The Winds of Change (30 page)

‘You think he did that? Kidnapped her?’

‘It’s always a possibility. Are you still in touch?’

‘With Viktor? No. I did see him some time ago when I was in London. We had a drink and some chat.’

‘How was he?’

‘Fine, as far as I could tell.’

‘You couldn’t have had much of a friendly feeling for Mary Scott.’

She sighed. ‘‘You do jump around in your conversation. Why would I not have felt friendly toward Mary?’

‘Because she’d nabbed not only one man you favored, but two of them. How could you be anything but resentful?’

She smiled a little and turned away. ‘What makes you think I was interested in Viktor?’

‘He’s rich, intelligent, handsome and, from what I’ve heard, quite charming, although I admit I didn’t find him so.’

She turned and looked at him, the smile still on her lips. ‘Neither did I.’

Jury was a little surprised. ‘I gathered you did from your description. Declan Scott, then. He’s all of those things and more. He’s a nice guy.’

Her smile broadened. ‘Aren’t we going to get to the ‘where were you on the night of so-and-so?’

Jury smiled. ‘I understand that you were here for dinner, along with Marc Warburton.’

‘That’s true. Are you going to ask if I took any solitary walks round the grounds then?’

‘Did you?’

‘No.’ She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Is it your idea that Whoever killed this woman was someone from the house, then?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Jury turned to nod toward the iron angel gate. Both the victim and the perpetrator could have come in through any one of these gates, or even from around the front of the house. No, the possibilities are nearly endless, I’m afraid.’
 

She got up. ‘I’m cold, Mr. Jury. If you don’t need me anymore, I think I’ll go in.’ As if she could see through the wall behind them, out into the grove, she said, ‘It’s strange having that police van parked out there.’

‘Yes. Very disconcerting.’

Pat Quint looked up at the trees, still dripping from an hour’s old rain. She sighed. ‘I didn’t answer your question altogether, you know, about Declan.’ She leaned down a little, as if to inspect the violets. ‘I really love him.’

The admission was so heartfelt, Jury felt almost sad that she might never get him. Finally he said, ‘Good.’

‘‘Good’?’ She’d turned her head to look up at him.

‘Yes. He needs that kind of support.’

Now she hesitated. ‘Even if he doesn’t know it?’

‘He knows it. On some level, one always knows it.’ When she didn’t speak, he said, ‘It was photographs Mary Scott found of these gardens, the way they were a long time ago, that inspired her to have them restored. So it’s really changing things back.’

‘You think Declan lives in the past?’

Jury nodded.

‘Why?’

‘He hasn’t had all that much luck in the present, has he?’

Cody Platt and two other detectives Jury had seen but didn’t know were in the big van doubling as an incidents room, both on their cell phones. They both nodded to Jury. When Cody saw Jury, he started to rise until Jury motioned him down and sat down himself on the other side of the desk.

‘At least now we know the name of the victim. That’s a break,’ he added. He went on, ‘If you don’t mind me saying it, that was a good job of police work.’

Jury smiled. ‘I don’t mind, but it was really .my colleague’s police work.’

‘Who’s that, then?’

He was so damned literal. ‘Detective in SO5 who has a particular loathing for Viktor Baumann. His name’s John Blakeley.’ Cody tipped back his chair, crossed his hands behind his head and studied the ceiling of the van, thoughtfully.
 

He shook his head and said (as if this were the point), ‘No, sir, I don’t know him.’

‘No. Anyway, Blakeley told me about the victim, a woman named Lena Banks.’ Jury told Cody about the Hester Street operation.

‘My God. This is the man who’d get custody of Flora?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Cody slowly shook his head, then said, ‘The boss said that forensic anthropologist, Dench, took one look at the photo and knew–like that.’ He snapped his fingers.

‘It’s probably the focus. Dench is focused on bone structure, on skeletal remains. He can’t help himself. When he eats fish, he leaves behind on his plate all of the little bones perfectly aligned.’

‘That’s kind of creepy.’

