Mrs. Tobias bent down and got a hiss for her trouble. “Oh, that’s Schrödinger”—it came out “Shunger”—“nasty-tempered thing.”
“Yes, I’d have to agree with you there.” Melrose opened the carrier and the cat made straight for the bureau in the room across the hall.
“I guess she did miss them kittens.” Mrs. Tobias sighed.
Relieved of the one cat, he said, “I do apologize again.”
“Oh, never mind, sir. ’Long as the cat’s back before Mr. Johnson.” She opened the door for him and, after he passed through it, looked out and around. “But I do wonder ... you didn’t happen to see a little dog about, did you?”
“Dog?”
This would come to tears, he just knew it.
56
Cigar was a West End club so cool and laid-back, you could walk right past it and never know it was there.
Which was what Jury did. He wondered if that wasn’t a great metaphor for most of what passed for life. Most of the time you could walk right past it.
Its brick facade, its small brass plaque (that no one would be able to see from more than three feet away), its little wrought-iron fence, and its un-uniformed doorman—unless the black turtleneck sweater, black wool jacket, black jeans, all of the black pretensions, were to be taken as a uniform—all of this made the place look helplessly hip.
The black-garbed gatekeeper didn’t do anything except smile slightly and nod. He wasn’t there to check credentials; he was only there to assure customers that this was Mayfair, WI, and Cigar was exclusive.
Inside, he thought about checking his coat with the blonde in the small gated enclosure but decided to keep it in case of the need for a quick getaway. He was a few minutes late, so unless Rosie Moss decided to keep him waiting, she’d be here.
The room put him in mind of last century’s London before the coal fires were damped down and the city was called “the Smoke.” The club meant its name. Through vistas of smoke, he looked the wide room over: the gorgeous brunette sitting at the bar, eyeing him; a tawny-haired woman at one of the roulette tables, where a villainous-looking croupier whipped the wheel around; two blondes, like paper cutouts, sitting close together, dripping a lot of jewelry.
His eye traveled back; he had missed her just as he had missed the club itself—but why wouldn’t he? She turned out to be the gorgeous brunette at the bar, smiling at him. The hair was all curls, no bunches; the candy stripes exchanged for a long black skirt, slit to the knee; black halter top; black fringed shawl; and jade green Christian Louboutin shoes on her feet, one of which she was swinging so that the shoe hung precariously from her toe. So this was Rosie Moss: Dark hair. Black dress. Red soles.
Killer looks.
“You didn’t recognize me.”
“You could say that.”
“I don’t always look twelve years old.”
“I can see that.”
Red-soled shoe now firmly on her foot, she pushed out the stool next door. “Here. Saved it for you. I had to turn a few guys away.”
“Half the male population of London, more likely.”
The barman was there in a blood red suede waistcoat. Jury looked at Rosie’s glass, questioning. She raised a fairly fresh martini. He ordered whiskey, then when the fellow waited, he realized he’d have to name it. This wasn’t Trevor, after all.
“Macallan?”
The barman nodded and drifted off to whatever crypt they aged the whiskey in.
Jury said, “Do you transform yourself this easily and often?”
She was plucking a cigarette from an ebony case and offering him the case. He refused for the thousandth heartbreaking time in three years.
“Who says it’s easy?”
“All right. I was merely observing your chameleonlike qualities.”
“I have other, even better qualities.”
Oh, hell, it was to be a night of double entendres. He wasn’t up to it. “Do you mind if I call you Rosie, instead of Adele?”
She shrugged, obviously disappointed that he couldn’t come up with a better question.
“How did you get into this work?”
“Took my clothes off.”
The barman was back with his whiskey. This, he could use. He drank off half of it. “And saw your future.”
“Pretty much.” Her smile was unpleasant, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. She sipped her martini. It was a strange color, probably one of those boutique martini mutants that were popular among drinkers who didn’t like martinis.
Jury took a chance. “You didn’t like her, did you?”
