The Winds of Change (33 page)

‘Mugs are easier.’

‘I do not like mugs,’ said Melrose. ‘Indeed, I hate them. Mugs suggest drinking while you’re wandering around doing stuff; you should be sitting down over tea and certainly not doing anything else, except reading. But definitely sitting down. Like most other things,’ he added thoughtfully.

Jury shook his head. ‘You’ve been too long in the Nitwits Club.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The Jack and Hammer branch of Bedlam. Our friends.’ Melrose mustered some phony indignation. ‘Are you aware that one of these nitwits–Diane–saved my life once? And don’t you recall that if it hadn’t been for that bloody Masaccio triptych Trueblood was on about, we might never have solved that case? And how about Trueblood’s brilliant defense in the chamber pot affair?’

‘Oh, well, the Nitwits have had their moments, yes. No one would deny that.’

Melrose stirred his tea with the little spoon. The spoon made him think of Lulu. ‘Lulu’s rather sad, I think.’

‘I don’t.’

Melrose winced. ‘God, but it takes a lot to get you to trot out the sympathy.’

‘I don’t mean her situation isn’t sad. It is. I mean I don’t see any particular sadness in Lulu herself.’ He smiled. ‘She seems to be enjoying things.’

‘How could she not be sad? Losing both her parents at once?’

‘She was what? Four? Five? How much would she have understood?’

This irritated Melrose no end. ‘Come on, Richard, you’re just being thick.’

‘Maybe. Did you ever read A Death in the Family?’

‘No. Who wrote it?’

‘James Agee. The father’s car skids off the road and he hits his forehead in an especially vulnerable point–it’s really a freak accident-and dies instantly. What I remember, though, is the reaction of the little kids, a boy and girl, probably five and seven. They’re not really all that upset and wonder if they should be.’

‘Denial.’

Jury shrugged. ‘Possibly. But we all depend on that term overmuch. We’re confronted with an event that calls for a certain reaction, we think. We expect that a child would be inconsolable, heartbroken, weeping and lamenting if the parents die. And I suppose a lot of children are. But there’s this other possibility. Lulu’s pretty happy, it seems to me. You don’t think she’s enjoying a body being found on the grounds?’

‘Oh, well, that. But that’s different. It wasn’t her body or the body of anyone she cares about. It’s not the same thing at all.’

‘Maybe.’ Jury looked at the thin rain beyond the window.

‘Macalvie told me about the daughter of his lover and what happened. Can you imagine? What a weight to bear. That probably explains a lot about him: the mind-bending meticulousness. How careful he is, how demanding. My guess is he feels he could have saved her, this little girl, if he’d been careful, if he’d been more exacting. God, the things we expect of ourselves.’

‘There’s nothing on earth he could have done. The child was doomed from the moment they took her.’

‘But he’ll always blame himself for the kidnapping in the first place.’

Melrose nodded. ‘It was utterly merciless.’

Jury nodded and rose. ‘And this murder does remind him that the fate of Flora Baumann might be the same. He didn’t find Flora the first time around. He thinks of it as another failure, as failing all over again. Of leaving Flora’s mother in the lurch.’ Jury set down his cup. ‘I’ve got to be going. Thanks for the tea.’

‘Why? I mean why are you going to London this time?’

‘Unfinished business.’

‘That tells me a lot.’

Jury smiled, gave Melrose a short good-bye salute.

Cody Platt was standing in front of Beaminster’s desk, talking to him and Swayle, who looked as if he’d settled into that swivel chair for life, chair back tilted as far as it would go, his arms hanging loose outside the chair arms. He was laughing.

Jury was surprised a detective as louche as Swayle could survive under Macalvie. But maybe he was different around Macalvie, and his boss could hardly do bed checks.

Beaminster stopped mid-laugh when he saw Jury. Swayle creaked the chair forward and Cody turned round. Only Cody smiled.

‘Cody, can I talk to you for a minute?’ He watched Cody’s eyes widen, his complexion turn a little ashen; probably he was thinking it was yet more about his following Mary Scott and Flora.

