Trick of the Mind

by Cassandra Chan

  Accordingly, he pawed through the case file until he found James’s address and then donned his overcoat again before venturing out to beard the lion in its den. If, that was, the lion worked on Sundays.

  Carmichael had not expected the offices of a private investigator to be well appointed. He was used to the offices of those who collected evidence of adultery or who traced the biological parents of adopted children, and although he had known that an insurance investigator was of a different stripe, he was unprepared for the hushed atmosphere that spoke of exquisite taste backed by solid wealth.

  He was also surprised to find that not only was James working on a Sunday, so apparently was his secretary. She was a slender young woman installed at an antique desk in the anteroom, dressed in the last word of fashionable elegance. She received him graciously, in a cool, husky voice and ushered him into an overstuffed leather armchair to wait while she inquired when Mr. James would be available. Carmichael watched the sway of her hips appreciatively as she walked back across the room and entered the inner sanctum.

  She was gone for some five or ten minutes, during which Carmichael took stock of his surroundings and decided that insurance investigation paid better than he had realized. Either that, or Colin James was as crooked as they came which, considering Carmichael’s errand, was an interesting thought.

  The secretary returned, smiling pleasantly, and informed him that Mr. James would see him now. Feeling rather as if he were being admitted to an exclusive club, Carmichael followed her into James’s office.

  The inner sanctum was as beautifully outfitted as the anteroom to Carmichael’s eye, with the addition of what even he could recognize as very expensive touches. James waited for him behind a highly polished partner desk, a tall, fit-looking man with shrewd gray eyes, dressed casually in a gray cashmere turtleneck and a pair of exquisitely pressed flannels.

  “It’s very good to meet you, Chief Inspector,” said James, coming round the desk to shake hands. “Do be seated—can we get you anything? There’s coffee or tea, or I believe there’s some orange juice in the refrigerator.”

  Carmichael accepted coffee and sat down in another overstuffed leather armchair, one of two positioned opposite James’s desk.

  “And how is Sergeant Gibbons doing?” asked James, resuming his own seat.

  “He’s improving,” replied Carmichael. “I visited him yesterday evening, and he seemed considerably more alert than he has been before.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said James. “I was very impressed with the sergeant in the short time we worked together. It would have been a great pity if he had not been able to make a full recovery.”

  “Certainly it would,” agreed Carmichael wholeheartedly. “But I’m happy to say he seems well on the way, although I understand there will be a substantial recovery period.”

  “Of course, of course,” said James. “Ah, here’s your coffee. Thank you, Vivian, that’s very nice.”

  The elegant secretary had reappeared bearing a salver on which rested a small French press coffeepot, a jug of cream, a bowl of sugar, a cup and saucer, and a sterling silver spoon. Carmichael gazed at it all bemusedly as she set it down on the little piecrust table at his elbow, nodded at his thanks, and then disappeared silently.

  “I hope that suits?” asked James.

  “Yes, certainly,” answered Carmichael, pouring out for himself and adding cream. “Delicious,” he added after taking a sip, and he meant it. The coffee was truly excellent.

  “I like coffee,” said James, a little complacently. “Now then, Chief Inspector, what can I do for you? If you’ve come for an update on the Haverford case, I’m afraid I’ve nothing new to report, more’s the pity. The damn jewels seem to have disappeared into thin air.”

  “No doubt you and Davies will find them in the end,” said Carmichael genially. “No, I’ve come about Sergeant Gibbons. We’re still trying to piece together his movements on Tuesday, and I wanted to hear from you what the two of you had talked about over lunch.”

  “Looking for a different perspective?” said James, nodding. “That makes sense. Well, as I told Grant Davies, I’m afraid I did most of the talking. Sergeant Gibbons is an intelligent young man, but he knows nothing about gemstones or heritage jewelry. He was trying to bone up and I was more than happy to help him.”

  It had not occurred to Carmichael until that moment, but despite his interest and expertise in the subject, James wore no jewelry of any kind. James seemed to notice his inspection because he grinned and said, “I own several pairs of very nice cuff links, but men’s jewelry is generally not to my taste. Nor to yours, I see.”

  “Well, no,” said Carmichael, smiling inwardly at what his wife might say if he was to buy himself jewelry instead of her.

  “I don’t remember the details of the conversation at this point,” said James, returning to the original topic. “But I don’t imagine a lot of minutiae about jewelry would be much help to you in any case.”

  “No,” agreed Carmichael. “But if perhaps you could remember anything personal that was said? Or any question Gibbons asked which might have a personal connection for him?”

  James raised an eyebrow. “Personal?” he repeated. “Well, he didn’t ask me how to pick out an engagement ring or anything of that sort, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Not exactly,” answered Carmichael, “although it might make things easier if he had. No, it’s more a matter of trying to make out Gibbons’s train of thought that day. I would like very much to be able to determine if he was going about his own business when he was shot, or if he was following up something to do with the case. There’s evidence on both sides, you see.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be much help with that,” said James. “Our discussion over lunch was purely shop talk. Gibbons told me something of his background as a detective and we swapped a couple of stories about particular cases, but that’s as personal as it got. Certainly the neighborhood of Walworth never came up.”

