Authors: Cassandra Chan
Trick of the Mind (17 page)
Fursdon turned to the elder Gibbons readily. “I know it seems
awfully soon,” he said. “But you have to remember how young your son is and how well he’s healing already. The danger now is not that he’ll do further damage to his wound, but that he’ll have complications from lying about too much. If we can get him moving early, his body will be free to concentrate on healing the original injury, instead of getting sidetracked by other problems.”
awfully soon,” he said. “But you have to remember how young your son is and how well he’s healing already. The danger now is not that he’ll do further damage to his wound, but that he’ll have complications from lying about too much. If we can get him moving early, his body will be free to concentrate on healing the original injury, instead of getting sidetracked by other problems.”
Gibbons wanted to ask exactly what other problems they were worried he would develop, but the truth was that he could already feel, beneath the pain of his wound and the ache from his fever, odd kinks in his back and legs. There was no denying his body was accustomed to spending a good part of every day moving fairly energetically about, and was beginning to feel the change.
“Oh, very well, if you insist,” he said, giving way ungracefully.
“I’m afraid it really is for the best,” said Fursdon apologetically, laying his clipboard aside. “I’ve brought you some slippers to wear—the floors are chilly this time of year.”
“Is this really going to help?” gasped Gibbons as he tried to sit up and was assailed by a fire blooming in his belly.
“Oh, yes, certainly,” replied Fursdon, catching his arm in a practiced move and easing him into a sitting position. “You’ll definitely be back to your old self much sooner if you can manage to move about a bit.”
And that gave Gibbons the strength of mind to endure the sheer torture that was his lot for the next five minutes. With Fursdon’s guidance, he shuffled painfully over a distance that he would once have encompassed in a couple of steps. He was quite pale and sweating with the effort when Fursdon at last returned him to his bed.
“I know that was rough,” he said, lifting Gibbons’s legs back into the bed, “but you did remarkably well. You’re making a quite miraculous recovery.”
Gibbons was too exhausted to reply. The physical activity—if it could really be classified as such—had put his temperature back up and he was almost shaking with the ache that seemed to seep out of his very bones. The fire that had begun in his abdomen with the first movement had coalesced into a fierce blaze that would not abate.
He was barely aware as Fursdon drew the blankets back over him
and rearranged the IV tubes. Before the therapist had left the room, he had already dropped into the gray world of half-consciousness.
and rearranged the IV tubes. Before the therapist had left the room, he had already dropped into the gray world of half-consciousness.
Colin James frowned as he replaced the telephone receiver, severing the connection with his contact in Amsterdam. Jan Stoeltie was a renowned diamond expert, one who kept a sharp ear to the ground for any deals concerning the brilliant gems. But he had heard nothing at all about an antique Golconda diamond like the one from the Haverford collection.
“Though it does rather remind me of one that was on the market a number of years ago,” he had told James. “Sold on the quiet, as I recall, but a most remarkable jewel. Twelve carats, like the one you’re describing. It would have fetched a fortune at auction.”
“How long ago was this?” asked James, his interest piqued.
“Oh, quite some time ago,” Stoeltie answered, searching his memory. “Fifteen years? Something like that at any rate.”
James’s interest evaporated. “No good to me, then,” he said, a little reproachfully, but Stoeltie did not seem to notice the tone.
“No,” he agreed cheerfully. “Still, diamonds like that tend to stick in the mind. I’ll put some feelers out for you, Colin. But to be honest, I can’t really imagine there’s a stone like that out on the market that I haven’t heard of.”
And this, James admitted to himself, was probably true.
His eyes narrowed as he swiveled in his chair to gaze out the windows of his City office. The cold gray of the sky reflected the equally cold gray of his eyes as he ruminated on what he had learned—or, more accurately, had not learned.
The alexandrite necklace was by far the most recognizable piece in the Haverford collection, but there were other notable elements. The Golconda diamond brooch, for example, or the Colombian emerald ring. Or even the pearls. When he had not been able to find any trace of the alexandrite necklace, he had begun to search for word of the other pieces, thinking that any intelligent thief might reason that the famed necklace was better sat on until after the uproar had died down. But there was, so far as he
could determine, no hint of any of the jewels on the market at all. And that was peculiar.
could determine, no hint of any of the jewels on the market at all. And that was peculiar.
