanks. If you remember anything at all later ...” Jury handed over one of his cards.

  “I will call you, certainly.”

  As Jury left the shop it started to rain, but gently. He saw up ahead fewer cars angled along the street. SOCO had packed up; the body had been transported. Wiggins was there with DI Wilkes, another detective, and several uniforms.

  “Nothing so far. We’ve been to two houses, figure four or five flats. We can’t be sure if the lack of a name card means a flat is empty or just that the resident’s out. There was one old lady who clearly didn’t want to know anything about anything. No joy there.” He flicked his notebook shut.

  “Never mind. We have more to go on now. The grocer’s seen our lady more than once, so she lived either in this street or close by. Keep at it. One of the flats might well have been hers.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’m going home. I’m tired.”

  Wiggins nodded toward the small clutch of officers. “One of them can give you a lift.”

  “No. I feel like walking. Clear my mind. When I’m tired of that, I’ll grab a taxi. ‘Night.”

  “Sir!”

  Jury turned. “What?”

  “It might do to show that photo around. To the streets.”

  “You could do, but I’m pretty certain the victim wasn’t on the streets. Not the way she looked. And not with that much money.”

  “You think may be ... ?”

  Jury nodded. “Escort service.”

  Wiggins’s smile was grim. “We should be so lucky.”

  “I wouldn’t call it luck.”

  Old Dog in a Doorway

  23

  The old dog in the doorway was making a valiant attempt to keep his legs upright and steady, but the effort was too much and they buckled and he had to lie down.

  The doorway belonged to a leather goods shop in the Farringdon Road, which Jury was passing as he walked through Clerkenwell. The metal gate was pulled across the store’s front. In the window was a host of hard-sided and expensive suitcases. There was a whole suite of cases in a dark red. Who would need all of those bags for a trip?

  Jury knelt beside the dog. “Hey, boy.” Tentatively, he reached out his hand and ran it over the dog’s side. He could have counted the ribs. The dog’s coat, black and white with brownish markings, was dry, the hairs coming off into Jury’s hand. Perhaps the dog had mange; certainly he needed looking after.

  He looked up and down the street, a busy street, for the nearest source of food and saw the McDonald’s he and Wiggins had stopped in not many weeks before. That at least would be quick.

  Inside, he ordered three burgers and bottled water and asked the girl, eyes like dry ice, if they had any sort of bowl he could use for the water. She went on chewing her gum and looking at him as if she didn’t know what bowls were for. When he suggested soup, a little life came into her eyes and she scouted for one. He paid, took the sack, and left.

  The dog still lay in the same place, shadows pooling around him. Jury started with the water. He poured some in the bowl and put it directly under the dog’s nose. When he began drinking and then slurping the water, Jury set the bowl on the stoop. The dog kept on drinking. Jury broke the meat up into small pieces and put it on a napkin. The dog sniffed but wouldn’t eat.

  This lack of interest in the food worried Jury. The dog needed a vet and probably fast. He took out his mobile, hoping the battery hadn’t run down completely, which it had. Damn. Then he thought of the cabdriver who’d taken him to Bidwell Street. The Knowledge. He picked up the dog, the bowl, and the bottle of water, stuck the beef rolled in a couple of napkins into his raincoat pocket.

  The dog weighed very little and was easy to carry. On Clerkenwell Road, Jury found a stopped cab and asked the driver about an animal hospital or vet that might be open this time of night.

  “Your dog taken sick, has he?”

  “Yes. Very sick.” Indeed, the dog seemed not to notice, and certainly not to reckon with, the forced ride in a black cab.

  “Not to worry, mate. We’ll find one. Right off, I know there’s one in Islington along the North Road.”

  That one turned out to be closed, but the driver knew of another he was sure was open all hours.

  Jury certainly hoped so.

  And thank God for “the Knowledge.”

  It was the All-Hours Animal Hospital, and its lights were on, blazing in the darkness.

  Jury thanked the cabbie, gave him a huge tip, and complimented him on his knowledge.

  “Well, we’d be a sorry lot without it. Night, mate.”

  Jury watched him speed off, not knowing, probably, how many people he had helped and would help, driving around with the knowledge of all of London in his head.

  To the receptionist behind the counter, too young to look so sour, Jury said the dog needed attention right away. There were several people in the waiting room, and this girl wasn’t helping.

