He could not suppress a huge yawn as he turned away, and thought to himself that he should really get himself home and into bed. But once on the street, he hesitated. The thought of getting back into the Volvo was repugnant, and he was tired enough to want to indulge himself. So he hauled his suitcase out of the car and hailed a taxi, collapsing into its spacious back with relief.
The morning rush hour was in full swing and despite the taxi driver’s best efforts it was some time before they reached Chelsea. By then Bethancourt was fast asleep and had to be wakened by the driver.
“Oh, right,” he said, peering blearily at his home while he dug out his wallet. “Ta very much.”
Upstairs, he let himself into his flat and was immediately struck by the silence and its air of disuse. Anyone, he thought to himself, would believe he had been gone months instead of just a few days. He kicked the suitcase into the hall, letting the front door close behind him, and realized that what he really missed was his dog. There was nothing so dismal as coming home and not being greeted by a joyful bark and a waving tail.
He wandered into the bedroom and stripped off the clothes he had been wearing for the past twelve hours, leaving them in a heap on the floor. His dressing gown was in his suitcase, so he wrapped a towel around his waist and padded out to the kitchen for a drink of water. Thirst quenched, he returned to the bedroom and stood for several moments contemplating his bed in the silence.
“It’s no good,” he muttered to himself at last. “I’ll never sleep like this.”
His mind made up, he moved rapidly, taking a fresh set of clothes out of the armoire in the corner and dressing without bothering too much with details like a belt or socks. He shrugged into a jacket and transferred his wallet and keys from the discarded clothing on the floor into his pockets. Then he left the flat.
Twenty minutes later found him in his own gray Jaguar with yet another takeaway coffee in his hand, wending his way down Kings Road. He crossed the Thames at Putney and in short order was speeding along the A3 toward Surrey and the house outside of Oxshott where the Spoiled Rotten Pets Agency had arranged for his dog to be boarded while his master was out of town.
He was a day early and Mrs. Carter was understandably surprised to see him when she opened her door to his knock.
“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow afternoon,” she said.
“I know,” answered Bethancourt apologetically. “There was a change of plans.”
“Well, come on through,” she said, ushering him in. “Cerberus is in the back garden. I’m afraid,” she added, “I’ll still have to charge you for the Thursday. It’s the agency’s rules, you know.”
“That’s all right,” said Bethancourt, following her through the house.
There was a terrace at the back of the house, looking out on a wide expanse of lawn and trees. Cerberus had sensed his owner’s arrival and began to bark as they reached the back door.
“He’ll be so glad to see you,” said Mrs. Carter, opening the door.
With a great woof, the Borzoi surged in, leaping up to plant his paws on Bethancourt’s shoulders. Expecting this, Bethancourt had braced himself, but his weariness had apparently affected his balance and he only held himself upright for a moment before collapsing backward on the floor.
“Oh, dear, Mr. Bethancourt, are you all right?” asked Mrs. Carter.
“Yes,” said Bethancourt with a laugh, making a grab for his glasses, which Cerberus’s energetic licking had just dislodged from his face. “Yes, Mrs. Carter, I’m fine. In fact, it’s the best I’ve been all day.”
3
Rude Awakening
Gibbons was having a bad day. He supposed that was only to be expected after having been shot, but it did not make it any less aggravating.
He had at last come fully and horribly awake at a little after ten o’clock and found Bethancourt and Carmichael gone and his parents in their place. Gibbons was fond of his parents, and it was certainly nice to be coddled considering the way he felt, but they had no information at all. And although his brain still seemed appallingly muzzy, his thoughts had cleared enough to leave him impatient for an explanation as to what had happened to him.
Try as he might, he could remember nothing after getting on the tube to go to work on Tuesday morning. According to his muchdistressed parents, he had not been shot until late Tuesday evening, so he could not understand why he did not remember the earlier part of the day.
The nurse who came in to check on him shrugged when asked about this.
