The Winds of Change (4 page)

‘Ah, because he lost custody of the child and he’s been trying ever since to get it back. He couldn’t even get visiting privileges. He’s not one to accept failure. He wants what he wants and he’ll take it if that’s the only way. The police there could well be right.’

‘Who did you have dealings with?’

‘Macalvie. He was the DCI. Now he’s a commander, I think. He’s tenacious, that’s for sure.’

Jury smiled. ‘I know him. Tenacity is only the tip of the iceberg. I don’t think he knows what ‘cold case’ means. He never gives up.’

‘Cop after my own heart.

‘I’ll tell him you said that.’

‘Angel Gate,’ said Brian Macalvie, on the phone with Jury. ‘That’s the name of the house. She was found in the gardens.’ He was speaking of the victim, the dead woman they’d found lying on a stone bench in a stone enclosure.

To Jury the name-Angel Gate-sounded mythical. Gates of ivory, gates of horn.

‘We don’t know who she is. She was shot dead on with a .22. Chest. We haven’t found the weapon. By now it’s probably at the bottom of the Ex.’

Jury made a small noose of the telephone cord. A .22. The little girl in Hester Street was shot with a .22. Not that this meant anything. He was in his flat, sitting in the one comfortable chair in front of the bookcase going over the autopsy report again together with the findings of the Hester Street house canvasing. ‘No leads at all?’

‘No. We’re running her fingerprints. DNA won’t help unless we have something to compare it with, obviously.’ He sounded impatient. ‘Declan Scott did see this woman once in the company of his wife. This was in Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair. She was also seen by the Angel Gate cook. But that was nearly three years ago.’

Jury said, ‘Well, then, you do have some sort of ID.’

‘Uh-uh, Jury. Scott has no idea why she was with his wife; the cook - who’s no longer there - has no idea who she is, either. All she recalls is that the woman came to see Mary Scott. But neither cook nor Scott can ID her. No one in Brown’s recognizes the face, either.’ Macalvie was silent for a moment. ‘This case needs your chronic melancholia, Jury.’

Jury moved the receiver from his ear, looked at it and returned it. ‘What in hell are you talking about?’

‘About Declan Scott.’

‘Goon.’

lt took Macalvie a few moments to go on. ‘It’s hard to be around Scott for more than fifteen minutes. Have you ever known anyone like that?’

Jury reached round and pulled a volume of Emily Dickinson’s poetry from the bookcase, thought for a moment as he thumbed through the preface of the Dickinson book. He said, ‘Thomas Wentworth Higginson.’

‘Who the hell’s he?’

‘Emily Dickinson’s amanuensis, you could say. Her literary critic, editor publisher-whatever. Anyway, that’s exactly what he said about her, that he could hardly stay in the same room with her for more than fifteen minutes. That she was so intense, so emotionally needy, she overwhelmed him. Not surprising, considering her poetry. What about Declan Scott?’

‘The little girl, her name was Flora. She wasn’t his daughter, actually, but you’d never know it to hear him talk about her. About them. The wife died six months after the child disappeared.’

A double blow. ‘How did she die?’

‘Heart, apparently. Scott found her in the garden. A garden within a garden, a sort of secret garden. You know.’

‘No, I never had one of those. This is where you found the body this morning?’

‘That was in another part of the garden, at the bottom.’

‘Still. Coincidence?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who else is there? In the house?’

‘The only other full-time person is the housekeeper. A Rebecca Owen, the cook and housekeeper, but even she doesn’t sleep there. He lives alone. There’s little connection at all, he says, between him and the dead woman. He didn’t really know her.’

‘The words ‘little’ and ‘really’ strike me as the operative terms. He did have some connection, right?’

‘I told you, Scott had seen her once having tea with his wife, Mary. The wife said she was an old school chum. Roedean.’

‘And obviously this dead woman wasn’t the old school chum because you’d have Roedean nailed to the wall. And you’d know who she is by now.’ Silence. ‘So there’s a connection between the old case and this one.’

