She made a noise in her throat. ‘He was awful. I’ve never known anyone so cold but who seems quite charming. God, but I was relieved when she got out of that marriage.’ She looked back at the garden. ‘But people like Viktor cast a long shadow. They can reach out wherever they are and grab you. And keep hold. Declan wanted to adopt Flora but I knew Viktor would never agree to that.’ Alice rested her chin in her hand, cupping it. ‘She’d be seven now. Any knock on the door when I’m not expecting anyone, any phone call where I hear a stranger’s voice ... my heart stops. I think it will be news of Flora.’ She sighed. ‘Hope isn’t realistic, neither is faith, but you still have it. How could I possibly stop hoping, especially since I don’t know why she disappeared in the first place? One possible explanation is that someone took her to raise as their own. I can see by your expression you don’t agree.’ She smiled.
‘I must go.’ It was already darkening. He could see the gathering shadows through the French doors at the rear of the house. For some reason he couldn’t have explained, he had a yearning to see this space. Now, with his coat on, he nodded toward it. ‘Could I see the garden?’
Surprised, she said, ‘Why, of course.’ Alice rose from the sofa and they walked down the narrow hall. She took a heavy sweater from a row of wooden pegs by the French doors. She then opened the door, stepped out and waited for Jury.
25
Carole-anne sat in Jury’s flat, slathering shrimp-pink varnish on her toes. Her chin was on her knee and for one swift second she reminded Jury of Lulu, when the two couldn’t have been more different, and not just age-wise. Carole-anne’s hair was ginger, although that hardly described it: Santa Fe sunset colored was better, and her eyes were a ferocious blue, burning turquoise right now as she revved up again with her complaint that Richard Jury was lately too much among the seldom seen.
‘And poor Mrs. W–’
This was Mrs. Wasserman, in the garden flat, whose every breath, to hear Carole-anne tell it, depended on Jury’s presence here in Islington.
‘–has really been having an awful bad time with her bronchitis and all.’
‘She’s always had bronchitis. She’s nearly eighty, after all. One would expect one or two bad days now and then.’
Finished with her toenails, Carole-anne plunked the tiny brush back into its bottle, crossed her arms over her breasts and stretched out her legs and looked at the effect.
From his vantage point, the effect was sensational. With her arms crossed that way, the neckline of her dress virtually disappeared. She was wearing a shrimp-colored jersey. It was simple; it was clingy; it was scarce. Pink skin, pink nails, pink dress, hot red-gold hair.
‘We could be sitting in a sauna. Only not as naked.’ He looked again at the dissolving neckline, the short skirt. ‘I take that back.’ They sat in silence, two seconds of which was too much when she could be complaining instead. ‘I expect I’ll go down to the Nine-One-Nine.’
Jury was surprised. ‘Is Stan back?’ He looked at the ceiling, which was also Stan Keeler’s floor. Since Stone wasn’t with Carole-anne, he deduced that the dog was with Stan.
‘Oh, he’s been back. I’m certainly glad he is, as others aren’t except the odd night now and again.’ This was to make Jury jealous, as well as guilty, which it did, a little, to Jury’s dismay. Fatuous idiot, he thought.
She said, ‘I’ve been to the Nine-One-Nine a lot.’ The Nine-One-Nine was the club where Stan played when he was in London. The smug way she said this made Jury want to laugh. ‘You’re a groupie.’ He smiled.
Her pink-pearled lips opened in astonishment. Even her toes drew back, insulted. ‘I most certainly am not! I should think I’m better than that!’ Steam seemed to rise from her hot pink surface.
‘You’re better than everything,’ he said, throwing her completely off. ‘Stan must have groupies, though. Stan’s hot. His group’s always had a huge cult following. If he’d come up from underground, he’d be the most popular musician in London. Hell, even his venue is in a basement.’ The Nine-One-Nine was down some stairs on a little side street.
Somewhat heartened by ‘better than everything,’ Carole-anne lifted her hair away from her neck, a move Jury could get used to but better hadn’t. She plucked out her dress at the neckline and fanned it away from her. Another move he could get used to.
