The Old Wine Shades (42 page)

Dog walked into a pub
. . .

57

 
It was a dead cert.

Until he found it
wasn’t.

This time, Jury had said, there were eyewitnesses, two of them—except as it turned out, there
weren’t.

‘We
never saw him,’ said Tilda, reddening, then looking away, looking at anything but Jury, as if
she’d
let him down, as if her not having seen the
man’s
face had been unforgivably careless of her.

Timmy sat and stared at Jury and nodded at everything Tilda said. He too wore an expression of failure.

Jury told them they had been very brave, had shown an ingenuity he wished all of the Metropolitan police had. Then to
Jury’s
question, had they been blindfolded or something?

Tilda said, ‘It was our eyes. First, he put something in them and everything was blurry. No, it
didn’t
hurt;
it’s
just that everything was so blurry we
couldn’t
see what his face really looked like. He blindfolded us too, but not for long.’

(Phyllis Nancy had said, ‘Dilating drops, the kind that ophthalmologists use on every patient up to a certain age. The drops dilate the pupil.
You’ve
had them,
haven’t
you? Simplest thing in the world, except you have to wait for a time until they take
effect.’)

‘He just stood in back and kept us from turning around and blindfolded us. He took the blindfolds off in a little while, though, but we still
couldn’t
see, right, Timmy?’

At sometime before
11:00
that night, Tilda and Timmy had presented themselves at New Scotland Yard near the St.
James’s
tube stop and said they had to see Mr. Jury and would they be safe in here? ‘I mean if we have to sit and wait?’

They were assured they would be safe.

‘Okay, then, come on, Timmy.’ Tilda had led him over to a long bench to sit.

Superintendent Jury had gotten off an elevator less than five minutes after they walked-in.

Tilda was surprised when he walked over and hugged her, really
hard.
It was as if
he’d
missed them.

He did not hug Timmy, and that was probably the right thing to do, as boys like to think
they’re
grown up and beneath hugging. Jury shook
Timmy’s
hand and praised him for being so brave and resourceful.

Timmy was not sure about ‘resourceful’ but he knew he was being complimented. You
didn’t
need to talk to be brave and resourceful, which was good news.

Now, how had they gotten to New Scotland Yard?

‘We were running along a street, I
don’t
know which one. When we left the basement, we just ran. It was a busy street and we just got on a red bus and sat on top.
Timmy’d
saved some money in his shoe. We got off that and got on another. In case we were being followed. We rode and rode. That was fun,
wasn’t
it, Timmy?’

Timmy nodded vigorously.

How was it kids could turn some part of a hair-raising experience into fun?

Jury had gotten back to his office a half hour before the kids had arrived. Sergeant Meek,
who’d
been watching the house, had gone in with Jury to search for them. Jury
hadn’t
asked him to, of course he
hadn’t. He’d
told Meek there was no warrant and he could land in a world of trouble.

Meek had said, ‘Two little kids, I got kids of my own, boss. If they were in this spot I’d hate to think they
could’ve
been found if only some copper
hadn’t
waited on a warrant.’

The most likely place was the basement and the door down to it was both locked and bolted from the kitchen side. Meek, whose uncle (he liked to tell people) had been a first-rate safecracker until ‘an unfortunate affray,’ had his own special tool for locks. And this lock
wasn’t
a very good one to begin with. The sergeant had it open in five seconds.

It was really a wine cellar—shelves, rows and rows of bottles. So Harry was a connoisseur. Jury thought he had known a little about wine, but only a little. Harry, Jury was disposed now to think, had a hard time telling the truth about anything.

No. Harry was a rotter. He was a self-aggrandizing, vain, fraudulent—not to mention dangerous—sod. A very, very clever sod.

There was nothing in the basement—no kids, no evidence
they’d
been there.

Where had he moved them? Because Jury knew Harry had them.

‘Come look at this, guv,’ said Meek.

Jury left the wine racks and went over to where Meek was standing. Wine crates, upended, stacked.

‘That window?
It’s
open,’ said Meek. ‘Not very big, but it
wouldn’t
have to be.
That’s
it, innit?’

Jury laughed. That was most certainly it.

Jury’s
mobile chimed with a horrifying sweetness. A tiny tinkling of bells. He pulled it out, spoke.

Melrose told him that Harry had just walked out the door. ‘When he realized you were gone, he collected Mungo and left.
Didn’t
seem upset, actually. I guess he thought I was worth it. In case you want to know about complementarity, well, I’m your man. Wonderful conversation we had, me being back from the dead. Somehow, I
don’t
think he quite believed it.’

Jury ended the call, said, ‘Those crates, Sergeant, grab the small one and
let’s
get out.’

It was the smaller of the two crates, but big enough to be awkward. Sergeant Meek managed, even laughed. ‘Those kids.’ He laughed. ‘Pretty cool customers.’

Jury smiled. ‘The coolest.’

The crate went straight to forensics.

‘Sorry, guv. No prints’

Jury talked to one of the print experts. ‘But there have to—I mean, it was the kids who shoved those boxes to beneath the window; it was they who stacked them. How could there not be prints?’

‘Two things: first, that
crate’s
undressed wood. It
wouldn’t
pick ‘em up. Second, the kids maybe were wearing gloves.’

‘Why would they be wearing gloves?’

‘Maybe they were made to. You said they put the crates underneath the window and crawled out. Or
that’s
what it looked like. Well, they would have left prints on or around the window.
Couldn’t
hardly help doing that.’

‘Not with gloves on,’ said Jury.

‘Depends what kind. A print
might’ve
gone through a glove, if the glove was thin enough. Find any latex gloves lying about?’