His fingers tapped an impatient staccato on the arm of his chair, while he shuffled through possibilities in his mind. None of them were promising, and some were too extreme to undertake until all other lines had been followed. As determined as he was about solving this case, James was not yet ready to go to extremes.
There was a discreet knock on his door and his secretary Vivian appeared, cool and stylish as usual, with her shining dark hair done up in a French twist. Oddly contrasting with this sartorial elegance were the pair of baggy latex gloves, which covered her slender hands.
“Mr. Loggins is on line one about the Barshot case,” she murmured.
“To hell with the Barshot case,” retorted James. “I don’t give a fig for it.”
Vivian’s habitual calm was broken by the slightest of smiles. “But Mr. Loggins does,” she reminded him.
“He would,” snorted James, swinging round to his desk and noticing the gloves for the first time. “Oh, damn it, Viv, are you still on about that?”
“I know police procedures just as well as you do,” she assured him.
“We don’t need to follow police procedures because the police aren’t going to be called in,” said James. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: they’re just crank letters.”
“Of course they are,” Vivian answered with false sincerity. “And when their writer has murdered you, I shall have all the letters with their envelopes for the police, uncontaminated by fingerprints.”
“Great heavens, woman, you’re enough to try the patience of a saint!” thundered James. “Out with you! Out!”
Smiling more broadly now, Vivian withdrew while James swore at her and reached for the phone to placate Mr. Loggins.
The Witness
C
armichael was ordered to report to Detective Superintendent Walter Lumsden, a necessity that made him scowl. He hated to be interrupted by his superiors in the course of an investigation, although—he admitted to himself—he ought to be used to it by now. Still, he wished he had put on his gray suit this morning instead of just a sports jacket, and he spent some time assuring himself that his tie and shirtfront were free of coffee stains.
armichael was ordered to report to Detective Superintendent Walter Lumsden, a necessity that made him scowl. He hated to be interrupted by his superiors in the course of an investigation, although—he admitted to himself—he ought to be used to it by now. Still, he wished he had put on his gray suit this morning instead of just a sports jacket, and he spent some time assuring himself that his tie and shirtfront were free of coffee stains.
Lumsden, of course, merely wished for an update both on the case and on Gibbons’s condition, as well as to convey his sympathies. He offered coffee to convey the personal nature of his inquiries, and Carmichael perforce had to sit for ten minutes and converse politely in order to satisfy his superior’s need to feel in charge. Ten minutes was not long in the scheme of things, but Carmichael found it irritating nonetheless, and was in no very good mood when he returned. Nor was his temper much improved when he found Hollings had rung while he was out.
“I’ve just turned up a little thing,” said Hollings when Carmichael rang him back. He sounded cheerful, which Carmichael took as a good sign despite his cautious words. “Probably not much
help in the grand scheme of things, but I thought you’d want to know.”
help in the grand scheme of things, but I thought you’d want to know.”
“I do want to know,” said Carmichael firmly. “What have you got?”
“Well, I’ve found someone else who saw Gibbons that night,” said Hollings, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “At least, he’s reasonably sure it was Gibbons, and if he’s right, then he puts Gibbons’s arrival in Walworth at about half eight that night.”
“That’s good work, Hollings,” said Carmichael. “I didn’t think we’d get any more there. I’ll want to talk to this fellow.”
“Thought you would,” said Hollings. “He says he’ll be at his flat all afternoon today. Shall I give you the address?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
Hollings read off a name and address, which Carmichael scribbled on the back of a sheet from one of the many reports on his desk.
“Got it,” he said. “I’ll run down there now. Thanks, Hollings—you’re a wonder.”
Carmichael rang off, crammed the paper with the address into his pocket, and rose, snagging his jacket off the back of his chair as he headed for the door. There he nearly ran headlong into Constable Lemmy, who loomed up in the door frame at the last possible moment, causing Carmichael to draw up sharply. The encounter was so unexpected that Carmichael scowled at his subordinate without meaning to.
“Sorry, sir,” said Lemmy, stepping back.
Carmichael remembered that he was not supposed to resent his assistants and resettled his features into a neutral expression.
“You’ll have to walk with me, Constable,” he said. “I’m on my way out. What have you got?”
He started down the hallway and Lemmy scurried to keep up with him.
“Got, sir?” he inquired doubtfully.
“Yes.” Carmichael wondered if he would ever have a conversation with Lemmy in which he would not have to manfully restrain his temper after the first two sentences. “I assume there was a reason you came to see me?”
