“What?”
“O.J. He was guilty.”
“Probably, but unless he was Kate’s date, I don’t much care. The trouble is, I’ve got nothing when it comes to motive.”
Jenkins had come down in his chair and was leafing through the folder, stopping at a page. “You don’t think this might have been more than one killer?” Head still bent, he looked up at Jury from under his eyebrows. “No?”
“No. All three were working in the same job, and the killer used the same MO. They were all shot at close range.”
“Different guns, though, thirty-eight revolver, twenty-two automatic.”
“True. But it’s the range that suggests the victims were standing very close to their killer.”
Jenkins nodded. “As if the shooter’s body were pressed against Deirdre Small’s. If it wasn’t the boyfriend, or, rather, the client, then who?” Head down, arms folded tight across his chest, he considered. “Double Indemnity. Fred MacMurray shoots Barbara Stanwyck in the middle of a kiss. Great scene. But here . . .” He was tapping the folder Jury had just given him. “It wouldn’t have been that close.” He held up a morgue shot of Stacy Storm. “No, with the first victim there’d have been daylight between them.”
Jury liked that. “Not an embrace, then? Not close enough to kiss? But close enough to suggest the victim knew the killer. I mean, that these women would let the killer get that close.” He rose, said, “I’m going to have a word with our pathologist. Thanks.”
“What do you think? About the proximity of the two?”
The pathologist in this case was Phyllis Nancy; she looked up from the body of Deirdre Small and drew a sheet over her. She seemed puzzled.
“I could demonstrate what Jenkins is talking about if it would help.”
Phyllis gave him a look. Grow up.
Ashamed of his glibness in the presence of this girl, Deirdre, who would never stand close to anybody again, Jury said, “Sorry. I don’t seem to be on the right track lately.”
“I don’t see how you could be, what with worrying over Lu Aguilar. As to this . . .” She was looking at the police report. “‘You could have seen daylight between them’—what a lovely way of putting it. I think I see what he means, though: one bent over the other. Say the man’s already there, sitting at the table, when the woman comes along from the car park. ‘Hello. Hello, sweetie—’”
Jury smiled.
“I don’t mean you. I can see this Mariah Cox or Stacy Storm coming along to the Black Cat, walking over to him, saying hello, bending over to kiss or embrace him. The gun comes up and at an angle and fires into her chest. It’s a hypothesis, of course. But if it happened that way, yes, there would have been daylight between them. I see this Detective Jenkins’s point. Except it was nighttime. The shooters of these three women, then, were also their lovers.”
“Not necessarily. If the wounds suggest that kind of proximity, there are other people who might do the same thing: friends, relations. The wife of the Chesham detective claims that a heel mark was left by a Manolo Blahnik shoe.”
Phyllis was surprised and skeptical. “She thinks a woman did these killings? Well, of course a woman could shoot as well as a man, but somehow the psychology just doesn’t seem to fit.”
“I agree. And the heel print isn’t much evidence. But the embrace, if there was one, could’ve come from a woman. I’ve had friends clap me round the shoulders and hug me.” Had he really? He was trying to think up somebody—that is, besides Phyllis and Lu—and that thought pinched his eyes shut in a brief spasm.
“Richard? Something wrong?”
Phyllis was regarding him out of concerned and blameless eyes. That was one thing he liked, no, loved, about her. She didn’t judge people. He smiled a little and shook his head. “Thanks. I’ve got to get going.”
“All right. ’Bye.”
At the door he turned. “Good-bye, sweetie.”
41
All the while between the morgue and his office, Jury was trying to think of someone. Carole-anne? No. Mrs. Wassermann? Never. One or two children he knew. Gemma? Abby?
On his way into the office he grunted a hello to Wiggins, who was plugging in the electric kettle. Jury sat down without removing his coat. He picked up a paper clip and started bending it. He was feeling rather ill-used in his hugless universe.