‘No. If I had,
I’d’ve
picked them up,
wouldn’t
I?’

‘Sorry, guv. Just you get us to go over that window frame,
you’ll
see.’

Yes,
and I can also see immediate suspension—for me, for Sergeant Meek and also for you, if you care to join us with your kit—as we
don’t
have a
rat’s
ass worth of a warrant. He did not say this; he did
say,
‘Nothing to be done about it. Thanks.’

So Harry had even considered that. He
didn’t
want them leaving prints anywhere, so
he’d
made them wear some kind of glove. He said this to Wiggins; they were in the office the next morning. But
there’d
be prints in the car. Jury doubted Harry had tied their hands in the
car,
for the same reason
he’d
removed the blindfolds: it would be too attention getting.

‘God, is there
anything
,’ said Wiggins, as he stirred his tea, ‘Harry
didn’t
think of?’ Wiggins, who had never met him, still felt on a first-name basis.

‘Yes.’ Jury hooked his jacket from the back of his chair.
‘There’s
one thing.’

‘What’s
that, sir?’

‘I
don’t
know.’ Jury stood in the doorway jingling change in his pocket.
‘Yet.’
He walked out.

58

 
It was her father who came from Manchester to collect the body.

Albert Bly’s face wore the permanent stamp of sorrow, deepened, Jury thought, by the death of his daughter.

‘Pastoni was her married name. She met some Italian bloke there and married him and divorced him. Rosie could never stick with anything for long.’ This was said not in a critical tone, but merely to convey information.

‘I’m truly sorrow for your loss, Mr. Bly.’

Albert Bly looked down at his cup of tea. ‘Nothing to be done about it, I expect.’ He sighed deeply, sitting in the cafe Jury had taken him to after the father had ID’d Rosa Paston’s body.

Finding the family had taken a bit of looking, as the police knew Rose Bly only as Rosa Paston.

‘It’s the wife it’ll be a bit hard on.’

A bit hard.
Jury sometimes marveled at the British ability to understate. Yes, he could well imagine her daughter’s death would be ‘a bit hard.’

Albert Bly went on: ‘Even though Rosie hadn’t been to see us in more’n a year—no, two, more likely. You know how it is with kids.’

Rosa Paston—Rosie Bly—had stayed on in Italy, in Venice, after the divorce and got herself a job. ‘The place suited her, I don’t know why. All those canals, all that water, can’t even drive your car. You wouldn’t catch me in one of them boats—what’d’ya call ‘em?’

‘Gondolas.’ Jury smiled.

Mr. Bly made a face and drank his tea. ‘Nice caff, this is.’ After carefully returning his cup to its saucer, he said, ‘Have you got the bloke did this?’

‘Not yet. We’ve got a suspect, though.’

Albert Bly’s shoulders seemed to slump farther.

‘Mr. Bly, did Rosie keep in touch? I mean, did she write to you and her mother? Did she mention any man she’d met? One that she was fairly serious about?’

The wife might know more about that, but he doubted it. Rosie didn’t write much, and never did tell them much going on of a personal nature.

There had been a man. That information had come from Rosa’s flat mate. She’d told police Rosa ‘had a fellow’ and they were going to get married. She’d left Venice for London sometime around mid- June. Last year.

And had Rosa given her friend any clue as to who this ‘fellow’ was?

No. But he was handsome and rich.

Weren’t they all? thought Jury, sadly.

Venetian dreams.

They would, of course, talk to the mother. But Jury knew he knew more than either of the parents. Finally, they left the cafe and Jury went with Albert Bly to his small B&B. He took down the information they’d need for the eventual return of Rosa Paston’s remains.

‘We’ll get him, Mr. Bly. Make no mistake about that.’

It wasn’t much of a comfort.

Epilogue

It was 7:30 in the Old Wine Shades and Harry was sitting at the bar talking to Trevor. Or, rather, Trevor was the one talking, leaning over the bar as if he had many secrets to impart.

‘Hello, Harry,’ said Jury, pulling out a chair. It being the one Mungo was stationed under, the dog came out, looked at Jury— (‘Bemused,’ Jury would have said.)—and then slipped back under the chair.

‘Richard! I haven’t seen you in nearly two weeks. What’ve you been getting up to? Listen: you’ve got to try this.’ Harry tapped his glass. ‘Barolo Monprivato, this is.’

‘Your Italian is very good.’

‘Oh, no question. That was so hard to say.’

‘I bet you have no problem pronouncing the name of that Tuscan hill town—you know, the one near Florence.’

‘San Gimignano?’

‘Perfect.’ As Trevor set down a glass for him, Jury said, ‘I bet you even speak it. Italian, I mean.’

‘Not hellishly well.’

‘Enough to pick up girls and so forth.’

‘Probably.’ Harry snickered.

Trevor had poured and now Jury drank.

Harry said, ‘Don’t
gulp
it, for God’s sake! Trevor here will have a stroke.’

Trevor was leaning against the bar, happily waiting for Jury’s reaction.

It was as if their raison d’etre—the three of them—were lodged in the Old Wine Shades and this bottle of wine.

‘Great,’ said Jury. ‘Fat and full, as Trevor would say.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Trevor. ‘Fruity, sensual. It’s a Chateau Latour, this one is.’

‘He’ll make sommeliers of us yet,’ said Harry.

Us.
That was nice. ‘You’re one already, Harry. I bet there’s enough in your cellar to open up a bar.’

‘My cellar? Richard, have you been snooping around?’

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Jury. ‘That’s one of those trick questions suspects ask to trap the dimwitted policeman! I’m assuming anyone who likes wine this much is going to have a wine cellar.’