“Maybe this time it is coincidence. I know you hate that word, only...”
Jury leaned back. “The trouble with coincidence in this case is that Chris Cummins didn’t say anything about knowing Kate Banks. Not a word.”
“Maybe she just saw the write-up in the papers or heard the news and didn’t put the murdered Kate together with her old Roedean chum Kate. Of course, we don’t know she went there. And these girls in the photo didn’t necessarily go there. Although Myra Brewer seemed to think they were all school chums.”
“‘A pricey public school on the coast,’ that’s what David Cummins said. That could certainly have meant Roedean. It’s near Brighton.”
“There’re a lot of pricey schools. That could just be coincidence, too.”
Jury shook his head. “Could be, but ...” He checked his watch, got up. “I’ve got to get back to my place and change my clothes. I’ve got a date with our girl from Valentine’s. Stacy Storm’s flatmate.”
“You mean Adele Astaire?”
“Right. Aka Rose Moss.” He retrieved his coat, which had fallen to the floor. “Come on, it’s nearly six. Good job, Wiggins.”
Walking down the corridor, Wiggins said, “What about Harry Johnson?”
“Jenkins took him in for questioning. ‘Helping us with our inquiries.’ ” Jury snickered.
“Do you honestly think he killed these women?”
“No.” Jury smiled.
52
After a scanty half an hour’s presence in the Black Cat, Mungo had already divested a tubby man sitting at the bar of half a banger; been offered a hard-boiled egg, which he’d turned down, not knowing what to do with it; got a large portion of beans on toast (eaten the beans and left the toast) belonging to a couple who’d been having a quiet meal at a table by the fireplace.
Sally Hawkins, who was having no success at all in shooing Mungo away from the tables, complained bitterly to Melrose. “Who’s that dog that’s been all over the room begging food off my customers?”
Melrose put down his book and looked puzzled. “What dog?”
“That dog!” The finger she pointed had a cutting edge. “That mutt that’s begging his dinner.” It was a table where a lone man sat. Melrose stood up, hoping the “mutt” attribution hadn’t reached Mungo’s ears. Mungo had now drifted from the beans-on-toast couple to a man by himself with a paper and a ploughman’s. The man was handing Mungo down a bit of cheese.
Melrose adjusted his glasses, as if the fractional realignment of glasses with eyes would reacquaint him with the dog. “I have no idea.”
She stood with hands on hips. “Well, he came in with you!”
Melrose leaned back from her. “With me? I believe you’re mistaken. I brought Dora’s cat back.” His injured tone suggested that this act of mercy and heroism was being unkindly repaid. “Dora is certainly happy.”
“Well, the dog was with Morris, is what I’m saying.”
Melrose laughed. “With Morris? I don’t think so. Morris—” Here he ran his hand over Morris, who was in her favorite spot by a window, where light was fast deepening into dusk. “Morris strikes me as a cat who would hardly strike up a friendship with a gypsy dog.” He picked up his book. It was called A Dog’s Life. Not the best choice for a man who had no interest in dogs.
“You’re telling me the dog’s a stray?”
Melrose shut his eyes as if his patience were wearing thin. “I’m not telling you anything, other than I don’t feel I should be held responsible for knowing the dog’s provenance. He appears to be well-mannered-that is, he’s not fighting your customers for food—so I’d assume he belongs to someone in Chesham here.”
“He’s been round all the tables.”
“Just as long as he’s not eating with a runcible spoon.”
“A what?”
Melrose was saved from reciting “The Owl and the Pussycat” by the return of Dora, who veritably bounced into the chair beside Morris (never mind Melrose).
Mungo chose this moment to turn up, too, at their table. Great.
He hauled himself up beside Morris, lay down, and tried to fold in his paws.
Sally Hawkins nodded toward the two. “There’s something awful matey about those two. The dog acts like it knows Morris. Like they’re mates.”