‘Yes. Well, Dr. Dench may be a bit creepy, but he’s a focused creep. Makes all the difference, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t know; maybe.’

Never a rhetorical question Cody didn’t find worthy of investigation. Where had Macalvie found this orphan intellect? Under what toadstool or little stone bridge? Jury smiled. Cody had a mind like quicksand.

‘This Hester Street operation, why in hell doesn’t Blakeley raid the place?’

‘Ah. There’s a thing called probable cause, remember? What with the shooting, he can probably get it, but that would mean every house on Hester Street and possibly even houses along the cross street. It’s hard to be certain. There’s no way of knowing exactly where she came from. That makes it very hard to get a warrant.’

‘Yes, but I don’t get it. He says there are ten kids in that house at any given time and he can’t come up with probable cause? Surely they’ve been watching the house? If not the kids themselves are going in and out, the villains are. The so-called customers? Just collar one of them.’

‘He has. Perfectly respectable businessmen. Who then issued a complaint against Blakeley. He tried passing himself off as a customer, another coin collector, but didn’t get to first base.’
 

Cody grunted. ‘Why not? How much of a numismatist do you have to be?’

‘I don’t think it’s that. I think only men Viktor Baumann gives a pass can get to first base. So it’s knowing–something. I’m not sure what. Anyway, Blakeley and his group were slapped down for harassing the poor woman.’

‘Makes me want to weep, that does.’ Cody’s expression darkened. ‘I had a little sister once. One day I was minding her when Ma went to the shops. I resented it because I was supposed to meet my mates to fool around and who wants a kid tagging along, know what I mean? So we were walking along the pavement in Slough, me trying to pretend I didn’t know who she was, for I was in for a razzing having to babysit her, and her calling me ‘Cody wait up, wait up.’ And me, paying no attention. It wasn’t until I met up with my friends and we were talking I realized I didn’t hear her; I looked around and didn’t see her, either. I guessed she’d gone into the sweet shop and I told them we’d got to look for her. That’s what we did. All of us, everywhere. I was scared. I’ve never been so scared. Long and short of it is, we never saw her again. I could hardly face Ma with this. Betsy was seven.’

Jury was stunned. ‘Then when this happened to Flora, it was having to live it all over again for you.’

Cody nodded and sat looking down at the papers on his desk.

With a whiplash motion he scraped them off, sent them flying, and with the papers anything else that happened to be within his line of vision.

It was the suddenness, the abruptness of the display as well as the intensity of the rage that got Jury. Completely gone were the sanguine manner and scattered attention. If Jury wanted focus, here was focus. Cody was volcanic.

‘I’m sorry, Cody. Then little Flora’s disappearance must have been twice as awful for you as for the others.’

Except for Macalvie, he didn’t add.

34

The turf had filled the back of a pickup truck and been breezily delivered that morning by one of the young men from the garden supply place in St. Austell.

Having just unrolled a length of it, Melrose stood with his hands on his hips wondering what in hell he was supposed to do with it. He had spent precious little research time on this. He stood staring at this stuff, and then around at grass growing in the normal way of things and wondered at some of the idiocies landscaping had fostered. Besides himself, that is.

He draped the turf down the shallow steps leading from the grassy shelves above one of the several terraces to the gardens below. One length was not nearly enough to run all the way to the bottom. It would take at least one per terrace. Since he didn’t know anything about this particular kind of turfing, he would have to pretend he knew it so well that he completely disdained his turf–its quality, its practicality, everything.

He saw Macmillan coming. At least it wasn’t Lulu, who would not accept anything Melrose said without a battle. Mr. Macmillan, though, being a true expert, was therefore aware of his own limitations and was much more willing to take Melrose’s expertise at face value. Right now Melrose took up a stance, shaking his head emphatically and, for Macmillan’s sake, tsk-tsking.

‘Trouble, Mr. Plant?’

Melrose threw up his hands. ‘Trouble, Mr. Macmillan. As you can no doubt see.’

Macmillan looked, scratched his head. ‘Can’t say as ah do.

Looks pretty good stuff to me.’

