The Winds of Change

by Martha Grimes

  Cody Platt was sitting in front of one of the computers. When Jury appeared, suddenly, Cody made a hurried attempt to turn it off.

  ‘What was that racket?’ Jury asked

  ‘Just checking my e-mail.’

  ‘You must have a lot of e-mailers trying to bump you off. I thought I heard gunfire.’

  Jury wondered about these subterranean night skills of Cody. But considering him, there were a dozen non-incriminating reasons.

  Behind one of the three desks, Jury picked up a file of crime scene photos and leaned back in the old wooden swivel chair. ‘Where’s your boss? I’ve got some information for him.’

  ‘Went to his flat earlier, but he said he’d be back. He got your message. I’m here manning the equipment.’

  ‘Sergeant Wiggins, where’s he?’

  ‘To his digs in Launceston. Said he needed rest, said he was coming down with a cold.’

  ‘Same one?’

  Cody’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Pardon?’

  Nothing. Jury smiled.

  ‘Got anything new? I’ve never worked such a case. How can anyone like this vic have left not even a footprint? Forensics has gone over the whole bloody lot and come up with–’ He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s maddening.’

  ‘Not anymore, at least not that part of it.’ Jury took out the album and passed it over.

  Cody looked at the snapshots of Lena Banks. ‘She’s gorgeous. Who is she?’

  ‘Look again.’

  ‘I could look for a long time, but, still, who is she?’

  ‘She doesn’t look familiar?’ Jury pulled over the file of police photographs lying on another desk, opened it and shoved it toward Cody.

  Cody looked. Cody frowned. He bent closer. He shook his head.

  Jury told him.

  ‘I’ll be damned! But doesn’t that mean that Viktor Baumann must not be the one who snatched Flora?’

  ‘It appears so.’

  ‘Why would they begin looking for her again?’

  ‘I doubt Viktor Baumann ever stopped looking for her.’

  30

  The little square cream-washed house at the end of a rutted lane, still looked to Jury more functional than, livable.

  ‘It looks exactly the same,’ said Jury. ‘I’m glad I’m alive to see it. You drove like a maniac; is there something about Cornwall that brings out this desire to go faster? Especially along narrow roads between drywall fences?’

  Macalvie did not respond to this, but to what he was thinking about at the moment. ‘I swear I can’t believe this masquerade.’

  ‘Everyone, Brian, is masquerading. That’s what I said to Wiggins. It’s like a Restoration comedy. The whole thing turns on identity.’

  ‘It looks like it–why doesn’t someone answer? He knows we’re coming.’ When Macalvie raised his fist to do some pounding, the door swung open. The squinty-eyed housekeeper, who opened the small, thick door and who Jury seemed to remember was named Minerva, was there largely to discourage callers.

  ‘Hello, Minerva. Where is he?’ said Macalvie.

  Minerva frowned but stood back so that they could go into the room where Dr. Dench was seated at a table. ‘I’m just having a late-night snack.’ He waved them into the room. ‘Come in, come in.’ The little house was some sentimental tourist dream of an English cottage–beamed ceilings, whitewashed walls, uneven floors.

  Forget the cold and the damp, the ancient plumbing, the lack of garden front or back.

  A table had been laid near the fireplace and a plate with the remains of several portions of cheese, cut from the several rounds on the table, were on Dench’s plate.

  ‘Sit down.’ Dench gestured toward the chairs opposite his own. He poured red wine into two more glasses. ‘Have some cheese. There’s some delicious Neal’s Yard cheddar, Wensleydale, Roquefort, apricot Stilton. Help yourself.’

  The rounds and triangles of cheeses looked as if they’d been cut by a precision instrument, barely a crumb on the plate, except for the Wensleydale, which would crumble if you looked at it. As far as Jury was concerned, cheese in any circumstances tasted good, but cheese when one was really hungry was an onslaught of the senses.

  Smoking a cigar, Denny Dench gave a ragged little laugh. ‘My God, when was the last time you ate, Mr. Jury?’

  ‘When I was six.’ Holding a heavily laden biscuit in one hand, with the other Jury pulled the album holding Lena Banks’s snapshots and put it on the table.