  Carmichael nodded acknowledgment of this. “I also wanted to know,” he said, “if Gibbons had had a question for you that night, could he have got hold of you? Do you think he would have ventured to ring you out of business hours?”

  James shrugged. “You know him better than I,” he said. “I certainly gave him my mobile number and urged him to ring if he had questions. Whether he would have done so, I can’t say.”

  “Well …” Carmichael rubbed his chin. “I rather gathered the two of you had got on well, so in that case he might have done. I’m just wondering about what resources he might have felt he had.”

  “I was at his disposal,” said James. “In fact, I was here that night until ten, so even if he hadn’t wanted to bother me after business hours and had rung here instead, he would have got me.”

  That was just what Carmichael had wanted to know, but he concealed his satisfaction. “It’s a puzzle,” he said, shaking his head. “If Gibbons was investigating the Haverford burglary that night, I really can’t make out why he rang me when both you and Davies were available.”

  He expected James, like Davies, to conclude at once that Gibbons had not in that case been engaged in police business, but James surprised him. He cocked his head, lifting one brow, and said, “He rang you that night? I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Carmichael. “He rang my office line just a few minutes before he was attacked. Unfortunately, he only left a message asking to see me the next morning.”

  But James’s focus had turned inward. He folded his hands with the index fingers extended and tapped his chin slowly. “So he rang you from his mobile while he was on the street somewhere in Walworth?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” said Carmichael.

  “But then isn’t the answer obvious?” said James, his eyes turning back to his guest. “He rang you because he’d found there was murder involved.”

  Carmichael stared at him for a moment, taken aback by the unexpectedness of this
reply. It was an explanation that had never occurred to him.

  “There may be something in that,” he said, recovering himself.

  James shrugged. “Perhaps not,” he said. “It’s your bailiwick, after all, and if it wasn’t obvious to you, well then.”

  “Ah, well, we all overlook the obvious at times,” said Carmichael. Having got what he had come for, he rather wanted to get away and turn over this new idea at his leisure. “Thank you for your time, Mr. James. I do appreciate it.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” said James, rising to see him out. “I liked Sergeant Gibbons and I’d like to see his attacker caught. Please don’t hesitate to call on me again if I can be of any further help.”

  They parted on amicable terms, and Carmichael made his way outside thoughtfully. James had not been quite what he had expected, and he had the feeling the man knew exactly why he had come and was not disturbed by the suspicion in the least. Whether that was because James had great faith in his own abilities, or because he was truly innocent, remained to be seen.

  James did not immediately return to his office once Carmichael had gone. Instead he plunged his hands deep into his pockets and strolled over to stare aimlessly out of the window. Vivian, working at the computer at her desk, eyed him, but said nothing. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft clack of the computer keyboard.

  James swung away from the window abruptly, turning on the balls of his feet, and wandered back across the room, his lips pursed in a soundless whistle, his eyes apparently fixed on the ceiling molding. At the desk, Vivian cast him a single sardonic look before returning her gaze to her monitor. She continued to steadily ignore him as he turned again and came to stand at the edge of her desk, staring down at her. She worked on for a few moments, and then asked, without looking up, “Was there something you wanted?”

  James shook his head in the manner of a parent sadly disappointed in his offspring. “Ah, Viv,” he said. “Wouldn’t you be upset to see me sent to prison?”

  “I would certainly find it inconvenient,” she replied, swiveling away from the computer to turn her attention to the printer. “Did you expect to be arrested anytime soon?”

  “You’re heartless,” declared James. “Couldn’t you see that the good chief inspector thinks I may have made off with the Haverford jewels and shot poor Sergeant Gibbons into the bargain?”

  “It did seem a likely reason for him to have come,” Vivian replied, unperturbed.

  While James watched, she took the printed pages from their tray, inspected them briefly, and then swiveled back to meet his eyes at last.

  “Here are the reports you wanted from Ukraine,” she said, holding out the papers.

  “Oh, very well,” said James, snatching the papers from her. “I’ll stop being dramatic and go back to work. But, mind, I’m no longer saving that Golconda diamond brooch for you.”

  A smile just touched the corner of Vivian’s lips. “Just as well,” she said as he strode back into his office. “It’s the Colombian emeralds I really fancy.”

  When he returned to the Yard, Carmichael was annoyed to find Constable Lemmy still absent. If it had been Gibbons—or, really, any of his more recent assistants—who was so late, he would have been ringing around to find out what had happened to them, but as it was Lemmy, he simply assumed the boy had slept in on a Sunday.

  So he was greatly surprised, as he settled at his desk to run a background check on Colin James, to see Lemmy appear in the doorway, looking as if he had been at his desk all along.

  “Hullo, sir,” he said. “I thought you’d want to know: I’ve found the footage of Sergeant Gibbons at Waterloo.”

  Carmichael immediately felt both guilty and irritated. Guilty, because he had done the constable an injustice, and irritated because he had been inveigled into misjudging Lemmy by the young man’s own past performance. It was all, however, superseded by the constable’s news.

