“I would think so, though I do get customers from other streets, mainly. But more likely, yes, she lives in this street. Lived.” He looked sadly at the photo. “A pretty woman. Maybe that’s why I remember. She bought cigarettes. Yes, and food-milk, eggs, bread-basic things.” He handed back the photo. “I’m sorry I do not know her name. I can’t help you more.”

“You’ve been an enormous help already, Mr. Banerjee. Thanks. If you remember anything at all later…” Jury handed over one of his cards.

“I will call you, certainly.”

As Jury left the shop it started to rain, but gently. He saw up ahead fewer cars angled along the street. SOCO had packed up; the body had been transported. Wiggins was there with DI Wilkes, another detective, and several uniforms.

“Nothing so far. We’ve been to two houses, figure four or five flats. We can’t be sure if the lack of a name card means a flat is empty or just that the resident’s out. There was one old lady who clearly didn’t want to know anything about anything. No joy there.” He flicked his notebook shut.

“Never mind. We have more to go on now. The grocer’s seen our lady more than once, so she lived either in this street or close by. Keep at it. One of the flats might well have been hers.”

“Will do.”

“I’m going home. I’m tired.”

Wiggins nodded toward the small clutch of officers. “One of them can give you a lift.”

“No. I feel like walking. Clear my mind. When I’m tired of that, I’ll grab a taxi. ‘Night.”

“Sir!”

Jury turned. “What?”

“It might do to show that photo around. To the streets.”

“You could do, but I’m pretty certain the victim wasn’t on the streets. Not the way she looked. And not with that much money.”

“You think may be…?”

Jury nodded. “Escort service.”

Wiggins’s smile was grim. “We should be so lucky.”

“I wouldn’t call it luck.”

Old Dog in a Doorway

23

The old dog in the doorway was making a valiant attempt to keep his legs upright and steady, but the effort was too much and they buckled and he had to lie down.

The doorway belonged to a leather goods shop in the Farringdon Road, which Jury was passing as he walked through Clerkenwell. The metal gate was pulled across the store’s front. In the window was a host of hard-sided and expensive suitcases. There was a whole suite of cases in a dark red. Who would need all of those bags for a trip?

Jury knelt beside the dog. “Hey, boy.” Tentatively, he reached out his hand and ran it over the dog’s side. He could have counted the ribs. The dog’s coat, black and white with brownish markings, was dry, the hairs coming off into Jury’s hand. Perhaps the dog had mange; certainly he needed looking after.

He looked up and down the street, a busy street, for the nearest source of food and saw the McDonald’s he and Wiggins had stopped in not many weeks before. That at least would be quick.

Inside, he ordered three burgers and bottled water and asked the girl, eyes like dry ice, if they had any sort of bowl he could use for the water. She went on chewing her gum and looking at him as if she didn’t know what bowls were for. When he suggested soup, a little life came into her eyes and she scouted for one. He paid, took the sack, and left.

The dog still lay in the same place, shadows pooling around him. Jury started with the water. He poured some in the bowl and put it directly under the dog’s nose. When he began drinking and then slurping the water, Jury set the bowl on the stoop. The dog kept on drinking. Jury broke the meat up into small pieces and put it on a napkin. The dog sniffed but wouldn’t eat.

This lack of interest in the food worried Jury. The dog needed a vet and probably fast. He took out his mobile, hoping the battery hadn’t run down completely, which it had. Damn. Then he thought of the cabdriver who’d taken him to Bidwell Street. The Knowledge. He picked up the dog, the bowl, and the bottle of water, stuck the beef rolled in a couple of napkins into his raincoat pocket.

The dog weighed very little and was easy to carry. On Clerkenwell Road, Jury found a stopped cab and asked the driver about an animal hospital or vet that might be open this time of night.

“Your dog taken sick, has he?”

“Yes. Very sick.” Indeed, the dog seemed not to notice, and certainly not to reckon with, the forced ride in a black cab.

“Not to worry, mate. We’ll find one. Right off, I know there’s one in Islington along the North Road.”

That one turned out to be closed, but the driver knew of another he was sure was open all hours.

Jury certainly hoped so.

And thank God for “the Knowledge.”

It was the All-Hours Animal Hospital, and its lights were on, blazing in the darkness.

Jury thanked the cabbie, gave him a huge tip, and complimented him on his knowledge.

“Well, we’d be a sorry lot without it. Night, mate.”

Jury watched him speed off, not knowing, probably, how many people he had helped and would help, driving around with the knowledge of all of London in his head.

To the receptionist behind the counter, too young to look so sour, Jury said the dog needed attention right away. There were several people in the waiting room, and this girl wasn’t helping.

“Just take a seat.” She didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle.

“The dog’s in a very bad way; I-”

Now she looked up. “Why’d you wait so long to bring it in, then?”

“Because I had to comb all of the doorways in Clerkenwell before I found one with a sick dog in it.” Jury didn’t try to mute his voice. He heard a giggle behind him.

The girl was not used to back talk from a patient’s handler, considering she held sway over the appointment book, and gave him a frosty look. Then she backed off and went through a door.

Jury sat down with the dog by an elderly woman in a crisp black suit who was still keeping up appearances as if there were hope. After a moment or two, she laid a hand on the dog’s head and its eyes fluttered open. “Poor thing. Did you really find him in a doorway?”

Jury smiled, finding the source of the giggle. “I did. In Clerkenwell.”

“One can find just about anything there.”

He laughed. “I know what you mean.”

“And you’re right; he really does need attention. But he looks like a beautiful dog, really. A breed I’m unfamiliar with.”

The receptionist was now standing in the doorway to the back rooms and calling, “Mrs. Bromley!” as if wanting to squash any friendly interaction with this man. “The doctor can see Silky now.”

“My cat,” she whispered to Jury. But instead of rising, Mrs. Bromley called back, “This gentleman can have my spot. His dog needs a doctor more than Silky does.”

“But Dr. Kavitz-”

The lady rose. “Maureen-” She was no more than five one or two, but Maureen didn’t want to mess with her, that was clear. She had about her some granite quality Maureen would break her hand on if she tried.

“All right, all right,” said Maureen. Then she nodded to Jury, “Come on, then.”

Jury’s smile was genuinely brighter when he thanked Mrs. Bromley.

“I just hope your dog will be all right,” she said.

Dr. Kavitz’s temperament was considerably sunnier than Maureen’s as he set about his examination, palpating here, listening there, prodding, reflecting, sometimes squint-eyed, as if to see the outlines of an abstract painting or to hear a note of some fading music. There was artistry involved.

More probing, more puzzlement, turning to look at the blank wall. Dr. Kavitz nodded and stood right where he’d been leaning over the dog. “He’s quite sound, really. Terribly dehydrated-”

“I gave him water; he drank a lot.”

“Good. But he’ll need to take some intravenously. And he needs food.”