Just as she said that, Schrödinger (if it was Schrödinger) raced by with the other black cat (unless that was Schrödinger instead) on her heels. They pulled up under the table of the elderly lady with the racing form. The two cats nearly brought her down as all of their ten legs got caught up together.
“Bloody beasts,” the elderly lady muttered, and went for them with the racing form. “You know, Mrs. Hawkins, you’ve got three cats in here. You might think more about that problem than about the one dog.”
Melrose checked his watch. Why in hell didn’t Jury call? What was he supposed to do now?
53
On his way to Islington, Jury got out his mobile, found Plant’s number, and punched it in.
“Where are you? ... You’re still in Chesham? Why haven’t you started back with Schröd ... What do you mean you can’t tell the difference? ... Well, look at their eyes, what color are they? ... Yellowish ... what does that mean? ... Oh, for God’s sake ... we can’t keep Harry at the station for bloody ever....”
On Melrose’s end, he asked, “How was I to know there’d be three black cats to deal with? They all look alike.... Dora? Well, of course I asked Dora. She knows Morris; Morris is all she’s sure of. She could tell Morris on a moonless night in an alley of black cats. But she can’t tell Schrödinger, she’s never seen him before, and the other one Sally Hawkins dragged in—”
“Listen,” said Jury, “just stuff one or the other into that carrier, shove it in the car, and get back to Belgravia. You’ve a fifty percent chance of being right, which is what you usually have, and Harry himself might not even know the difference. At least it’ll do for a bit.”
“All right all right all right. What do you mean, ‘what I usually have’?”
Melrose found himself talking to a dead phone. He shook it, as if Jury might fall out.
He tossed his mobile on the table and turned to Dora, who’d been listening to the call with great interest. Adults saying dumb things. “What’d he say? What’re you going to do?”
“What are we going to do, you mean. You are going to help me get those cats into the carrier and the car.”
They both checked to see that Morris was still here and not over there. Yes.
Schrödinger (whichever one she was) and Morris Two were behind the bar. They were at opposite ends of a piece of something—rope, meat, fishbone, who knew?—pulling it in opposite directions.
“You go for one cat; I go for the other. That’s the only way I can think to do it.”
Dora said, “I don’t want to get scratched.”
Melrose ignored that and pulled out the carrier from under the table in the window. “I’m going to put it right on this side of the bar so they don’t see it.” They moved to the bar, and he opened the top of the box. “We’ll go about this slowly.”
Dora looked dubious.
Stealthily, they approached.
Melrose grabbed one cat, which rewarded him by slicing the air at his ear with its claws.
“I’ve got her, I’ve got her!” yelled Dora, wrestling the other one to the ground.
“Okay, we’ll take both.” He pulled over the carrier and together he and Dora shoved in the cat she was holding; Melrose then shoved in the other one with great effort and a good deal of yowling. He shut it, then grabbed it up and headed, once again, for his car and London.
54
The phone rang as Jury was tying his tie. He picked it up and eyed the tie, wondering if it was sending the right message. It had bunnies on it; they were minute ones, but you could tell they were bunnies if you looked closely. Where in hell had he got it?
“Jury.”
It was DI Jenkins, calling from the Snow H
ill station. “I really have nothing I can hold him on.”
“Then just cut him loose. He didn’t do it.”
During the brief silence on the other end of the line, Jury wondered where he had got this tie. And was that a speck of egg or just another bunny?
“You know he didn’t?” said Jenkins.
“No, but I’m pretty certain.” He was more than “pretty” certain.
“Well. The reason nobody saw him in Chesham was because he went to pains that nobody would see him. He didn’t want to be associated, he said, with the bloody swine of a cat—”
“‘Swine of a cat’: I like it. Go on.” The phone’s flex was long enough to get him to the bottle of Macallan on the little table beneath the window, which was what mattered, he had pointed out to Carole-anne. He poured out a measure.
“He’s still saying it was a joke. On you. And you knew it.”
Jury knew all right, but it annoyed him that Jenkins seemed on the verge of believing Harry Johnson, pathological liar. No, wait, this story actually wasn’t a lie. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.” Jury observed that his glass was too tall for a whiskey glass, and he told himself to get some proper ones.
