The Black Cat

by Martha Grimes

  “Davev?”

  “The greengrocer’s son.”

  For a long moment, Jury just stared at her. Then he asked, “His name wasn’t Cummins, by any chance?”

  “Why, yes. Do you know him?”

  “I do.” Jury sat silent, thinking. Then he rose. “You have no idea how much this has helped, Miss Husselby. I can’t thank you enough.”

  She reclaimed his coat from the small closet, saying, “I’m glad I could be of help. I’ve so little to do these days. I do hope you can untangle things.” She made to open the door, but it was stuck. “Oh, blast this door. It’ll get me in the end.”

  Jury opened it, smiling. He doubted much would get Shirley Husselby down.

  58

  It was the anonymity of train rides that Jury liked. The presence of other people who didn’t know you and didn’t want to. No one felt obligated to speak. A train ride was a small-talk vacuum.

  There were only ten or a dozen other passengers traveling to London, all engaged in reading or gazing out of windows at the Sussex countryside, or else plugged into earphones or mobiles.

  Across the aisle sat a pretty woman in her late thirties or early forties. It was hard to guess ages anymore, especially of children, who these days seemed to peak at thirteen or fourteen and go downhill from there. Children looked older than they were, adults younger.

  It wasn’t the woman’s face that had caught his attention, but her shoes. Strappy. What a great word. He wished there were some quality in a person that word would fit.

  Strappy sandals. Jimmy Choo? Tod’s? Prada? No, he didn’t think so. She was nicely but not richly dressed, not enough to be wearing Jimmy Choo. The shoes were sea green, very graceful. He had never noticed women’s shoes before, unless he’d a reason to look; the ones he’d seen of late, the shoes, he had to admit were quite beautiful. More works of art than shoes—which was, of course, what the designer meant them to be. He shut his eyes and pictured Carole-anne’s shoes.

  What he was doing here was deliberately distracting his attention from the case. He was trying not to go over the conversation with Shirley Husselby because he thought he should leave it for a while; if he could let it settle, maybe something would surface. It had certainly been worth the trip to Brighton: that Chris, or Crystal, Cummins had gone to school with Kate Banks yet hadn’t admitted how well she had known her.

  There was a point in a case when Jury felt it was all there and finding it was rather like shooting a pinball machine; like a series of steel balls in the channel of a pinball machine, all waiting for someone’s hand to shoot them onto a field of possibilities, targets, numbered holes, rubber bumpers, and the players needing to exert just the right amount of pressure to send the balls into the holes.

  Chris, or Crystal, had, in the end, married Davey.

  Jury’s question was, why hadn’t David Cummins been more forthcoming about their having known Kate Banks, and known her well? David was a policeman; he knew that kind of information could be vital.

  He must not have wanted it to be.

  At Jury’s signal, the porter stopped and Jury asked for tea and a jam roll that he eyed but did not eat.

  He rested his head on the headrest and sipped his tea while the train throbbed into Redhill station. A few people rose to get off, looking bleary-eyed, as if they’d just been hauled by the Trans-Siberian express instead of the Southern Railway from Brighton. A few got off, a few got on. He tried not to notice, trying to hold on to the pleasure of anonymity.

  Soon to be breached. Through half-closed eyes, he watched a small, stout man settle himself opposite with a rustling and crackling noise that turned out to be a sandwich and a bag of crisps placed on the table between them. Then a slurp and smack that turned out to be coffee. His fellow passenger did not take closed eyes as a barrier to conversation or companionship. The train clung stubbornly to Redhill; he wished it would move. It did.

  “Care for one?” He was holding the bag of crisps across the table.

  Some people didn’t appreciate the finer points of train travel. Jury opened his eyes, smiled, shook his head. “No, thanks.”

  “That looks good.”

  Jury realized he meant the jam roll. “Got it from the tea trolley.”

  The man looked over his shoulder but didn’t see the trolley. “Think I might have one myself when it comes by.”

  “Might not be by again before London. We’re not far out. Have this one.”

  “Oh, now—”

  “Really. Go ahead. I’m not hungry. I don’t know why I got it.” He smiled. “Throwback to childhood, I guess. Jammies.”