An artfully arched eyebrow went up. “You mean Stacy? I didn’t mind her; I hardly knew her. Why? I should be unconsolable now she’s dead? I should wrap myself in sackcloth and ashes? Throw myself into the Thames? Jump from the top of Nelson’s Column?”
Jury laughed. “No, but you seem to have given some thought to it.”
The pale look, the whiteness that had suddenly touched her cheekbones, now was swept away as if it were snow in the wind. It was a rather dramatic turn. Her next move was another.
Rose leaned into him, her hand on his wrist, the hand then traveling slowly up his arm. “This is supposed to be a bit of time together, a few drinks, a few laughs, a meal, and then who knows?”
He did, for one. Strange he felt no desire for her, no ardor. He felt himself to be almost clinically cold. It was, of course, as he’d told Carole-anne, not a date for pleasure but for work. Still, that wouldn’t have been reason for feeling he was made of ice. Was it because of the terrible condition of Lu Aguilar? Guilt? No, because it certainly hadn’t stopped him getting into bed with Phyllis (the very thought of whom started the ice melting). No, there was something missing, something not coming across.
Then he thought, She’s acting. That was part of it. Of course, he imagined she often did. The thing was, there was no real ardor on her part, either. All of her actions were rote, which wouldn’t be surprising except that she wasn’t here in the role of escort; he hadn’t hired her. It was a plain old date. Why did she need the act? He said, “This chap in Chesham Stacy was engaged to ...”
Abruptly, Rose polished off the rest of her drink and held out the glass for another, held it out not to Jury but to the barman, who nodded. “Engaged? Don’t be daft. That what he told you?” Her tone was strangely spiteful. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Bobby never meant anything to her. He was just for laughs.”
The serious, sympathetic Bobby Devlin was hardly a fellow a girl would keep by her “for laughs.” He thought Rose had it exactly the wrong way round. It was the men Mariah-Stacy was having casual sex with who were there for laughs.
“Anyway,” Rosie went on, “he wasn’t her type at all. That bewildered-little-boy act? Oh no, that wasn’t—” She stopped mid-sentence. She had said too much.
Jury watched her try to backtrack.
“I mean, that’s the impression she gave me.”
“‘Bewildered-little-boy act’? That’s more of a thing you’d see, rather than something you’d be told, and certainly not told you by Mariah herself. So when did you meet him?”
She looked off, round the room. “Oh, I just ran into him once, you know, by accident.”
“Bobby Devlin told me he rarely went to London; he hates it. So I’m assuming you ran into him in Chesham. You didn’t mention that. Indeed, it’s strange, especially since you know so little about Mariah’s life. But you did know about her, didn’t you? You knew her intimately. She pretty much kept Bobby under wraps.”
Rose ignored the martini placed before her and slid the cigarette case back into her bag. She snapped the bag shut and reached for the pashmina shawl that she’d draped across the back of her chair. “This is getting boring, you know that? I don’t know why I’ve got to spend the evening talking about Stacy Storm.”
“You don’t have to. But it’s either here or later at the station.”
Her eyes hardened. “This wasn’t a date at all, was it
, not a proper date? This was just to get something out of me, find out things.” She pulled the black shawl around her and leaned toward him. “Next you’ll be saying I had something to do with her murder, won’t you?”
“No. You were in London. Don’t worry; we checked out your alibi.”
She looked so stunningly self-satisfied at that, Jury wanted to laugh.
“You mean you don’t think I ran over to Chesham in my Manolo Blahniks and shot her? Well, good for you. Ta very much for the drinks.” She slid from the stool and walked across a room that was growing ever more crowded.
But Jury hardly registered her departure.
Manolo Blahniks?
While he was walking toward the Green Park tube station, his mobile ding-ding-dinged and he considered throwing it down in front of the Mayfair Hotel and stomping it to death.
How childish. “Jury.”