  ‘He’s been snacking,’ said Macalvie, ‘ever since he got to Cornwall.’

  Jury said, between bites, ‘Yes, well, I haven’t seen Exeter police so lavish in their offers of snacks.’ Jury drank his wine.

  ‘I’m glad you brought along the brains of the outfit, Brian.’

  ‘Look at these, Denny,’ said Macalvie, who set the morgue shot beside the snapshots.

  Dench took Lena Banks’s little album. ‘Hmm. Beautiful woman. Is this someone I know?’

  Macalvie handed over the police photo of Lena Banks.

  Denny held the picture at arm’s length and looked from it to the smaller picture. He studied the two for a moment. ‘Interesting.

  Other than that they’re the same woman, or is that the point?’

  ‘That is, yes. How can you be sure?’

  ‘How? Because that’s what you came here for.’ Denny Dench snorted and got up. ‘Obviously, they’re the same. Bones. It’s all in the bones, Brian. You can muck about with anything else: hair, eyes, lips, weight, age. But you depend on the bones. Come on, see my new computer program.’

  They went down the cellar staircase. Jury loved the Georgia O’Keeffe print hanging at the top of the stairs: one of a skull. At the bottom of the stairs stood a white, glass-fronted cabinet, holding a number of unidentifiable objects, including ropy-looking things that Jury sincerely hoped were not fingers; and sinister looking jars.

  With all of the bones lying around, or parked on benches with little tags that had something to do with identification, the laboratory might have been an archaeological dig. But that’s what Dench was, wasn’t he? A forensic anthropologist. It might have been a graveyard that had turned out its bones, for bones were everywhere. There was a small skeleton that looked as if it had belonged to a child of twelve or thirteen.

  Dennis Dench moved one of these bones a tiny bit to the right and regarded this fresh design.

  ‘Anyone I know?’ asked Macalvie.

  ‘Possibly, if you happened to be in Sidmouth in the late sixties.’ He had snapped a folded sheet open and was covering the bones as if he worried they might get cold. ‘These are the bones of a boy uncovered when a building contractor laid waste to an old pub called the Serpent’s Tooth.’

  Jury was reminded again of the Blue Last. Sometimes he wondered if he’d be thinking about it on his deathbed, as if there were something he’d failed to do that would have made it turn out differently. Of course there was. Of course there wasn’t. Solutions don’t present themselves any sooner because it would save a vast amount of tears and bloodshed.

  ‘This reminds me of that boy,’ said Denny, ‘we found buried along the coast. ‘We had a problem with that identification, didn’t we?’ .

  ‘You did, I didnt’’said Macalvie, generously.

  It was true, though, that he and Dench had disagreed totally about those bones, and Macalvie had been right.

  Dench went to his computer. ‘Hand me that folder.’ Macalvie did so.

  ‘Now look.’ Dench placed the snapshot of Lena Banks below a video camera that digitized the image and transferred it to the computer screen. From the folder he took one of the police photos of the woman who’d been shot. He transferred that to the screen, wiped out the right side of the face and the left side of Lena Banks’s and after adjusting the focal to enlarge the snapshot, moved the half face of one to the half of the other.

  ‘Bingo! Same woman. And to make it even better–’ The computer generated an image of Lena Banks’s abundant hair
on the other half of the image, replacing her poorly cut and drab hairdo. ‘It’s always amazed me that such superficial things as hairstyle and makeup can change a face so dramatically. But bones-the cheekbones of both, the mandibles–I should have seen it immediately. Look at those cheekbones. I’ve been looking at skulls too long. Where does this leave you?’

  ‘Ahead, I hope. And back to Viktor Baumann.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Dench had returned his gaze to manipulating the images on the computer screen.

  ‘Her lover, for one thing. He was Mary Scott’s first husband and it very much looks like something has changed now.’

  Dench was now sliding the snapshot under a viewer and didn’t seem too interested in the context of these pictures.

  While Denny Dench fooled with his computer, Jury walked around the lab. He imagined the two photos that concerned them at the moment were fairly boring to Dench no matter how fine the cheekbones.