‘Sure.’ He moved up to the front of the van.

The other two watched with faces that said Go, why don’t you? Just go. Jury did not return the looks or absorb the hostility. He sat down at the small table serving as a desk, facing away from the two other detectives. They’d have to listen hard to pick up Jury’s end.

Cody took the chair across the table.

Jury kept his voice low. ‘There’s something I need to take care of in London. Your boss thinks you might want to take care of it with me.’

Relief and curiosity replaced the anxious expression. ‘What?’

‘It’s related to Viktor Baumann.’

‘Baumann.’ He looked by turn angry, sad, hopeless, vengeful.

‘That bastard.’

‘How much do you know about him?’

‘I know he made Mary’s life a misery at the end; I know that he had Flora abducted.’

‘You don’t actually know that, Cody.’

‘Yes I do,’ he said, simply.

‘But we’ve got no proof, and worse, we’re no nearer to finding her’–as if they would or could–’to finding out what happened to her.’

Cody’s eyes flashed. There was something electric about the boy–Jury didn’t know why he thought of him as a boy.., yes, perhaps he did. He could see Cody all those years ago, in his fringed vest and chaps, snapping those two toy silver guns out of his double holster and looking for any available place to let loose with a fusillade of clicks: stuffed lion or rabbit, maybe? The poster of Queen, whose guitars looked as dangerous as rifles? He let them have it, anyway, and the wall, too, for good measure. This little western unreeled in Jury’s mind as Cody was talking in terrible earnest about Flora and the endless possibilities as to what happened.

That’s the word Cody used: ‘endless.’ He seemed to have worked up little scenes, cameos that she could be in Dulwich, she could be in Devon or Dorset or another country, for that matter.

‘She could be, yes.’ Like your sister. Only, Jury didn’t believe it. ‘You haven’t asked me just what it is I want to do or want you to do.’

‘If it means putting Baumann away or even causing Baumann trouble–’ He shrugged, raising his forearms, palms flat in a gesture of I should care ?

37

Brian Macalvie stood in Declan Scott’s living room, still wearing his coat.

‘Let me take you coat,Commander.’
 

‘I’ll keep it, thanks. I won’t be here long. Where is she, Mr.

Scott?’

Declan dropped the arm that he had reached out to take the coat. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Flora. Where is she?’

Declan came closer, as if some physical proximity would allow him better to understand Macalvie’s meaning. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to explain–’

Macalvie didn’t explain. He kept his coat on and went on talking. ‘Why it took me so long to work this out, I don’t know. Wait. Yes, I do know. I was taking this case too personally. Still am, probably. A third motive didn’t even occur to me. I mean besides money or a warped desire for a child. Flora was abducted in order to keep her out of harm’s way. Harm in this case meaning Viktor Baumann, who’s relentless when he wants something. Then, when Mary died, the threat doubled–quadrupled, even because you hadn’t a legal leg to stand on when it came to keeping Flora with you. Baumann, as her father, would have gotten custody. So where is she? France? Italy? In Florence? Venice? In a boarding school, maybe? A convent?’

Without waiting for an invitation, Macalvie sat down while Declan still stood, his face blank as a plate. Now Macalvie did the inviting: ‘Sit down, why don’t you?’

‘Thank you. I’m beyond sitting down.’ He walked over to the fireplace and leaned on the mantel, arms folded. ‘Let’s assume you’re right–’

‘Let’s.’

‘What about Mary?’

‘Oh, your wife would have been in on it. You might even have done it for her sake.’

‘Then there’d be no crime in it, would there?’

‘Probably not. Except for sending police all over the damned place on a wild-goose chase.’

‘Then–?’ Declan shrugged.

‘Well, then there’s still Lena Banks lying on a slab in the morgue. Murder–that is a crime, Mr. Scott.’

‘Why would I murder this woman?’

