The Old Wine Shades (35 page)

Mungo looked at it. Then he tore out of the kitchen, raced upstairs and grabbed Harry’s slipper, a lightweight leather one. Back to the kitchen he went.

Mungo placed the slipper over the blood, messed the sole about, then ran back upstairs with the bloody slipper. Then he dropped the slipper on the floor of Harry’s bedroom, pressed it down with his paw, picked it up again, dropped it a little farther along, pressed it down. And so on. The blood lasted a surprisingly long time, through six impressions.

Bloody footprints. Not bad. The prints looked just like the sole of the slipper. He considered taking the second slipper.

Mungo looked around the room at the Art Deco wall sconces. He sighed. Oh, for some gaslight. Mungo liked old movies.

Things had a way of working out, if you were patient.

46

Hugh Gault was settled into the same chair he had occupied two days before, looking again at the same police photographs. Then looking at Jury. ‘You’re joking.’

‘No.’

‘My mistress? That’s what Harry said?’

Jury nodded. ‘His own, more than likely. She lives—or lived—in Venice; he probably spent time with her in Florence when he went to see Ben Torres, who, according to Harry, he knew. The police there will question Torres to find out what exactly went on, but I have no doubt it will be pretty much what Harry told Chief Inspector Dryer.’

Hugh handed back the photos. ‘And I thought Harry was quite harmless.’

‘Harry’s not.’

‘But that whole story he told
you
—’

‘Oh, Harry’s flat out denying it, of course. Not all of it; he was careful that the various people he named did exist, Ben Torres, for one; the estate agent actually did deal with the woman calling herself Glynnis Gault, whom we now know was Rosa Paston. There had to be enough verification of his story that I’d believe it, but not so much anyone else would believe what I told them. The Surrey police were never contacted, for instance.’

‘But, why? Why did he do this?’

Jury laughed. ‘You really don’t know Harry, Mr. Gault. Harry’s got a massive ego. One reason I think he did it was because he wanted control over at least part of your life. I wonder if he resented your wife—’

‘Glynnis? Why?’

Jury shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe she was an obstruction, something he had to get round to get to you.’

‘So he murdered her stand-in? That’s mad.’

‘He didn’t asphyxiate Rosa Paston because of her, let’s, say, symbolic role; he killed her to get rid of her. Then he saw a way to get your wife in a world of trouble. But again, that was merely—shall we say—one of the ‘perks’ of the operation. My guess is that Rosa Paston was killed because she was giving Harry trouble. She was a nuisance and he wanted to get rid of her. When he hatched this plot, I don’t know, but I imagine it was when she began to be too much of an inconvenience.’

Hugh shook his head. ‘I’m lost.’

‘Here’s a woman who is masquerading as the real Glynnis Gault. How long did it take DCI Dryer to get here and question both of you? Not long. But particularly Mrs. Gault, since you were covered for that afternoon. You’re always here. But your wife had no alibi for that afternoon.’

‘Wait. Are you telling me that Glynnis is a suspect?’

‘Not now she isn’t. But Surrey police might well have had her down as a suspect. And remember, making your wife a suspect wasn’t Harry’s main reason for killing this woman—indeed, I could be dead wrong. Perhaps it didn’t even come into it.’

‘Her name was—what?’

‘Rosa Paston. Maybe she wanted him to marry her; anyway, she was someone who was probably causing him trouble. Harry doesn’t like trouble; he doesn’t like any threat to his illusory world. Or perhaps I should say ‘delusory.’

Jury thought about this.

Hugh laughed. ‘You make him sound mad as a hatter, Mr. Jury.’

‘Oh, he is.’ He regarded Hugh. ‘And you’re looking quite skeptical, Mr. Gault. Which is, of course, just the way Harry would want you to look.’

‘This whole wild plot simply to get rid of a woman—well, I’m sorry, that sounds awfully callous, but you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, I do. Harry is an incredibly clever man. He probably impressed you as quite rational in the months you knew him here. In spite of the fact that he was here.’

‘But like me, he committed himself, you know.’