  “That’s very good, lad,” he said, managing to put some real warmth in his tone.

  “I’ve got it all queued up for you downstairs,” continued Lemmy. “I thought you’d want to see for yourself.”

  That, thought Carmichael, was a massive understatement.

  “So I do,” he said, rising. “Have you sorted out who he was following?”

  “No, sir, not yet,” replied Lemmy, leading the way down the hall. “I did just have a look, but I couldn’t make it out right away and I thought you’d want to know at once.”

  Carmichael certainly could not fault this logic, and he gave Lemmy a sharp glance, wondering if his incompetent constable had somehow been magically transformed during the night.

  The CCTV footage was, as always, blurry and hard to make out, at least for Carmichael. To the Yard’s video analyst, it appeared as clear as day, or so he seemed to indicate.

  “There’s our lad,” he said, setting the video in motion.

  Carmichael squinted. Several people were emerging from the station doors and heading off in various directions. Among those who moved out of the camera frame to the left was a young man, well wrapped up against the cold with a thick scarf and heavy coat, who strode along in a purposeful manner, his hands buried in his pockets. Carmichael recognized him more by his stride than anything else.

  “And then here,” said Lemmy, moving over to a second screen, “here he is getting into the taxi.”

  The angle of the camera at the taxi queue was not as good, but Gibbons could be made out entering the frame, bending to speak to the driver, and then climbing into the taxi.

  “So who was in the first taxi in the queue?” asked Carmichael.

  “It’s hard to make out,” said Lemmy, fiddling with the controls. “There’s not a clear shot. Here, see that bloke in the pea jacket and cap? You can just see him here—” He ran the film forward in slow motion, showing a dark figure, visible briefly between a pillar and the other pedestrians. “And then here he is again, getting into the taxi, but he came from the other direction, so there’s no shot of his face.”

  “Once we trace Sergeant Gibbons’s path back through the station,” put in the video analyst, “we’ll probably have a better picture of the fellow. After all, he should be in almost every shot the sergeant is in—can’t be that hard to pick him out.”

  Carmichael was to remember those words later with grim humor.

  19

  Tea with the Burdalls

  Gibbons was surprised when he woke on Sunday to feel—for the first time since he had been shot—the faint stirrings of hunger. He had not previously considered whether he was hungry or not, and it only now occurred to him that with nothing to eat since Tuesday lunch, it was odd he had not been hungry before. But he was actually eager for the chicken soup they brought him, though he was rather annoyed to discover coffee was not part of a liquid diet, as defined by the hospital nutritionist.

  “I’d kill for a coffee,” he confided to John, the young man who brought the soup.

  “Sorry,” he replied. “I can’t give you any.”

  “Why not?” demanded Gibbons. “Coffee is a liquid, after all. And I’m on a liquid diet.”

  “It’s not an approved liquid,” he said. “I can only give you what’s on the list, and coffee’s not there.”

  Gibbons could clearly see John was bent on being obdurate.

  “What about tea?” Gibbons asked. “Much nicer than coffee, really. Soothing.”

  The young man shook his head. “No caffeine,” he said firmly. “I’m sorry, mate, but that’s how it has to be.”

  And with that, he departed.

  “It’s un-British,” Gibbons complained later to Nurse Pipp. “Tea is the national beverage of England.”

  “Is it?” she asked dryly. “I thought that was beer. And you can’t have any of that, either.”

  Nor would she agree to bring him any interim liquids when he asked for something about midmorning.

  “We’ve got to reintroduce your system slowly to the idea of dige
stion,” she explained. “If we go too fast, well, you’d be amazed at how sick you can be.”

  “I can’t see that a mug of broth could hurt anything,” he answered.

  “Well, I can,” she replied. “You leave the nursing to me and concentrate on your detective work.”

  But Gibbons was tired of the detective work. He had spent all morning pouring over the facsimile of his notebook, but had not managed to elucidate anything further from it and he was in consequence feeling frustrated.

  “You’re getting fretful,” said Nurse Pipp. “You probably need a bit of a rest—you’ve been up all morning.”

  That made Gibbons determined to stay awake, but after she had left he did indeed drop off. He was awakened by the arrival of lunch, which turned out to be a cup of fruit juice and a container of custard.

  “That’ll stick to your ribs,” said John, which Gibbons took as his idea of a joke.

  But he was eager for anything to eat at that point, which was why he found it so unaccountable that the custard seemed to repulse him. He was puzzling over this phenomenon when Bethancourt and Cerberus appeared.

  “Hullo,” said Bethancourt cheerfully. “How are you? Nurse Pipp seems to think you’re progressing very nicely.”

  “I suppose,” said Gibbons, still dubiously regarding the custard.

  “What the devil is that?” asked Bethancourt, peering down into the plastic cup.

  “It’s custard,” replied Gibbons. “Anybody could see that it’s custard.”

  Bethancourt picked up the plastic spoon and poked at the mixture dubiously.

  “This?” he said, watching it resist gravity as he lifted the spoon and the fat globule of custard persisted in clinging to it. “I don’t know what it is, but believe me, it’s not custard. I’m not entirely sure it’s edible.”