The Black Cat (26 page)

Not terribly refreshed by his night at Boring’s, Melrose pulled up (yet again) in the Black Cat’s car park. He felt his life to be pretty much circumscribed by Chesham-London, London-Chesham, Chesham-London, et cetera, et cetera. He might as well buy some hovel here in Chesham and settle down.

Melrose got out of the car and trudged wearily round the corner of the pub, when he heard the cat yowling. He stopped and trudged back and opened the rear door. The cat, Morris Two, electrified by its stint in the car and its overnight stay at Boring’s, streaked out and around back to who knew where. Melrose’s life seemed to be nothing but waiting on animals. Instead of settling down in Chesham, why didn’t he get a job at the London Zoo? He pulled the cat carrier out of the backseat and plodded back.

At the side entrance he looked through the window, where Mungo and Morris stared out at him, as if he were the troublemaker here and not them. Wearily, he opened the door, wondering how in hell he was going to get Mungo in the car and back to London.

Oh, well. He went up to the bar, greeted Sally Hawkins, and asked for a double Balmenach.

“Oh, now,” she said cheekily, “a bit early in the day for a double, isn’t it, love?”

“You’re right, so give me two singles.”

She laughed and slid the glass under the optics.

Whiskey in hand, he walked over to the table by the window, peering as he did so at elderly Johnny Boy and, under the table, his dog, Horace. He sat down at the table and glared at Mungo, who wasn’t interested.

Here came Dora to slide in beside him and ask, “Did you get the cat back all right?” He could tell from her tone that the prospect of failure excited her more than that of success.

Melrose nodded. “Now, all I have to do is get you-know-who to London.”

He wasn’t fooling Mungo, who slid off the chair and trotted to the bar.

Melrose looked after him. “Maybe I could fob off Horace on Mungo’s owner.”

“Horace and Mungo don’t look a bit alike.”

“They’re both dogs, aren’t they?”

“Listen,” whispered Dora. “Mungo’s behind the bar-”

“Knifing the foam from those glasses of Guinness, is he?”

Two fresh pints sat beneath the beer pulls, settling.

“I think Sally’s put down food for him,” whispered Dora as if Mungo might hear her. “We can get him if we’re careful. His back’s turned. I’ll go over and you come with the carrier. But you keep out of sight.”

Dora started over, and after slugging back his whiskey, Melrose picked up the carrier and went toward the bar, skirting the tables. Dora must have grabbed Mungo, for he heard an uncustomary “yip!” and he quickly opened the top of the carrier so that Dora could shovel Mungo in. “Good work, Dora!”

But Dora was looking toward the front of the pub and in a raging whisper said, “Your friend’s just come in!”

Melrose turned and saw Jury. “Sit on it!” he whispered back.

Dora flopped down on the carrier and nearly squashed Mungo. It wasn’t substantial enough to sit. Quickly, she rose and stood in front of it.

Melrose picked up the two pints of unclaimed Guinness, cried out, “Richard!” and walked toward him.

Johnny Boy tried to stop him, saying, “’Ere now, that’s my beer.”

Melrose ignored him. “Have a drink!” he said to Jury. “Let’s sit. There’s Morris! Told you I did it.”

But Morris was more interested in Mungo’s fate than in Jury. She was sitting staunchly before the carrier.

Jury drank some beer and watched this.

Dora slewed around and was petting Morris, making it appear that this was the reason for Morris’s move. It wasn’t. Morris wanted to talk to Mungo.

Can’t you get out?

Probably. I haven’t really put my mind to it.

The Spotter just came in.

Mungo was alert and sat up and tried to look back at the table, but of course he couldn’t turn around in the carrier to see out in that direction.

If you wanted to, you could get him over here. Just bark.

I only bark as a last resort.

Oh. Isn’t this?

I don’t know yet.

“What’s in the carrier?” asked Jury. He gave Melrose a level look. “It’s not Schrödinger, is it?”

“What? What? Of course not. I told you I took Schrödinger back to Belgravia. It was rather slick, if I do say-”

“You could be lying.” Jury started up.

Melrose yanked him down. “Well, ta very much. All the trouble I went to. It’s just Karl.”

“Karl? Who’s Karl?”

“The other black cat. If you remember, there were three.”

“Karl. My Lord, don’t people name their animals Boots or Princess or Spot anymore?”