“Oh. Yes, sir. I was just wondering, sir, if you remembered the name of Sergeant Gibbons’s cousin?”
Carmichael quickened his pace as he rounded the corner and saw the lift doors just opening up ahead.
“Gibbons’s cousin?” he repeated. “You mean the day-care woman?” He was, he realized, unreasonably annoyed that Lemmy did not remember himself, although the constable had not been present for the interview. “Dawn Melton,” he answered.
“Yes, I thought that was it.” Lemmy nodded.
“Hi, there!” called out Carmichael as the lift doors began to close again. “Hold the door, please!”
The doors reversed their motion and a head peered out.
“Did you need anything else?” asked Carmichael as he reached the lift and nodded to the man holding the door open.
“Oh. No, sir. That’s what I wanted.”
“Good, good,” said Carmichael, stepping in. “I’ll be back soon, Constable. See how many of those phone numbers you can get through while I’m gone, eh?”
And with that he stepped into the lift and felt his shoulders relax as the door closed. He was quite certain that never in the long course of his career had he had a subordinate so aggravating.
When Carmichael knocked on the door of Tom Gerrard’s flat in Walworth, it was opened by a young giant of a man, well over six feet tall and very fit-looking, dressed in an ancient football jersey and a pair of faded jeans. He was also, however, very soft-spoken, and asked the detective in politely, though something in his eyes told Carmichael Gerrard was not altogether comfortable talking to the police. Since his accent placed him as a native of the Walworth area, Carmichael deduced that this reluctance was more an ingrained result of growing up in a poor London neighborhood than anything specific to Gibbons’s case. He was rather surprised the young man had come forward at all.
Gerrard motioned Carmichael to a chair and took the sofa himself, sitting uneasily on its edge with his hands clasped between his knees.
“I work for Ryman, the stationery shop,” he told Carmichael. “I’m a supervisor at the Lower Marsh shop, and I was to go down to the Brighton shop for a couple of days’ training. They wanted me there early Wednesday, so I left on Tuesday night.”
Carmichael nodded; this fit in with his first assessment of Gerrard: a young man from a poor background who was working his way up.
“You took the bus to the train station?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said Gerrard. “My train went from London Bridge, so I caught the number forty bus out on Walworth Road. It goes right by the station.”
“But no doubt you had to wait for it?” asked Carmichael encouragingly.
“Only because I missed the first bus,” replied Gerrard gloomily. “I was coming along East Street, nearly to Walworth, when I saw the bus on the other side of the street. I tried to hurry, but there was no way I was going to make it across in time. In fact, I had to stop and wait for the light at the corner.”
“Aggravating,” said Carmichael sympathetically. “Was that when you saw my man?”
“Well, no, I saw the other one first,” said Gerrard.
Carmichael’s brows shot up; Hollings had not mentioned this. “There was another man?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Gerrard nodded. “I was waiting to cross the street, see, and wondering if I would still make my train. I checked my watch and it was half eight, which meant I still had time. And it was then the taxi pulled up to let his fare out, and I did just think of taking the taxi myself for a moment. It was a nasty night out, and I had the money on me. But I didn’t know how much I’d need to spend in Brighton, and after a second, I decided to stick to the bus.”
Carmichael nodded understanding; he was quite familiar with the momentary temptation to spend more than one should on some little luxury. Like Gerrard, he seldom gave in to it.
“It was a young man got out,” continued Gerrard. “He headed toward East Street, I think. I didn’t notice all that particularly, it’s just that down here you tend to take note of people around you, especially at night.”
“Of course,” said Carmichael, a little at a loss to see what this had to do with Gibbons.
“It was then I saw your man,” said Gerrard. “At least, I saw another taxi had stopped up the street and that fare was just getting out. He came down the street toward me, and I think it must have been your man. Bloke about my age, average height, stocky build.”
“That would be right,” said Carmichael, nodding. “Tell me, isn’t it a bit unusual to see so many taxis in this area on a Tuesday night?”
For the first time, Gerrard relaxed enough to grin at him.
“You’ve got that right, guv,” he said. “I thought it was downright unfair at the time, tempting me with all those taxis when I couldn’t afford them. But that’s what made it all stick in my mind, see, and when I got back today and heard you were looking for information about one of your own on that night, I thought to myself, well that’s why there were two taxis: this police bloke was following someone.”