  He went back to the child’s skeleton from the construction site in Sidmouth. He felt a wave of sadness wash over him, standing there, looking down at the boy’s articulated bones, wondering how old he’d been. Ten? Twelve? The skeleton seemed so small and thin and insubstantial one might wonder how it supported a boy who rode a bike, played football. Jury tried to see through the eyes of this lad: being seduced from the playground or pavement with a promise of something sweet, new, shiny, and then having it slowly dawn on you that you might never ever go back, that you might never see your parents or your house again. How long could a child hold out hope? One moment you’re standing in a garden, the next you’re being dragged into a car or into the bushes or an alley, your voice muffled by the rough hands of a total stranger. And the next moment? A gun, a knife, a dirty mattress on a concrete floor? For if this boy had lived, if he’d been found by the police or anyone, and been returned as flesh and blood to his home, he would never again entirely belong to it. No, a person abducts a child and something of the child stays behind. How could it not? The child would always be bound to the devil who did it.

  Jury stood staring down at the skeleton. ‘The Child Thief.’

  ‘What?’ asked Denny Dench.

  ‘Nothing.’

  31

  It was late, nearly eleven, when Macalvie pulled the car to the curb in front of the White Hart Hotel.

  ‘We’ve got time for one glass before the booze is shut down.’

  Around closing time pubs always seemed to get more crowded, only because they got noisier and more anxious. The open-all hours London law seemed not to have reached all the pubs in the provinces. The White Hart was serving last orders to a lively clientele.

  For a few minutes Jury and Macalvie drank in silence. Jury turned around on the bar stool with his pint in his hands and looked the room over. He liked the way pubs combined the ordinary old stuff, such as hunting prints, with the crasser new stuff of jukeboxes. He remembered years ago, at a pub in Dartmoor, Macalvie putting his foot through one that had been playing some old song he couldn’t bear hearing. Loss. Loss and guilt.

  ‘Plant told me,’ Jury said it without intending to. ‘Something happened to you in Scotland. He didn’t tell me what.’

  Macalvie nodded. ‘It did.’

  Jury watched a man feeding the jukebox.

  Macalvie pushed his pint around on the bar, making wet circles. ‘That was in Kircudbright. You know, that place in Dumfriesshire that artists love. I was living with a woman who had a six-year-old daughter. She was snatched right out of her bed, out of our house. This was payback for what happened in a drug bust we made in Glasgow when the villain’s twelve-year-old daughter was shot in crossfire. I didn’t shoot her, but I was heading up the unit. I’d run up against the father several times, so he held me responsible. I got instructions to go to an old house in the Fleet Valley. I did. I found Cassie sitting at a table, a cereal bowl and a plate of toast before her. She was shot in the head. Her body was still warm; it couldn’t have happened more than five or ten minutes before I got there. You see, the milk was still cold.’ He stopped. ‘How do you deal with something like that?’

  ‘The way you’re dealing. The way you collared the person who killed those two poor kids near Lamorna. Trying to nail the villain who took Flora–’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You will. That s how you deal with it. There’s no other way I can see.’

  Another silence. Then Macalvie said, ‘It’s these little kids. It’s what happens to them. They haven’t done a damned thing. They’re innocent. Why should they have to pay for what we do? They can’t stand up for themselves; some of them are so little they can’t even speak yet.’ He closed his eyes. ‘What I do, what I try to do, is put myself in that place, in their place, you know? Feel what they must feel. Terror. Like that.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t go there, Macalvie.’

  Macalvie looked down at the dregs of his drink. ‘Neither should they.’

  There was a silence while both of them stared in the mirror, but not at themselves and not at each other.

  Jury said, ‘When I was in Newcastle I saw a painting called The Butterfly Eaters.’

  Macalvie turned.

  ‘It shows a family seated and standing round a dinner table set in tall grass or mire. Each has a butterfly, either on his plate or holding it up in the air. Their eyes are dark and shadowed, all the same, staring out of the painting.’ Jury took a sip of his lager. ‘What does the painter mean? They’re trying to steal beauty for themselves, but they can’t? Are they dining on illusion, falling for something unreal?’

  Silence again.

  ‘Why are you bringing up this painting?’