  The man pulled the jam roll toward him, smiling, too. “Thanks. Name’s Mattingly, incidentally.” Mr. Mattingly held out his hand.

  Jury shook it. “Richard Jury.”

  “Speaking of childhood. I’ve just been with my sister for two days. We had great times, we did, as kids. She’s in a bad way now. Real bad.” Looking away from the jam roll to the scenery sliding past, he sounded sad.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Mattingly nodded and went on. “It’s a trial, no doubt about it. She’s holding on. I don’t see how, and neither does she. Nothing but skin and bones now.” He wrestled the plastic off the jam roll.

  Skin and bones. Which was probably why Mattingly was intent on stuffing down whatever he could. Not so much for himself, but in aid of his sister. He bit off half the roll. “Quite nice, this.”

  Jury could think of nothing to say. He looked out at the building up of urban scenery, the gray, uneven edges of London’s outlying landscape.

  Mattingly went on about his sick sister, dying sister, apparently. He finished his jam roll, drank his coffee, still talking ten minutes later when the train whined and screeched into Victoria.

  Where had all the rest of these people got on? he wondered. Over twice as many as there’d been leaving Brighton. They stood in the aisle and managed to stumble forward as if they were being prodded with guns and bayonets. Jury didn’t know what brought this violent image to mind.

  Behind him, Mr. Mattingly was still discoursing about life and death. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s not more merciful, the people that help you out of it.... That’s what she said herself and asked me if I knew anyone. ‘Cora, where’d I ever meet up with anyone like that, my dear?’ Still,” Mattingly went on, “I could hardly blame the woman. God.”

  They were down the “Mind the Gap” step and onto the platform now. “Sorry,” said Mattingly, switching his small bag to his other hand so that he could shake hands with Jury again. “Not much more boring than to have to listen to some stranger on a train talking at you.

  It went through Jury’s mind then: Bruno.

  Reminds me of Bruno, Jenkins had said. The steel ball was rolling across the surface of the pinball machine injury’s mind. He watched it fall into the hole and said, “No, I’m very glad you did talk to me, Mr. Mattingly.” It was the truth. “I’m terribly sorry about your sister.”

  “Yes. Thanks. Well, I’ll be off. Thanks again for the cake.”

  Mr. Mattingly swung on down the platform, while Jury stood in place and watched him go. No, he wasn’t really seeing anything except his own mental images.

  That was what Jury had been trying to remember. Bruno. Hitchcock.

  Strangers on a Train.

  59

  Instead of fighting his way through the underground rush hour, Jury stood in the queue for a taxi. It was long but manageable. While he waited, his mobile sounded and he grabbed it to hit the talk button, but not before he’d picked up a few smug smiles from those who’d recognized the ring. A grown man, imagine. He thought he’d done well by simply remembering to charge it.

  It was Jenkins.

  “We’ve got something here, Richard. I can’t say if there’s any significance. It’s a receipt for a book. From Waterstone’s. Date is the day Kate Banks was murdered. It was found by a uniform when he was helping to take down crime scene tape.”

 
Jury was next in line. He said, “Hold on, Dennis,” as the next cab pulled up. “I’m getting into a cab.” He gave the driver his address, climbed in, shut the door. “Right. Receipt found where?”

  “Wedged down between pavement stones. Why didn’t forensic find it that night? Beats me.”

  But not Jury. “Your SOCO people would have found it; they didn’t because it wasn’t there.”

  Jenkins pondered this. “You mean it was planted?”

  “Yes. What’s the book? Is it on the receipt?”

  “It’s been rained on, wait a minute . . . Shoe-aholic, whatever that might be.”

  Jury looked out the window; they were just passing through Clerkenwell. “I know about Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik because I know a ‘shoe-aholic.’ I’ll save you some legwork, Dennis. The person this is going to lead to is a detective with Thames Valley police. Detective Sergeant David Cummins. He bought the book when he was in London. You’ll want to talk to him.”

  Jenkins sounded disbelieving. “Thames Valley police? A detective? You’re way ahead of me.”

  “Not at all. I just happened to know about the book because I saw it in Cummins’s house.”

