The Winds of Change

by Martha Grimes

  ‘Indeed I could. Thanks–it’s really good of you, Richard; I know how busy you are.’

  ‘Not too busy to help out, Brendan.’

  Which, he supposed, was the attitude he should have taken all along.

  The 8:30 got him into Newcastle at 11:36 and Brendan’s car was waiting outside the station. Jury climbed in and Brendan started talking right away.

  ‘Should we go to the police station straightaway?’

  Jury thought for a moment, said, ‘No. Let’s check out the gâteau factory. Maybe I can have a word with this Frank what’s his name, again?’

  ‘It’s Frank Vinson. I don’t know if he’s foreman or manager or what, but he runs the place. The bloke who owns it, though, he’s a real shit. He’s an alcoholic and does drugs. I met him once in a pub over there. It’s as well he lives in London. Dickie says it’s common knowledge he’s mixed up in drugs and such.’

  ‘You told me about him. Do you know his name ?’

  ‘Finnegan.’ Brendan was maneuvering the car round a turn to the bridge when he looked at Jury. ‘Do they all have to be fuckin’ Irish?’

  Jury laughed.

  The place was in between the village of Washington and Old Washington. Jury remembered seeing it on that long-ago day when he’d met Helen Minton. He’d passed it going toward Newcastle. It was a long, low building, well kept up and had a reputation for turning out quality pastry for supermarkets such as Waitrose and for treating its workers well.

  Only this instance, Jury suspected, was not an example of that.

  ‘You stay in the car, Brendan. You’d be more of a threat to Dank than I would at this point.’

  Brendan nodded.

  Jury was directed to Frank Vinson’s office by a cheery-seeming woman in a plastic cap, one of the workers on the floor who’d left for a smoke.

  Frank Vinson was a biggish man, pleasant enough looking but with very sharp eyes that a poor lad like Dickie would not want cutting him a look. Frank had a decided lack of enthusiasm for coppers, which wasn’t surprising given his connection with a villain like Finnegan. Jury would bet Vinson had been in and out of Borstal since a lad. He was from London and probably wasn’t taking too well to this part of the country; for a lively Londoner, Tyne and Wear could be like Siberia, couldn’t it?

  Jury did not tell him he was here unofficially, just letting Vinson think that for some incredible reason, New Scotland Yard was interested in Dickie Malloy. Why on earth?

  Jury didn’t fill in the blanks for him, but instead asked, ‘Is somebody leaning on you, Mr. Vinson?’

  Frank Vinson whipped those sharp eyes round at Jury quick enough to cut. ‘Dunno what you mean.’ He lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he was now stabbing out with a ferocity that would go more with the fire brigade’s trying to extinguish the flaming plant.

  ‘I think maybe somebody is,’ said Jury. ‘Finnegan maybe? Were there shortages? Something along those lines?’ Frank pulled open a desk drawer and withdrew a pint of high-class courage. Remy. Then he rooted out a shot glass, poured and drank it back. ‘Look, any trouble with the books, it’s not down to me.’ He leaned toward Jury, as if in confidence and repeated it, slowly. ‘It’s not down to me.’

  Jury looked round the office, nodding slightly, shaking his head, nodding again, as if assessing the situation. Then he said, ‘Well, let me put it this way, Frank: I don’t really think it’s down to Dickie Malloy, either. Actually, I think there are all kinds of things going on, wouldn’t you agree? My thinking is it’s not down to either of you. It’d be much easier on everybody if you’d just drop the charges against this kid. There’d be no reason for any of this going any further, if you take my meaning, Frank.’ Jury smiled.

  ‘Yeah. Well.’ Another cigarette, another shot of Remy, and Frank agreed.

  Jury got in the car. ‘Not to worry, Brendan. He’s seen the light.’

  ‘What? So what did he say?’

  ‘He’s dropping the charges. Let’s go to the station. I know a DS there, or I used to.’

  Brendan was wreathed in smiles as he started up the car.

  ‘What in hell’d you say to him, man?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Which was, to all intents and purposes, quite true.

