The Black Cat

by Martha Grimes

  “Good night, Doctor. Thanks.”

  Jury left the building, stood on the dark street for a while, feeling a little better.

  There were times when you just had to save something.

  24

  “A dog?” said Carole-anne, and then said it again. “A dog?” Her gaze slid around the room as if one would jump out and verify Jury’s announcement. When one didn’t, she said, “We’ve got a dog.”

  “‘We’ do not.” Jury pointed to the ceiling and the flat over his head. “Stone is Stan Keeler’s dog. We do not have a dog.”

  Carole-anne was filing her nails with a huge four-grain file. Jury had suggested she bake it in a cake in case he landed in the nick.

  “But we don’t need another dog. Especially not one that’s washed up from God knows where.”

  Jury had been drinking his morning cup of tea prior to going to Dr. Kavitz’s. Carole-anne was not one to accept change, any change, in the dynamic of their four-flat terraced house: four flats, four tenants. Five, if one included the dog, Stone. That was it, and thus it would remain. Forever.

  “I’m surprised,” said Jury, “that you’re not more sympathetic to the plight of homeless animals.” No, he wasn’t. Carole-anne had to see homelessness in situ. An actual dog in trouble would arouse her sympathy. She was no good at dealing with abstractions, such as “homelessness.”

  “You’re gone all day. What’s the poor dog to do?”

  “Go on walks with you and Stone.”

  She flounced on the sofa. Only Carole-anne could come up with a real flounce—sending up little tufts of dust, bobbing her ginger hair into waves and curls, derigging cushion arrangements. Jury enjoyed the flouncing.

  “Don’t forget, will you, that I have a job, too,” she said.

  “Yes, but it’s more haphazard than mine.” Could any work be more haphazard than his?

  “Haphazard? That’s what you’re calling it? Andrew has us on a very tight schedule.”

  Andrew was Andrew Starr, owner of Starrdust, the little shop in Covent Garden where she worked. “Andrew,” said Jury, “has the moon, sun, stars, and peripheral planets on a tight schedule, but not his employees.” Andrew was an astrologist, a very popular one. Possibly because he really was an astrologist, a meter-out of good and bad fortunes, but mostly good. “All I mean is, your schedule is more flexible than mine.”

  Jury wondered why he was winding her up. He had just that morning put ads in the papers. The dog would probably never see this house or his flat. He would be taking it straightaway to the shelter that Dr. Kavitz had mentioned. He must be telling Carole-anne about the dog just in case. In case of what?

  “Anyway, I’ve got to pick him up at the vet’s this morning.” He had his raincoat on and his keys in hand. Was she going to leave? Apparently not.

  She sat there filing away. “Ta, then.”

  “Don’t bother getting up. I’ll see myself out.”

  Jury was surprised at the change in the dog: the coat was softer, with even a hint of shine to it. And the dog’s face, his whole head, was structurally beautiful. Jury didn’t know why he hadn’t seen that.

  “Astonishing powers of recovery,” said Dr. Kavitz. “Incredible resilience. These dogs are extremely tough and hardy. But the thing is, they’re not meant to be an urban dog. They need a farm, something like that.”

  Jury said, “I put an ad in the Times and Telegraph. I was wondering, if somebody answers the ad, how will I know they’re really the owners? You know the way dogs get stolen and sold for research. And I couldn’t put a price on him because I’m looking for his owner.” He felt absurd. A detective superintendent and he couldn’t sort bogus claims of identity from the real thing? Good Lord.

  “Good question. In the ad you placed, how did you describe him?” The doctor was checking the dog’s teeth.

  “Well, I said midsized, black, white, copper coat, collar missing. Found in the Farringdon Road.”

  “You didn’t say he was an Appenzell mountain dog.”

  “No.”

  “That should do it, then. Anyone calls, ask them the breed. It’s rare, so if they’re guessing, they’ll never get it. And if they say they’re speaking for the real owner and don’t know the breed, well, you know where you can stick that one, I’m sure.”

  Jury smiled. “I do.”

