The Winds of Change (39 page)

‘The Murchison woman can talk until she’s blue in the face. It’s nothing to do with me. Also, I hear your own role in this business is highly irregular. I understand there’s to be an inquiry.’ The smile returned.

‘What happened to your daughter?’ Jury slammed that across the net to wipe the smile off the man’s face (which it did) and at most to surprise Baumann into an unguarded response.

‘I beg your pardon?’ The mock friendliness gave way to true iciness.

‘Your daughter, Flora. What happened to her?’

‘You know what happened. We’ve been around on this before.’

‘True, but you didn’t tell me then, either.’

‘That’s ridiculous. She was abducted, as you know.’

‘By you?’

‘Of course not!’

‘What about Lena Banks, then?’

‘What about her? We were good friends, I’m not denying knowing her. I didn’t deny it when you brought her up.’

‘You used her; she was the one taking the chances, wasn’t she?’
 

Baumann sighed. ‘Mr. Jury, you are both sentimental and dramatic; you’re also overlooking at least one thing. Lena Banks was acting in her own interests, not mine. I’d no idea she’d gone to the Scott place.’

‘What possible interest could this woman have in Declan Scott or Angel Gate? He didn’t know her; no one knew her.’

Baumann said, smooth as silk, ‘You seem to be forgetting the very thing you told me–that Lena Banks was known to Declan Scott under another name. Fox, wasn’t it? Georgina Fox? So she did have an interest in Mr. Scott, one I knew nothing about.’ He sat back, looking pleased with himself.

Jury said nothing. He was close to losing it. Then he thought of little Alice Smith and didn’t. ‘You can be as smug as you like, Mr. Baumann. Irene Murchison won’t hold out forever. They never do.’

Baumann shook his head, his mouth so tightly drawn he looked as if it could spit bullets. ‘I’m calling this harassment, Superintendent. I know the commissioner.’

‘So do I.’

For the first time, Baumann looked both uncertain and angry.

‘You bring up Flora in the context of this pedophile ring. Are you suggesting that I used Flora in this–’ He paled.

There it was, the unguarded response. Not that Jury needed to be convinced of Baumann’s running this ring, but had he been innocent of it, he wouldn’t have made that leap to Flora. He couldn’t have; it would be unthinkable that a man would serve his own daughter up on a platter.

He tried to regain his insouciant pose, but he knew he’d put a foot wrong. ‘What sort of a fool do you think I am?’
 

Jury leaned closer. ‘I don’t know what sort. I only know you are one. Any man driven by a need, a compulsion is a fool by definition because his ability to act rationally is out the window. You’re addicted, Viktor; you’re addicted to little kids; you need them as much as a heroin addict needs to shoot up between his toes. You and the men you supply; your ring of pedophiles: I’ll bet they’re top of the line businessmen, not as powerful as you, but still well known, well off, well connected and dirty as they come.’ Jury leaned farther across the desk. ‘So you’re way off the charts on this one, Viktor, when it comes to abuse. You’re not using coke or heroin or whores; you’re using little children to satisfy your addiction, you and the rest of the sick bastards who come to you. Dante doesn’t even have a circle of hell for that. I know because I checked. Don’t think for a moment you’re going to get away with this, you son of a bitch.’ Jury turned and walked to the door.

‘I’m ringing the commissioner, Mr. Jury.’

Jury turned and smiled. ‘Give him my best.’

42

The next morning he called Johnny Blakeley.

Johnny said, ‘She didn’t name Viktor Baumann, but she rolled on seven of the others; we brought them in, prominent businessmen in the City. They’re cheek by jowl with Baumann, only they haven’t admitted it yet. The sons of bitches. It’s amazing how these people can convince themselves they do no harm; indeed, they function to do good to children. Have them understand their ‘sexuality.’ A kid five years old, for chrissakes.’

‘You’re pretty certain somebody’s going to name Viktor Baumann?’

‘You can take it to the bank. Because just imagine how much these men want the publicity; it would ruin them. So that’s what I’m going with: first one that rolls on Baumann gets immunity and anonymity.’