“The brain does odd things sometimes,” she said sympathetically. “There’s really no telling why some people remember less than others.”
“There,” said his father, “that’s just what I’ve been telling you. You must stop fretting about it.”
“But what did I do all day?” demanded Gibbons.
His mother spread her hands. “We don’t know, dear. I’m sure the chief inspector has some idea.”
Gibbons muttered something unflattering about people who disappeared just when they were wanted.
“Really, Jack,” said his mother reprovingly. “You must remember that the chief inspector was up all night investigating this incident. I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he gets some rest.”
Gibbons, however, was not in a mood to consider other people. Once, when he was about ten, he had come down with bronchitis that turned into pneumonia. He remembered it vividly as it stood in his mind as the worst he had ever felt, and he was accustomed to judge all other ills by this benchmark, in comparison with which they usually paled. It had not occurred to him that he could actually feel worse than he had then, and he very much resented the discovery that bronchitis was a walk in the park when contrasted with being shot.
By lunchtime when Detective Inspector Davies arrived to visit, Gibbons was nearly overcome with frustration. It was lucky that he had not worked under Davies long and as a result felt a certain amount of deference was due his superior even under these circumstances or he might have exploded at the man. As it was, he brushed aside Davies’s inquiries as to how he was feeling, and demanded to know what he had spent Tuesday doing.
Davies was an undemonstrative man, quiet in manner and slight in build with well-cut graying hair. He looked sympathetic at Gibbons’s plea for information.
“Can’t remember?” he asked. “They warned us you might not. Where do you leave off?”
“The morning,” answered Gibbons, feeling somehow embarrassed that he could not recollect more. “I remember getting on the tube to come to work. I got a seat and was reading the paper, and then everything goes blank. I’ve no memory of arriving at Victoria, or going into the Yard, or anything.”
The frustration was clear to be heard in his voice, and Davies nodded.
“It must be very unsettling,” he said kindly. “Well, I can tell you some of what you did, though we’re all still in the dark as to how you actually came to be attacked. Let’s see …” He shifted in the chair, smoothing his tie while he marshaled his thoughts. During their short acquaintance, Gibbons had already come to envy Davies’s ties, and he relieved some of his feelings now by glaring at the exquisite blue silk the inspector was currently sporting. In fact, Davies was far better turned out than anyone deserved to be after staying up all night and getting a bare four hours’ sleep.
“You got to the Yard sometime before I did,” Davies continued. “We met up shortly after nine and went to find out about Miss Haverford’s will—quite the usual meeting with a family solicitor. Then I sent you off with Colin James to interview the Colemans.” He paused and looked anxious. “You remember Colin? And the Colemans?”
Gibbons was indignant. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s not my whole brain that’s gone on holiday.”
“Good, good. Well, you interviewed them—you wrote a report on that, I’ll bring it by later so you can look at it—and then presumably you stopped for lunch somewhere. Colin may know about that, but I couldn’t find him last night. I
n fact, I’m just on my way to see him now.”
Gibbons considered this. He was, oddly, aware of having a certain warmth of feeling toward Colin James, which his very brief acquaintance with the man did not wholly explain. Presumably something in their encounter yesterday had impressed him favorably. But he could remember nothing about it.
“You got back to the Yard by about four,” continued Davies, unaware of this inner turmoil, “and wrote that report I spoke of, and I assume you did some other work from your desk.” Davies gave a little shrug. “After that we don’t know. Only that you ended up in Walworth at nine fifteen, and left a message for Chief Inspector Carmichael just before you were attacked.”
It was all too much. Gibbons bit his lip and looked away while he brought himself under control and tried to sort through this new information. In a moment he asked, “What did I ring Carmichael about?”
If Davies was disturbed by the fact that Gibbons had telephoned the chief inspector rather than himself, he gave no sign of it.
“You didn’t say,” he answered. “You just asked if he would have a moment to speak to you in the morning.”