“It’s to do with a dog,” Jenkins labored on. “The one at the house that took a fancy to you.”
“Mungo.”
“He says he told you a very convoluted story about his friend disappearing with that dog and, well, frankly, the man sounded a little mad.”
“He is. He’s a nutter. He told me the story and later denied ever telling it. It was a series of stories, actually. Don’t let him con you, Dennis. He’s a great con artist.”
“But I’m not going to get any more out of him.”
“Thanks for doing this. Sorry you had to waste your time on him.”
As Jury said this, Carole-anne walked into his living room so he could waste his time on her.
“Think nothing of it,” Jenkins said. “I rather enjoyed listening to him. He reminds me of Bruno. You know, the calculating, manipulating bastard in Strangers on a Train.”
Jury said, “You know, you’re right. I never thought of that. Good night, Dennis.” He put down the phone and said to Carole-anne, “Make yourself at home.”
Carole-anne had sat herself on the sofa and started flicking through the magazine she’d found there. One of hers, not Jury’s. He didn’t read BeautyPLUS. “Why’re you wearing your best suit?” Her tone was thick with suspicion.
“Because I’m going out.”
Apparently puzzled, she said, “Out?” as if there were no such place, at least not for him.
Was he really supposed to expand upon out-ness?
“With somebody?” she said.
“Yes. You don’t know her.”
She shut her eyes against the news. Not just a woman, but a new one, as if he kept a stable of women to which he was always adding.
“Who is she?”
“You don’t know her.” He said it again.
Carole-anne slapped over another page of BeautyPLUS.
If there was one thing Carole-anne didn’t need, it was PLUS. The building would be in meltdown.
Jury leaned over to tie his shoe, getting eye level with Carole-anne’s silver-and-gold sandal, straps intertwined. Strappy. “What kind of shoes are those?”
She shut the magazine and looked at her feet as if she needed reminding. “Manolo Blahnik.”
“Another pair? You have that kind of money?”
“That consignment shop on Upper Street.”
He wondered what reversal of fortune could make a woman sell off her Manolo Blahniks. “Tell me: why would a woman spend hundreds on Manolo Blahnik when she could get a perfectly good sandal like that at the Army-Navy?”
“Are you daft?” She actually put by the magazine to assess his daftness.
Jury waited for shoe guidance and got none. “Well? Why? It’s a reasonable question.”
Apparently not. She retrieved BeautyPLUS and continued sorting through it for nuggets.
“You think the answer is that obvious.”
“Of course.” She stretched out one leg and let the silver sandal dangle from her toes.
Definitely designer legs, he thought.
She said, “Did you ever see a shoe like this at the Army-Navy?”
“No, but then I’ve never looked for one.”
“Believe me.” Thinking this an adequate response, she drew back her foot.
“All right, then listen to this, Miss Shoe-savvy: I’ve got three women murdered and the only connection between them is they were all escorts and all wearing designer shoes.”
“You mean those ‘Escort Murders’ they keep talking about?” When he nodded she said, “Well? Tell me about it.”
“No. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
Aggrieved, Carole-anne said, “What about the shoes? What designer?”
“Jimmy Choo.”
“Sweet!”
“Not so much for the victim; she’s dead.”
“Well, Jimmy Choo didn’t do it. Were they all his shoes?”
“No. There was the French designer ... Christian Lousomething.”
Carole-anne consulted her shoe memory bank and her eyes widened. “Christian Louboutin? Red soles?”
“That’s the lad, yes.”
“Those shoes cost a fortune. How does your average working girl afford them?”
“Sales or shoplifting. Anyway, would these escorts be considered ‘average working girls’? They’ve probably got rich clients. You’re beautifully silvered up tonight. Where are you going?”
“Clubbing.” She lay on the couch, ankles crossed. She must be the only woman in London who would get herself up, looking perfect, and then toss herself down any old way.