‘Must be. The victim could have been involved, I think. It’s been three years since the little girl disappeared. Probably you’d say Declan Scott should let go of it.’

‘Why in hell would I say that? Time passing could make it even worse.’

No reply.

Macalvie really did not want to have to question this man. Jury thought about this.

Macalvie said, ‘That’s the reason, see?’
 

‘What is?’

‘What you just said about time making it worse. Most people are of the ‘time-heals-all-wounds’ school. It’s why you’d get on with him.’

Jury smiled and shook his head. ‘Where was the daughter taken from? The house? Grounds? Where?’

‘The Lost Gardens of Heligan.’

Jury switched the receiver to the other shoulder, the other ear.

‘The Lost Gardens of Heligan? Sounds familiar. I’ve never seen it, but wasn’t that the big restoration project going in Cornwall? That and - what’s the other one?’

‘The Eden Project.’

‘Heligan is a kind of restoration, isn’t it? The gardens were there already, but had sunk into nothing, I mean, gone to seed.’

‘That’s right,’ said Macalvie.

‘Well, I’ve never known melancholy to solve a case. Lord knows, not mine.’

‘You wouldn’t know, would you? In this case I’m not so sure.

Declan Scott - well, you’ll see what I mean. It’s the past. He doesn’t just remember it, he lives in it.’

‘Don’t we all?’

5

Tall, thin, dressed in black, sleek as a seal, Baumann’s secretary was on the telephone when Jury walked into the office. As he waited for her to ring off, he looked around this richly furnished room. Furniture as slick and angular as she was, black leather and glass. The wall to his left contained several glassfronted shelves on which were displayed rows of coins against black velvet. Jury thought about what Johnny Blakeley had told him.

When she finally returned the phone (also sleek) to its cradle, he told her who he was and that he’d like to see Mr. Baumann.

‘Mr. Baumann never sees anyone before ten.’ Elaborately she examined her watch.

‘That’s a shame because I have to catch a train at ten-thirty.’ She looked at her appointments book with frowning deliberation. Finally, she raised her eyes and said, ‘I don’t believe you have an appointment, in any event?’ She registered this as a question in case he wanted to get into it with her.

‘No, I don’t’- Jury glanced at the metal nameplate on the desk-’Grace.’ First names generally brought them down a peg. Her eyebrows worked their way up, astonished at this liberty. ‘This is my appointment.’ He smiled winningly and shoved his warrant card toward her. ‘New Scotland Yard CID.’

She pushed her secretary’s chair back and got up. Still frosty, she said, ‘I’ll just see if he can speak to you now.’

‘I suggest he does.’ lt never quite worked when Jury tried to sound menacing. There was always that joke hiding behind it.

She went to a double door on her left, cherry and several inches thick; she pushed it open. He heard her mumble something to the occupant of the cushy inner office. Then she turned and pulled both doors open - both doors, dramatic entry. After she stepped inside, he heard her murmur something before she turned to wave him in.

Viktor Baumann rose and came around his desk to shake Jury’s hand and say, ‘I’m glad the police haven’t forgotten Flora. Especially Scotland Yard. She’s been missing now three years. I want to help in any way I can, of course. Please sit down, Superintendent.’ Baumann reclaimed his desk chair, which looked like one of those German designs of aluminum and leather so lightweight it could have levitated.

Another office furnished with killer designer furniture, but this one was more spacious than the outer. Jury imagined the paintings were not only originals, but by contemporary painters he wouldn’t know.

Jury said, ‘I’m with homicide, Mr. Baumann.’ Then, when Baumann fell back into his chair, Jury realized his error and quickly said, ‘No, not your daughter. I’m sorry. The murder is of a woman we can’t seem to trace.’ He removed the police photograph and reached it across the space between their chairs.

Baumann glanced at it and looked away. ‘Sorry. I’m squeamish about the dead. And I don’t understand what this has to do with me.’

‘Probably nothing. But she did have something to do with your former wife, from the look of it.’

‘Mary? How do you mean?’