“Guess not.” Change the subject. “How’s the investigation going?”

“It’s close to the end, I think.” Jury started up again. “Right now-”

Melrose pulled him down again.

“What’s the matter with you? I’ve got to get back to London. This is still an ongoing investigation and I’ve got to interview someone.”

“Oh, London! Yes, by all means. Remember, you’re coming to Ardry End after.”

“When I get done with this, yes.” He took another swallow of beer. “Thanks for the drink.”

Dora waved from the carrier, and Jury sketched her a salute just as his mobile went into its performance of “Three Blind Mice.” He was out the door.

Melrose rushed to the carrier, picked it up, and moved to the door that led to the car park.

“He’s back!” cried Dora.

Melrose dumped the carrier and turned. There was Jury again.

“Guess who that was on the phone? Harry Johnson, if you can believe it. He wants to know what in hell happened to his dog.”

Melrose squinted. “What dog?”

Mungo was having none of it.

Well, some of it, perhaps. There’s not much you can do against four hands stuffing you into a box and then sitting on you. It’s always a battle between cleverness and brute force, isn’t it? Then into the car, heave-ho, and the Duck into the driver’s seat, and they were off.

He wished he could have got free of the carrier before the car left the Black Cat car park so that he could have pressed his face against the rear window and waved good-bye, good-bye, as was always done in films.

But he could still send the message to Morris: Good-bye, I’ll see you soon. Morris had very nearly jumped in the car but had been torn between leaving and staying and had made the wrong choice, of course, and stayed.

Cats. How much fun could a cat have sitting on a table in the sun for endless hours without going stark raving mad with boredom? Never mind, he would see Morris again.

But at the moment, he was intent upon working his way out of this carrier. It wouldn’t be too difficult as long as someone wasn’t sitting on it. It was closed only by a couple of stuck-together flaps, and the Duck hadn’t even done them up properly. He’d been all in a hurry to get Mungo out the door of the pub. What Mungo couldn’t understand was why the Spotter hadn’t twigged it.

Come on, is it that difficult to sort out? Cat carrier. Cat outside it. Something inside. Dog missing. What conclusion would one draw from that? What might the something inside the carrier be? If the Spotter couldn’t work out that equation, how could he sort a murder case?

Mungo had worked his paw up against the flap, wedged it into the flap, and worked it back and forth patiently. He got it open. He climbed out, stealth being his middle name. The Duck was driving, humming away…

Mungo pulled up to a window. He wanted to see just where they were, for instinct told him the Duck was going the wrong way-

Slough? What in God’s name were they doing in Slough? He watched as the car plowed round the roundabout twice. The Duck didn’t even know where-oh, there he went, missed it again!

LONDON RING ROAD

M4 M25 M40

Missed it again! What was it with humans? Had they no instinct for direction? Had they no maps in their minds? Good grief, even eels could swim from Europe to Bermuda; monarch butterflies could fly from Canada to Mexico; cows in a field could all point true north-but the Duck couldn’t manage to get out of Slough?

Mungo slid down to the seat and went back to the carrier. Might as well have a kip. It’s all going to come to tears anyway.

He crawled back into the carrier and didn’t bother pulling the flaps or this shambles of the human race in with him.

And the Duck drove on.

Rose Moss came to the door, looking as she had the first time Jury had seen her: cotton dress, hair in bunches, feet this time in a different pair of furry slippers, white with floppy ears. It made Jury wonder for a moment if he must be wrong, if this was the woman who had sat with him in Cigar; if this was the woman who had killed one person and probably two.

“Hello, Rose.”

It looked as if she might shut the door in his face but thought better of it and opened it wider instead. “Come to give me a hard time, have you?” she said as he entered.

He smiled. “Yes.”

“Me, I’m having a drink. If you want one.”

“I don’t mind. Whiskey’s fine.”

“Ha! Listen to him. It better be, as it’s all I have.”

Jury tossed his coat onto a chair and watched her walk toward the small tray table of faded flowers where the bottles were. How could the woman in Cigar, her feet encased in Christian Louboutin heels, be here now wearing bunny slippers?

“Rose…”

“Pardon? Adele to you, love.”

“Oh, we’re no longer friends?”

She handed him a glass with barely enough whiskey to copper-line the bottom. “Let the good times roll.”

Jury held it up.