  At the Washington Wallsend station, Jury asked if DS Roy Cullen was still with them and was told yes, except it was Detective Inspector Cullen now, and Jury was pointed to the rear of the room where Cullen sat talking on the phone. He ended the conversation when Jury dropped into the chair beside the desk.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Inspector. You deserve the promotion.’

  ‘C’m on, man, it’s nearly a decade. If I’d not been promoted, I’d have nowt and been out on my arse.’

  Jury laughed. ‘True, but that isn’t generally a reason for promotion.’

  Cullen was chewing gum just as slowly and methodically as he had when he’d been Detective Sergeant Cullen, resolutely resisting Scotland Yard’s sticking its nose into Northumbria’s police business. Now, however, the stolen gâteau business was hardly worth a nod, and him a detective inspector, for God’s sakes. He nodded toward the phone. ‘I’ve just had Frankie Vinson on the phone, telling me he was dropping all charges against Richard Malloy. Nice.’ In an un-nice tone. ‘You had a little talk with him?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of. Oh, come on, Roy. Somebody, probably Finnegan, is leaning on Frank, so he leans on this poor lad. So can we take the boy home now?’

  Cullen shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

  Dickie Malloy, a thin, gaunt boy with sad eyes, at first seemed to be shivering with fright until he realized it was Jury with the PC who unlocked the cell.

  ‘Uncle Richard! Where’d you come from? What’s going on?’

  ‘Your dad’s waiting, Dickie. Let’s go.’

  In the car, Dickie sitting in back, Jury turned around and looked at him. Dickie seemed brimming over with relief. ‘Listen, Dickie, no more gâteau parties, okay?’

  Dickie nodded with great enthusiasm.

  Brendan laughed and bumped the car over a speed bump.

  ‘I never did know police to act quick on anything, but that sure was.’

  ‘Oh, we’re quick as can be,’ said Jury. ‘Drop me back at Newcastle station.’

  At the club car’s refreshment stand he bought a cup of tea, the counterpart of the earlier cup of coffee he’d discarded in the station. Back in his seat, he regarded the woman and boy across the aisle. The mother (at least that’s who Jury assumed she was) was chewing gum avidly and reading what appeared to be, given its lusty cover, a romance novel. Concentrating on the book, her tongue pushed out a ribbon of gum and then curled to pull the gum back in.

  The boy with her might as well have been on the moon for all the attention he got. He had a little metal car that he rolled about on the seat as he made a little blubbering noise that Jury imagined was meant to be the car’s engine springing to life.

  Jury leaned his head back. In another minute he felt eyes staring at him, the boy across the aisle trying to engage him. Jury was trying just as hard to disengage. He wanted nothing to do with any stranger at this point, nothing. But the eyes were wrestling Jury to the mat. He looked over.

  The boy smiled. He looked to be seven or eight, with spiky hair the same brown color as his mother’s, but blue eyes that belonged to nobody. They were the bluest eyes Jury had ever seen, eyes that would make the boy memorable even if the rest of him faded into oblivion. He was holding the little car. Jury’s look was interpreted as an invitation, and he crossed the aisle.

  ‘I have a car,’ he said, holding it up for inspection.

  ‘I see you do. What kind is it?’

  ‘It’s a Jaguar. I think.’ He frowned at the car as if it were not living up to his investment.

  Jury took it and looked it over as if pondering the question of the car’s make. ‘It could be a Porsche, too.’

  The boy had propped his elbows on the armrest of Jury’s seat and was restin
g his chin in his hands. ‘What kind of car do you have?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  This appeared to knock the boy for a loop. A grown man who didn’t own a car? ‘But you have to. How else can you go round the pubs?’

  ‘You can walk, can’t you?’

  Here was an exquisitely monstrous notion. The boy made a face.

  Jury asked, ‘What kind of car do you drive, then, when you go round the pubs?’

  ‘Me?’ He clapped his hands to his chest. ‘I don’t have a car or go to pubs. I’m not old enough.’ But he seemed pleased to be included in the driving and drinking population.

  ‘Really? Then how old are you?’

  The boy held up his hand, splaying the five fingers, which he turned into a fist and then held up three fingers.

  ‘Five? That’s nice,’ said Jury.