  The doctor had placed the dog in a large dog carrier, holes cut into it for seeing out as well as for breathing.

  Jury took it from him and thanked him again for all the trouble he’d taken.

  “If I can’t take a little trouble, I shouldn’t be in this business, should I? Emergencies are common; I imagine you face the same thing—one emergency after another. Here’s the address of the place in Battersea, True Friends shelter. I’ll call them up and tell them you’re coming; that is, if you like.”

  “Yes. That would be fine.”

  “Okay, good luck, then.” He reached his finger in to let the dog give him one last lick. “Swear to God, if I didn’t live in a tiny little mews house, I’d take him, myself. But they need space. That might be what happened: dog got bored, couldn’t stand it, ran off, then couldn’t get back.”

  Jury thought Dr. Kavitz seemed not to want to let go.

  The girl in the reception area of True Friends was a great improvement over the one in Dr. Kavitz’s. Her pleasant, almost sunny disposition was more in keeping with animal rescue, thought Jury.

  She was telling him Dr. Kavitz had rung and told her about the dog. “Hello,” she said to him, opening the carrier and running her hand over his back. “You found him in a doorway, he said.” She had the dog out, and his eves—they were a beautiful walnut color—almost sparkled. She picked him up and put him over her shoulder while she filled out some kind of form. On the counter beside the forms was a little stack of white caps with “True Friends” written along the side in dark blue.

  “Did he tell you he’s an Appenzell mountain dog? And we think he might have just run off, looking for something interesting to do.”

  She laughed. “Mountain dogs aren’t best kept in the city, or even the suburbs.”

  “No. The thing is, given he’s pretty valuable, I’d think he had an owner somewhere looking for him, so I put ads in the papers.”

  She nodded, raised her face a bit, and looked round at the dog. “He’s quite beautiful, isn’t he? Well, you did the right thing. This dog”—which was still across her shoulder—“will have no trouble at all in getting adopted. And also, he likes you.” She put another word down on her form.

  “Me? Likes me? That’s not my shoulder he’s sprawled on. If it’s the dog’s happiness that concerns you, then you’ll have to come along, too.”

  She blushed. Then she cocked her head and looked at Jury. “I know you can’t take on the dog permanently, but we’ve a foster program here where a person gives the animal—the dog or cat—shelter for a short time while we find a home for it.”

  “The trouble is, I have a very irregular schedule and I’m out most of the time—”

  She looked so pained, and so in extremis, he’d have felt like a heel not to fall in with this plan. “Yes, okay, I could do that.”

  Beaming as if the sun had risen, she said, “That’s really nice of you, sir. I’ll just make arrangements.”

  She was about to go off when Jury stopped her. “I can’t take him with me right this minute. I’m leaving town. It might be a couple of days until I can get back.”

  The sun sank. “Oh.”

  Again, he felt like a heel. But he hadn’t been lying. Somehow he felt this girl was always being lied to. He could imagine someone bringing in a great strapping animal who looked as though his last meal had been taken five minutes ago, claiming he’d “just found him in the streets” and dumping him.

  Yes, she must have been through this time and time again. I’ll be back, but never coming back. He took out his ID. “The thing is, I’m a policeman and I have a case that takes me out of London.”

>   Her eyes widened as she looked at the ID.

  “That’s all right, then, Mr.—Inspector ...”

  “Jury. Superintendent Jury. I really will come back.”

  “Well, we’d be pleased to keep him until you do.” She had her arms around the dog now, lifting him off the counter. “He needs a name. I guess you haven’t named him yet. What can we call him?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your name?”

  She giggled. “Joely. But I’m a girl.”

  “I can see that. What a gorgeous name. Well, how about Joey?”

  Joely looked into the dog’s eyes, as if measuring him for this name. “Joey.” She nodded in approval. “He’s got his rabies tag now, but he needs a collar.”

  “With his name on it, yes.”

  She looked at Jury for a long moment, frowning and thinking. Then her face cleared and she said, “I know! Wait here.” She carried the dog off with her. In a moment she was back with a cigar box, which she plopped on the counter, together with the dog. “When we find dogs, sometimes they have collars that we take off and save—here!” She turned an old leather collar with a small metal plate on it so that Jury could see it.