Rose took a seat not by him on the sofa but in a small armchair opposite with her half-finger of whiskey.

“Tell me about Stacy, will you?”

She stopped the progress of the glass to her mouth and recrossed her legs. The slippers were outsized, as big as Ping-Pong paddles.

“What’s to tell, may I ask?”

“Well, she lived here for upwards of six months with you, off and on. Both of you worked for Valentine’s. You must have known her a little better than you seemed to last time I was here? You knew she wanted to marry Bobby Devlin.”

This made her look at anything else in the room but Jury. Her gaze drifted.

Jury’s silence made her look at him. Finally, he said, “I’ve met him, talked to him, of course, as police are always suspicious of family and lovers. He’s a nice guy, was really in love with Stacy, only he knew her as Mariah Cox, village librarian.”

Her eyes glittered, metallic. “She didn’t love him.”

“Why do you say that? She was going to marry him; at least that’s what she told her aunt.”

She shook her head in a wide arc, side to side, eyes tightly shut, as Jury had seen children do, denying whatever they wanted to shut out. “She didn’t love him. She loved me.” Her hands clapped against her chest.

The point, its awful implications thrown to the winds, had to be made. It had to be known, whatever betrayal Stacy Storm was intent on committing, that she, Rosie, had the final claim on Stacy and that Mariah Cox was a masquerade, a persona Stacy had invented to throw everybody off the scent.

“Who cooked the idea up, Rose? Was it you or Chris Cummins?”

Rose sat back, turning her glass in her hands. For a long time, she was silent.

She was not stupid. Jury knew she was assessing the situation, wondering. How much had Chris told Jury? Would it be a better tack to deny knowing her? Or to blame it on her?

Her legs were thrust straight out, toes slanting inward. He wished it weren’t Rosie; he tried to form some scenario in his mind that would let it not be her.

“Chris Cummins,” she said, blaming it on her. “She’s clever. I’m not. She wanted her husband to keep away from this woman.”

“How did Chris know about her?”

Rose shrugged and lit a cigarette. “I don’t know. But she said they’d been seeing each other-him and this Kate Banks-for a long time. This woman was someone both of them had known before, when they all were young. She told me her plan.”

“How did you two come to know each other?”

“Chance. I was in Amersham several weeks ago. I stopped off for a drink at the White Harts bar. She was sitting at a table by herself, reading a paper. One of the rags, you know, and I just sat down on the other side of the table, and the newspaper stretched out with its juicy sideshow murders. Not that I’d’ve taken a blind bit of notice, not of the paper or her or much else, because I was in a right sweat over Stacy. Stacy’d started talking about this fellow and that she might be leaving me. I couldn’t believe it. Her talking about getting married. To a man. Talking about it like we’d never meant a thing to each other. I just grabbed my keys and got out and ran to my car and drove. Drove around London, then out of it.”

“That was taking a chance, wasn’t it, that someone would remember? Chris Cummins was in a wheelchair.”

“Crutches. She got around pretty good on crutches. Only she didn’t use them, she said, in Chesham. She didn’t want people to know.”

“How did she get to Amersham?”

“Bloke she knew, someone that could keep his mouth shut. It was like a game with her, you know. What she could get away with. Even murder.”

“Still, crutches would have called attention to her, to both of you.” But it hadn’t called attention to them because no one had inquired at the White Hart in Amersham if anyone there had seen… what?

Rose said, “We thought it was worth the chance. You don’t know what it’s like to be so-to want somebody dead before you’d see her with someone else.”

“No, I suppose I don’t. How did you know Kate Banks would be where she was that night?”

“I followed her, didn’t I? All Chris knew was Kate used to live in Crouch End, so I called up the King’s Road place and told ‘em I was a messenger service and I was given the wrong street address in Crouch End. I just chose a street there at random to make it sound more believable, and this stupid cow gave me the right address. She shouldn’t’ve done.” Her expression told him she wished he’d comment on the artfulness of her plan.

And he did. “Couldn’t have done it better myself, Rosie.” He waited a moment so that she could be pleased with herself, then asked, “What did Deirdre Small have to do with all this?”

Rose was biting the skin around her thumbnail. “Nothing, really, except she knew about it.”

Jury tried not to look shocked. She had said it so casually, as if it were hardly worth spending time on. “How? How did Deirdre know?”