“It’s me,” said Wiggins. “I did find somebody connected with Roedean. Taught there twenty years ago and remembers ‘her girls,’ as she called them. Specifically, Kate Banks. Name’s Shirley Husselby. You want the Brighton address?”
“Yes.”
Wiggins gave it to him. “You going there, then?”
“First thing tomorrow. Thanks, Wiggins.”
Jury didn’t stomp the mobile to death. Reprieve.
57
How did these places seem never to change? It was pleasant, he thought, looking across this shingle beach toward the sea. Time seemed to have stopped here and, without meaning to, stayed.
He turned and walked along King’s Road, facing the sea. Years ago he had been here on a case, one of the saddest cases of his career. But they were all sad, weren’t they?
Walking on, Jury had no trouble finding the house. It was on a narrow street just off Madeira Drive with a long view of the sea. It was one of a line of terraced houses, the numbers uniform and easy to see on the white posts to which they were attached. He used the dolphin door knocker, wondering what it was about dolphins that made them so popular as door knockers. He heard an approach and then what seemed to be a mild argument on the other side of the door until finally it opened with a yank.
The woman who yanked it was elderly and fragile-looking and, he assumed, must be Shirley Husselby. She was the one Wiggins had found. He took out his ID, saying, “I’m Superintendent Richard Jury. My sergeant called?” He didn’t know why he made a question of it, unless it was to give this small woman the opportunity to say, “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry for the delay opening the door. This door will be troublesome.” She gave it a little kick. “You don’t look like a superintendent. I expected someone short, stout, gray, and squinting.”
Jury thought of Racer and smiled.
“Do come in.” She threw out her arm, ushering him in. Then she explained further. “It’s the ‘superintendent’ part. That’s a very high rank of policeman for one so young.”
“Me? I’m not young at all, I’m—”
Her finger to her lips, she stopped him. “Superintendent, don’t tell people your age. It’s none of their business. I never do. Anyway, you look young and quite handsome. Please”—she held out her arm again, toward the front room—“just go on through, but watch that runner! The fringe wants to catch at your heel and send you sprawling.”
Jury thanked her for the warning. The fringe said nothing.
In the living room, he was warned not to sit on the armchair to the left of the fireplace unless he wanted a good pinching. “The springs in that chair are so temperamental I never know what they’ll do. Just sit beside me on the sofa; I think it’s on its good behavior.”
Jury looked around at this quite ordinary, very comfortable-looking room: a crisp fire burning, old but good chairs and tables, pretty cream linen, and tulip-patterned slipcovers—all of them looking welcoming but apparently full of traps for the unwary.
“Now, I’ve just made fresh coffee.” The silver tray and coffee service sat on a coffee table before the sofa, steam rising from the spout. There were cream, sugar, and small biscuits. All of it looked quite nonthreatening.
“Be careful of the coffee. It’s hotter than you might think. Cream? Sugar?”
Jury declined cream and sugar but took the china cup and saucer carefully. “Thank you.” The coffee was no hotter than coffee ought to be. He thought she had a watchful air, as if she were prepared to call Emergency if the first sip had him on his back on the floor. Then he said, “I expect you’ve heard about this series of murders in London?”
“Yes. You want to talk to me about Kate Banks, is that right?” He thought her cup rattled against the saucer as she set it down. “She was one of the best students I ever had. I felt absolutely terrible when I read about her. I just couldn’t believe it. Why, of all people ...” She shook her head. Her mouth shut tightly, as if holding back emotions that threatened to overflow.
“You think it so unlikely something such as that would happen to her?”
“Of course. She was universally liked at school. Roedean, that is. Really, she was a remarkable person.” Miss Husselby rose and went to the fireplace, saying, “Oh, this fire is unbelievably lazy, and then sometimes it will just shoot out!” She poked at the recalcitrant logs, burning by whim. Nothing in Miss Husselby’s world cooperated.
When she’d reseated herself, Jury said, “Please go on about Kate.”