  ‘It just seems relevant. As if that’s what we’re doing, trying to dine on butterflies, falling for illusions.’

  ‘You mean that we can’t see past them?’

  ‘Past them or through them. Yes.’

  They were silent again, drinking.

  Macalvie said, ‘What about Declan Scott?’

  ‘Oh, he’s fallen further than we have.’

  A streak of light shone under Wiggins’s door. Why was he still up? ‘Chesty’ was the reason given. He lay there under the white sheet with his book splayed across his chest, answering Jury’s question.

  ‘The temperature in here might be comfortable for camels, Wiggins, but not for humans. No wonder you’re ‘chesty.’’ Jury yawned and sat down on the end of the bed.

  ‘How was London? What happened?’

  Jury told him. ‘Not only is Lena Banks Georgina, but she’s also our mystery woman. She’s our dead lady. It was Lena Banks who was murdered.’

  Wiggins was stunned. ‘So now we know who she is, who has a motive?’

  ‘Everyone.’ Jury yawned again.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’ll explain tomorrow, or do you plan on sticking to your bed?’

  ‘I should be up and about.’

  ‘Good.’ Jury lifted the book from the turned-down sheet over Wiggins’s chest. ‘Another Eighty-seventh Precinct novel?’

  ‘It’s an early one. I find it’s best to go back to the beginning and get to know the characters.’

  Jury had thumbed to the page that listed all of the books in the series. ‘Christ, he’s written hundreds of them. To work your way up from the beginning you’d have to be born again.’ Looking at Wiggins’s pale, reproachful face and soulful eyes, he thought maybe he already was.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt to understand the way the police over there work.’

  ‘With all due respect to Mr. McBain’s cop shop, we’re not over there. We’re over here.’

  Wiggins said, sententiously, ‘A narrow mind never got a person anywhere.’

  ‘It would have helped Hamlet no end. Why is it, Wiggins, when you come down with something, you get preachy?’

  ‘I hardly think I preach. I guess it’s that I have more time to think. It would do you good, you know.’

  ‘What? To think?’ Jury was half sitting, half lying on the bed, sho
ulders against the footboard, one more of Wiggins’s remarks away from sleep.

  ‘No, of course not. You think quite enough. No, it wouldn’t hurt you to relax. And maybe to read more. It’s calming. A good book has a warmth to it.’

  He had his hands crossed over Ed McBain in an almost holy manner.

  ‘The last book I read was Emily Dickinson. She’s anything but calming. I think she spent her entire life dying.’

  Wiggins frowned. ‘Then why did she bother?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Writing poems. I mean, why upset yourself?’

  Jury searched around for a good answer to this and found none.

  But, as Wiggins had just said, Why bother? ‘Did you read Emily Dickinson in school? I seem to remember doing it.’

  ‘No. We hadn’t time for things like that. The impractical things.’

  ‘She created a persona, a pose so that she could say what she wanted to say. A favorite pose was the innocent, uninoculated child.’

  ‘You mean who hadn’t got its shots?’

  Jury had developed the art of not processing a lot of Wiggins’s remarks. ‘It’s the child asking questions or being unaware. ‘Will there ever be a morning?’ Like that. Children can ask what adults don’t dare to because we don’t want to admit we’re scared and we don’t really want to hear the answers.’

  ‘Well, not us. We’re first of all policemen and of course we want to hear the answers. At least, I certainly do.’ Implying that Jury might not be up to snuff when it came to truths’ being spoken.

  ‘The world is seen as that much more dangerous a place.’ Jury was now lying across the bottom of the bed (Wiggins having had to move his feet, which he hadn’t wanted to do), his head propped in his hand. ‘‘If I shouldn’t be alive/When the Robins come,/Give the one in Red Cravat,/A Memorial crumb.’ God, but that’s sad.

  It’s what I mean: she’s always dying.’

  ‘You’ve developed a markedly morbid turn of mind since that shooting–’

  Perhaps I have, thought Jury. Impractical Emily.

  The phone’s persistent ringing Jury mistook for the lark Emily Dickinson suggested splitting open to find its music. Instead of the usual brr-brring, the phone warbled.