Jury wanted to leave mention of Declan Scott out of this meeting if possible. ‘They were seen together in Brown’s Hotel having tea. According to your ex-wife, she was an old school chum.’ Jury kept his eyes on Baumann’s, gauging his reaction. That was hard to do with this sort of man who had trained himself not to react in his business dealings if he didn’t want to. Jury imagined business succeeded or failed thereby. It would be as hard to engage his involvement in the matter of this death as it would be the slickest of villains.

‘But you say you can’t find any connection between this woman and my ex-wife other than that?’

‘We haven’t so far. One would think the woman in this picture had appeared for this one purpose. Then disappeared.’ He had put the photo on the table, facing Baumann.

Baumann said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Superintendent.’

‘You’re sure you’ve never seen her?’

Baumann’s smile was a little unpleasant. ‘I’m sure. After all, the face isn’t exactly memorable, would you say?’

That was cold-blooded enough, thought Jury. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘This was in the papers, wasn’t it? I don’t recall any photograph of the face, but I do recall the crime. It’s rather lurid, isn’t it? A dead body in the garden of a country estate?’

He seemed also to be avoiding Declan Scott’s name. ‘Lurid, indeed. But so was the abduction of your daughter, who lived on that estate, and the death of her mother. Declan Scott’s estate is figuring rather too often in disaster.’

‘Ah,’ said Baumann, relaxing a little, and picking up a paperweight. He apparently made the mistake that Jury was on his side. Or at least, not on Declan Scott’s. ‘Then I suggest you look nearer home, Superintendent.’ He smiled archly.

‘That’s what I am doing, Mr. Baumann.’ To Baumann’s quizzical look he said nothing.

‘But you’re suggesting Scott must figure in all of this.’

‘But of course he figures in it. That doesn’t mean he orchestrated it. What reason would he have to kidnap your daughter, Flora?’

Baumann was silent.

Jury went on: ‘You, though, would be seen as having a motive. You’d been engaged in a custody battle with Flora’s mother. Declan Scott wanted to adopt her - ‘

‘Superintendent, Flora was - is-my daughter. Is there anything at all ominous in my wanting to keep her as mine?’

‘No, except that she disappeared. That’s the point, isn’t it? That you might have wanted her enough to steal her.’

Baumann no longer looked relaxed. ‘So this isn’t about this murdered woman at all. You’re not here because of her. It’s about Flora, again.’

‘My reason for coming wasn’t Flora; it was this recent murder. But I think the two are connected, Mr. Baumann. It just seems to me that a stranger’s murder in the same house as the one from which your daughter disappeared and the one in which her mother died might be related. Especially as this woman had actually gone to the house. She knew Mary Scott and she meant to cause trouble.’

‘And just how do you know that?’

‘Because she was murdered.’

‘That’s why you infer the connection between Mary and this woman?’

‘I don’t have to infer any connection. It’s there. The two women knew each other.’

‘According to Declan Scott.’

‘He could be lying, yes, but I don’t see why.’

Baumann rose and went to a cabinet of vaguely oriental design and painted a red so dark it was almost black. ‘Care for a drink, Superintendent?

‘No thanks. I’ve had at last count a dozen cups of tea.’ He hadn’t done a good job of insinuating himself into Baumann’s good graces; in fact, he’d come close to alienating him, so he said, ‘You’re a numismatist, Mr. Baumann. Those coins look pretty valuable.’ He smiled and tilted his head toward the outer office.

Baumann poured a small gin into a Waterford tumbler. To Jury this was interesting. He would have expected whiskey. Gin before lunch. Jury believed that 75 percent of people walking around were alcoholics, perhaps including himself.

‘Ah. Are you interested in coins, Superintendent?’ He returned to the floating chair.

‘I really don’t know much about them. But I’ve been wondering what that one is you’ve been turning.’ It was an old coin encased in acrylic, serving as a paperweight.

Baumann smiled and held it out. ‘I suppose this is my favorite: a Greek tetradrachms, which means it’s worth four drachma. That’s Alexander the Great. One of my favorite coins. I’ve only seen two of them since I began collecting.’