“She was very smart, intelligent, and just a very good person, liked, as I said, by everyone. She was the sort who could settle disputes—you know, who could act as go-between. The girls trusted her, and deservedly so.” Miss Husselby sipped her coffee, then sat back. “It was too bad her mother was so flighty. Undependable. The very opposite of her daughter. Kate was simply a rock. One could lean on Kate, young as she was.”
Jury said, “There was another girl, I believe a friend of hers. Crystal North.”
“Oh, Crystal.” The tone changed, suggesting that Crystal North was an entirely different kettle of fish. “I don’t know that I’d call her a ‘friend’ of Kate’s, though she certainly wanted to be. She wanted to be best friends—in fact, I think she wanted to be Kate, if you know what I mean. Kate didn’t like her very much. But Crystal generally got what she wanted; unfortunately she had no tolerance for frustration. And she would play with other people’s lives.”
“How?”
“I remember once she cheated on a test; she copied answers from the paper of a girl beside her. The girl came to me about it. It came down to one of them, one of them had to have copied, but which one? The tutor favored Crystal; Crystal was a great manipulator, see. The tutor gave them an ultimatum: if one of them didn’t admit to cheating, he’d have to fail both of them. And Crystal let that happen. She was going to fail in any event, so telling the truth gained her nothing. It’s one thing to act stupidly when the only victim is you yourself; it’s quite another thing to make someone else, some innocent person, pay.”
Jury thought of the zebra crossing. The hand stretched out to stop traffic. The car unable to stop. The miscarriage.
Miss Husselby continued: “There was a boy here in Brighton. Crystal had been going out with him. He was only the son of a greengrocer and had no money at all, whereas the Norths, Crystal’s family—well, they had plenty. I was surprised Crystal took to him, but she did. He was charming. I used to buy my vegetables at their shop. Charming and handsome.” She looked at Jury as if to include him in the little circle of charm and looks. “A number of the girls were mad about him. Which probably was the reason Crystal wanted him. No one else could gain a toehold—
“Until he saw Kate. And that was the end of Crystal. Kate didn’t do anything; she wouldn’t have. But even though she wouldn’t go out with him, he was still a goner. She was like a field of lavender. One whiff and you were out cold.” Miss Husselby laughed, rather liking her analogy.
“When he broke it off with Crystal, she was beside herself. But there was nothing she could do.” Miss Husselby sighed a
nd sat looking at the mantelpiece. Or, rather, the painting over the mantel. “There it goes again.” She rose and walked to the painting and adjusted its slight imbalance with the tip of her finger. She walked back. The minute her back was turned, it resumed its uneven keel. “Forgive me,” she said. “What was I saying?”
“About Kate and this young fellow.” He didn’t reintroduce the lavender field.
She sighed and poured them both some more coffee. He knew it would be tepid but didn’t mind. “Thank you.”
“I did keep up with Kate until a few years ago. But I lost all trace of Crystal.”
Jury took out the photo, the snapshot of the girls on the pier. “Is Crystal among these girls?”
She took the picture, looked, nodded. “Right there. Frowning. These are Kate’s friends. But I don’t see . . . Oh, of course, Kate would have been the photographer, wouldn’t she? That explains the frown on Crystal’s face.” She handed the snapshot back to Jury.
“Then you don’t know about the accident.”
“What accident?”
“Crystal’s.” Jury told her.
Her eyes widened. “That’s terrible. But what foolishness, to cross when traffic’s coming. Just because the pedestrian has the right of way doesn’t mean a car’s going to stop. Those crossings can be treacherous. There, you see.” She spread her hands wide. “There you have it. Playing with her unborn child’s life. Just to make a point. What happened to Crystal? I assume she must have been hurt.”
“Yes, rather badly. Almost completely paralyzed from the waist down. She pretty much lives in a wheelchair.”
“I should feel sorry, you know. I wish I did.” She leaned toward Jury, imparting a confidence. “She’d have done anything, beg, borrow, or steal, to hold on to Davey—”
The Black Cat Page 25
