The Old Wine Shades (29 page)

‘But what about the dog? Is it reasonable to believe that a woman bolting from her life is going to take a dog with her? Then there’s the context: she’s viewing property and talking to one person or another about it. Why would she leave her old life while doing this?’

‘So the first explanation—that she ran out on her old life—is unacceptable. The second: they—mum, boy, dog—were abducted. Although I think this is a better explanation than number one, again, why would they take the dog?’

Jury thought about Vivian: ‘I have a friend who wonders why they
didn’t
take the dog.’

Phyllis cut off a morsel of her steak. ‘That’s odd. How did he explain that?’

‘She. She didn’t.’ He took a fork to his roast duck on a bed of
black cherry coulis. ‘If this tastes as good as it looks. I’m getting a doggy bag.’

‘You don’t have a dog.’

‘I do, too. Well, he’s not exactly my dog; he belongs to the chap upstairs. He’s a very very
very
famous underground guitarist. Stan Keeler. Ever heard of him?’ -

‘Yes. Don’t you rempmber, you called me in when there was that shooting at the Hammersmith Odeon where the rock group was playing? I’m such a very
very
underground coroner. This is like coming up for air.’ She gestured toward the room. ‘My dinner is scrumptious. Where does that word come from? It sounds just like what it’s describing. Scrumptious. You know, this is where the Americans can’t get it right, reading all those diet books. They don’t eat several courses of small portions over a two-hour period.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘But the dog—’

‘Mungo.’

‘Strange, how everyone forgets him.’

‘I don’t. What’s for the pud?’ Jury picked up a small dessert menu, then put it down. ‘What you said a moment ago—’they could have gone anywhere.’ It makes me think of Schrodinger’s cat.’

‘Of what?’ She was about to take a drink of wine, but stopped, looking surprised.

Jury smiled. ‘You mean I never told you? It’s quite interesting.’ He explained the cat in the box analogy. ‘Only it’s not an analogy; it’s a theory: you can’t know whether the cat’s dead or the cat’s alive until you open the box. I think the point is that the cat, as long as it’s in the box and, therefore,
unmeasured,
has no reality. It’s useless to ask the question ‘Is the cat dead or alive?’ No, not useless, so much as meaningless. The question has no meaning.’

‘That’s rather extraordinary. ‘Unmeasured’? What do you mean?’

Phyllis looked at him in disbelief. ‘But you can’t really mean that this Mrs. Gault is, well,
nowhere,
until you find her?’

‘That’s a good way of putting it, Phyllis. I think I do believe that. Because Pm missing something.’

Jury said it again, ‘I’m missing something.’

35

At last!

It had traveled like an electric current from Aubergine in South Ken, along to Sloane Square, which it had circled several times before going on to Pimlico, and then backtracking to Belgravia.

In his excitement to hear the Spotter was finally on the right track, Mungo dropped Elf and let him run around until Shöe came in, saw Elf and rushed to pick him up.

But who was the one in neon blue who’d sent the message, anyway?

Talk about your
psychic!

36

When Jury walked into his office the following morning, Wiggins handed him a message he’d just ripped from the pad.

‘I don’t know if I’ve got the name right—the woman just called. Something like Bath, Balthazer—something like that. Well, there’s the number and as she appeared to know you I assumed you’d be able to work out the name.’

‘Right you are, Wiggins. Fortunately, I know a good psychic.’ Stiffly, Wiggins asked him if he wanted a cup of tea.

‘Not at the moment, no. Now, about this woman’s name—you know you could have got her to spell it.’

Wiggins sighed. ‘I would have done except she was so upset I didn’t want to keep her lingering.’

‘Lingering’ was so idiotic even Wiggins gave up on it.

‘Well, you’re in luck; her name’s Marjorie Bathous. Did she give you a clue as to what was upsetting her?’

‘Not a peep. She just said it was urgent.’ Wiggins stirred the thick yellowish fluid in his glass.

Telephone receiver in hand. Jury told himself not to ask. ‘What’s that?’

‘A fruit smoothie.’