‘Why in hell would they feel any loyalty to Baumann anyway?’

‘They wouldn’t.’ Johnny thought for a moment, then said, ‘Unless he managed to keep his hands clean; unless they really don’t know who’s behind it.’

Jury said, ‘Ah. But being part of it, that would be half the fun, wouldn’t it? The illicit sharing. Sitting around in your club with whiskeys and cigars with the others in the Baumann club, talking about it.’

‘We’ve got all of these eyewitnesses. Nobody wants to make these kids testify, but can you imagine how this would play in court? The testimony of these ten little girls? No. They’ll all try to plead out; they wouldn’t have a hope in hell in a trial. This older girl—’

Jury heard papers being shuffled and filled in the name: ‘Samantha Bums. I’m getting Samantha a solicitor.’

‘How about yourself, Richard?’

‘You mean do I have one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not yet. I have an appointment with somebody in an hour.’

CS Racer asked Jury the same thing, but with a noticeable lack of Johnny’s sympathy.

‘I have an appointment to talk to Pete Apted,’ said Jury, he made a show of looking at his watch. ‘In fifteen minutes.’

‘Bringing in the big guns, are we?’

‘We are. We’ll need them.’

Racer looked at Jury with suspicion. Was he or was he not being mocked? ‘Why’re you smiling? You’re not taking this whole mess seriously? Letting the Yard in for a hell of a lot of embarrassment? Egg on our faces, that sort of thing?’

‘I’m just letting a smile be my umbrella.’

The smile was for the cat Cyril, who was currently perched on top of the bookcase to Racer’s right. It was another favorite seat.

Cyril was looking down and his tail was twitching. Twitch. Twitch.

A sign that this interview would soon be over.

‘Well, you’ll need something better than an umbrella this time, laddy. God! How could you have been so stupid?’ To Jury, the interesting thing was the underpinning of anxiety in the chief superintendent’s tone. He told Jury again and again, just as he was doing now, saying the same things over and over as if this ritual barrage of words would somehow expunge the danger.

Something like a religious chant. Racer did not want to rid himself of Jury as much as he liked to think. Jury served too many purposes, not the least of which was his clear-up rate. No one had a better record.

Now, Racer would get up out of his chair to pace with hands folded behind him, imitating a man in deep thought. It was this moment that Cyril had trained for. With Racer standing behind his chair, Cyril launched himself from the bookcase, made a graceful arc in air and landed on Racer’s shoulder. Then he jumped down and fled from the room.

Fast on the cat’s heels (but never able to catch him), Racer was yelling at Fiona: ‘Have animal control up here! Where is he? Where did he go? I’ll kill him.’

Jury sat peacefully, taking in the shouting and crying and swearing as all in a Cyril-day’s work. If he chucked the job, he would miss it. Oh, well. He got up and went through to the outer office and joined the melee.

Racer insisted that Fiona was hiding the cat.

The funny thing was, Racer would miss Cyril, too.

43

‘Does that detective know?’ Lulu asked.

She was referring to Jury. ‘Does he know what?’ said Melrose, tamping down earth.

‘Where the Child Thief took her?’

‘I’ve told you there’s no such person.’

‘There was for Flora. Where is she, then, if you’re so smart?’
 

Melrose considered beating his head with the trowel. ‘Okay, I’m not smart then. Certainly not as smart as your detective.’

‘She isn’t dead.’

At least the poor child didn’t have to face death down. Yet.

‘Of course she isn’t.’

Lulu was bouncing a remnant of turf on her hand. ‘How do you know?’

Roy thought the turf was a ball and jumped for it.

‘How do I–? You just said yourself she wasn’t dead.’

‘I know why I think she’s not. But why do you think so?’

‘A hunch. Intuition.’ He stood up. ‘Enough of this. I’m going in for tea.’

Lulu made sure she’d get there ahead of him and ran.