‘‘This woman’? That’s a bit standoffish of you, considering you had an affair with her. Why would you kill her? Presumably she meant a world of trouble.’

‘Such as?’

‘You say she was talking to your wife at Brown’s. We have only your word about that.’

‘Why would I lie about it?’

‘Perhaps to establish it was Mary and not you she came here to see.’

‘But it was Mary. Dora Stout saw them. And why would she disguise herself?’

‘So you wouldn’t recognize her?’

Declan’s laugh was unbelieving. ‘Commander Macalvie, I didn’t even know her at that point.’

‘But I believe she thought–or they thought, Lena Banks and Viktor Baumann–that you very possibly would later on, at some point. And would they want someone as memorable as Georgina coming here? I know I’m speculating, but this action wasn’t taken suddenly; it was a long-term plan. There was a threat involved. And the threat, I’d guess, was something like ‘If you don’t hand over Flora, Viktor will get her anyway and that would be far more traumatic for Flora.’’

‘And that’s what he did: he took her.’

‘No, he didn’t, Mr. Scott. Viktor Baumann is still looking for her. That’s what the whole Lena Banks affair in Paris was about. They both believed you’d talk, given the right person to talk to. But you didn’t.’

Declan’s laugh again registered disbelief. ‘I didn’t talk because I had nothing to say, for God’s sakes. And in the hotel over three years ago–could we just assume for the moment I’m telling the truth?’

‘Okay. She was there on Viktor’s behalf, again. As I said, she threatened Mary.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. But as Mary didn’t tell me what they talked about, I can’t say yes or no.’

‘Why wouldn’t she have told you? You were her husband.’
 

‘Because Mary was paranoid when it came to Flora. And that’s not a figure of speech. Baumann had always had her tied in knots over that little girl. If she thought telling me might somehow jeopardize Flora’s safety, she wouldn’t have.’

Macalvie was shaking his head. ‘I don’t believe that. If it had happened, she’d have told you. That’s one reason I don’t think it happened.’

‘Look, Commander Macalvie, no one knows. You’re wrong, I can tell you that.’ Declan did sit down then, looking at Macalvie and then looking away. ‘I’m afraid Flora’s dead.’

‘Parents don’t usually relinquish hope as long as there’s a tiny chance a child is still alive.’

‘I’m not really, Flora’s father. I think faith has a lot to do with blood. It’s like a sixth, sense, like intuition. When you know something beyond all reason. Mary had it. I don’t mean I didn’t love Flora, for I certainly did. But I was only around her for a short time. All right, I can understand your coming to the conclusion you did, that I might have staged Flora’s abduction. But that still doesn’t explain why I’d kill Lena Banks.’

‘Several possibilities there. Rage at Georgina for betraying you.’

Declan laughed. ‘Oh, really? Well, one problem there is that I’d have had to know Lena Banks was Georgina.’

Macalvie shrugged. ‘Who says you didn’t? Number two, Lena Banks found out you had Flora, had her somewhere.’

‘If that’s the case, Viktor Baumann also knows.’

‘Probably.’

‘Then he’ll come for her–look, are you going to charge me? It would put paid to at least part of this business.’ His voice sounded very tired.

Macalvie gave him a long look. ‘No. I can’t charge you, not without more evidence. We haven’t even found the weapon yet.’

‘Then why are you telling me all this?’

‘I want to know where Flora is.’

‘She’s dead.’ Declan was resting his arms on his knees, his head down, looking at whatever figure in the carpet might disclose something.

‘You said that before.’ But Macalvie thought the finality and despair in the words sounded genuine and a doubt crept into his mind. Or was it simply pity? Or was it–much more likely-identification? Remembering the little girl sitting at the table with a bullet in her forehead? He should not be working this case; he was too close to it. ‘Did your wife know she was going to die?’

‘Yes. But not when. Until the end. Within the space of a few months her heart grew so weak she could hardly breathe at times.’ He looked away.

‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

Declan Scott rose and Macalvie, who was just under six feet, still felt Scott towered over him. ‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ said Scott.