  “This is pure gold, isn’t it.”

  Jury smiled. “That, or at least plate. Worth the trip, I assure you. I’ll be going to High Wycombe headquarters tomorrow. Want to come?”

  “Yes, but I can’t. I’ve got some bureaucratic nonsense to take care of.”

  “I’ll fill you in later.”

  Jenkins said he’d be waiting and rang off.

  The cab pulled up to Jury’s house. Lights everywhere. Were they having a rave? Why were the lights on in his flat? Carole-anne could be in there teaching the salsa to a roomful of Mexicans. He paid the driver, gave him a big tip.

  As the cab pulled away, Jury thought about the receipt left at the crime scene. He shook his head.

  On the part of the shooter, that had been a huge mistake. That person should have let well enough alone.

  He was right about Carole-anne. He was wrong about the Mexicans. She was talking to Dr. Phyllis Nancy, both of them standing in his living room.

  Oh, Christ, he’d done it again—forgotten.

  Yet she smiled at him. That was Phyllis. “Who,” she said, “would want to eat at the Ivy when they could dine here? Its charming ambience, its mood lighting, its early-detective decor.”

  Said Carole-anne, “She’s being funny.”

  “Phyllis, I’m so sorry.” He turned to Carole-anne. “I’m glad to see you’ve met Doctor Nancy. Which of you got here first?”

  “Had to let her in, didn’t I?” Carole-anne’s tone was querulous. It would be. Jury would be hearing about this for weeks. She turned on her heel and went into the kitchen. “She brought food: sausages and eggs, cheese, bread, some red wine. Good. I can do a nice fry-up.” She reappeared at the kitchen door. “Okay with you, Super?”

  “Shouldn’t you be asking if it’s okay with Phyllis?”

  “It is. She brought the food, after all.”

  Phyllis said, “It’s certainly okay with me if you’re doing the cooking.”

  “Good,” said Jury. “Phyllis and I will sit here and drink wine. Sounds like a winning scheme to me.”

  Carole-anne was reevaluating her KP duty. “I’ll have some wine too between turning the sausages.”

  Jury pulled glasses from an old armoire he’d picked up from a sale of Second World War stuff held at the Imperial War Museum. They were used to hold guns, originally. This fascinated him. He set the glasses on the coffee table and looked at Phyllis. “This was really sweet of you, Phyllis.”

  “Yes, it really was thoughtful,” Carole-anne called from the kitchen. “I’ve had it in mind all day to get eggs and sausages, and hash browns too. Only you didn’t get any hash browns.” She pointed out this weak spot in their menu when she carried in the bottle of wine.

  “You’re right,” said Phyllis. “I should have thought of that.”

  “Probably just as well. I’m watching my weight.” She appraised Phyllis, who was sitting not on the sofa but in a chair, making her hold on Jury speculative.

  Carole-anne noticed this. She smiled.

  Jury knew this small act of generosity on the part of Phyllis was beyond Carole-anne to work out. She wouldn’t understand it, much less perform it. Jury poured wine into three glasses.

  Carole-anne said, “That’s a nice one, that. Had a glass at the Mucky Duck the other evening.”

  As the wine was in a gallon jug—Phyllis had a keen sense of humor—Jury wasn’t surprised that the Mucky Duck featured it. “Maybe I should have Trevor taste it.”

  “Who’s Trevor?” asked Carole-anne, taking a drink of her wine.

  “The wine guy at the Shades. Knows everything.”

  “Quite nice, this. Of course, I don’t purport to be an expert. Like Trevor.”

  Jury laughed. Conversation could be a minefield for Carole-anne. It was so easy to put a foot wrong.

  “How was Brighton?” asked Phyllis. “Worth it?”

  Carole-anne, who, to her chagrin, hadn’t known about Brighton, went back to the kitchen as if she couldn’t care less.

  “It was, definitely,” said Jury. “Except I missed our date,” he added sotto voce.

  And sotto voce, Phyllis answered, “But we’re having it.”

  An awful clatter came from the kitchen, as if a half-dozen pot tops were being bowled across the floor.

