The Black Cat (10 page)

The queue even at this late hour stretched out the door, nearly to the corner. Jury and Wiggins didn’t bother with it but went straightaway to the front.

When the old waiter saw them at the door, he held up his hand, fingers crooked, bidding them come back to where he was. The waiting lunch crowd, those who saw this, acted as if it were some sort of guerrilla takeover and objected strenuously until Jury whipped out his ID and said, “Police business.” That struck some of them as a poor excuse, and their reproaches followed the two detectives on the way to their table. Jury was used to it; it happened nearly every time he’d been here.

Theirs was the only table in the room with a “Reserved” sign. Ruiva didn’t take reservations; hence the crowd beyond the door.

“You’d think they’d learn, wouldn’t you?” said Wiggins, looking disdainfully at the line.

“Learn what? What choice have they unless they want to get here at five a.m.? Like a Springsteen concert, this is.”

The old waiter, who might or might not have understood these words, smiled and swept the plastic sign from the table, motioning for them to be seated. He bowed and went away. Jury and Wiggins sat down. Wiggins began immediately looking at the long, thin menu as he always did before he would order the crispy fish as he always did.

A little elderly woman replaced the old waiter now, probably kin. She came with tea and to take their orders.

Jury said he’d have the shrimp tempura.

Wiggins was still concentrating on the menu, brows knit together in rapt thought.

“And he’ll have the crispy fish.”

Annoyed eyes regarded Jury over the menu’s edge. “You might allow me to order my own lunch.”

“Might, but won’t. You always eat the crispy fish.”

The little woman looked amused, which was reward enough for the bulletlike glances still zinging their way, the long queue looking as if it hadn’t shortened at all. No one had moved a foot forward.

“I wasn’t planning on ordering that this time.”

“Sure you were.” Jury sipped tea from the thimble of a cup.

Wiggins was silent, put down the menu with a martyred sigh. “I’ll have the crispy fish, I think.”

The woman’s nod was closer to a bow. She padded off.

It was a little like their own private cabaret, for the next person to show up was Danny Wu, the owner. Today he was wearing Hugo Boss, more constructed than Armani, another designer Danny favored. He was as good as any model. With his dove gray suit he wore a shirt the shade of a blue iris, a tie several shades darker. The only person Jury knew of with such sartorial elegance was Marshall Trueblood. Trueblood, though, sometimes tipped the scales into flamboyance, which Danny didn’t. Both of them made Jury think that perhaps he should revisit his own wardrobe, until he thought, What wardrobe?

“Are you here professionally?”

“No, we’re here amateurishly. We seem to have caved completely in discovering who left the dead man on your doorstep.” That investigation had been going on for months now, booted over to the drug squad, then back to CID, given the Met’s conviction that Danny was a serious contender for London ’s drug king-a conviction Jury had found dubious at least and ridiculous at best. Danny was too smart for that crown (which would rest extremely uneasily on one’s head); he was also too fastidious to shoot a man in his own restaurant. Jury went on: “No one’s sussed it, Danny, why he was killed here.”

“This is Soho, remember? You’ll find bodies on a lot of doorsteps. Soho is no stranger to murder.”

“Thanks for that lesson in social dynamics. I hadn’t heard.”

Danny sported a smile.

Jury started to say something, then stopped when he saw Phyllis Nancy shoving past the queue and coming toward them. “Phyllis!”

She looked worn. It would take a lot of wearing to make her look that way.

“Ah, the beautiful medical examiner,” said Danny, who immediately pulled a chair round from another table.

Phyllis thanked him, and Danny bowed out gracefully. It would have been clear to him that Phyllis had something to report.

“I thought you’d be here,” she said. “I’ve just come from hospital. I’m sorry, Richard, but Lu Aguilar has sunk into a coma. It happened this morning.”

Jury looked at Phyllis, shocked, but the shock was not only for Lu’s condition; some was for his own response to it. In that brutally honest moment when one first hears of someone’s misfortune and before one can throw up defenses against one’s own selfishness and insensitivity-feelings that constitute a person’s image of himself as a good and caring person-in that single swift moment, what he felt was relief. That moment had to be drowned, sunk from consciousness. He was on his feet.

Phyllis clamped her hand around his wrist. “There’s nothing you can do; she won’t know you’re there.”

No, he thought in a cold assessment of this new picture of himself, but I’ll know.