  “Just take a seat.” She didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle.

  “The dog’s in a very bad way; I—”

  Now she looked up. “Why’d you wait so long to bring it in, then?”

  “Because I had to comb all of the doorways in Clerkenwell before I found one with a sick dog in it.” Jury didn’t try to mute his voice. He heard a giggle behind him.

  The girl was not used to back talk from a patient’s handler, considering she held sway over the appointment book, and gave him a frosty look. Then she backed off and went through a door.

  Jury sat down with the dog by an elderly woman in a crisp black suit who was still keeping up appearances as if there were hope. After a moment or two, she laid a hand on the dog’s head and its eyes fluttered open. “Poor thing. Did you really find him in a doorway?”

  Jury smiled, finding the source of the giggle. “I did. In Clerkenwell.”

  “One can find just about anything there.”

  He laughed. “I know what you mean.”

  “And you’re right; he really does need attention. But he looks like a beautiful dog, really. A breed I’m unfamiliar with.”

  The receptionist was now standing in the doorway to the back rooms and calling, “Mrs. Bromley!” as if wanting to squash any friendly interaction with this man. “The doctor can see Silky now.”

  “My cat,” she whispered to Jury. But instead of rising, Mrs. Bromley called back, “This gentleman can have my spot. His dog needs a doctor more than Silky does.”

  “But Dr. Kavitz—”

  The lady rose. “Maureen—” She was no more than five one or two, but Maureen didn’t want to mess with her, that was clear. She had about her some granite quality Maureen would break her hand on if she tried.

  “All right, all right,” said Maureen. Then she nodded to Jury, “Come on, then.”

  Jury’s smile was genuinely brighter when he thanked Mrs. Bromley.

  “I just hope your dog will be all right,” she said.

  Dr. Kavitz’s temperament was considerably sunnier than Maureen’s as he set about his examination, palpating here, listening there, prodding, reflecting, sometimes squint-eyed, as if to see the outlines of an abstract painting or to hear a note of some fading music. There was artistry involved.

  More probing, more puzzlement, turning to look at the blank wall. Dr. Kavitz nodded and stood right where he’d been leaning over the dog. “He’s quite sound, really. Terribly dehydrated—”

  “I gave him water; he drank a lot.”

  “Good. But he’ll need to take some intravenously. And he needs food.”

  “
He wouldn’t eat.” Jury pulled the minced beef out of his pocket. “Maybe this wasn’t the best thing.”

  Kavitz smiled. “Not surprising he wouldn’t eat it; he’d have lost his appetite.” He was scratching the dog’s neck. The dog had his eyes wide open now. “What we’ll do is keep him overnight, get him hydrated and eating. We’ll see how he does. It was his brilliant luck, you finding him. I’m afraid he’d have been dead by the morning.”

  It made Jury’s blood run cold, that it was so close. “He didn’t look like he’d last very long.”

  “No. Well, you can be thinking of what to do with him. There’s the RSPCA, of course, or one of the animal refuge places. If you can’t keep him yourself, that might be the solution.” Dr. Kavitz regarded the dog. “You know, I’ve a person who’s been looking for one of these. I can get on to her about him.”

  Jury was puzzled. “One of these?”

  “He’s an Appenzell, you know, one of the mountain dogs. A cattle dog. But this one—the Appenzell—is the hardest of the lot to find.”

  “You mean, he’s purebred?”

  “Oh, yes. And as I said, they’re not common.”

  “What would such a dog be doing in a doorway? And with no tags or anything?”

  Dr. Kavitz shrugged. “Got lost, maybe. And he did at one time have identification. A collar.” The doctor indicated a line round the neck where the coat looked worn. “Somehow, he lost it. Or someone took it off. It’s possible his owner took off the collar and dumped him.” Dr. Kavitz shook his head sadly. “A dog like this.”

  Anything’s likely, thought Jury. He knew what people were capable of. “But more likely he could have got away, as you said. I think I should put an ad in the paper, shouldn’t I?”

  “Good idea.”

  Jury patted the dog, said, “All right, then. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to pick him up.” He thanked Dr. Kavitz, turned to leave. Behind him, he heard a woof.

  Dr. Kavitz laughed. “Appenzells bark like hell. Our friend here’s just warming up. Good night.”