“I don’t think he did. But she knew Maze well enough for that?”
“I expect so.” Wiggins shrugged.
“How about other men Deirdre Small had been seeing?”
“There were several.” Wiggins consulted his notebook and read off: “William Smythe, Clement Leigh, Jonathon Midges.”
Jury smiled slightly. “You mean you didn’t have to threaten her with a warrant?”
“Oh, no. She just reeled them off. Didn’t even consult her records. The woman has a prodigious memory, guv. And she pointed out that her clients often gave a name other than their own. So she couldn’t say if the names would do us any good.”
“Descriptions might, though. Had she any photos?”
“Of her clients? Well, no. The alias wouldn’t do you much good if there were a photo, would it?”
“I worked that out in my own mind, Wiggins. But that doesn’t mean there might not be any. I’m interested that this Mrs. Rooney is so attuned to her agency she can remember things that fully. If that’s the case, she might be privy to the girls’-women’s, I mean-confidences. Did she talk about Deirdre Small?”
“Not much. Not beyond the fact of her murder. She answered my questions, but we moved on from the girl to the client, Maze. ‘Nice, soft-spoken, polite gentleman, at least on the telephone,’ is what she said. Do you think it could’ve been jealousy on his part that Deirdre was going with other men? Even though that was, after all, her job?”
“I don’t think Nicholas Maze could get that worked up over any woman, not enough to kill her. He’s too self-serving. Perhaps we should talk to Mrs. Rooney again. When I’m back from Chesham.” Jury rose and unhooked his coat from the rack.
Wiggins was frowning. “Don’t you find it peculiar that one of these women was murdered in Chesham, while the other two were in London?”
“Of course I do. It’s the sticking point.”
Wiggins reflected. “Of course, there are serial killers that work over very wide areas. Offhand, though… the Yorkshire Ripper, his beat was pretty obvious. Then the Moors Murders, there again… No, I wouldn’t think he’d turn up in a place like Chesham.”
“I wouldn’t, either. It makes it appear that these three murders are both connected and not connected. I’ll see you later.”
Jury left.
In his car, he thought about what he’d just said to Wiggins, that the killings seemed both connected and not connected. The point was important, but he couldn’t go anywhere with it. What condition would explain both connection and lack of it? He sat at a red light, thinking about this until the cars behind him honked that the bloody light was green. Are you color-blind, mate?
Was that the driver behind him or the light talking?
42
The déjà vu experience was all there for Melrose in the Black Cat: the old man, Johnny Boy, at the small table in the center of the room, muttering, perhaps to his snarly dog, Horace; the stout woman drinking sherry and reading a racing form; and, of course, he himself, stationed at the same table before the same window.
And the girl, Dora, staring at him as he read his Times. He rattled the paper open to the inside pages.
“Why haven’t you found Morris yet?”
Melrose lowered the paper. “You seem to forget that you told your tale to a CID superintendent. He was supposed to do the finding.”
She shook her head. “You were to be one of the finders. Like him.”
“I see. Well, my friend is a Scotland Yard detective, whereas I am but a lowly landowner.” He wished in earnest the intense eyes would find something else to focus on. He shook his paper, knifed the centerfold with his hand, angry that he hadn’t been the brilliant finder himself.
She sighed and shook her head, fielding one more disappointment. “Then why hasn’t he found Morris? If he works for Scotland Yard, he ought to be able to find a cat. How does he keep his job?”
With as much condescension as he could muster, Melrose said, “He has missing people he has to look out for; he can’t just-”
“But if he can’t find a cat, how can he ever find a person? Finding people’s a lot harder.”
“I beg your pardon. It is much harder to find a cat than a person. A cat is much smaller and can get into places a person can’t.”
“A cat can’t read street signs, so it’s harder for her to know where she is.”
“Don’t be silly, cats find things by instinct; they don’t have to read.” What point was being made? He’d forgotten. He rustled his paper and gave it a snap.
Then, to his consternation another black cat emerged from behind the bar. Was this the one that had been there before? Was this black cat #2? It sat watchfully. Then black cat #1 sprinted by again, going for the gold.
“Wait a minute,” he said, clutching Dora’s shoulder. “Wait. One. Minute.” He pointed. “There are two black cats now; one of them’s new.” He thought this was the case; they looked alike, except for small differences one could pick out when they got close to each other, which they didn’t want to do. The new one (if he was right) was overzealous to the point of frenzy. He hurried here and hurried there as if he were looking for something.
She turned and regarded the new black cat. “That’s not Morris either.”
Tossing down his paper, Melrose thought, This is where I came in.
The Cat Came Back
43
He would have left, too, had Richard Jury not that moment walked into the pub.
Sally Hawkins chose the same moment to appear behind the bar. She waved, then called to Dora, who ignored her.
“I have the strange feeling that everything’s happening all over again,” he said as Jury put his hand on Dora’s shoulder, smiled, and sat down.
“Meaning?” said Jury.
“There’s yet another black cat, and Dora here says it’s not Morris, either. I can’t stand it. The black cat cosmos is made up of a zillion cats who aren’t any of them Morris. It’s got to be Morris.”
“Don’t you think Dora”-she by now having shoved in next to Jury-“knows her own cat?”
“No,” said Melrose, in a tone that didn’t leave it open to question.
Dora said, “He told me you couldn’t find Morris because cats are too hard to find.”
“Really? It’s always been my experience they were pretty easy. Could you go over and ask Sally to do me a pint of something?”
Immediately, Dora ran over to the bar and was conveying the message. Sally nodded, raised a circled thumb and forefinger, as if having a pint of something were a victory for them both.
“So where’s this new cat?”
“He just dashed by; didn’t you see him? Now he’s gone into that niche by the fireplace.”
Jury looked round. It was just about the size of a drawer. He turned that over.
Dora was returning slowly with Jury’s beer.
“They really shouldn’t let you do that,” said Melrose. “A seven-year-old purveyor of beer.”
Dora, sitting down again, took up the cat cudgel. “Well, he said”-she darted a look at Melrose-“Scotland Yard policemen weren’t any good at finding cats.”
“A misquote! I didn’t say-”
“You did too!” Dora stood up in her seat, hands mashed on hips.
“Never mind,” said Jury. “I found Morris.”
Both of them stared, mouths open in equal astonishment.
Dora’s closed first. “But-” She looked around the room. “Where is she?”
“In London. Don’t worry. She’s okay.”
Melrose’s tone was icy, suggesting no congratulations were in order, “Then why didn’t you bring her?”
“Because I need her in London for a little while.”