“Like it says: companionship.”

“Sure.”

“It’s just possible; I mean, it could be some blokes want just that, boss.”

Boss. Wiggins had started this more edgy mode of address. He was also rendering more opinions than was usual. He frowned more. He contemplated more. “I hope you’re not losing your common touch, Wiggins.”

There it was. Wiggins frowned. “What do you mean?”

“That you’re sounding more coplike. More Prime Suspect.”

“She’s a woman. Helen Mirren.”

“I’m aware Helen Mirren is a woman. Her team still calls her ‘guv’ and ‘boss.’”

“But that’s what we do, guv. There something wrong with that?”

“No. Not at all. Except you’re sounding more like you’re on our side.”

Wiggins’s frown deepened. “But… whose side would I be on if not ours?”

“The other side. The poor bloody public’s that’s got to put up with us. As I said, you could be losing the common touch.”

Now Wiggins was contemplating. “Losing the common touch? You’ve lost me.” He shook his head as if a child had been speaking. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Jury smiled. “I know. That’s why you have it. Come on.” He was up and unhitching his coat from the wooden rack. “We’ll go and see what else we can drag out of the good Una.”

King’s Road Companions was housed in a sedate terraced house just off the King’s Road in Chelsea. The reception area was equally sedate and well-appointed-Italian leather, silk-and-damask curtains, the walls lined with fairly stunning photographs of, presumably, the agency’s girls.

“It’s a terrible thing, a great tragedy,” said Una Upshur, leaning forward over her desk. The wood was so fine that it looked warm, almost soft, as if it would have some give to it if you pressed down with your fingers. More give, thought Jury, than Mrs. Upshur had. She looked hard as rock, as if her frontage were not a well-spun gray wool but armor plate.

She kept flicking looks at Sergeant Wiggins, who was out of his assigned chair and moving about the room, taking in the wall of photos.

“You told my sergeant, Ms. Upshur, that Kate Banks wasn’t with one of the agency’s clients last night.”

“That’s quite right. Here, you can see for yourself-” She turned an appointment book, open to the day-or night-toward Jury.

Who glanced and glanced away, since Wiggins had already covered this territory. “You’re selling sex.”

As if this assessment astounded her, she fell back in her cushy leather chair. “We most certainly are not! These young women act as escorts to different events in London. It might be a society party, or an art gallery, or the opening of a play, or simply as a dinner companion or to go with a gentleman to a club.”

“What you told Sergeant Wiggins was that Kate Banks could bring in upwards of five hundred quid an hour. That’s one hell of a lot to pay for an arm to lean on as you wander through the Van Goghs and Sargents.”

Her small mouth grew smaller, tightening. Then she rethought her situation and said: “There are many wealthy, lonely men out there for whom five hundred pounds is, well, nothing.”

“Chump change.” Jury smiled. “Come on, Ms. Upshur. No man’s going to pay out that kind of money for simple presence.”

“You’d have to have known Kate.”

“I wish I had. But that’s not in the cards, is it?”

Wiggins was back and sitting down, apparently having made his selection.

Not caring for where Jury was going, she switched to Wiggins. “Charming, aren’t they? The most beautiful in London, I’d say.”

“I don’t see Kate Banks”-he hitched his thumb over his shoulder-“back there.”

“Oh. That’s because she’d had a new photograph taken and it’s not up yet.” Una Upshur was not meeting anybody’s eyes.

Jury said, “Then why take down the old one?” No answer, so he said, “She quit, didn’t she?”

“Certainly not!”

“She thought the kickback was excessive, especially given her remarkable earning power.”

“That’s absolutely untrue.”

Wiggins deflected the anger. “She lived in Crouch End, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did.”

“That’s a long way from the West.”

“It is. But it suited her, I expect. She’d lived there years.”

“Did she also have a place in ECI in the City? Near St. Bart’s Hospital?”

Una shook her head, frowning. “No. At least not that I know of.” She looked at both of them. “That’s where she was found, wasn’t it?”

Jury nodded. “Getting back to your clients. Could it be that one of them was displeased with Kate? I mean, could any of the men she went with have reason to do this?”

“Oh, my, no. I never heard a bit of a complaint. No, I can’t imagine any of them wanting to hurt Kate.” At this point, a tissue was produced from a drawer. It went with a tearless series of sniffs. That was apparently the best Una Upshur could do in the grieving department.

“What about your other girls? Escorts?”

“They were all fond of Kate.”

“I seriously doubt that. Considering she was the high roller.”

Una Upshur said nothing, looking glum.

Wiggins said, “Well, maybe you avoided trouble because there’s not much occasion for the girls to meet, is there? They don’t work out of this office, do they? I mean, they don’t have to physically come in here.” His tone was nice and conversational, Wigginsy.

Her smile wasn’t sunny, but it was more smile than Jury had gotten. “Yes, you’re quite right. They do come in here, but not on a regular basis. I just call them with the information.”

Jury rose. They were getting sod-all from this woman. “We’ll need a photo of Kate Banks, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well. I keep pictures on file.” She turned and went through to another room.

He heard metal drawers opening and closing, then she was back and holding out a five-by-seven photo. “This is one she had taken a year ago.”

She was beautiful, for certain. She didn’t look hard, used, or unhappy. He pocketed the photo. “Thanks. We’ll be in touch.”

Wiggins rose and they left.

“A little impatient, weren’t you, guv? A bit dyspeptic, maybe.”

“More than a little.” When he found Wiggins looking at him speculatively, evaluating, no doubt, the state of Jury’s liver, he said, “No, I don’t want one of your bloody homeopathic medications, shoots, roots, vines, biscuits, powders, or gums from the sacred bolla-wolla tree.” Jury gestured toward the car. “Drop me off at the Snow Hill station, will you?”

26

“Two shots, one to the stomach and one to the chest.” Dennis Jenkins held up two casings in a plastic sleeve. “Recovered from the victim. A twenty-two snubnose. Tiny little gun, would fit in a rolled-down sock or a tiny little purse.” He held up the clutch that had been lying by the body of Kate Banks. “It doesn’t have much power, but at close range aimed at soft tissue, it’ll certainly do the job. As we saw.”

Jury frowned. “You think it was Kate Banks’s?”

Jenkins shook his head. “We haven’t traced it yet. But if she was on the game, it wouldn’t be surprising that she’d carry a weapon for defense. Which is how one of these snubbies is ordinarily used. The thing is, it’s very easy to conceal.”

Jury thought about this, shook his head. “Not in Kate Banks’s purse. Not with that wad of money in it.”

Jenkins nodded.

“Mariah Cox was shot with a thirty-eight. But I still think it’s the same shooter.” Jury smiled briefly.

“The escort-cum-librarian. That fascinates me.”

At first Jury thought Jenkins was being sarcastic. But he looked at Jenkins’s small smile and decided, no, he really was fascinated.

Jenkins continued: “A double life. Was that it? Was that the rush? Not the sex, not the money?”

“I don’t know. I certainly get a different picture from her boyfriend, I mean the one back in Chesham. He was pretty much blindsided by this. Not just her death, her life. Lives.”