Carole-anne was knocked for a loop. “Super!” She staggered back to look at him, probably in much the same way Cinderella had looked at the coach and footmen. Then, rearranging a sleeve and a curl (which needed none), she said, “I’ll still be here New’s Year, in case you didn’t know.”
Jury laughed.
She went upstairs and he went down.
Fifty-seven
By now he was late and Mickey was probably already waiting for him at the Croft house, so he knew he shouldn’t be stopping at the bridge, but he did anyway. He wanted to check on Benny. He parked his car along the Embankment and went down the steps.
There was a small cluster of people there, warming themselves at a small stove.
“Benny around?” asked Jury.
“Wasn’t you ’ere before, mate?”
Jury recognized the man in the greatcoat. Tonight he was wearing an olive green soldier’s cap. “I was, yes. I’m a friend.”
The soldier snorted. “You’re the Filth’s, what I say.”
The woman called Mags, blanketed in sweaters and shawls, was there, too. “Benny’ll be back. He went off after Sparky. That dog o’ his. You want t’ leave a message?”
Jury smiled. A night of missed meetings and messages. “No, except you can tell him Happy Christmas for me.”
“Right-o. Who’s ‘me’?”
“The Filth.”
She chortled.
Before he got into his car, he looked over his shoulder at Waterloo Bridge. The old bridge had been a granite thing with columns and arches, wrought iron and black lamps. It had been so romantic-the black Thames, the night, the fog. Even the war was made out to be romantic. He imagined Vivien Leigh looking into the dark water. Robert Taylor with that hint of a smile playing around his lips, smoking a cigarette. Myra and Roy. What a lie.
As he entered the forecourt, the car caught Mickey in its headlights, making him look vulnerable and unprotected. He was standing out on the dock, smoking. Certainly, Mickey was vulnerable and unprotected. Jury wondered how he himself would take the verdict that he was going to die. Not well. Who would? “Mickey!” he called and walked through the forecourt out onto the pier.
Mickey took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into the water. He said, “Always love doing that, Rich. Flick the butts away, watch them arc and fall.” He dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat.
Jury smiled. “You’re worse than I am, seeing cigarettes in such a romantic light. How was Christmas, Mickey?”
“Terrific. Exhausting.” He laughed a little.
That Mickey was exhausted was evident. “Sorry I’m late. I stopped at Waterloo Bridge to check on Benny.”
“He holes up there, doesn’t he? That kid. God.”
“He does. But I think somehow he’s making it.” Jury paused. “You look pretty tired.”
“Yeah. I am.” He nodded toward the boat farther out. “I was just looking at that boat, thinking about Gemma Trimm.” He smiled. “Some kids those two are.”
Jury nodded. “So are yours.”
“Don’t I know it. What gets to me more than anything is that they probably won’t have the opportunity to find that out.”
“But they will.”
Mickey shook his head. “Not without the right schools. Not without Oxford.”
“Come on, Mickey. Is this what you dragged me away from my Christmas dinner for?”
“Sorry. No, of course not. Waterloo Bridge.” Mickey sighed, as if the same nostalgia that had rushed Jury were rushing him, too. “I was sure you must’ve caught on at the Liberty Bounds that night.”
“ ‘Caught on’?” Jury frowned, started to say something else, but didn’t because he didn’t know what he was responding to. Then it came to him. “You know who killed Simon Croft.”
Mickey watched the water, nodded. “I did.”
Jury stepped back. Plant’s message hit him right between the eyes. The grocer. The one person Masaccio knew he could trust. Mickey was the person he had known he could trust. In another moment of standing there, staring at Mickey, Jury felt something leave him. It could have been courage; it could have been reason, or rationality, or sanity; it could have been faith. He didn’t think it was any of those things. He thought it was hope. And it was gone for good. If he lived, something that looked like it would come back: a poor imitation, a shadow, but not the real thing. He thought all of this in exactly three seconds.
And why wouldn’t he live?
Mickey took a few steps back from Jury. He had always been so fluid in his movements that Jury didn’t see the gun until it was in Mickey’s hand.
“What in hell are you doing, Mickey?”
“I’m really sorry, Rich. Sounds meaningless, but I really am.”
“For Christ’s sakes, you’re pointing that at me!” Jury took three furious steps toward Mickey. The shot spun him around, but it had only raked his shoulder. His other hand flew to the place. Blood, but not much. Mickey was one of the best shots in the City police. He hadn’t tried to kill him. That time. “What… Why?”
“Because you’d sort it, Rich. You’d work it out. I’m surprised you haven’t. But that’s only because you’re my friend.”
He said this in a tone of such demonic innocence, Jury wanted to weep. “Mickey, look-” When an answer comes, there is no orderly procession of facts-first this, then this caused this, then this… Jury thought it was more like one of those kaleidoscopes he remembered as a kid, where all the little bits of colored glass or plastic fly together in a pattern. The vanishing point. When you see it, it’s too late; it’s gone.
Mickey said, “You only had one more step to take, and you were about to. Elizabeth Woburn. They named her after the aunt.”
Liza, thought Jury. My God, Liza. We were all orphans…
He had said it aloud without realizing it. Mickey said, “When you started all of that stuff about the film-I mean, Waterloo Bridge-I was sure you knew. Myra and Roy. How much Alexandra looked like Vivien Leigh, and how much Liza did. I thought you were trying to warn me off. To do what, I don’t know-” Mickey shrugged, almost absently.
The waters of the Thames undulated as a speedboat rushed by. The dock swayed.
“Can you reason for a minute, Mickey? If I found out Liza was Tynedale’s granddaughter, what possible harm could it do? If I told Tynedale, the man would be ecstatic!”
“Oh, that’s why I got you on the case. I don’t know how long I’ve got; I needed you to carry on. It would be even more convincing coming from you. Except you worked out a little too much. If Tynedale discovered Francis Croft was the father, no, he wouldn’t be ecstatic. You know it. Do you really think he’d welcome Liza into the family knowing that? It would be the ultimate betrayal.”
“I don’t think so. Tynedale’s an unusual man. I don’t think he has a strong impulse toward revenge.”
“Could I take the chance? Liza will come into millions.”
“Does she know?”
“Of course not.” Mickey laughed. “But she will. I’ve left documents with our solicitor.”
“Simon Croft knew.”
Mickey nodded. “I had to take the laptop, the manuscript-”
“To make it look as if he were killed because of the book. Croft wasn’t paranoid.” Jury felt lightheaded; he was still bleeding, could feel the blood slick beneath his hand. “You made it look like an amateur trying to make it look like a robbery. That was very clever, very subtle. You’ll never get away with this, Mickey. Think.”
“Thinking is all I’ve been doing for six months. I’ll get away with it.”
The second shot slammed into Jury’s side as if he’d had a head-on collision with a train and drove him to his knees. The impact pushed him back, driving everything in its path, flesh bone tissue. It jerked him sideways, knocking him against the pilings, cutting his head. The third shot threw him back as if the train he’d just hit kept right on going. He saw his own blood for a second burst upward and fall like rain. More blood in a sea of it. The fourth shot hadn’t been aimed at him, wasn’t meant for him. He heard the thud, felt the dock shudder. He couldn’t see because he couldn’t raise himself.