‘You wife, you laddy fren, she like this, mahn. Women, they like this stuff.’
Jury purchased a few sticks of incense and a little stone holder.
Every time - the newspaper, the manikins, the peddler - he’d forget for those moments and then turn away and it came back to consciousness that she was dead.
He had thought more about his cousin Sarah in the last couple of hours than he had in the last two decades. That’s what it was, death’s legacy - now there was plenty of time to think about the time wasted, the words unsaid, the history unshared, until it was too late. It’s always too late, he remembered someone saying. One can never have done enough, said enough. It was like the lager you could never finish: jokes about the wooden leg, the hole in the pint. An unquenchable, alcoholic thirst. You can never do enough for the dead. You search around for comfort but there is no comfort; there never was and never will be. There is only a gradual wearing away of the sharp edges, so that you don’t feel ambushed at every turn, as if you saw the dead suddenly rounding the corner.
For a while he rode the Piccadilly Line, then switched over to the Northern Line at King’s Cross. It was only in the underground he thought he saw such faces, no one looking happy, except for the teenagers banded noisily together, but even they, in an unguarded moment, looked pretty desperate.
While the antique Northern Line rattled the riders’ teeth, he looked at the girl facing him across the aisle, who was beautiful, but wasn’t taking comfort in it. She sat primly, knees together, hands clasping a small bag on her knees. Her hair was the kind you see in Clairol ads, long and shining. Above her in the parade of advertisements was one for a cold remedy depicting a skier happily taking a spill into a pile of snow. He was happy about it.
As the train clattered along, Jury studied an old Kit Kat wrapper on the floor, moving between high heels and scuffed boots. He watched it shift along, liking to think of themselves, he and Sarah, as kids going cheerily along to a sweet shop, but this image was his own concoction; he doubted they’d gone much of anywhere together.
I don’t even like that cat. Right.
He got up for his stop at the Angel.
Darkness had registered on him while he was walking along Regent Street, but the time hadn’t. It was nearly ten o’clock. Where in God’s name had he been all of this time?
The lights were on in Mrs. Wasserman’s garden flat, and in a moment she was out and up the stairs in her old bathrobe.
‘Mr. Jury, there was someone trying to get hold of you. Carole-anne said there were two messages on your answering machine and I was to tell you. From someone named Bernard.’
‘Brendan?’
‘She said Bernard.’
Jury smiled. ‘Carole-anne has trouble getting my messages straight.’ Boy, did she ever. Especially the messages from females. Carole-anne had always thought the only life Jury would ever spend away from hers was an afterlife. ‘Thanks, Mrs. Wasserman.’ He turned toward the steps.
‘Is everything all right, Mr. Jury? You look pale.’
In the dead dark, how could she tell? Maybe he just sounded pale.
‘Yes ... No. Actually I got a bit of bad news. My cousin died. Brendan’s her husband. That’s why he’s trying to reach me. To tell me.’
‘I am so sorry. So sorry. To lose one’s family, that is the worst thing.’
It was as if, to her, all of the family were circumscribed in every member. To lose one was to lose all. ‘She was the last of the family. Except for me, I mean.’
‘Oh, my. My.’ She clutched the bathrobe tighter around her neck. ‘That is so dreadful. A person feels disconnected. I know I did. Like a balloon, that was how I felt. Drifting up farther and farther, a prisoner of gravity.’
Jury was surprised. Mrs. Wasserman didn’t often speak metaphorically. ‘That’s a good way of putting it, Mrs. Wasserman. That’s pretty much how I feel.’
‘Could I make you a cup of tea?’
‘That’s nice of you, but I think I’m too tired. I’ve been walking.’ She shut her eyes and nodded, familiar apparently with walking as anodyne.
‘So I’ll say good night. Thanks for giving me the message.’
She turned away as he did and they went in.
As he put the key in the door of the first-floor flat, he heard a short bark, more of a woof. It was Stone, so Carole-anne must be out. She always looked after him when she was in. They all did, when they could. Sometimes Stan took the dog along, but not if there was to be a lot of traveling.