Carmichael tried to contain his excitement at this information. It was better than merely putting a time on Gibbons’s arrival in Walworth; it also gave the first clue as to why he had been here in the first place.
“That’s very good indeed,” he said. “Did you see where my man went?”
Gerrard shook his head regretfully. “No, sir,” he said. “It was then the light changed and I was off across the street to wait for my bus.”
“You’ve still been a very great help,” Carmichael told him. “Most people never notice anything, you know. And it’s very lucky for me you had a train to catch—we’d no notion of when my man had arrived here until you came forward. Thanks very much for letting us know—we do appreciate it.”
Gerrard accepted this praise modestly, but Carmichael sensed he was both pleased and relieved.
“Glad I could help,” he said.
Carmichael left Gerrard’s elated. Observant witnesses were a rarity, and Tom Gerrard was a perfect gem. For the first time Carmichael felt that some of the pieces of this puzzle were falling into place. It was true that they still had two hours to account for, but if they could find the taxi and discover where he had picked Gibbons
up, they might be well on the way to figuring out how he had spent his evening before being shot.
up, they might be well on the way to figuring out how he had spent his evening before being shot.
Inspector Hollings was still working at Lambeth station, so Carmichael headed there, eager to see how the search for the taxi was progressing.
“There’s no news yet,” Hollings told him. “I’ve put out the word to all the taxi companies, and arranged for advertisements in all the major papers tomorrow, but you know the drill, sir. There’s not a lot to be done besides sitting back and waiting.”
Carmichael did know the drill, but that did not keep him from wishing it were otherwise.
“How about the news tonight?” he asked.
“I’ve put public relations on that,” replied Hollings. “They’re going to have a spokesman do an announcement on the telly tonight, and they’re preparing another one for the radio, but I don’t think they’ve got it on yet.”
Hollings looked up at his superior, who was chewing his lip, and added sympathetically, “I’m sure we’ll hear something soon, sir. If not tonight, then by morning. We’ve just got to give it a bit of time, let the word get out, and the cabbies will turn up. They most always do.”
Carmichael sighed. “I know,” he said. “And my fussing at you won’t make it happen any sooner.”
“No, sir,” said Hollings with a smile. “How are things coming from your end?”
“More waiting,” growled Carmichael. “Only I’m waiting for forensics instead of taxi drivers. Although,” he added, “they did come up with the list of phone numbers off Gibbons’s mobile today. I’ve got Lemmy going through—oh, bloody hell!”
This exclamation came from out of nowhere, and Hollings was immediately alert.
“What is it, sir?” he asked.
“Lemmy.” Carmichael spoke the name like a swear word, while he dug in his pocket for his mobile. “He was asking me as I was leaving about Gibbons’s cousin, the one who lives down here. I’ve only just remembered.”
“Do you think he’s found something, then?” asked Hollings.
“I’ll damn well bet he has,” said Carmichael, clicking on his phone. “I’d set him to go over the phone numbers. I should have realized earlier that his asking about the bloody woman meant he’d found her number on the list.”
Hollings looked startled. “But surely he’d have said so, wouldn’t he?”
Carmichael glared at him in response while he held his phone to his ear. “It’s Constable Lemmy we’re talking about, Hollings. What do you think?”
Hollings, who had not had much to do with the constable, did not think it possible that anyone who had made detective could be that obtuse. He opened his mouth to say so, but Carmichael waved him to silence while he barked into the phone, “Constable? Yes, it’s Carmichael. Did you find Dawn Melton’s phone number on that list?”
Hollings, watching, was alarmed to see Carmichael’s complexion redden with fury.
“And when did Sergeant Gibbons ring that number?” he demanded. He listened for a moment, and then said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Thank you so much for letting me know, Constable,” before ringing off without waiting for Lemmy’s reply.
Hollings raised an eyebrow, but refrained from comment until his superior had finished venting his temper by swearing a blue streak.
“I take it,” he asked mildly once Carmichael’s invective seemed to have run down, “that Gibbons rang his cousin that night?”
“Too bloody right he did,” snarled Carmichael. “She was the last call he made before he rang and left that message for me. And she swore she hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Oh, damn and blast, why couldn’t the idiot have told me earlier?!”
To this Hollings wisely made no reply.
“I want her brought in for questioning,” Carmichael told him, and Hollings did not envy Dawn this summons. “Have her brought to the Yard,” continued Carmichael. “I want to put the fear of God into the little chit.”
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