Wiggins was looking at him, eyebrows dancing.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Jury punched in Melrose Plant’s number.
Ruthven answered in his most stentorian tones, then greeted Jury as if he’d been lost in a small craft off the coast of Scotland. The call was then overtaken by Melrose.
“You doing anything?” Jury asked.
“Playing with my dog.”
Jury crimped his mouth shut.
Melrose went on. “We were about to jettison the naming contest when Dick Scroggs, of all people, chimed in to complain about Lambert Strether: ‘Ain’t we got enough aggro round ’ere wiffout that Strether nosin’ about?’ Well, that was it, right there was the name!”
“Strether?”
Melrose blew his impatient curses into the air like smoke. “Of course not! ‘Aggro.’ It’s perfect. Listen: ‘Aggrieved.’ ‘Aghast.’ ‘Aggro.’”
Aggro. “That’s the stupidest name I ever heard for a dog. Besides, his name’s Joey.”
“That’s what the tramp called him, I guess.”
“It’s on the dog’s collar.” Jury bent another paper clip.
“So what? The tramp went off and left him and hasn’t been back.”
“We don’t call them tramps anymore.”
“Beggar? Ticket-of-leave man? Supplicant?”
“Homeless, as you well know.” Jury heard barking in the background. “Why isn’t Joey outside running around and herding your goat? All that open space to run around in, that’s the only reason I—”
“You what?”
“That I can see for having another dog. Where’s Mindy, anyway? I haven’t seen your dog in ages.”
“Hanging out at the Man with a Load of Mischief.”
“Well, you should take better care of her. She’s old. We’re all old. Look, I’m going to Chesham within the hour. Can you leave off playing and drive down to meet me? There’s something I’d like you to do.”
Melrose was suspicious. “What?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
Silence. “Well . . .”
Jury was fast losing patience. “Don’t give me ‘well.’ It’s hardly more than an hour’s drive. You can meet me at the Black Cat.”
“All right, then. ’Bye.”
Aggro. Jury smashed down the receiver.
Wiggins jumped.
“Sorry. The man ticks me off sometimes.” Jury wasn’t sure why, exactly. He folded his arms across his chest, hands warming in arm-pits. “What’ve you got?”
“About the case, guv?”
“Of course about the bloody case. Why else would I be here?”
Wiggins pursed his lips.
Jury regarded him narrowly. “The Smart Set escort service. You went there presumably with one of City police.”
“Right.” Wiggins pulled out his notebook and the plug of the electric kettle, which was roaring like a bullet train barreling into Kyoto. “A Mrs. Rooney. That’s the manager’s name. Alva Rooney. She was rightly appalled by Deirdre’s murder. As to Deirdre’s date the night before: she didn’t want to give me a name, client confidentiality, blah blah blah, sick of hearing that, I am. So I saved myself the trouble of nicking her and asked if she knew Nicholas Maze. Yes. That was the man Deirdre was to see. She recognized the name right away. And seemed genuinely shocked that he’d have shot Deirdre.”
“I don’t think he did. But she knew Maze well enough for that?”
“I expect so.” Wiggins shrugged.
“How about other men Deirdre Small had been seeing?”
“There were several.” Wiggins consulted his noteb
ook and read off: “William Smythe, Clement Leigh, Jonathon Midges.”
Jury smiled slightly. “You mean you didn’t have to threaten her with a warrant?”
“Oh, no. She just reeled them off. Didn’t even consult her records. The woman has a prodigious memory, guv. And she pointed out that her clients often gave a name other than their own. So she couldn’t say if the names would do us any good.”
“Descriptions might, though. Had she any photos?”
“Of her clients? Well, no. The alias wouldn’t do you much good if there were a photo, would it?”
“I worked that out in my own mind, Wiggins. But that doesn’t mean there might not be any. I’m interested that this Mrs. Rooney is so attuned to her agency she can remember things that fully. If that’s the case, she might be privy to the girls’—women’s, I mean—confidences. Did she talk about Deirdre Small?”