He plucked Stan’s key from a hook inside the door, went up to the second floor and opened the door. Stone did not come bounding out, as most dogs would; Stone was as cool as Stan. The most excitement he ever displayed was some tail wagging. He followed Jury down the stairs, went inside and stood until it was disclosed to him what he should do. He had the patience and self-possession of one of those mummers wearing white clown suits, faces painted white. They stayed amazingly still, still as statues, which people passing took them to be.
Jury found the rawhide bone and set it at the foot of his chair.
Stone lay down and started in chewing. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’
Stone stopped chewing and looked up at Jury.
‘You want a cup? No? Okay. Want something to eat?’ Stone woofed quietly. ‘That must mean yes. Okay.’
He left Stone to his chew. He plugged in the kettle and rinsed out a mug and dropped in a tea bag. The kettle boiled as soon as he’d spooned a can of dog food into Stone’s dish and called him. Then he poured water over the tea bag and let it steep while he watched Stone eat. That got boring, so he tossed the tea bag into the sink and went to his chair in the living room. He stared out of the window at blackness. In another minute he was up and rooting in his coat pocket, searching for the incense.
Jury fixed one stick in the rough stone holder and lit the tip.
The dish in the kitchen clattered as if the dog were shoving it around with his nose. Stone must have smelled the incense, the strong fragrance of patchouli, for he left the bowl for this more interesting event in the living room. He sat beside the chair and watched the spindle of smoke rise toward the ceiling. He looked from the smoke to Jury and back again. His nose quivered a little, taking in the unfamiliar scent.
During that final visit to Newcastle last year, Sarah had retrieved her photo album and they had looked at snapshots of themselves as children, again throwing spanners in Jury’s memory works, although she hadn’t purposely done that; Jury had brought up the old days and her derisive mood had changed-she had simply wanted to look at the pictures. They had sat with the album on the table between them, turning pages. It was as if in this sharing of childhood pictures they were acknowledging something between them
You wife, mahn? You laddv fren? No, it’s for my cousin.
He watched the thin trail of smoke curling toward the ceiling, and listened to Stone’s tail swish along the floor.
Like something almost being said.
3
The dead woman lay on a stone bench inside a stone enclosure that looked much like a shelter to ward off bad weather at a bus stop, as if she’d been waiting for one and simply fallen over, her torso on the bench, her legs off, feet dragging on the stone floor.
This shelter stood at the bottom of the large garden of Angel Gate. The garden had been neglected over the years and was now in the throes of refurbishment, being redesigned and reestablished. Thus, the first persons there in the early morning were the principal gardener and his daughter, a horticulturist. It was they who discovered the body. The next to arrive was the cook-housekeeper. She was busy giving tea to the father-daughter gardening team and any of the police who wanted it and who had arrived later from Launceston and Exeter.
Brian Macalvie, divisional commander with the Devon and Cornwall police, stood with his hands in his coat pockets. Standing about were some two dozen crime scene and forensics people from Launceston police headquarters and Macalvie’s people from Exet
er. Brian Macalvie, motionless and silent, had been looking down at the dead woman for a good two minutes (‘which you wouldn’t think was a long time,’ one of his forensics team had saidto a friend over a pint at the local, ‘but you just try it sometime; it’s an eternity, is what it is’).
No one standing right near Macalvie, then, was any more animated than the corpse. No one was allowed to touch anything until Macalvie was good and done. This irritated the doctor who’d been called to the scene (local and not indoctrinated to the divisional commander’s odd ways). He had made a move toward the body and had been roughly pulled back by his coat sleeve by the chief crime scene officer, Gilly Thwaite.
‘For God’s sakes,’ said the uninitiated doctor, ‘it’s a murder scene, not a funeral. I’ve got appointments.’