  “Joe, it says. Now, wait.” Here she took a small, sharp tool and scraped away on the end of the name, adding a “y.” “I use this for different things on metal. Well, it doesn’t look very professional, but—” She held it up for Jury (and Joey) to see.

  Jury smiled. It was indeed not very professional, but the “y” was certainly workmanlike. “That’s brilliant.” The dog didn’t resist at all as Jury put the collar round his neck.

  They both admired her handiwork. She asked, “Did Dr. Kavitz tell you about mountain dogs?”

  “A little. He said this particular kind—Appenzell?—is rare.”

  “It is in London, that’s for sure. Here—” She pushed the filled-in form toward him. “Would you just sign here? And date it?” As Jury did this, she said: “They’re herding dogs. You know, cattle, sheep, goats, and so forth. They’re very active. I can see if you live in a flat, you’d probably be better off with another kind of dog.”

  She appeared to have forgotten what had landed him this one. He hadn’t been looking for a dog at all. When he finished, she took back the form, impulsively snatched up one of the white caps, handed it to him, and said, laughing, “I don’t suppose you know anyone with a lot of land and some sheep or goats, do you?”

  Jury put on the cap, thought for a moment, and smiled. “Funny you should ask that.”

  His mobile was trilling as he was letting himself into his flat.

  “Jury.”

  “It’s me, guv. We did the door-to-door, found three tenants home, but no one who knows who she is. I wonder if maybe this grocer made a mistake.”

  “No. He was quite deliberate about her. She bought not just cigarettes but bread and milk and so forth. Not purchases you’d make if you were going to another part of the city. I could be wrong in assuming she must live in Bidwell Street, though. She could live several streets away.” He thought for a moment. “Or quite possibly she visits a friend who lives there.”

  “That’s a distinct possibility. Or perhaps she takes care of someone. Anyway, I’ll keep checking. ’Bye.”

  25

  “You were right, guv; she worked as an escort.”

  Jury had just walked into his office and was taking off his coat. “Tell me it’s the same agency.”

  “No. Chelsea. King’s Road Companions, it’s called. Kind of sedate name for an escort place, isn’t it? Her name’s Kate Banks, and according to the manager, ‘Kate’s the best we had on offer.’ ”

  Like a plate of cockles, thought Jury. “More or less what Blanche Vann said about Stacy Storm.”

  Wiggins nodded. “This Kate was the most popular, always busy, could get five, six hundred an hour if she wanted. In one week, Kate brought in five thousand quid.”

  “Do I hear a ‘poor Kate’ in there anywhere from this person? Did she spare a thought for Kate herself?” Jury creaked back in his chair and watched Wiggins stirring his tea. For once he was using a spoon, not a twig or a stick.

  “No, Una was thinking more along the lines of‘poor Una.’ That’s the owner, Una Upshur.”

  “A name nobody was born with.” He thought of Joey. Wiggins snorted.

  “Did you squeeze anything else out of her besides Kate’s earning power?”

  “Not an awful lot. Kate’s from Slough. There’s reason enough to go on the game.” Wiggins laughed into his tea.

  “Why have people got it in for Slough? I like Slough. It’s a good place.”

  Wiggins rolled his eyes. “Kate’s been in London since she was in her early twenties, according to Una. Well-educated, she was. Started at King’s Road a few years later.” He thumbed up pages in his notebook, looked at it. “Una says she’s been with her for about three years. But it’s not her regular job; she’s a steno typist days.”

  “Who was last night’s client?”

  “According to Una, there was no one on the books for Kate.”

  “That must have been unusual, given she was the agency’s star. So she either wasn’t with a client or was doing a bit on the side. Given the clothes and given the money, I’d certainly subscribe to the second idea. Like Stacy. And I’ll bet Ms. Upshur wasn’t giving out any names, either.”

  Wiggins stirred his tea. “‘Clients have my assurance of absolute confidentiality.’”