“I told her.” She stopped chewing on her thumb. “It was her gun. I didn’t know how to get hold of one, and I remembered Deirdre’d told me about this gun she’d got at a pawnshop somewhere. North London, I think it was. She carried it for protection, even though it was illegal. Deirdre”-Rose picked up her warm drink-“was a friend of mine.”

A friend of mine. And look what the friendship bought her.

“And she wondered what you wanted the gun for-”

“I said to take care of somebody. That was stupid; I should’ve made up something. Chris wasn’t happy about that. It was Chris told me what to do. See, Deirdre had told me about her date with this creepy guy, at least I thought he was, and meeting him at St. Paul’s. So I went along there a little before nine. And she was there. I waited for the bells and then shot. That was smart, wasn’t it?” Again, her self-satisfied smile seemed to want him to note her artfulness.

“It was,” said Jury, feeling forlorn.

“And I left the gun. I thought it would be traced back to Dee, and since it was the same gun that killed Kate, well, police would think DeeDee Small had done it. Killed Kate and then shot herself. That wasn’t bad thinking, was it?”

“No. Very clever. Except the site of the bullet wound made it difficult for her to have turned the gun on herself.” The plan had backfired, he didn’t say, in more ways than one.

“Oh.” She sighed. “I wanted to go to Chesham, you know, make up some excuse to see the boyfriend, just to see what sort of person Stacy preferred to me. But, of course, I had to stay right away from Chesham and Chris.” She frowned and asked, as if it were strange, as if she’d only just thought of it, “How’d you know it was me?”

“Shoes.”

Her frown deepened as she looked down at her big slippers, as if they might be the ones that shopped her.

All of them, really, he thought. All of that fascination with Jimmy Choo and Louboutin and Manolo Blahnik. “Red soles.”

Rosie seemed amazed that this copper would know Louboutin. “You mean the ones I was wearing on our date?”

Our date. Rosie seemed to retreat further and further from the world of a grown-up here and now into a past of dates and furry slippers. It must be difficult for her to integrate the persona of the sultry woman in Cigar. She was, he thought sadly, crumbling right before his eyes.

“It was your comment about Manolo Blahnik, remember? Did I think you rushed out in your Manolos and shot Kate Banks? The only person who could have told you about that supposed heel mark is Chris Cummins. She’s the only person besides the police who knew.”

“That wasn’t very smart of me.” Again, she was studying her feet.

“How did you two communicate?”

“With those toss-away mobile things.” She looked up at him then, as if he might not know. “You can’t trace calls on them.”

He nodded. “Rosie…” Her face looked small and pinched. “You’re going to have to come along with me.” Jury felt even more forlorn. He shouldn’t feel this way. She had shot two people in cold blood.

And yet it hadn’t been cold, had it? For her, probably even more than for Chris Cummins, it was all a parlor game, and his being here was the last move in it. What she said next confirmed this notion.

“I guess so. I guess I lost.” She got up. “I have to change my clothes.”

He knew he shouldn’t let her out of his sight, but he did. It was a terraced house, a second-floor flat, with no means of egress except for the door, unless she meant to throw herself out a bedroom window. He doubted she would do that.

While she was gone, Jury looked around the room, whose details now he better understood: the row of Beatrix Potter figures on the shelf of the arched bookcase, the Paddington Bear lamp, the display of shells-the accoutrements of childhood. With its high ceiling, long windows, arched shelves, the room had the bones of sophistication, but she had drawn over it the skin of naïveté.

When she walked back in, she was once again the woman who’d surprised him in Cigar. Her outfit, a blue shawl-necked sweater and straight black skirt, was not as clingy as the dress she’d worn, but it was still potent. She had applied makeup, not too much, and had traded the slippers for dark-brown-and-black-ribboned shoes with skyscraper heels.

She swung the strap of a small handbag up to her shoulder. It matched the shoes. “Whose shoes, Rosie?”

“Valentino. You like them?” She held out a foot as if he were about to fit it with a glass slipper.

“I certainly do.”

“Okay, let’s go,” she said to him.

Once through the door, she locked it. She preceded him along the narrow hall that led to the top of the stairs. At one point she stumbled, the skyscraper heels proving too much even for her, but she righted herself and went on, a girl dying to be grown up, stumbling in her mother’s high-heeled shoes.