The others, nine or ten, squinched their eyes as if over an onslaught of headache or sun and stared at the slate-gray sky as Macalvie turned to the doctor. He was a general practitioner from Launceston, but adequate (everyone but Macalvie assumed) at least to do a preliminary examination in order to sign a death certificate. The Launceston M.D. whom Macalvie liked was unavailable.
‘Let’s at least turn her over,’ said the doctor. Then added, acerbically, ‘I think she’s done on this side.’
Gilly Thwaite made a noise in her throat. From here and there came a choked kind of laughter. Macalvie was not a fan of gallows humor.
Macalvie nodded to Gilly. ‘Go ahead.’ Gilly set up her camera, got evidence bags ready, started taking pictures.
In the ‘lovely silence’ (as he often called it, when there was some) Macalvie returned his gaze to the body. The woman appeared to be in early middle age. But appearances are deceptive and she could have been younger or older. He put her in her late thirties on one end of the age spectrum, early fifties on the other. That was a very wide divergence and it made him wonder. She was quite plain, her face free of makeup, at least as far as he could tell.
There might have been a little foundation or powder. But no eye makeup. Her hair was mushroom colored, dull, cut in a straight bob that would fall, were she upright, to just below her ears. Her suit was the color of her hair. It was well worn and not especially fashionable, perhaps a classic cut, undated, a rough tweed. Macalvie looked for another fifteen seconds and then turned to the doctor. ‘All yours.’ As the doctor grunted and stepped into the enclosure, Macalvie said, ‘And incidentally, for her, it really is a funeral.’
He then turned from the stone enclosure to look back at the big house that belonged to the Scott family, what was left of them. Macalvie remembered Declan Scott, the only one of them living there now. Declan Scott was a man who’d had enough trouble in his life: three years ago his four-year-old daughter had vanished. His wife had died not long after.
Macalvie knew Declan Scott.
The man really didn’t need a body in his garden.
4
When Jury got to New Scotland Yard the next morning, he called Brendan, rather ashamed of himself that he hadn’t done it the day before. He knew at least that it hadn’t been indifference.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Wiggins was giving his mug of tea a thoughtful stir. Jury had declined tea, and in Wiggins’s book, that pointed to something truly dire.
‘I’ve been better.’ Jury half smiled as he punched in Brendan’s number.
‘You got a call from Dr. Nancy and one from a DI Blakeley. Over in West Central. Isn’t he part of the pedophilia unit?’
‘Right.’ Jury slumped in his chair.
‘You look kind of pale.’ Wiggins would call up every anodyne he could muster. Of late he was into herbs and crystals, of which there were myriad combinations. (Rue that’s for - What had Shakespeare said? Remembrance, maybe?) Depression, Jury was sure.
A girl answered and it was unnerving that he couldn’t identify the voice. Which daughter was it? They were no longer girls, either, but young women. One of them was the mother of that baby who’d been handed over to grandmother Sarah. Christine? No. Christabel. Lavish names his cousin had picked. ‘Is this Christabel?’
‘No. Jasmine. Chris ain’t here.’ Thick Geordie accent.
‘It’s really your dad I’d like to speak to.’
‘Whyn’t you say?’ She turned away and called for Brendan.
‘Yeah?’ said Brendan.
Tired of it all already. No, more defeated by it. ‘It’s Richard, Brendan. I’m so sorry. What can I do?’
‘God, man, but I’m glad you called. I’m knackered.’ Relief spilled over into tears. His words came muffled. ‘You’re coming to the funeral, right?’
‘Of course. Saturday, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. It’s a bit longer than I’d like, but my brother’s just getting out of hospital and he’ll want to come, so we’re waiting an extra day or two. Could I ask a favor of you, man?’
‘You can. Anything.’
‘If you could just float me a wee loan-?’
‘Sure I can. I intended to take on some of the expenses anyway. So it’s not a loan; it’s me paying my share. She was the only relation I had left, you know. You shouldn’t have to bear the whole expense of the funeral.’
Wiggins (Jury saw) was listening avidly. ‘Thanks,’ said Brendan. ‘Thanks.’