“Not much. Not beyond the fact of her murder. She answered my questions, but we moved on from the girl to the client, Maze. ‘Nice, soft-spoken, polite gentleman, at least on the telephone,’ is what she said. Do you think it could’ve been jealousy on his part that Deirdre was going with other men? Even though that was, after all, her job?”
“I don’t think Nicholas Maze could get that worked up over any woman, not enough to kill her. He’s too self-serving. Perhaps we should talk to Mrs. Rooney again. When I’m back from Chesham.” Jury rose and unhooked his coat from the rack.
Wiggins was frowning. “Don’t you find it peculiar that one of these women was murdered in Chesham, while the other two were in London?”
“Of course I do. It’s the sticking point.”
Wiggins reflected. “Of course, there are serial killers that work over very wide areas. Offhand, though ... the Yorkshire Ripper, his beat was pretty obvious. Then the Moors Murders, there again . . . No, I wouldn’t think he’d turn up in a place like Chesham.”
“I wouldn’t, either. It makes it appear that these three murders are both connected and not connected. I’ll see you later.”
Jury left.
In his car, he thought about what he’d just said to Wiggins, that the killings seemed both connected and not connected. The point was important, but he couldn’t go anywhere with it. What condition would explain both connection and lack of it? He sat at a red light, thinking about this until the cars behind him honked that the bloody light was green. Are you color-blind, mate?
Was that the driver behind him or the light talking?
42
The déjà vu experience was all there for Melrose in the Black Cat: the old man, Johnny Boy, at the small table in the center of the room, muttering, perhaps to his snarly dog, Horace; the stout woman drinking sherry and reading a racing form; and, of course, he himself, stationed at the same table before the same window.
And the girl, Dora, staring at him as he read his Times. He rattled the paper open to the inside pages.
“Why haven’t you found Morris yet?”
Melrose lowered the paper. “You seem to forget that you told your tale to a CID superintendent. He was supposed to do the finding.”
She shook her head. “You were to be one of the finders. Like him.”
“I see. Well, my friend is a Scotland Yard detective, whereas I am but a lowly landowner.” He wished in earnest the intense eyes would find something else to focus on. He shook his paper, knifed the centerfold with his hand, angry that he hadn’t been the brilliant finder himself.
She sighed and shook her head, fielding one more disappointment. “Then why hasn’t he found Morris? If he works for Scotland Yard, he ought to be able to find a cat. How does he keep his job?”
With as much condescension as he could muster, Melrose said, “He has missing people he has to look out for; he can’t just—”
“But if he can’t find a cat, how can he ever find a person? Finding people’s a lot harder.”
“I beg your pardon. It is much harder to find a cat than a person. A cat is much smaller and can get into places a person can’t.”
“A cat can’t read street signs, so it’s harder for her to know where she is.”
“Don’t be silly, cats find things by instinct; they don’t have to read.” What point was being made? He’d forgotten. He rustled his paper and gave it a snap.
Then, to his consternation another black cat emerged from behind the bar. Was this the one that had been there before? Was this black cat #2? It sat watchfully. Then black cat #1 sprinted by again, going for the gold.
“Wait a minute,” he said, clutching Dora’s shoulder. “Wait. One. Minute.” He pointed. “There are two black cats now; one of them’s new.” He thought this was the case; they looked alike, except for small differences one could pick out when they got close to each other, which they didn’t want to do. The new one (if he was right) was overzealous to the point of frenzy. He hurried here and hurried there as if he were looking for something.
She turned and regarded the new black cat. “That’s not Morris either.”
Tossing down his paper, Melrose thought, This is where I came in.
The Cat Came Back
43
He would have left, too, had Richard Jury not that moment walked into the pub.
Sally Hawkins chose the same moment to appear behind the bar. She waved, then called to Dora, who ignored her.
“I have the strange feeling that everything’s happening all over again,” he said as Jury put his hand on Dora’s shoulder, smiled, and sat down.