‘I’ll go with you,’ he said, pulling his shoes around. To keep her toes company he’d taken them off and was sitting in stocking feet.
She was again astonished. ‘You?’
‘Hell, yes, me. The one and only.’ He went about tying his shoes.
She stood up and adjusted what there was of her dress. Another good move, thought jury. Hands on hips, she said, snootily, ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re up to it.’
Don’t kid me, thought Jury. He knew she wanted him to go.
‘I can’t stick with you all night, you know.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me.’ He swung his jacket up and stuck an arm through. ‘I’ve got my groupies, too.’
26
Baumann has never been arrested—correction: he was cited once for drunk driving. Wouldn’t you know?’ Jury heard rustling on the other end of the phone, background voices, and then Johnny’s voice returned, went on about Viktor Baumann. ‘He’s like sand–runs right through your fingers.
He’s got a girlfriend—or maybe I should say a partner in pathology-named Lena Banks, beautiful and psychopathic. Like my old mum says, put ‘em in a bag and shake it and see which falls out first.’
‘Lena Banks.’ Jury stuck the receiver between shoulder and ear, looked for a pen, found one, said, ‘Address?’
‘The Culross. It’s in Culross Street, off Park Lane.’
‘Good address.’ Jury sat back. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘She’s been with Baumann for at least a decade. Never married, but never without a man. Traveled extensively, lived in Lisbon several years, Berlin, Paris, London, Rome, New York, name it. Does she work? Not really. A bit of an actress, a bit of modeling.
Viktor takes care of her for the most part. The last ten years or so she’s been either with him or near him. Bit of a wide lass is Lena, bit of a crook, bit of a dabbler in art fraud. Different things.’
‘Where do you come by your information?’
‘Eyes and ears always on the street, Rich.’ Johnny had more snitches than all the rest of them put together.
‘Is she high class, low class, what?’
‘She’s cultured, educated, well connected.’
Jury stared out of the window that gave on to nothing but limitless space.
‘Are you thinking, Richard? Or did you hang up?’ Jury wouldn’t mind getting into that flat in Culross Street. But he obviously didn’t have cause for a search warrant. ‘Isn’t the Culross one of those time-share arrangements?’
‘Right. Except they don’t call it that. It’s popular with people who do a lot of traveling. Expensive as hell, what you pay for it, and the flat doesn’t actually belong to you. It’s probably a great convenience for people who travel, but me, I want my own place even though it is a third floor no lift in Hammersmith.’
‘Do me a favor and send round what you’ve got on her.’
‘Will do.’
‘Thanks, Johnny. I think I’ll pay the Culross a visit.’
‘You won’t get into that flat, Rich.’
‘I know.’
‘Miss Banks, sir?’ said the nattily uniformed porter behind the black marble counter to whom Jury had just shown his ID. He had to hand it to the Culross, a visit from New Scotland Yard didn’t rattle them at all. ‘Miss Banks isn’t currently in residence. We’re expecting her to return’–he looked at a big black register–’next week.’
‘Then if the fiat’s empty, perhaps I could see it?’ No he couldn’t, but he thought he might as well try.
The porter was shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid not; it’s occupied at the moment.’
‘This is a time-share arrangem
ent, then?’
The porter registered a bit of irritation at this, offended the residences here were described as something so crass as ‘time-share.’
‘No, no. There’s no restriction on time. One is guaranteed a residence anytime; the difference is that it isn’t always the same residence. Therefore, one might occupy different places at different times. And, anyway, a look round wouldn’t do you any good as there is nothing personal left in the residence itself. Personal effects you wish to keep here would be left with our concierge to be put in your fiat before you arrive.’
‘By personal effects you mean what?’
‘Photographs, laptop computers, things one might bring along to make the residence more like home.’
Jury thought for a moment. ‘And where are these personal effects kept?’
‘Our concierge sees to all of that.’
‘So let me talk to him.’