Gibbons frowned. “That seems odd.”
“Well, I think it shows that whatever you wanted, you didn’t feel it was urgent,” offered Davies.
“But it almost seems as if it couldn’t have been about the Haverford case,” said Gibbons. “If I’d found out anything about that, I would have rung you, not Carmichael. And yet I can’t think of any other reason I would have wanted to talk to him.”
“Perhaps it was a personal problem?” suggested Davies. “Something you wanted an older man’s perspective on? It seems to me the chief inspector would be a logical choice for something like that.”
“Maybe.” But Gibbons looked unconvinced.
“Well,” said Davies with a glance at his watch, “I’m afraid I must be going or I’ll be late meeting Colin. I’ll stop back later to tell you what, if anything, I find out and I’ll bring by that report of yours.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons. “It’s very good of you to take the trouble.”
Davies smiled. “No trouble at all, Sergeant. It’s the least I can do.”
Gibbons leaned back against the pillows as he watched the inspector leave. He was curiously tired, as if focusing on their conversation had tried his strength.
But it had also given him new food for thought. In all the confusion of waking in an unknown hospital with a painful wound in his abdomen, he had nearly forgotten about the case he had been working on less than a day ago. He turned his still-fuzzy mind to it now, but dozed off again before he had got very far.
Inspector Davies hesitated as he left the hospital. He did not like to interfere in any way with Chief Inspector Carmichael’s investigation into the events of Tuesday night—shootings were, after all, much more in the chief inspector’s line of country than in his own—but having spoken to Gibbons, a certain step seemed essential. He supposed it would not do any harm to wait until Carmichael was back on duty and could think of it himself, but concern over the chief inspector’s temper seemed a poor reason to delay such an obvious precaution.
After debating with himself for a few minutes, Davies pulled out his mobile with a sigh and rang the number for the Scotland Yard forensics laboratory. He was surprised to have his call answered by Ian Hodges himself, since the scientist was notorious for never even checking his messages, much less actually answering the phone.
“Mr. Hodges,” he said politely, “Detective Inspector Davies here. I was ringing about Sergeant Gibbons’s case.”
“Well, I’m working on it, aren’t I?” demanded Hodges. “You detectives all seem to think forensics is some kind of magic, accomplished with a snap of the fingers.”
“I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job, Mr. Hodges, just as you always do,” said Davies soothingly. “I wasn’t calling for results. I’ve just spoken to Sergeant Gibbons, you see, and he doesn’t remember much of yesterday. I thought perhaps you might send someone along to have a look at his computer at the Yard and see if we can’t determine what he was working on yesterday afternoon.”
“Ah, poor lad,” said Hodges, immediately appeased. “How is he today?”
“He seemed very well to me,” replied Davies. “I mean, considering what he’s been through and all. I think he’s frustrated at not being able to remember more.”
“Natural enough,” grunted Hodges. “Well, I’ll have Michaels go collect Sergeant Gibbons’s hard drive and we’ll see what we’ll see.”
“Thank you,” said Davies. “Er—I’m ordering this on my own initiative, you understand, but I think your report had better go to Chief Inspector Carmichael.”
“Very well,” said Hodges. “Nothing else, then? Good.”
And he rang off abruptly.
Davies sighed as he closed his mobile, reflecting that he was sure to get a dressing down for this from Carmichael later in the day.
“But he probably would have been just as upset if I hadn’t,” he murmured to himself, and turned his attention to finding a taxi. He had heard of Carmichael, of course, as the chief inspector and his nearly miraculous clear rate was often spoken of reverently at the Yard, but last night had been Davies’s first personal encounter with him. The meeting, in his opinion, had hardly been a favorable one, and he felt as though he would forever be associated in Carmichael’s mind with the injury of a favorite sergeant. But there was no help for that, and he could only hope that the circumstance would not harm his career.