‘Well, it isn’t good enough. Rather hopeless, isn’t it? Look at that color, for one thing.’

Macmillan bent over, hands on knees. ‘Looks green.’ He looked up at Melrose for confirmation.

‘Oh, it’s green, all right. It’s green. But much too rough a green.’

Again, Macmillan, still bent toward the turf, looked over his shoulder. ‘Rough?’

‘The seed was most likely burnt. You know, sunburned when it was sown.’

Macmillan frowned, comfortable in his ignorance, but happy to learn a thing or two. ‘Well, ah do know seed can get burnt, Mr. Plant, but...’

Melrose stepped on ‘but’ seeing there might be an involvement in something else. ‘And not liberally enough sown. Yes, a stingy hand was at work here, Mr. Macmillan, a stingy hand, indeed.’ He clapped his own unstingy hand on the old man’s shoulder.

‘That a fact? Well, ah never knew there was such a thing.’ Macmillan then looked more closely at the grass beneath his feet.

‘How ‘bout this lot, then?’

‘Oh, this?’ Melrose rubbed his shoe over a patch of perfect green. ‘For its purpose, it’s fine, absolutely.’ He was sorry to see Lulu and Roy coming their way.

Mr. Macmillan wiped his neck with a big handkerchief. ‘Well, truth be told, ah can hardly tell any difference. It kinda matches up, don’t ya think?’ He turned to Lulu. ‘Mr. Plant here’s saying this’-he pointed to the as yet unrolled up turf—’here’s a bit dodgy.’

Lulu considered. ‘I think it looks the same as the other.’ She kicked the incline wherein the steps rested.

‘Oh, well, to the untrained eye, I expect it does.’ Melrose smirked. ‘Nothing for it, then, but to roll it up and take it back.’ What a happy solution! Only now here came–of all people-Declan Scott, who seldom hung about to oversee the work.

‘How are you getting on, Mr. Plant? I can see you’ve got some help.’ Declan smiled.

Lulu looked up at him with the most intense admiration. ‘He says it looks dodgy.’

Melrose had on an old feed hat he’d found in the cupboard of the cottage and thought he looked very much the humble gardener. ‘I question the quality of the grass.’

Ignorance can defer to knowledge or just manage on its own.

Declan said, ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t think anyone without your eye would ever notice, right, Mr. Macmillan?’

‘It’s what ah was just sayin’.’

No, he hadn’t been, had he? But that was hardly the point.

Melrose was glad the hat shaded his eyes. ‘If you think it’s all right, then, I’ll just go ahead...’ And what? Trim it up, he supposed.

‘Unfortunately’–he was rooting through his basket of potluck tools–’I don’t seem to see my shears in here. That’s odd.’ It would serve her right if he turned on Lulu. ‘You haven’t borrowed them?’ She frowned. ‘No. Whatever would I want them for?’ The enigmatic Roy chose, from his wardrobe of barks, a snuffling one, through his nose. As if he hadn’t enough people hanging about, now here came Millie strolling over to the party from the clump of Rubus grass and Jury from the angel gate. Melrose felt like a pileup on the A30. He sighed at his tools. ‘I must have the shears to work on this lot.’

‘What kind d’ya need?’ asked Macmillan. ‘Millie,’ he called, ‘just go get my shears, girl.’

‘Oh, but I’m afraid that won’t do.’

Millie had started, stopped, started toward them again.

Melrose went on, wishing that Jury would go stand somewhere else. ‘Unless, of course, you have the number thirteen Black Diamond secateurs? They’re somewhat difficult to find. I bought mine in London, that shop near the British Museum.’

Millie frowned. ‘Never heard of that kind, I haven’t. Black Diamond? You, Dad?’

Macmillan frowned and shook his head.

‘Never mind. I expect the thing to do is call my man at home and have him send them.’

Jury interrupted. ‘No need for that. I’ll pick them up for you. I’m going to London. Be back tomorrow. Faster than any post.’ He clicked his small Biro into place over his small notebook. ‘Where’s this shop, now?’