Then the old Jury slipped back in place; he reconstructed his old self, his self of ten seconds ago, a caring man who deeply wanted Lu Aguilar to recover and take up her old life, or at least manage the new life in another country.

He left Ruiya and the car to Wiggins and flagged down a taxi.

At the nurses’ station, the doctor had told him that the prospects of Lu’s coming out of the coma were not especially good. “Still, don’t lose hope; people do come out. Usually within two or three weeks. If not by then, well, it’s a safe bet they won’t at all. It can be less or more devastating.”

Less or more. For God’s sake, that about covered it, didn’t it?

And the doctor told him something else: “She did not want heroic measures taken.”

“What do you mean?” Jury knew exactly what the doctor meant. But he wanted to distance himself from the meaning. He literally stepped back.

The doctor was kind-eyed and rather young. He had slid a paper from a folder and passed it to Jury. “She doesn’t want to be kept alive by machines.”

Everything in him rebelled against this. “Heroic measures.” What a stunning euphemism.

White. That was all he could see, as if he had stumbled into some polar country: the corridors, the walls, the sheets, her face.

The silence in her room was all there was. Except for the steady ping or hiccup of the monitors and machines, there was nothing.

He took her hand and found it marble cold. He thought for a panicky moment she must be dead and leaned close to her face and felt her frail breath. Cordelia. The broken Lear and Cordelia. “Come on, Lu. Come out of it. Come on.” He shook her hand in a way he remembered someone doing to him when he was a kid; some adult, seeing his attention wavering, shook it back again.

Jury sat for a few minutes watching her before he rose and walked round the room, back and forth, stopping to look at her. An effigy was what she reminded him of. The incomparable, commanding, relentless detective inspector Lu Aguilar, still as stone and helpless. What he felt now was that he would never be able to understand his feelings for her, what they had been. Or hers for him. That part of his mind would be still as stone and helpless, too.

Jury turned to look out the window, seeing shadowed grass in the distance, thinking, It should be covered with snow; there should be the blankness of snow to render shapes null and void, the way the sheet did her own shape, the way it was drawn up to her shoulders.

Nurses in white entered from time to time to adjust tubes and check fluid levels and look at the machine. They smiled and left. One-but they might all have been the same one-said something about visiting hours. Jury nodded, although he hadn’t really heard her, and stayed. He didn’t know how long.

Finally, he got up from a chair, bent, and kissed her forehead. He was surprised to find it was not marble cold, but warm.

“Wake up, Lu.”

He meant it, too.

He left St. Bart’s, near Smithfield, and after that didn’t look up, walking down one narrow street then another, all snaking into some center and making him feel pleasantly claustrophobic. He felt as if he’d wound himself into the center of a ball of string. Tired, he’d been walking for hours. It was dark now.

When “Three Blind Mice” started up, he yanked out the bloody mobile (what Orpheus should have had instead of string). “What?”

“I’m in Bidwell Street. Near St. Bride. There’s been a woman shot.”

Jury frowned. “St. Bride. That’s not us, Wiggins; that’s City police. Right near Snow Hill station, isn’t it?”

“I know. They’re here.”

Jury could hear the background noise. “All right. But why are you there?”

“I was trawling for information about the Mariah Cox murder. I’ve a friend at Snow Hill, and I was there when he caught this one and came along. Thing is-this woman, put her in her early thirties, very good-looking, and dressed to kill, you might say-well, I’m probably wrong, but it seems similar to the Chesham murder.”

“Okay. I’m in…” Where? He looked up to see the very familiar area in Clerkenwell in which he and Lu Aguilar had spent so much time. He could see the Zetter hotel down there at St. John’s Square. Why was he here? As if he didn’t know. “Clerkenwell. I’ll find a cab and be there in five minutes.”

There were a couple of cabs moving along the Clerkenwell Road directly in front of him. He flagged one down, shoved the mobile back in his pocket, and opened the door. “You know Bidwell Street? It’s near-”

The driver smiled. “I know it.”

Jury pulled the door shut and fell back against the seat. Or gravity pushed him back. Yes, they knew all of them, these drivers, every last inch of street, road, alley, courtyard-all of it. Plus every shortcut.

“It’s amazing. What you drivers know.”

The driver laughed. “It’s called the Knowledge. You know.”

Jury nodded. “There ought to be a pub by that name. The Knowledge.”