‘He’s not here at the moment, sir, as he had a small emergency.’
‘I have a small emergency, too. I have a homicide emergency. So you’re elected to show me where these items are stored.’ The porter’s face flushed. But his manner was impeccable. ‘I believe I can do that for you.’
He led Jury through a lobby richly appointed with velvet and satin curtains, antiques, marble, mahogany and relaxing color combinations. It was a feast for the senses, a taste of opulence. Perhaps this sensual picnic made up for the fact that that hundred thousand quid you were shelling out was for space, not place.
They finally arrived at a storage room on the downstairs level.
‘Who keeps the keys?’
‘I have one; the concierge, of course; and since our owners’ goods have to be accessible at all times, there are several other keys. Of course, we strongly recommend not leaving valuables, such as jewels or money, here. We have a safe for that sort of thing.’
‘Meaning one is accessible and the other isn’t?’
He nodded.
‘Any member of your staff can, theoretically, access Miss Banks’s things?’
‘But no one would, I mean, other than to place items in her residence before she arrives.’
•’How do you know that if there are numerous keys and someone just wanted a look round?’
‘I assure you, Superintendent, every member of staff is carefully chosen and vetted.’
‘Yes, of course. But that still doesn’t answer the question, which is that theoretically your owners’ things could be gotten at by just about any one of your staff.’
The porter shrugged. ‘If you insist.’
‘I do. Right now I insist on seeing whatever Miss Banks left behind.’
‘With all due respect, sir, I believe for that you need a search warrant.’
‘No, I don’t. This stuff is in the public domain as you describe it. Anyone can get to it. So let me see her things.’
The man took out a set of keys, moved them about and found the one he wanted. ‘I don’t see what you expect to find.’
‘I don’t, either. Thank you.’
They entered the room in which locked bins took up most of the space. ‘I’ll find her things for you, but I really must insist that I remain while you examine them.’
Jury wanted to laugh. ‘Of course, stay.’
Scant offerings, certainly, the articles that he brought and set on the table.
‘As you see, there’s very little here.’
A laptop computer, a leather briefcase and a zippered leather portfolio, and perhaps a half dozen toilet articles–lotions, perfumes. ‘Would you open these for me, please, since you probably prefer I don’t do it myself?’
The porter unzipped the portfolio, which contained a legal-size pad and a pen. Then the briefcase, which held a small calfskin photo album, the sort that one can carry in a pocket or purse.
‘May I see that, please?’ The album was handed over. Jury undid the clasp, revealing a little waterfall of snapshots. There were several plastic windows for the pictures, pictures of Viktor Baumann and, he assumed, Lena Banks.
Jury stared at these for a moment and then showed them to the porter. ‘Is this Lena Banks?’
The porter took his time drawing out his glasses from their case and adjusting the earpieces. He looked at the pictures. ‘Yes, it is.’ Jury wasn’t sure what he’d expected, perhaps to find Lena Banks was the woman in Declan Scott’s garden.
But he certainly hadn’t expected to find Lena Banks was Georgina Fox.
Fiona had delivered the folder from Blakeley to Jury’s office with a little note saying ‘DI Blakeley wants this back ASAP.’ He opened it. The glossy photograph was a glamour shot, the filamented light weaving through her blond hair. Lena Banks was beautiful, no doubt of it, even more so than Declan Scott’s Paris snapshots had shown her to be. Yet the beauty struck him as ephemeral, an arrangement of light and shadow merely. Simply put, Lena Banks was extraordinarily photogenic.
He rang Johnny again, thanked him for the file.
‘Paris?’ asked Johnny. ‘Yeah, Lena Banks was in Paris about-let’s see’–papers rustled–’a year and a half ago. Why?’
‘A detail. If it’s important I’ll let you know. Do you have anything on her activities in Paris during that time?’
A brief silence as Johnny seemed to be searching his desk, as if a Parisian Lena Banks might turn up in a drawer.
Jury laughed. ‘It’s okay, Johnny; you can’t be expected to know everything.’