  “Sorr-ee!” yelled Carole-anne, sticking her head round the kitchen door. “Dropped the skillet!” The head disappeared.

  Jury leaned across the table, his hand stretched toward Phyllis. “Sit over here.”

  Phyllis smiled but shook her head and was about to say something when another series of rattles came from the kitchen.

  “Oh, God, but I’m clumsy tonight!” The ginger hair poked round the doorway. “A plate. Hope it wasn’t the good china!”

  “It better not be the stuff I bought at Christie’s.”

  Carole-anne shrugged as she studied their relative positions: a coffee table apart, good. She moved back into the kitchen. There came a bright sizzle from (Jury supposed) the reclaimed frying pan.

  “I forgot, I forgot,” said Jury, putting his hands through his hair, “the uncle, Lu’s uncle. You said—”

  “No, not yet,” said Phyllis quickly, reaching across the table. “He hasn’t done anything yet. There’s still a chance, you know, I think more of one than—”

  “Here we are!” fluted Carole-anne, ushering in two plates filled with fried eggs, buttered bread, and sausages.

  Jury frowned, taking the plate she held out. “That was awfully quick.” He inspected the sausages. “You sure these are done, Carole-anne? It’s only been a few minutes.”

  “Of course it is. I’ll just get mine.” She hurried off, hurried back, carrying a nonmatching blue plate, and sat down beside Jury.

  The phone rang. Jury rose to answer it, his plate in hand.

  It was Wiggins. “Guv, Harry Johnson called several times today.”

  “Out of jail, is he?” Jury sniggered and forked up a bite of sausage. He had the phone wedged on his shoulder.

  “What he wants is, he wants to know what you did with his dog. You know—Mungo.”

  60

  “DI Jenkins sent it over. Said you’d want to see it,” said Wiggins.

  Jury had just come into the office carrying a plastic bag and now looked at the receipt from Waterstone’s. He heard the voice of Kate’s godmother, talking about her love of books: that big Waterstone’s bookshop in Piccadilly. The date was the day of Kate’s murder. The time registered was 11:00 a.m. Chris Cummins had mentioned David bought it in London Friday.

  “I was thinking about it, you know, being found at the crime scene.” Wiggins was stirring his tea slowly, as if the spoon were a divining rod. “It doesn’t have to be Cummins’s receipt. Other people bought that book.”

  “Two other people, Wiggins. I was just over
in Piccadilly. Water-stone’s sold three copies that day. Not many people would be that interested in a glamour book about shoes on any one day. It’s coffee table, a lot of photographs, pricey. On top of that, do you think one of the other two buyers, he or she, just happened to drop the receipt at the spot Kate Banks was murdered? I might be able to stretch coincidence that far if the book had been a best seller—but not this book.” He took out and held up the glossily jacketed book he’d just bought at Waterstone’s. He’d been standing since he’d come in; now he sat down.

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means the killer did a stupid thing—went back and planted the receipt.”

  “You mean to make it look like Cummins—”

  “Yes.”

  “So what you’re saying is, Cummins didn’t kill Kate Banks.”

  “No, he didn’t kill her; he loved her. According to Shirley Husselby, he was besotted with her.” Jury paused to look at Wiggins’s cup. “You must have added eye of newt to that tea instead of sugar the way you’re stirring. Get your skates on.” Jury opened the door and was through it before Wiggins could ask where they were going.

  He didn’t drink his tea; he frowned at it. Eye of newt rather put him off.

  Not much over an hour later, they pulled into the car park beside High Wycombe police headquarters. Jury had called David Cummins from the car and asked to see him there.

  Cummins was in the muster room with a dozen other detectives and uniforms when Jury and Wiggins walked in. He looked pleased to see them, which wrenched Jury’s heart, really. He liked Cummins; he was sorry about what was going to happen.

  “What’s all this about?” Cummins’s smile went from Jury to Wiggins. He pulled a couple of chairs around to the desk for them.

  In proximity were three or four other detectives at their desks. Jury said, “Can we find someplace a little less public?”

  The smile dimmed, but Cummins said, “Come on.”

  They walked down a hall to an interview room, went in, and sat down, Wiggins off to one side, notebook out.