“Anyone I know?” said Jury.
“No. We don’t know each other’s anyones.” Head on the sofa arm, she held the magazine up to the light of the lamp. Her red gold hair burned in the light.
“Does yours have a name?”
“Monty.”
“And what does Monty do?”
“Sells pricey cars. You’re awful nosy tonight. I never asked you a lot of questions.”
“No, but my date isn’t pleasure. It’s work. It’s part of the investigation.”
Carole-anne brightened considerably, which was hard to do considering her hair was already on fire and her silver dress and strappy shoes were soon to follow.
“Get out from under that light before you blow us all to hell and gone.”
“Huh?” She swung herself around, but not at his insistence, plunked her Manolo Blahniks on the floor, and leaned toward him, her elbows on her knees.
It was a view not without merit. It was a good thing she was young enough to be his daughter! Excuse me, mate, but why’s that a good thing?
“Are you going undercover, then?”
“No, I’m going above cover.”
Her brow tightened in a kind of frown. “You mean this person knows who you are?”
“She does indeed. She just doesn’t know why I asked her out. She thinks I fancy her.”
“Well, you don’t.”
It wasn’t a question. “She’s a bit young for me.”
“So’s the queen. What’s she look like?”
“Like a schoolgirl. Apparently, her clients go for that kind of look.”
“Pervs.” The buzzer rang downstairs. “That’ll be Monty. You can tell me the rest later.” She rose and pulled up the back strap of her silver shoe, then wriggled a little in her dress, which she pulled down.
“Be careful,” he said.
“Careful?”
“Well, I’ve got these women on my mind, I guess. Some man did for them.”
She brushed back her hair. “Well, it wasn’t Monty. Anyway, what makes you so sure it was a man? I know girls that’d kill for a pair of Christian Louboutins. ’Night.”
And she was out of his flat and clicking those four-inch heels down the steps while he
was still pondering that last statement.
55
By the time Melrose got to Belgravia, day was night, or nearly. He sat—they sat, Melrose and the two cats—in his car, watching Harry Johnson’s house on the other side of the square. He had let one out of the carrier so they wouldn’t kill each other. What he wanted to do was simply take the one in the carrier around in back and shove her through a doggie door, if there was one.
Well, he could do the animal shelter bit again, but not if Harry Johnson was in the house.
Melrose pulled out his mobile and, fingering the scrap of paper from his wallet on which he’d scribbled it, punched in the number.
When the housekeeper answered—it must be she, for it sounded like the woman who’d opened the door before—he asked for Mr. Johnson. Oh, too bad, he wasn’t at home.
“No,” said Melrose, “no message. I’ll just ring him again. Thank you.” He flipped the mobile shut and turned around to have a look at Schrödinger, if it was. The second cat, looking equally annoyed, had stuffed herself under the seat. Mean eyes peered out.
The first cat, on whom he was betting his 50 percent chance of success, was not at all happy to see him. Every time he looked at her, she hissed. She despised him, which irritated Melrose to death, considering he was making this effort on her behalf.
He got out and opened the rear door and reached across the backseat for the carrier. This was done to the tune of numerous hisses. He put on his True Friends cap and dragged out the carrier. The cat hissed mightily.
“Put a sock in it,” he said, and slammed the door.
“Mrs.... Toby, isn’t it?” Melrose raised his cap.
“Tobias, sir.” She looked down at the carrier. “Well, I’m happy to see Schrödinger’s not come to grief.”
No she wasn’t. She was frowning all over her face. Melrose said, “I feel rather awful about this mix-up.”
“Mix-up? I don’t understand.” Her arms crossed over her bosom, she was scratching at her elbows.
“I got the wrong address, the wrong Johnson. It was not Mr. Harry Johnson’s animal I was to collect, but a Mr. Howard Johnson’s. And he lives in Cadogan Square, not Belgravia. It’s so stupid; I was given the wrong information. At any rate, here’s your cat back. Now, can you assure me it is your cat?” If not, I’ve got another one in the car.
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