‘That’s what he told people.’ Jury shrugged.

‘His doctor, Santiago, who’s also mine. He’d know. Have you spoken to him?’

‘No. I’m going to see him when I leave you.’ Jury hesitated, looking down at the pattern in the rug. Camels, howdahs, clever-looking monkeys. ‘Mr. Gault, I’m sorry to bring up what must be a painful subject, but your son, Robert, how old was he—at the time of the boating accident?’

Hugh covered his eyes with his hand, as though light were hurting them. There was no light outside of what was cast by the dimly glowing lamps with fringed damask shades. It was one reason the room was so restful. Through the high windows the night was clear enough to count the stars. In the fireplace, a log fell and sparked, flaming up in unearthly blues and greens.

‘Robbie was nine. He was our only child. Not that his death would have been easier if we’d had a dozen children. After the accident, Glynnis and I could hardly—well, this sounds terrible—but we could hardly bear each other’s company. That was when Glynnis went to France. Her father lives there. I thought we were finished, you know, as a couple, but, fortunately, no—’ He shrugged. He smiled as if he’d pulled off a wizard trick.

Jury slipped forward to the edge of his armchair to close some of the distance between them. ‘Mr. Gault, there was also a young boy involved last year, that is, at the beginning, on that day a year ago when Rosa Paston was looking at property. The boy was seen by the same witnesses as had seen her. He played the role of her son. I imagine Harry wanted this to make the whole thing even more convincing. Did Harry know Robbie?’

‘Oh, no. Robbie died over a year ago. I didn’t know Harry until I came here and that’s been about nine months. What is it about this boy?’

‘We don’t know who or where he is. No child was reported missing back then, so the supposition is he went back to his life. But we don’t know what that life was.’

‘Who could he be?’

‘He must have been important to Harry, because now he has another witness. Did you talk to Harry about Robbie?’

Hugh nodded. ‘I think I talked to
everyone
about Robbie.’

‘Harry would have wanted the boy to be as much like your son as possible. Is there anything about Robbie that might help us find this other boy?’

Hugh was silent for a moment and then once again he covered his eyes with his hand. He looked at Jury sorrowfully. ‘Did you know that Robbie was autistic?’

Jury nodded. ‘Harry told me.’

‘Robbie’s was a pretty severe case. He spoke very little. But he was very sweet. He’d been to several experts in the field, but it didn’t help much.’

Jury wondered. If this stand-in child
was
autistic, he was probably still alive. Somewhere. He couldn’t be chatting up his mates with stories of this super-adventure, for which he had been paid. Had it been Rosa Paston who’d contacted the boy? ‘
Would Robbie enjoy an outing, Mrs. Smith?’
or Jones or Brown.
‘It’s ever so nice a day, the weather holding. And there’s a hundred quid in it
—’

No, too much. Or no money changing hands at all. Wouldn’t want the suspicion that Robbie would be involved in something illegal.
‘A couple hundred pounds my friend will pay to have Robbie as a model for some pictures.
‘ No. There would be other approaches, and it wasn’t important how he’d been enticed.

Jury got up and thanked Hugh for talking to him.

After he left Hugh Gault in the drawing room. Jury got on the phone to Tom Dryer.

‘If the boy’s autistic, then he might not present a threat to Harry Johnson,’ said Dryer. ‘It might have been the reason he was brought into this venture.’

‘Not altogether. I think the reason was his resemblance to Robbie Gault.’

There was a silence! Was the same thought running through Dryer’s mind as his own? It was:

‘But Robbie Gault is dead.’

‘That’s right. An accidental death. A boating accident. It’s that he
is
dead that bothers me.’

Tom Dryer let out a long breath. ‘Then I’d better get my skates on, hadn’t I?’

47

Dr. Santiago did not so much occupy his office as grace it. Wearing a beautifully tailored charcoal suit, he was handsome, cool and calm—a presence he no doubt had had to master in view of the vulnerability of his patients. Jury thought he must fill his female patients with both hope and despair, that he was at once so accessible and yet forever inaccessible. Transference must have hit the patients like a hammer. Men, too, but they’d be more likely to experience hostility—both that they hated him, but also that they couldn’t be him.

