31

Was Sally Hawkins so hopelessly blind that she really thought she could pass this thug off as the real Morris? Either she did or she didn’t care.

Waiting in the Black Cat for Wiggins, Jury drank his beer and thought about Joey. Joey would sort out Morris Two in an eyeblink. In his mind’s eye he saw his friends in the Jack and Hammer, casting their votes for a name that would no doubt be absurd.

His mobile trilled its tune. He nearly stubbed his finger racing to turn it off.

It was Wiggins. “I’m in a cab on my way to the pub. I did find out something from Mr. Banerjee; he was very helpful. That’s an interesting shop. Very Indian-like.”

“That could be because Mr. Banerjee is Indian, Wiggins.” Jury was keeping his eye on Morris Two, as the cat had jumped up to the table and was eyeing the mobile pressed to Jury’s ear. “Next time, I’ll make it a conference call, okay?”

“Conference call? What?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you, Wiggins.”

“Is there someone there with you?”

“No. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Morris Two was having a wash. A ruse, Jury knew. He was really waiting for Jury to take his eye off his pint and his phone from his ear.

“Right,” said Wiggins.

Jury clapped the mobile shut and set it on the table.

Morris Two stopped licking his paw and glared at it. From it to Jury. As the cat seemed to be thinking over the mobile’s tune, David Cummins walked in.

Looking, thought Jury, drawn and not very happy.

“David.” Jury motioned him over.

“I thought that car might be yours,” he said.

“You mean the unmarked Hertz rental with the bullet holes in the windscreen? Yes, I can understand why you’d hit on me straightaway.”

David laughed; the laugh made him look a little less ashen.

Jury pushed out a chair. “Sit down. You look like hell. Want a drink? I’m waiting for my sergeant.”

He sat down, extracted a cigarette from a pack of Rothmans, and looked at Jury, but Jury’s expression was noncommittal. “I can light one for you, too. Now, Voyager.” Wanly, he smiled, looked over his shoulder for Sally Hawkins, and, not seeing her, shrugged. “We were wondering if you could stop by the house? Chris wants to talk to you. She has an idea-well, let her tell you it.”

That was puzzling. “All right, sure. We’ll come round as soon as Sergeant Wiggins gets here. Twenty, thirty minutes?”

David rose. “Good. Thanks.” He sketched Jury a small salute and was out the door.

Ten minutes later, Morris Two was back at the window, straining to see the latest arrival.

It was Wiggins, who walked through the door, looked around, sussing out the place as if you couldn’t see daylight through the smoke and the people. There were only the three at the other table and a man at the bar, thoroughly juiced.

“There you are, boss.” Wiggins pulled out a chair, and Morris Two, who had just claimed it as his own, spat and jumped down.

“That cat’s a treat.”

“I told you about Morris, didn’t I? I think this particular incarnation of him once belonged to the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Morris hates people. All people.”

“Abused as a kitten, it could be.”

“He’s certainly going to be abused as a cat. Want a beer?” The old Wiggins was more of a lemon squash guy.

“Bit early for me.”

“It’s after five.”

Wiggins made some sort of rocking hand gesture, sending what message Jury couldn’t imagine. Then he slid his notebook from an inside pocket, flipped it open. “This shopkeeper, Benjarii, told me he’d given some thought to the photo you’d shown him and remembered Kate Banks had come in a number of times over the course of the last year and that she’d bought staples, you know, bread, milk, butter-staples. Very pleasant, he said, but she wasn’t one for chatting people up. But once she’d bought ajar of curried pickle which he’d remarked on as being a favorite of his. Kate Banks said it was also a favorite of her friend’s. The implication was, he thought, that this was who she was buying for. It’s not much, but it means there is someone around there who knew her well.”

“Yes. And someone who might need seven hundred and fifty quid. I know I’m reaching here because the money could have been paid her that night after her escort encounter. But it also could have been cash not earned that night that she was taking to someone. How large an area would that shop encompass for people who shop there regularly? Not very big, I shouldn’t think.”

“No. There’s another shop three streets over and a Europa three streets north. People closer to those would be using them. So I’m guessing a three-block parameter, all four sides. I could narrow that because Mr. Banerjee said she came from that direction, in his case, north. He saw her once or twice cross St. Bride’s, coming to his shop, so the area to cover would probably be three blocks each direction.”

Jury turned his unfinished pint glass around and around. “It does sound as if Kate were taking care of someone. Some relation?” He turned the glass. “Has anyone ID’d the body yet?”

“They got Una Upshur in. But no one related to Kate Banks. They haven’t found any relatives. Sounds as if Kate was pretty much on her own.”

“Except for the one she was possibly helping. Maybe that person will go to police. Come on, Wiggins. We’re going to see DS Cummins and his wife.” Jury, standing, finished off his beer.

As Wiggins got up, Morris Two shot out of his lethal nowhere and streaked between Wiggins’s legs, almost tumbling him.

“Bloody cat!” he said as he grabbed the back of the seat for balance.

32

With cups of tea served all round, Chris Cummins fairly beamed at Jury and Wiggins, as if they might be as proud of this collection as she herself.

It certainly could have been said of Sergeant Wiggins, who found her aggregation of shoes even more fascinating than Jimmy Choo’s. He appeared to be drawn to these rows of shoes as much as he would have been to a medicine doctor’s strange roots, palliative powders, or dried animal parts. At the moment, he had helped himself to a shelf and had pulled down and was studying a sandal with a heel as tall as an Alp and a red sole. The vamp was made up of grass green foil rings twisting up to the ankle. He just stood and stared.

“Sergeant,” said Jury mildly, knowing he could not dehypnotize Wiggins, short of shooting him in the back.

Was this what she’d wanted to see him about? To talk about shoes?

But Chris Cummins short-circuited whatever extraneous topic Jury might have been going for by saying, “Christian Louboutin. He’s my favorite.” Then she reached up and took down one of the high-heeled shoes, this one of blue satin, then its mate, perhaps the better to make her point, turning both over for Wiggins to eye. “Red soles,” she said. “Louboutin always does red soles.”

“I wonder what it’s like to walk on,” Wiggins said.

“That,” said Chris with perfectly good humor, “I couldn’t tell you.”

Unmindful of his gaffe, Wiggins plowed on, pulling out one of another pair, the last in the bottom row. They weren’t nearly as comely as the others, just unembellished black patent.

“Oh, not those. That’s Kate Spade; I never did like her shoes. They’re so… uninteresting.” She turned to look at her husband. “Sorry, dear.” Then back to Wiggins, with whom she seemed to have formed a sort of shoe bond. “David brought those back by mistake. He was supposed to get Casadei and he got Kate Spade.” She shoved back the uninteresting Kate.

David Cummins didn’t seem to appreciate his wife’s joking tone. Indeed, Jury thought he went a little pale.

Wiggins, sensing some condition in another he should attend to, changed the subject and said to Cummins, “You were with London police, were you?”

He nodded. “South Ken. I was a DC. Got a promotion when I came here.”