  The boy was outraged by this error and the dimwit who couldn’t count. ‘Eight! Look.’ Five fingers went up on one hand, three fingers on the hand holding the car.

  ‘Ah! I was wrong. Sorry.’

  He was immediately forgiven, as the boy returned to his former stance, pressing his hands down on the armrest to keep his balance. ‘I’m going to London.’

  ‘London? Then you’re on the wrong train, mate. This one’s for Swansea.’

  Openmouthed, the boy stood ramrod still, locked into the position of the horrified and disbelieving. ‘Never! It’s going to London. It’s you that’s on the wrong train!’

  It was interesting that the boy didn’t go to his mother for confirmation of the train’s destination. Jury glanced over at her, still chewing gum, curling the lock of hair, reading her book. Like a character depicted on a frieze. Even her movements, so repetitive, seemed frozen in time. Had the boy given up turning to his mother for verification of what he was led to believe was true? ‘That’s mum. She don’t mind.’

  Doesn’t mind what? That they were hurtling through the night, aimed not at London but at Swansea?

  ‘Bet,’ said Jury, digging around for change and taking a pound coin from his pocket. ‘Bet you it’s going to Swansea.’

  ‘Okay, only–’ The boy didn’t have a pound to bet. Then he looked at his toy Jaguar or Porsche, and said, ‘I’I1 bet this.’ When Jury agreed to this, the boy said, ‘If you’re on the wrong train, are you just going to keep going?’

  Interesting question. ‘Don’t have much choice, do I? This is the Swansea Express, anyway.’

  The boy was all over it. ‘Express’ was something to sink his teeth into. His tone grew-almost belligerent. ‘Why’d there be an express train to Swansea? It’s not big enough.’

  ‘How do you know? You’ve never been there, I’ll bet.’ That stopped the boy momentarily. He had no rejoinder.

  But he would keep up his end nonetheless. He had London in his favor.

  ‘Why are you so certain I’m wrong and you’re right?’ asked Jury. ‘Did you buy the ticket?’

  ‘Me? A course not. Mum bought it. I heard her say London.’

  ‘Well, then it might be the right ticket, but still the wrong train.’ The boy frowned. Again, Jury found it interesting that he didn’t ask his mum for backup here. It could be that he wouldn’t get it, or would get it, but in a cross voice. But it also could be that for the boy, not being 100 percent sure of the train’s destination threw him into a state of suspense that was not unpleasant. His small furrowed forehead and blue, blue eyes protested against such uncertainty, but not enough to make him turn away and ask someone else (the man reading a book? the elderly lady sitting knitting?) and put it behind him. He would enjoy the fabrication; he would enjoy being part of it. Kids liked to be safely scared, as at a fair, sitting in a little boat that winds through a tunnel of horrors-skeletons popping out at them, doomed creatures with lighted heads–yes, a child would gladly pay his fifty p or pound for the thrill of being scared.

  From his expression, Jury knew that the boy was growing less and less certain of London. He crossed the aisle to get the ticket stub stuck on top of the seat by the conductor. (The mother was all oblivious.) He looked at it and stuck it back with a frown. For he knew (as Jury had said) that the ticket proved nothing.

  Down the aisle, just come into this car was the attendant rolling his tea trolley. Here was a chance! The pale-looking young fellow would most certainly know where this ambiguous train was taking them! The boy watched him, his skin going as pale as the attendant’s.

  Jury said, ‘You’ll have to get out of the aisle to let him pass. You can sit over there.’ Jury indicated the seat facing him.

  The invitation was accepted. The boy squirmed around to look at the progress of the tea trolley, which was making good time because there were so few passengers. ‘Want some tea or biscuits or anything?’ asked Jury.

  The boy shook his head, still biting on his lip. The tea trolley was nearly abreast of them and he got up quickly and went to the window, his back turned on Fate.

  The attendant stopped. He listed the offerings, in a sweet manner, and Jury said, ‘I’ll have a Kit Kat. No, make that two Kit Kats. Thanks.’ He paid for them and the trolley moved on; the boy stayed for another moment at the window, where nothing could be seen but the dark. It was a full moon, the boy announced, and returned to his seat.