He met Colin James at 1 Lombard Street, an elegant establishment in the City and a favorite haunt of the investigator’s, whom the atmosphere in 1 Lombard’s dining room fit like a glove. James was a man who enjoyed his food. In fact, James enjoyed most things in life with gusto, and there could hardly have been a greater contrast between Davies’s quiet manner and the robust enthusiasm of James.
He was a big man who worked to keep his figure and had thus far succeeded, with only the shadow of a bulge at his waistline. At forty-two, his hairline had receded sharply and in consequence he wore the fair hair that was left him clipped very short against his skull. He welcomed Davies eagerly, his gray eyes twinkling with good humor, and waved him into the chair opposite his own at the table.
Davies sat down and immediately felt the tension begin to ebb out of him. He was exceedingly glad James had offered to take him to lunch; an hour spent in James’s comfortable, elegant world was just what he needed.
“Try this,” James urged, pouring from the bottle of white wine that stood ready in a cooler. “It’s a new discovery of mine, and really quite excellent, considering its price.”
Davies raised a brow. “Not your usual extravagance, I take it?”
“Not a bit of it, my dear man,” said James, setting the bottle back in the cooler and raising his own glass. “Cheap, in a word, positively cheap. Here’s to confounding the criminals!”
Davies lifted his glass to the toast and tasted the wine, a light, crisp draught on his palate.
“Very good,” he pronounced, though he knew James hardly needed his opinion.
“Yes, I thought you’d like it.” James was eyeing him narrowly; he was a keenly observant man. “You don’t look quite as alert as usual,” he said. “Did you and Mrs. Davies overindulge last night? And it a school night, too.” He shook his head in mock disapproval.
“Not exactly.” Davies found himself curiously reluctant to broach the subject he had come about. “Something rather disturbing happened last night. Sergeant Gibbons was taken to hospital and had emergency surgery. He’d been shot, you see.”
The good humor was instantly wiped from James’s face and his eyes went steely cold.
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” he said. “Will he recover?”
“Early days, but they believe so,” answered Davies. “It was touch-and-go last night, though.”
James shook his head and leaned back. “I rather wondered why I was seeing you to
day,” he said. “I had thought perhaps you were checking up on young Gibbons’s progress, and I was prepared to issue a conservatively glowing report. I never imagined anything had happened to the lad.” He paused for a moment, reaching for his glass. “I expect,” he added, “you want to know if I think the Haverford case could be connected with this attack?”
“Yes,” answered Davies with a smile. He was used to being anticipated by James and had come to rather enjoy it. “And, more than that, I want to know if he told you where he was going when you parted yesterday.”
James looked puzzled. “But I thought you said Gibbons was going to be all right?” he asked. “Surely if that’s the case, he should be awake by now?”
Davies grinned at him. “It’s very seldom,” he said, “that I find a subject you’re not well versed in. But apparently you know very little about gunshot wounds.”
“I readily admit that,” retorted James. “Frankly, I had never thought it would be a topic of import to me. I take it they’re keeping him sedated?”
“No, that’s not the problem,” answered Davies. “Poor Gibbons has forgotten most of yesterday. I don’t know whether any of it is likely to come back or not, but at the moment his memory stops on his way into the Yard in the morning.”
“Ah,” said James, considering this. “So he doesn’t remember our interview with the Colemans? Or our lunch together?”
“No,” said Davies, his eyes lighting up at this revelation. “You took him to lunch, did you?”
“Yes, and found him a very pleasant companion. Mind you, he’s appallingly ignorant about jewels—and painting, for that matter—but he’s a very intelligent sort, and picks things up quickly. I should say he’s already fully grasped just how different our work is from Homicide’s. And,” he added, “it was rather a relief to me that he wasn’t one of the country lads you sometimes send me who seem to think my slightest comment off the case is an effort to chat them up.”
Davies smiled. “That was Sergeant Dent.”
Trick of the Mind Page 5