“Maybe there is.”

Even if the driver hadn’t got “the Knowledge,” it wouldn’t be hard finding Bidwell Street. Not given all of the activity-lights and vehicles, CID, uniform, fire brigade, ambulance, photographers, forensic, medical. It was astonishing what one murder in the streets of a city could call out.

The doctor was a man Jury didn’t know, maybe pulled over from Bart’s, which was nearby. He was kneeling beside the body.

Wiggins said, nodding in that direction, “Pathologist got here ten minutes ago. His name’s Bellsin.”

Dr. Bellsin rose at Jury’s approach. He was a small, sad-eyed man who looked as if he were permanently stationed in the outskirts of regret. The first words out of his mouth were “I’m sorry.” He shook Jury’s hand as if the loss had been personal. To one or the other or both.

Jury looked down at the body and then knelt. The doctor did so, too.

The woman was young-in her thirties, as Wiggins had said, which surely must still qualify as young. And she was pretty- beautiful, when there’d been life in her. Her hair was dark and wavy, her eyes now shut.

“The shot that killed her caught her just under the right breast, made a messy exit out the back. A twenty-two, probably. Second or probably the first shot to the stomach. Well, let’s get her in and I’ll nip round to the morgue.” He paused. “Looks like she might have been partying.”

Jury looked around at what he could see of the street. No pubs, no restaurants, but a few shops. “Doesn’t look much like a partying street, though it’s not far from a lot of partying places. She’s dressed up, certainly.” The dress was a midnight blue of some crepey material. More strappy sandals, these a dark satin. He rose, motioned to Wiggins. “Has she been ID’d?”

Wiggins shook his head. One of the uniforms handed Jury a bagged purse. “Sir.”

Jury thanked him and asked for gloves. Through the plastic, he saw a small black bag, an evening bag with a silver clasp. He snapped on the plastic gloves given to him, removed the bag, and opened the little silver catch. Inside were lipstick, comb, pack of fags, and bills: 750 pounds.

“I know,” said Wiggins, reacting to Jury’s look. “That’s a lot of money to be carting around dark and silent streets. I mean, in that small bag, at night. It’s suggestive.”

The notes were held in a silver money clip. He closed the purse, handed it to Wiggins, who had been joined by someone Jury didn’t know.

“This is Detective Inspector Jenkins, sir.”

Jenkins smiled and put out his hand. The smile was sardonic, but Jury didn’t think its mood was aimed at him.

“Dennis Jenkins,” the detective said, setting things on a first-name basis.

There was something about Jenkins that made one relax. And, Jury imagined, that went for suspects, too. Probably foolish of them. Jenkins’s manner was too laid-back not to be dangerous.

“And you’re,” Jenkins went on, saving Jury the trouble, “Superintendent Jury. I’ve heard about you.”

“Not, I hope, from the tabloids.”

Jenkins smiled his sardonic smile. “That, too. But I meant from Mickey.”

That “Mickey” was Mickey Haggerty was crystal clear. Jury would rather not have to keep up one end of that conversation. He said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said DI Jenkins, actually looking it.

Jury nodded. “And I’m sorry to be stepping into your patch. Hope it’s okay.”

“Walk all over it, if you like. Your sergeant here told me there’s the possibility that this is connected to a shooting in Chesham.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s the connection?”

Jury hesitated, then said, “Age, appearance, possible occupation, and clothes.” He looked down at the victim’s feet. “Shoes, for example.”

Jenkins turned to look, too, then turned back. He said nothing. He waited.

“Christian Louboutin. It’s the red soles. They’re his trademark.” Jenkins looked again. “Right. I know sod-all about women’s footwear. Was the one in Chesham wearing the same kind?”

“No. Those were Jimmy Choo.” Jury added, “Both of them dressed for something: party, big date, or client. The victim in Chesham worked for an escort agency.”

Jenkins frowned. “Tell me more.”

Jury hesitated again. He knew he could be completely wrong about any connection. “The Chesham murder: we had a hard time ID’ing the victim, eventually discovered she was indeed a local named Mariah Cox, but was working under the name Stacy Storm, working for an escort service. She was to meet a man at a party in Chesham named Simon Santos, but she didn’t show up. There was a difficulty in identifying her; not even the aunt she’d been living with recognized her. The clothes, the hair, the cut, the color.” Jury didn’t know why he went on to tell Jenkins about Santos and his mother, Isabelle, and the portrait.