  He thanked Jury for the candy and waited to see what Jury would do with his. Jury tore back a piece of the wrapper and then so did the boy. They both took a bite. Jury said nothing about the attendant, but the boy was leaning over the seat, craning his neck to watch the tea trolley out of sight.

  ‘I should have asked him!’ Too late now. ‘He’d’a known.’ Jury smiled. For Swansea had set up shop in the boy’s mind.

  ‘What’s there? I mean in Swansea?’ said the boy.

  ‘Well, there’s a fair, usually. You know, with a carousel, Ferris wheel and all that.’

  ‘Has it got bumper cars? That’s my favorite.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Two different lots of bumper cars.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Wow. Do you go there?’ He added, in a disappointed tone, ‘I guess you’re too old for that.’

  ‘You’re never too old for bumper cars.’

  The boy nodded. ‘I won’t be, not even when I get to be twenty. Or thirty.’ His eyes widened at this seemingly impossible number of years. ‘It’s not as big as London, either. If you got lost in London, well, I guess you’d stay lost.’

  ‘Oh, I could find you.’

  The boy looked dubious. ‘I think you’d stay lost. But I guess in Swansea you wouldn’t.’

  ‘No. You definitely wouldn’t.’ Jury looked down the aisle.

  Here came the most authoritative figure of all, the one who had incontrovertible proof of the destination of this train. Jury was afraid the conductor would bark out the news that London was coming up next. ‘Here’s the conductor coming.’

  The boy whipped his head round to see and then slid off his seat and returned to the window to gaze out on darkness. He spoke about the moon. ‘You should see it! It’s huge.’

  The thing was to keep up one’s end. Winning was so far off the mark that the boy wasn’t thinking about it. He had London in his corner, but Jury had worldliness. He knew more about such things; age granted him power, perhaps enough even to divert the course of the tracks. So in a way they were equal.

  In this sense they were, indeed, magicians. It was the rabbit popping out of the hat that was important, not how the rabbit got there in the first place. Children could do this better than adults: keep the balls in the air, the body suspended, the tiger at bay. For truth must be held in abeyance. No matter how slight a one, Swansea must still be a possibility.

  The train was slowing, the buildings now creeping past, the stolid brick and cement of city buildings and spreading railroad tracks, and there was no longer a means of denying that here was London. Passengers were rousing themselves from magazines and papers. The boy’s mother was looking around with a baffled frown as if her child had disappeared largely to make her life more diffi
cult.

  The conductor was bellowing the destination as they chugged into King’s Cross. The boy looked around the back of his seat, over the armrest at the conductor, then turned back and clutched his red car.

  He was wondering, Jury was sure, what could be salvaged. Oh, there was a pound in it for him, but reward for being right had gone out the window long ago. This was London pure and simple, and his mother was registering his presence with a nagging ‘Joey! Come on, love.’ She was cross and trying to get their things together.

  Joey said, ‘Okay,’ glumly, and gave Jury a look that could only be described as imploring. Game over. They could have kept it going had the train not put them down here; he could have gone on forever, as long as a game could go on.

  He stood in the aisle as his mother got their belongings sorted, some stuffed into a carryall. To Jury he said, in a totally disheartened manner, ‘I guess I won.’ Talk about a Pyrrhic victory! For winning was not the point, and Jury knew he’d best hold on to that pound somehow. He said, ‘You know, I’m not so sure you’ve won.’ He took out his warrant card and one of his business cards. He handed the card to the boy. ‘My name’s Richard Jury. I’m a policeman, Joey.’

  As Joey’s mouth fell open, his mother said, ‘Well, come on, then. We can’t be stopping in the aisle all day.’ She started toward the front of the car, leaving Joey behind like a forgotten suitcase.

  Jury rose, too. ‘Here’s the thing. Sometimes police have to divert trains originally bound for somewhere else–’

  Joey’s eyes and mouth were perfect Os, as round as the moon.

  He said in a wondering tone, ‘Like Swansea, you mean? This here train was meant for Swan’sea?’

  Jury nodded. ‘Could be. So you hold on to your car and I’ll hold on to my money and we’ll see how this game plays out.’ He pulled out his small notebook, clicked his ballpoint into action.