‘Why not?’
‘Declan Scott was in Paris then. It was after Mary Scott died and Flora disappeared. He was, understandably, pretty depressed. During that time he met a woman who called herself Georgina Fox. Their relationship lasted a few weeks, I think he said. Point being that Georgina Fox is Lena Banks.’
At the other end of the phone Jury thought he heard something fall–a chair, a man. ‘Johnny?’
‘Back with you. What in hell was she up to, do you think?’
‘Getting herself involved with Declan Scott, by the look of it.’
‘Interesting. But her chief involvement was with Viktor Baumann. He’s always been her chief involvement. Let me know what you find out.’
‘I will.’
After he hung up, Jury looked at the photo album. He would just take this along with him when he saw Viktor Baumann in the morning.
27
Jury drank his first mug of morning tea and stared out his living-room window at the oblong of park across the way that e had always wanted to loaf in, just sit on a bench and stare at nothing, but had never found time to do. He moved around the flat, picking up a book here, a magazine there, thinking about Viktor Baumann and the snapshots he had recovered from the Culross storage area. With his second mug of tea he was back to standing in front of the window, thinking about it, trying to sort out some better, more ingratiating, way to approach Viktor Baumann and feeling distinctly unclever.
Third mug of tea. He got into his coat, stuffed the snaps in an inside pocket and left the flat.
Jury walked along Ludgate Hill toward Cheapside. He rather liked this marriage of tall modern buildings of glass and stone to the murky, twisted little streets. The small businesses–Indian takeaway, cleaners–and others extremely pricey–Penhaligan’s (skin care and cologne); Halcyon Days (where you could buy a little enameled box for a hundred quid a toss). How the narrow streets could coexist with the sleek office blocks Jury wondered at.
He came to the coffee bar where he and Mickey Haggerty had sat and talked. He went in. As if he needed another cup of tea or coffee. The pretty waitress was there behind the bar as if she hadn’t moved an inch since last he saw her, as if she’d been standing like that for weeks, months. Time was like some drunken homeless person, tilting toward him and away.
He ordered a cappuccino. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while,’ said the waitress after she’d come back to place it before him.
‘No. I just had sortie business in the City to attend to. I’m not a regular.’
She lo
oked disappointed to hear this. He thanked her and she went off again.
As he drank he thought not about Viktor Baumann, but about Mickey. He turned from the counter, letting his eyes travel over the metal tables and chairs, seeking the one they’d shared. He would never be able to come into the City without remembering.
‘In answer to something that troubles the blood and the bone.’
Poor Mickey.
Jury walked out.
Grace was perhaps more forthcoming, but just as frosty when Jury presented himself that late morning. ‘And this time, Grace–’ She flinched.
‘–I do have an appointment.’ He stood in front of her desk, reached out and tapped the big leather book.
She pushed a button and informed Mr. Baumann that Superintendent Jury was here to see him.
Viktor Baumann walked around his desk as self-possessed as ever and held out his hand. ‘Nice to see you again, Superintendent.’ He gestured toward the same leather chair and Jury sat down. ‘Have you made any progress?’
Jury smiled. ‘Progress is hard to measure in this job. We have come up with some new information, though, and I have one or two questions for you.’
Baumann nodded, sat down and closed his hand over the glass weight with the Greek coin.
Make a good weapon, that would, thought Jury. ‘We’ve come across a woman who appears to be germane to this case, and I wonder if you might have any knowledge of her. Her name is Georgina Fox.’
To give him credit, Baumann didn’t even blink.
‘When they were both in Paris, she had an affair–a rather intense one, at least on his side–with Declan Scott.’ Here Jury passed over one of the snapshots of Lena Banks. One without Baumann in it, of course. Jury felt almost detached from this transaction, wondering if Viktor Baumann would deny any knowledge of the woman in the picture, and sensed he wouldn’t. He was too smart. He certainly would consider that if the police had found a snapshot of Lena Banks, it could have been among several, some of which included Viktor himself.
The Winds of Change Page 18