  “Until such future time as Una might want to try a spot of blackmail. Get a warrant, Wiggins.”

  “That might not be all that easy; there’s not much probable cause.”

  “The hell there’s not. She was with one of the agency’s clients. Even if Kate was seeing this guy on the sly, he would still have been on the King’s Road whatever books.”

  “Companions. Incidentally, Una made it clear that her setup wasn’t about sex.”

  Jury made a blubbery noise of amused disbelief. “Then what, may I venture to ask, is it about?”

  “Like it says: companionship.”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s just possible; I mean, it could be some blokes want just that, boss.”

  Boss. Wiggins had started this more edgy mode of address. He was also rendering more opinions than was usual. He frowned more. He contemplated more. “I hope you’re not losing your common touch, Wiggins.”

  There it was. Wiggins frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “That you’re sounding more coplike. More Prime Suspect.”

  “She’s a woman. Helen Mirren.”

  “I’m aware Helen Mirren is a woman. Her team still calls her ‘guv’ and ‘boss.’”

  “But that’s what we do, guv. There something wrong with that?”

  “No. Not at all. Except you’re sounding more like you’re on our side.”

  Wiggins’s frown deepened. “But... whose side would I be on if not ours?”

  “The other side. The poor bloody public’s that’s got to put up with us. As I said, you could be losing the common touch.”

  Now Wiggins was contemplating. “Losing the common touch? You’ve lost me.” He shook his head as if a child had been speaking. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Jury smiled. “I know. That’s why you have it. Come on.” He was up and unhitching his coat from the wooden rack. “We’ll go and see what else we can drag out of the good Una.”

  King’s Road Companions was housed in a sedate terraced house just off the King’s Road in Chelsea. The reception area was equally sedate and well-appointed—Italian leather, silk-and-damask curtains, the walls lined with fairly stunning photographs of, presumably, the agency’s girls.

  “It’s a terrible thing, a great tragedy,” said Una Upshur, leaning forward over her desk. The wood was so fine that it looked warm, almost soft, as if it would have some give to it if you pressed down with your fingers. More give, thought Jury, than Mrs. Upshur had. She looked hard as rock, as if her frontage were not a well-sp
un gray wool but armor plate.

  She kept flicking looks at Sergeant Wiggins, who was out of his assigned chair and moving about the room, taking in the wall of photos.

  “You told my sergeant, Ms. Upshur, that Kate Banks wasn’t with one of the agency’s clients last night.”

  “That’s quite right. Here, you can see for yourself—” She turned an appointment book, open to the day—or night—toward Jury.

  Who glanced and glanced away, since Wiggins had already covered this territory. “You’re selling sex.”

  As if this assessment astounded her, she fell back in her cushy leather chair. “We most certainly are not! These young women act as escorts to different events in London. It might be a society party, or an art gallery, or the opening of a play, or simply as a dinner companion or to go with a gentleman to a club.”

  “What you told Sergeant Wiggins was that Kate Banks could bring in upwards of five hundred quid an hour. That’s one hell of a lot to pay for an arm to lean on as you wander through the Van Goghs and Sargents.”

  Her small mouth grew smaller, tightening. Then she rethought her situation and said: “There are many wealthy, lonely men out there for whom five hundred pounds is, well, nothing.”

  “Chump change.” Jury smiled. “Come on, Ms. Upshur. No man’s going to pay out that kind of money for simple presence.”

  “You’d have to have known Kate.”

  “I wish I had. But that’s not in the cards, is it?”

  Wiggins was back and sitting down, apparently having made his selection.

  Not caring for where Jury was going, she switched to Wiggins. “Charming, aren’t they? The most beautiful in London, I’d say.”

  “I don’t see Kate Banks”—he hitched his thumb over his shoulder—“back there.”

  “Oh. That’s because she’d had a new photograph taken and it’s not up yet.” Una Upshur was not meeting anybody’s eyes.

  Jury said, “Then why take down the old one?” No answer, so he said, “She quit, didn’t she?”

  “Certainly not!”