“Go on, Reg,” said Sally.

Reg was quick to move off to a table on the other side of the room.

Jury said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about the identity of the dead woman-”

“We was just talking about it,” she whispered. “Mariah Cox, is what police said. I never knew her, except she works in the library.”

“You saw her at the library.”

“Only just.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, Dora and me, we checked out some books, right? And it was her, at least I think it was, only she had dark hair and was kind of plain, then.”

“You saw her just that once?”

Sally was obviously hard put to answer. “Maybe another time, yeah; I went with Dora a couple times, I guess.”

“Nothing wrong with that. And you didn’t recognize the dead woman as Mariah Cox?”

“God, no! I’d’ve said, wouldn’t I?”

“I’m sorry. We ask questions again and again in the hopes of a witness recalling some detail. I know it’s tiresome.”

She was prepared to be generous. “I expect you’re just doing your job.”

Jury leaned toward her, put his hand on her arm. “Look, Sally-keep your eyes and ears open, will you? The way you’re positioned here, I mean in the pub, you might hear something. You know the way people talk after they’ve had a few.” He took a card from his pocket and placed it in front of her. “Anytime, don’t hesitate to call.”

This increase in intimacy was not lost on Sally Hawkins. She ran her hand over her hair and smiled at him.

Jury returned the smile, patted her arm, and went back to the table where Melrose was talking to Dora, or rather arguing with her, given the frown on her face. She looked relieved when he sat down.

“You’ll find her, won’t you?” said Dora, her two fingers pleating the arm of Jury’s jacket.

“Morris? We’ll do our best.”

That didn’t sound like top-notch investigation to Dora, who reluctantly left their sides at Sally’s insistence.

Melrose said, “I can tell you right now what happened: A woman’s been murdered right on Dora’s doorstep, so to speak, and young Dora, unable to accept this awful event, substitutes her cat as the victim. She can handle the thing that way; she sublimates the actual killing because it’s too frightening to be believed. It’s called displacement. You take something out of its usual context and put it down in another context. In this case: Morris. Morris takes on all of the dread that would have been felt for the murdered woman.” Melrose was rather proud of this theory. “So what do you think?”

“About Morris? Morris was either kidnapped or murdered.” Jury drank his beer.

13

They took both cars, and Melrose insisted that Jury follow him.

“Why?”

“In case my car breaks down.”

“Your car is a Rolls-Royce. My car is a Vauxhall of questionable provenance with a million miles clocked. Now, which car is more likely to break down?”

“Mine.” Melrose turned on the engine. It thrummed like Yo-Yo Ma’s cello.

“Oh, my, yes. The rattle and clang’s enough to deafen you.”

“I’ll wait for you,” called Melrose to Jury’s departing back. And again: “Don’t forget we’re stopping if we see a Little Chef.”

Twenty miles on, well past Leighton Buzzard, they came to one, and Melrose pulled off the road and into the car park.

The Little Chef was crisp and bright as if the whole place had just been polished. It looked pleased with its black-checkered self.

Melrose studied the menu.

Jury didn’t bother. “I can tell you what’s on it; I’ve seen it often enough.”

“I like looking.”

“While you’re doing that, let me tell you about the Rexroths’ party, where, I’m pretty sure, the murdered woman was going.” Jury did so, including the guest list.

“You’re kidding. Harry Johnson was at that party?”

“He was on the list. Whether he was actually there is in question.”

“The house isn’t far from the Black Cat?”

“I’m not jumping to the conclusion that he knew her.”

“No, you’re merely jumping to the conclusion that he murdered her.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“Daft? You’re absolutely delighted you have some reason to go after Harry Johnson again. Ah, here’s our waitress.”

The waitress, whose name tag said “Sonia,” came over on squeaky rubber soles and with a huge, not-meaning-it smile. “Ready, are we?”

“No.”

“Yes.” Jury pointed to the paint-bright picture of the plate he wanted.

Melrose said, “I’ll have pancakes with sausages.” The waitress left and he said, “As you are now confronted with a murder and a vanished, perhaps murdered, cat, why are we going to Bletchley Park?”

“Because of Sir Oswald Maples.”

“He asked you to go?”

“No. Because the mysterious workings of code breaking in World War Two interest me, and he’s an expert on the subject, and I’d just like to be able to talk about it.”

Jury watched a family of at least a dozen people enter and secure three tables pushed together. They were all fat. “If you didn’t want to see Bletchley Park, why did you come?”

“Simple. Because it’s near Milton Keynes, and that’s only fifty miles from home, and I thought we’d be spending most of the day at Ardry End swilling my single malt whiskey, after which we’d go to the Jack and Hammer and swill some more.”

“Sorry, but I can’t take you up on that invitation. I’ve got to get back to London.”

Melrose was disappointed. “It’s a long time since you’ve been to my place.”

“Yes, a whole month.”

Sonia was back setting down their plates.

Jury started in on his eggs.

“Um, um,” murmured Melrose, mouth full of syrupy pancakes. He ate a few bites and said, “I’m intrigued by your murder victim’s clothes.”

“So am I.” Jury picked up a triangle of buttered toast and wondered which point to start on. Sonia, he noticed, was watching them as if they’d both walked in with tire irons and nasty intentions.

“Well, if our unidentified victim could afford that dress and those shoes…,” Melrose began.

“Jimmy Choo. How can women wear heels four inches high? These shoes, according to Detective Sergeant Cummins, would have cost around six or seven hundred quid.”

“And that’s a sandal?”

“All straps.” Jury smiled. “Strappy, you say.”

“I don’t say it. How does Detective Sergeant Cummins come by such arcane knowledge?”

“It’s hardly arcane. Jimmy’s popular. It’s Mrs. Cummins, our sergeant’s wife, who knows this stuff; she’s a woman who’s really into designer shoes. The dress cost-get this-around three thousand quid. That’s Yves Saint Laurent. The handbag by Alexander McQueen cost another thousand. It’s mind-boggling.”

“Astonishing. What item of clothing could possibly be worth it?”

Jury looked at him. “What did that jacket you’re wearing set you back?”

Melrose looked down as if surprised to see he wasn’t wearing sackcloth and ashes. “This rag?” He shrugged.

“Bespoke. Your old tailor. Don’t tell me it didn’t cost as much as her dress.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The point is: is prostitution so well paid a woman can buy that stuff?”

“Who says she’s that?” Jury bit down on his toast, nearly cold and slightly burnt.

“Come on. Woman leading a ‘second life’ in London, goes from Chesham librarian to London Saint Laurent?”

Jury reached across the table and speared one of Melrose ’s sausages.

“Hey! Get your own! You should have a look in this woman’s cupboard to see the rest of her wardrobe. Is she filthy rich? Even so, what does it say about her that she’d spend that kind of money on shoes? Self-indulgent, spoiled, egocentric…”

Jury chewed slowly and looked at him.

“What?… What?”

“Well, there you go, working up a stereotype.”

“I’m not stereotyping; I’m… profiling.”

“Then you’re one sorry profiler. Typical of the male ego, he would find such extravagance joined either to prostitution or to a spoiled, shallow, self-indulgent woman, when there are certainly other viable interpretations, the least of which would explain this behavior. We’re making too much of the lady’s extravagance. After all, some women spend money like they’re minting it. If they didn’t, the entire fashion industry would go down.”