The word itself should be enough to turn off anyone over eighteen months old. Jury tapped in the number. ‘It’s one of those healthy drinks that have more calories in them than a Christmas pud—Mrs. Bathous? Superintendent Jury here.’ He had balled up the message and aimed it toward the wastebasket and missed. He was balling up a memo from Racer and stopped when she told him. ‘They contacted me because of the Forester and Flynn sign.’

Quickly, Jury said he’d be there, thank you very much, goodbye and hung up.

He rose and hitched his jacket off the back of the chair, jammed his arms into the sleeves and said, ‘I’ll be in Surrey.’ He held up his mobile phone. ‘If you need me.’

37

She was wearing the black suit, presumably the one mentioned by Harry Johnson, the one she’d been wearing when she left London on that day almost a year ago. She had been lying on the cream-colored sofa. Jury had seen her; they had taken her away.

‘Traumatic asphyxia,’ said Dr. O’Reilly. ‘Almost certainly homicide.’ He was the forensic medical examiner for the Surrey police, or this part of it.

‘You mean she was smothered?’

The doctor frowned. ‘Yes, but not in the sense we usually understand smothering. I mean, no pillow over the face, not that sort of thing. I’m talking about thoracic compression, which prevented her from breathing. You know, prevented the bellows effect.’ He put his wrists together and simulated bellows by opening and closing his hands. ‘Given the lack of bruising round the mouth, I’m inclined to reject the pillow over the face action.’ He yanked a silky pillow from the sofa and demonstrated. As if Jury and the chief inspector beside him needed a lesson in that brand of asphyxia. ‘No, it’s the thorax—I mean pressure placed on it. Probably by a knee placed there and then all of the body weight pressing down. We’ll see. That is, we
hope
we’ll see.’ Dr. O’Reilly offered them his quirky smile and scooped up his bag.

‘In any event,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Dryer, ‘if it’s asphyxia, then we’re out a weapon.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve ID’d the body on the basis of the estate agent’s identifying her. I assumed since she was in here, she might have been having a look at the property and Forester’s would know her. If she had a bag, it’s missing. This Mrs.’—the detective inspector glanced at his notes—’Bathous told us that you were inquiring about her. I’ve never seen this woman, but I take it you have?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Jury thought of the dead woman who’d been lying on the sofa, whom Dryer had not permitted be taken away until Jury had seen her: cropped brown hair; the pale, almost delicate skin; the face which, having lost its animation, had lost some of its prettiness. ‘But there are several people who saw her here besides Mrs. Bathous. The Shoesmiths—’ Jury gestured in that direction. ‘They live about a half mile down this road. They had her in to tea; they’re selling up, also listed with the Forester and Flynn agency. And then there’s a Myra Easedale, who saw Mrs. Gault on the road.’

‘Good. That seems clear enough. Assuming it is this Glynnis Gault, have you any knowledge of her family?’ DCI Tom Dryer had retrieved the small notebook that he’d put down by the tray that held the tea service. The cups, the little sugar bowl struck Jury as infinitely sad, as if the tea had been laid on for a visitor, and the visitor arrived and now lay dead.

‘I know the husband. Hugh Gault. At the moment, he’s in a clinic in London. You said Mathilda Hastings found her?’

Dryer nodded. ‘Awful for a child to be the messenger, but that’s what happened. She ran home and told her mum’—he consulted his notes—‘no, aunt, Brenda Hastings. Then Mrs. Hastings rang police. Mathilda said she’d gone to the house for a drink of water.’ Tilda had come in for a pretend tea, Jury bet, which is why she’d been in this room.

‘The utilities—water, electric and so forth—are still laid on even though the house is not occupied. Waste of money, as far as I’m concerned, but as the agent is trying to rent it, I expect it makes a better impression.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t mind admitting I’m stumped. And what’s become of the boy? Her son was with her, the estate agent said.’

Jury shook his head. ‘At least we know one thing.’

‘What?’

‘What’s become of the dog,’ Jury told him.

This proved to be of no particular comfort to DCI Dryer; indeed, it merely added to his dismay.

One of the crime scene technicians was still taking pictures. Dryer said, ‘I’ll need to show her picture to everyone who’d been likely to see her besides the estate agent, the occupants of this Lake Cottage—’

‘Lark,’ said Jury.