The name suggested a partly Mediterranean background, or ancestry, Spanish or Portuguese, perhaps. But in his looks was something English, something of the rosy skin that makes Englishwomen look so fresh, so just washed, just dried in the sun.

The wall behind the doctor’s desk was covered with framed degrees. He seemed to have earned his degrees everywhere: Switzerland, Seville, Oxford and more.

Sitting behind his wide rosewood desk, Dr. Santiago said, ‘I’m happy to help you as much as I can, Superintendent, but I can’t really go into Harry Johnson’s sessions with me.’

Jury said, ‘I’m not actually asking for a psychological profile. You see, I know him. We’ve socialized. We’ve had drinks and meals together several times.’

‘Harry’s a very charming man, as I imagine you’ve found.’ The doctor smiled his world beater of a smile.

‘Harry’s a liar and a manipulator, as I imagine
you’ve
found. He’s got a hell of a Narcissus complex. All of the people, all of the faces he sees seem only to reflect his own.’

Dr. Santiago looked both disturbed and surprised. He went dead serious, leaned forward in his swivel chair, elbows on desk. ‘That’s a fairly good statement of Harry when he came here. I thought a lot of that had been resolved. I thought, to tell the truth, I’d done rather well.’

‘You didn’t.’ Jury weighed in with a world-beater smile of his own, wanting to take the sting out of that comment. ‘Which simply attests to Harry’s incredible ability to deceive everyone.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘I think I meant ‘well’ in relative terms. Certainly not ‘cured.’ Had it been up to me, I would have kept him here longer. Actually’—Dr. Santiago rolled up the end of his tie and shook his head—’Harry wasn’t anything.’

Jury looked at him, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You say he’s a liar and a manipulator—’ The doctor shrugged slightly and straightened his tie. ‘I think that’s just the surface.’

‘You think that’s the
surface
?’ Jury half laughed. ‘You mean that deep down Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly?’

With his liquid brown eyes, Dr. Santiago regarded Jury. ‘I mean that there is no ‘deep down’ when it comes to Harry.’

‘A strange thing for a psychiatrist to say. Is it possible that there are people who are all facade? That’s what you seem to be implying.’

‘It’s possible. Merely another way of saying ‘shallow,’ isn’t it?’ Jury thought about this, then said, ‘Well, shallow or not, Harry’s a loose canon, doctor.’

‘That’s true, in a way, but. . .’ He left it unfinished.

‘Are you going to tell me his childhood was rotten?’

Dr. Santiago smiled. ‘Oh, everybody’s childhood was rotten. Whether it was or not, we’re all fated to think that. It’s a matter of degree, isn’t it?’

Jury thought of his own and didn’t answer.

‘Please, Superintendent, you’re not one of those reactionaries who think Freud was completely wrong, are you?’

He didn’t answer that, either, but asked instead, ‘How long was he here, can you tell me that?’

‘About a year, a little more.’ The doctor looked perplexed, sat back, again rolled his silk tie up from the bottom.

Jury smiled; that tie was a tell. ‘Hugh Gault. How long?’

‘Over eight months.’ He dropped his tie, smoothed it out.

‘And are they, were they, indeed, good friends? For I know Harry claims they are.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘No. I shouldn’t say this—’

‘It’s important. Very important. I appreciate your professional ethics. Consider these exigent circumstances. If a patient is a danger to himself or others, that would override ethics, I believe. Believe me, Harry is a danger.’ When the doctor didn’t respond. Jury said, ‘Look: I could get a warrant.’ No, he couldn’t.

Santiago nodded. ‘Hugh Gault was an obsession with Harry.’

‘Why?’

Santiago frowned. ‘The source of it I don’t understand. Possibly his having such a fractured childhood. Between parents, between relations. But certainly one of the reasons is that Hugh Gault is brilliant in his field. Physics. Quantum mechanics, some part of it.’

‘Superstring theory.’