Melrose walked out of the small garden and toward the old gardener, who was seldom seen here. He rarely came round except when the Macmillans weren’t here. He had propped his ladder against the statue of the boys with buckets and appeared to be inspecting the turfed steps.

Melrose could not recall his name. Maybe he’d never known it. Heartily, he said, ‘So what do you think of the steps?’ The old man turned, scowling. ‘Piss poor, ah calls it. Looks like a dog’s dinner, this lot. Thought Mr. Scott ‘ad better sense. Fire in a bucket, ah calls it.’

‘He does, he does–’ Melrose’s eye was facing the boys with buckets against which the ladder was leaning. He thought for a moment. ‘Might I just use that ladder?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. As he put his foot on the first rung, he thought that one might need something to stand on to retrieve an object, but not to toss it in. He needed to climb up only four steps before he could actually look in the higher bucket. There it was, the gun. He knew nothing about guns, but thought this one was probably what they were looking for. With his handkerchief over his hand, he reached in and pulled it out. He rushed pass the puzzled gardener into the house to telephone Jury.

‘Newcastle, up in Tyne and Wear.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘Should be back tonight, I think. I could get in touch with him–’

It probably had something to do with his cousin’s death. ‘No. It can keep. Thank you.’

Melrose walked up the steps to the white incidents van. A uniformed policeman sat at one of the desks reading a book about golf.

When did he ever find the time to play? Another sat at the back.

He was on his cell phone.

‘Where’s Commander Macalvie ?’

The uniform turned and asked, ‘Ian, where’s the boss?’

Ian shrugged. ‘I think he’s in Launceston.’

‘You’ll want to tell him about this.’ Melrose took the gun, wrapped in his handkerchief, from his pocket and put it on the desk.

‘Bloody hell,’ said the uniform.

Ian lurched up. ‘Is that the gun that killed me banks woman?’

‘Well, it’s a gun. But I’m not into ballistics. I think it is, but there again...’

Gingerly the uniformed policeman turned it around. ‘It’s a .22,’ he said over his shoulder to the one named Ian. ‘Where the bloody hell’d you find it?’

Melrose tilted his head in the direction of the garden. ‘Back there. In a bucket.’

WHITE CROSSES

44

Leaving early in the morning would mean he could come L back the same day, perhaps catch the same train as he’d taken a few days ago.

‘It’s Dickie,’ Brendan had said the night before. Dickie was the sixteen-year-old son who, as far as Jury knew, hadn’t been in trouble before, certainly not been nicked by the police. Or had he and Jury simply wasn’t aware? ‘Police got him down at Washington Wallsend station. His boss accused him of thievin’. This bloke that’s foreman of this gâteau factory outside Washington. Okay, the boy did nick a couple of gâteaus, said it was for a friend’s birthday party, but for God’s sakes, is that a reason to call the Bill?’ Jury remembered passing that gâteau factory. Clean looking, very modem, gave the locals a lot of jobs. Brendan had once told him the employees were always afraid the off-site owner, a nasty, mercurial man with a habit, might close it down, but the factory apparently went chugging on. So he told Brendan he could be in Newcastle the next day; he’d get there at eleven. Could Brendan just meet him at Newcastle Central?

‘Indeed I could. Thanks–it’s really good of you, Richard; I know how busy you are.’

‘Not too busy to help out, Brendan.’

Which, he supposed, was the attitude he should have taken all along.

The 8:30 got him into Newcastle at 11:36 and Brendan’s car was waiting outside the station. Jury climbed in and Brendan started talking right away.

‘Should we go to the police station straightaway?’
 

Jury thought for a moment, said, ‘No. Let’s check out the gâteau factory. Maybe I can have a word with this Frank what’s his name, again?’

‘It’s Frank Vinson. I don’t know if he’s foreman or manager or what, but he runs the place. The bloke who owns it, though, he’s a real shit. He’s an alcoholic and does drugs. I met him once in a pub over there. It’s as well he lives in London. Dickie says it’s common knowledge he’s mixed up in drugs and such.’

‘You told me about him. Do you know his name ?’