“Meaning?” said Jury.
“There’s yet another black cat, and Dora here says it’s not Morris, either. I can’t stand it. The black cat cosmos is made up of a zillion cats who aren’t any of them Morris. It’s got to be Morris.”
“Don’t you think Dora”—she by now having shoved in next to Jury—“knows her own cat?”
“No,” said Melrose, in a tone that didn’t leave it open to question.
Dora said, “He told me you couldn’t find Morris because cats are too hard to find.”
“Really? It’s always been my experience they were pretty easy. Could you go over and ask Sally to do me a pint of something?”
Immediately, Dora ran over to the bar and was conveying the message. Sally nodded, raised a circled thumb and forefinger, as if having a pint of something were a victory for them both.
“So where’s this new cat?”
“He just dashed by; didn’t you see him? Now he’s gone into that niche by the fireplace.”
Jury looked round. It was just about the size of a drawer. He turned that over.
Dora was returning slowly with Jury’s beer.
“They really shouldn’t let you do that,” said Melrose. “A seven-year-old purveyor of beer.”
Dora, sitting down again, took up the cat cudgel. “Well, he said”—she darted a look at Melrose—“Scotland Yard policemen weren’t any good at finding cats.”
“A misquote! I didn’t say—”
“You did too!” Dora stood up in her seat, hands mashed on hips.
“Never mind,” said Jury. “I found Morris.”
Both of them stared, mouths open in equal astonishment.
Dora’s closed first. “But—” She looked around the room. “Where is she?”
“In London. Don’t worry. She’s okay.”
Melrose’s tone was icy, suggesting no congratulations were in order, “Then why didn’t you bring her?”
“Because I need her in London for a little while.”
“What?”
“What?”
Their “whats” bumped into each other. At their twinned expressions, Jury wanted to laugh. They seemed to have changed selves, Melrose looking seven and Dora forty-seven, with her little creased forehead and startled eyes. “Now, this new cat: just when did it turn up?” asked Jury, who already knew.
“Today . . . no, last night. It’s always rushing around except when it goes over and sits in that hollow place. We don’t know why it’s kind of crazy. A
nd it has a mean temper. Sally thinks it must belong to someone because it was wearing a collar. But it came off.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Why?” said Melrose.
“Evidence.”
“Oh, please.” Melrose rolled his eyes as Dora slid out again and ran to the bar.
Jury raised his voice and turned toward the fireplace. “Schrödinger!” The others, the old man and racing lady, looked at him as if he’d gone mad. So did Schrödinger, who left her cubbyhole and rushed over to the table, sniffed at his shoe, and rushed off again.
Dora was back with the collar.
The blue collar was the same one the other black cat had been wearing when she’d appeared with Mungo in the Old Wine Shades. Smiling, Jury stared out the window. How in hell had they done it? How? They just had.
“Schrödinger?” said Melrose. “Now, I could be crazy—”
Jury nodded. “You’re getting warm.”
“Funny. But the last I heard, Schrödinger was Harry Johnson’s cat.”
Dora said, “That’s a funny name.”
“The owner is a funny guy.”
“But I want Morris,” Dora said before Sally Hawkins called her away.
If not Morris, then Joey. Or someone. Jury looked down, studied his pint.
“Are you saying this is Harry Johnson’s cat?”
Jury nodded and drank his beer.
“What is it doing here?”
“I expect Harry brought her here.”
Melrose dropped his head in his hands. “Why? Why? Why? Do I want to hear the answer?”
“Probably not. ‘The cat came back.’ It’s Harry having his little joke. Don’t you remember he sucked me into his story about the Gaults with that enigmatic comment ‘The dog came back’?”
“This was a joke?”
“Um-hm. There’s a murder in Chesham and I’m stuck with it. Harry knows it. So he’s just getting his mite of revenge because I’m still on his case.”
The Black Cat Page 19