“I think that’s why Santos was so adamant that Stacy be his escort. Santos had asked her to change her hair color so that she looked even more like the woman in the portrait-”

“Vertigo,” said Jenkins.

“What?”

“Kim Novak. You remember Vertigo, don’t you?”

“Oh. You mean the Hitchcock film?”

Jenkins nodded. “Look, I know you probably agree the connection is kind of wobbly-” He rocked his hand to demonstrate. “But I will say this: she was carting around a hell of a lot of cash for just cab fare. Seven hundred quid”-he nodded toward the black clutch-“in that little bag. It’s the kind of money a high-class pro might get, and just to look at her, I’d say very high class. She was dressed for something, certainly. A party? Coming or going? Early to be coming back from one; it’s not gone ten yet. Where might she have been going? This is hardly party land or the sparkling center of the West, is it?”

Bidwell appeared to be a street of small enterprises, shut down for the night: a leather goods store selling mostly luggage that probably wasn’t leather; a launderette on the corner; a jeweler, probably not doing much trade in diamonds; an electronics shop; a small grocery. That and the launderette were the only businesses open now. Inside, Jury could see a customer, a woman, staring out the window at the general tumult, the cars and lights and uniforms.

Jenkins scanned the areas over the shops. “I’ve told my men to visit the flats over these shops. If there’s a grocer and a launderette, there are residents. Those two places wouldn’t be depending on the shops themselves for business. And she’ll need talking to.” He indicated the woman in the launderette.

“I think I’d like a talk with that shopkeeper at the end of the street, the grocer.”

“Go ahead. I’m about finished here.”

“Could I get one of your photos for an ID?”

“Sure.” Jenkins went up to one of the crime scene technicians and asked him if he’d got a picture. He handed it to Jury. “Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.”

The grocer was Indian, a tall, thin man with brilliant brown and anxious eyes. Ordinarily, this part of London was not an immigrant enclave. That was more the makeup of outlying areas, East Ham, Mile End, Watford.

His name was Banerjee. Jury asked Mr. Banerjee if he’d seen anything at all, heard anything.

The grocer shook his head, hard. “No. Never.”

“Does this woman look familiar to you?”

Mr. Banerjee didn’t dismiss the photo out of hand but studied it carefully. Nor did he flinch from the face of the dead.

Jury expected an immediate no, but he got a thoughtful “I believe so. I think I see her here in the shop. More than once.” He looked off through the black window, as if something in the dark had caught his attention. But it was only the dark.

“You’ve seen her? Did she live here in Bidwell Street?”

“I would think so, though I do get customers from other streets, mainly. But more likely, yes, she lives in this street. Lived.” He looked sadly at the photo. “A pretty woman. Maybe that’s why I remember. She bought cigarettes. Yes, and food-milk, eggs, bread-basic things.” He handed back the photo. “I’m sorry I do not know her name. I can’t help you more.”

“You’ve been an enormous help already, Mr. Banerjee. Thanks. If you remember anything at all later…” Jury handed over one of his cards.

“I will call you, certainly.”

As Jury left the shop it started to rain, but gently. He saw up ahead fewer cars angled along the street. SOCO had packed up; the body had been transported. Wiggins was there with DI Wilkes, another detective, and several uniforms.

“Nothing so far. We’ve been to two houses, figure four or five flats. We can’t be sure if the lack of a name card means a flat is empty or just that the resident’s out. There was one old lady who clearly didn’t want to know anything about anything. No joy there.” He flicked his notebook shut.

“Never mind. We have more to go on now. The grocer’s seen our lady more than once, so she lived either in this street or close by. Keep at it. One of the flats might well have been hers.”

“Will do.”

“I’m going home. I’m tired.”

Wiggins nodded toward the small clutch of officers. “One of them can give you a lift.”

“No. I feel like walking. Clear my mind. When I’m tired of that, I’ll grab a taxi. ‘Night.”

“Sir!”

Jury turned. “What?”

“It might do to show that photo around. To the streets.”

“You could do, but I’m pretty certain the victim wasn’t on the streets. Not the way she looked. And not with that much money.”

“You think may be…?”

Jury nodded. “Escort service.”

Wiggins’s smile was grim. “We should be so lucky.”

“I wouldn’t call it luck.”