“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 on
e, 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 fire
place. 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.”
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