When she’d finished the salmon, Morris thanked Mungo with great enthusiasm and began washing her face. He wanted to hear the rest of the story, which was the best he’d heard since Harry tried to convince the Spotter-Oh, but that was for another time.

Now, tell me the rest. You stopped when this old woman came along. Mungo settled in to listen. He tried to fold his paws into his chest and couldn’t. So he just stretched his legs out.

Morris lay down, easily curving her paws. Well, she didn’t scream, exactly, but she made some kind of noise. Her dog was yapping; it was enough to wake the dead. Then she put a leaf against her ear and-

A leaf? What do you mean?

Everybody has them. You’ve seen people with leaves; they’re always talking to them. People just can’t let leaves alone. Sometimes I’d be on my window seat, napping, when customers would sit down and right away pull out a leaf and talk, talk, talk-

I get the idea.

– talk, talk, talk. Do you think there’s anybody on the other end?

I think maybe it doesn’t make any difference to them. Mungo stretched out, feeling quite philosophical. Back to the pub: what did the old woman say to the leaf?

She said for someone to come quick. There was a body.

Was she talking to the Spotters? You know, the ones who go nosing around whenever there’s a dead body. Some of them are Uniforms and some of them are something else. I call them Spotters.

I guess that’s who came, finally. There was a big commotion around the body. They took a lot of pictures. Why anyone would want pictures of a dead body, I don’t know.

Then what happened?

Nothing until the cars came. People messed about.

How did you get here, then?

In a car, I guess, but that was days later. I think I was gassed.

Mungo would have said it was the strangest tale he’d ever heard, except for what had happened to him, or at least what was supposed to have.

Now, the only person who really notices Schrödinger is Mrs. Tobias. Harry is too bogged down in his own mind to pay any attention. So there’s no reason why you couldn’t live here and pretend you’re Shoe. After all, one black cat looks pretty much like another.

Morris wasn’t sure she liked that. But what if we appear together at the same time? And I have this collar, too. Does your cat wear one?

No. We’ll be on the lookout, won’t we? Anyway, Mrs. Tobias is old and she’d just think she was seeing double. You can make anyone think they’re bonkers except for the ones who really are.

Morris sat up, paws placed neatly on the grass. Mungo sat up too and tried to get his paws that way, but he couldn’t. Come on.

But Morris didn’t move except to pick up a paw and set it down, pick up the other one and set it down, in the way Mungo himself had done if he didn’t know what to do.

I want to go home, said Morris.

Mungo felt sad, as homesickness seemed to fill the place that hunger had just left.

Really, said Morris.

Mungo didn’t know how to send a message back, with that.

15

Wasn’t it possible, Jury wondered, looking down at his telephone message pad on this late Thursday morning for Carole-anne Palutski to write in the King’s English? And hadn’t they pretty much exhausted this subject? Apparently not, for here was another one:

“S.W. c’ld t’ tell you the b.c. w’mn was i.d. by o’nr of ag’cy c’d ♥.”

A heart. Was something called “Heart”? No. Was Valentine’s Day coming up? No. It was May. “Sergeant Wiggins called to tell you-” That much was clear. Of course, what wasn’t clear was the point of what S.W. called to tell you, right?

Hell. Jury picked up the receiver and punched in his office number. No answer. He mashed the receiver into the cradle (he had a telephone left over from the Pleistocene age), collected his keys, and left the flat.

“ ‘Heart.’ That’s funny, guv.” Wiggins gave a spluttery laugh.

Jury stitched his lips shut to keep from yelling. “Then do you think you could enlighten me as to what ‘heart’ means here?”

“Sorry. What that refers to is Valentine. Valentine’s Escorts. Mariah wasn’t exactly soliciting the curb crawlers in Shepherd Market, see. She was with an escort service. A little more respectable, maybe, but still pros. Valentine’s has offices in Tottenham Court Road.”

At last. “Good for you, Wiggins. I forgive you the message.”

“Nothing wrong with the message. It’s the one who took it you should have a word with.” Wiggins said this self-righteously.

“I have had a word. A word does not penetrate. How did you work it out about this escort agency?”

“Well, I didn’t, did I? It was her flatmate called us-”

“Adele-I think Edna Cox said.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Wiggins whipped out his notepad. “Adele Astaire. There’s a name for you. Adele said she’d only just now seen the paper and that she was sure it must be Stacy.”

Jury waited. But Wiggins didn’t continue. “Stacy? Is there a surname to go with that?”

“What? Oh. Stacy Storm. There’s another name, right? That’s Mariah Cox, when she’s at home. I mean, literally. ‘When she’s at home.”’

Wiggins thought this extremely funny. Jury didn’t. “Look, can you just stick to it?”

“Sorry. I bet Adele Astaire’s not her real name, either. Maybe working for an escort service, they don’t want to give out their names.”

Jury didn’t comment. “Where’s Adele live? Mariah’s aunt said Parsons Green or Fulham.”

“Fulham. You want to go and see her?”

“Of course.” Jury extended his hand. “Give me that.” When Wiggins handed over the paper on which he’d written the address, Jury said, “You get onto this Valentine’s place. Take that list of names the Rexroths gave me with you. The person who runs Valentine’s-”

“That’s a Blanche Vann. But she’s going to scream client privilege and make me get a warrant.”

“Probably. Nevertheless, what you’ll want to do is match up names, the names of the men at the Rexroths’ party who came without women on their arms, against any such names on Valentine’s list.”

“Her clients would likely change their names, wouldn’t they?”

“Some would, yes. Assuming that Ms. Vann is helpful at all, if the full names don’t ring a bell, then try just the first names. A person might change the last name but leave the first in place.”

Wiggins had the list out and studied the names. He said, “Here’s a Simon; Simon’s a common name. She’s bound to have a few of those.”

“Depends how many clients she has. But if a surname is being disguised, it could be the person comes up with an absurdly common substitute, like ‘Jones.’ So ‘John Jones’ would be a red flag.” Jury was up and getting into his raincoat, which he liked. He liked rain, too. “Adele…,” he said in a musing way. “Doesn’t she know that was Fred’s sister?”

Wiggins was dropping a teabag in his mug as the electric kettle hissed and burbled. His lunch waited beside his tea mug. It was something peculiar-looking wrapped in what appeared to be a cabbage leaf and purchased at Good Earth, a tiny healthy-eats place nearby that Jury had never patronized and never would. “Guv?” He frowned.

“Fred Astaire. His sister was his dancing partner for years.”

Wiggins poured steaming water into his mug. “We used to do the same thing.” He was sitting down, reflecting, stirring his tea like the old Wiggins.

“What?” What was he talking about?

“My sister. Me and my sister, B.J.-Brenda Jean’s her name. We used to dance a lot.”

Jury stood in the doorway, trying to get his mind around that. Or trying not to. “Wiggins, this is Fred Astaire we’re talking about.”

“Right. The tap dancer,” said Wiggins.

Jury chewed his lip to keep from talking. Then he was out the door.