‘Oh, yes. Anyway, we’ve established identity, at least informally. A member of her family will have to make a formal one, of course. As I said, I tried to contact the husband. You say he’s in some sort of clinic?’

Jury nodded. ‘The Stoddard Clinic. It’s in Fulham.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it. It’s a psychiatric facility, I believe.’

Jury nodded.

Dryer ran a thumbnail across his forehead and looked contemplative. He spoke slowly and moved slowly; Jury wouldn’t make the mistake of assuming that he thought slowly. Dryer’s eyes had a flinty look. ‘This woman—first name’—he thumbed through some notes—’Glynnis Gault. About a year ago . . . no, less than that—and this is according to Mrs. Bathous—the Gault woman had been viewing property in this area in the company of her son, and—’

‘Her dog, too.’

Dryer smiled slightly. ‘I believe you’re right. Mrs. Gault hadn’t returned the key to this house, hadn’t gone back to the agency and Mrs. Bathous hadn’t seen her again. She thought this strange. When she called the phone number in London, no one answered. She tried several times, and still no answer. Then you came here and told her that Mrs. Gault and her son—yes, and her dog—had gone missing. This was the last place she’d been seen. That you told her—the agent, I mean—Glynnis Gault had been missing for nine months.’ Dryer flapped the notebook shut, looked at Jury.

Jury felt a curious unease, a fluttering of nerves. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’ But hadn’t Marjorie Bathous told
him
most of this? He didn’t say this to Dryer.

‘I asked Mrs. Bathous if she’d thought of reporting this to police and she said no, that she supposed Mrs. Gault had simply lost interest and returned to London. It’s odd, in the circumstances, that no one was reported missing, don’t you think?’

‘But she was. The husband made the report to Surrey police.’ Jury frowned.

Dryer ran the thumbnail over his forehead again. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll check again, but I think you’re wrong. Anyway, it’s a most peculiar business.’

Jury said nothing. That fleeting anxiety returned.

‘Would I be far off the mark,’ asked Dryer, ‘to think the husband’s going to this clinic had something to do with all this?’

‘You’d be right
on
the mark. Hugh Gault signed himself into Stoddard Clinic when it got to be too much for him; he sank into depression.’

‘It would be too much for anyone.’

‘He’s in very good shape now, I think. The clinic must be a good one.’

‘So you must have spoken to him.’

‘I did. I went there with a good friend of Gault’s. Well, as I told you, the story intrigued me. Hugh Gault is a physicist.’

Dryer was silent for a few moments, perhaps looking for a relationship between mysterious disappearances and physics. He nodded as if he’d found it, then said, ‘I’d appreciate your help in this case. You clearly already know a good deal.’

Jury was surprised. Rarely did local police want the help of the Metropolitan police. Usually, the local police wanted the Met to get lost. It was all very territorial. Only one other detective (besides Brian Macalvie, that is) Jury had worked with had been as little on the defensive as Dryer; this was a senior detective up in Lincolnshire named Bannen. Bannen was one of the best detectives he’d ever worked with. Bannen, too, had seemed almost lethargic in mind, languid in movement. That was why Jury was making no assumptions about Dryer’s alertness.

‘I don’t like to drop this on you, but I was wondering if you would tell Mr. Gault about his wife. Since you know him.’

‘Of course. I’d need more particulars, though. Hugh Gault would naturally want to know what police know. So anything you have—’

‘Absent an autopsy, there’s not a great deal more I can tell him. There’s certainly a great deal more to know, question one being, why in the hell was she
here?’
Leafing through his notes, Dryer said, ‘This house is owned by a man named Benjamin della Torres, according to the Bathous agent. He lives in Italy, in Tuscany, in a little hilltop town with an unpronounceable name.’

‘San Gimignano,’ said Jury unable to resist trying it out.

‘Good lord, you know that, too?’

Jury almost wished at this point that he didn’t. ‘It’s information coming from Hugh Gault’s friend Harry Johnson.’ And from Melrose Plant, who’d filled in more details. ‘Torres doesn’t want to sell this place, but wants instead to let it out. It’s his childhood home and he has a strong attachment to it. The house has a strange, rather forbidding history, certainly an unhappy one—I’m getting this secondhand, you know—’