‘How much do you need?’
‘Well ... I was thinking maybe two hundred?’
The man would need more than that. ‘Are you sure that’s enough?’
‘Yeah. Should be.’
‘Doesn’t sound like enough for funeral expenses. You know the way they are - ‘ Jury would just send more.
Brendan said, ‘Yeah. I dunno. Another thing - I’m worried about Dickie. This manager where he works - this punter’s giving him a hard time, as much as accused him of thievin’.’
Dickie was the child Sarah had had late, that’s all he remembered about him. ‘What’s Dickie say about that?’
‘Not much. But I’m afraid this guy’s got it in for him.’ A sigh.
‘Kids. Especially that age. He just doesn’t know where he’s headed.’
Who does?
‘You know teenagers; they’re hard to get to.’
‘I know they don’t think like adults, but why should they?’
‘Right. See, you know this; you understand this. Listen: the service is to be at three P.M. Saturday. I’ll see you before if you can get up here from London.’
‘Okay, Brendan.’ Jury said good-bye and rang off. He felt somehow defeated again. He rooted around for an envelope and found one. Then he paused. ‘Hell, I forgot to get the street address - ‘
‘I’ve got it right here.’ Wiggins twirled the Rolodex.
That’s how much you’ve kept in touch, mate. Here’s someone who’s a perfect stranger to your relations and even he has the address. You don’t. ‘Brilliant, Wiggins.’
‘It’s the funeral, is it?’
Jury nodded. ‘As you said, on Saturday.’
Wiggins nodded too, looking sorrowful. ‘I know how it feels. It’s like your life being put on hold.’
It’s more like the caller just hung up, Jury thought. ‘Did we get forensics on the little girl?’
‘Yeah.’ Wiggins passed over the report.
Jury looked at it. It confirmed what Dr. Nancy had said at the scene. There hadn’t been twelve feet between the shooter and the victim. The angle of the shot was down.
‘You’d expect that. She was only five. Small.’ Wiggins raised his hand, holding a gun of air. ‘Almost anybody would be taller than the child.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Jury pulled over a yellow pad and took a small metal ruler from the drawer of his desk. Using the criminalist’s numbers, he drew a line from 0 to 12. Then he drew another line for the trajectory. He came up with the same diagram (not that he’d expected otherwise) and started moving the gun closer: nine feet, six feet. The tattooing of the skin would be slighter the farther away. He looked at the morgue shots. Hard to say. The exit wound was larger; probably struck bone and took it alon
g. He thought about the trajectory. He picked up the phone and called Phyllis Nancy.
‘She was sexually abused, Richard. Of course she was just too small for penetration, but there’s still a lot of inflammation. But God only knows somebody tried. Five years old. Who’d do that? And it happened more than once. Who’d do that?’ lt sounded as if the words themselves were weeping.
‘I don’t know, Phyllis. But I’m going to find out.’
Detective Inspector Johnny Blakeley headed up the pedophilia unit, but he himself was a one-man war. He found it difficult to hang about while proper procedure was put into place. He had had two near-career-ending inquiries, one because he’d roughed up a suspect and the other because he’d gone in without a search warrant. His dedication to his job was disputed by no one.
Jury remembered the five-minute answer to a question he had put to Blakeley about a case. You didn’t ask Johnny a question about pedophiles and expect brevity. And if you walked away, Johnny would still be talking.
‘These freaks really believe they’re the normal ones and we’re the abnormal. They declare their love for their little sweethearts as fervently as any Romeo. They go on and on and on representing themselves as the vanguard of enlightened love. They’re educated, cultured. If once more I get referred to Socrates and his students, I’ll drink the fucking hemlock myself. They’re all so bloody self-referential it kills me.’ The telephone got slammed against the wall. At least, that’s what it sounded like to Jury on the other end.
The phone at West Central was snatched up as if a hand had been hovering for hours just waiting; ‘Blakeley.’
‘Johnny. Richard Jury here. You called me?’
The Winds of Change Page 2
