“Oh. But you don’t think it was someone she knew? I expect I was assuming what happened to Kate was a-what do you call it?-a mugging?”

Jury said, “She wasn’t robbed. She had money on her. Tell me, would she have been bringing it to you? Do you need money?”

That was a bit of a twist in the account. Myra gave a short laugh. “I always need money.”

“Any particular amount? I mean for a scumbag landlord or British Telecom raising its rates? Something generally making your life hell?”

Again, she gave a sharp, joyless laugh. “I should say so. The property manager-that’s what they call themselves, these greedy landlords-he’d been trying to get two months’ back rent that I don’t owe him. I’ve been to the counsel about it. He says I must pay up or I’ll be tossed out with the rubbish. Nice way of putting it, isn’t it?”

“That must be extremely worrisome. How much does he claim you owe him?”

“Seven hundred pounds.”

Jury nodded. “Had Kate told you she’d bring you the money?”

Genuinely shocked by this, Myra said, “Kate? Kate hadn’t that kind of money.” She thought for a minute. “Though she was certainly generous with what money she did have. She’d do my shopping for me, like I said, and refuse to take a penny. Kate was a good girl.”

“Sounds like it,” said Wiggins, pouring himself another cup of tea, adding milk, thoughtfully stirring sugar into it. “We found-”

Jury gave him a kick under the coffee table.

“Found… only she appeared to dress quite well.”

“Yes, she did. Kate was always nicely turned out. She got those designer clothes at Oxfam.”

Wiggins couldn’t help himself. “Those shoes? Christian Louboutin? Oh, I shouldn’t think Oxfam would have those.”

Jury shot Wiggins another warning look. “Maybe they were knockdowns.”

This talk of dress bewildered Myra Brewer.

Jury said, “You knew Kate all her life, did you?”

She nodded. “Though I wouldn’t see her for long periods. They were here and there. Her mum, Eugenie, never stayed put for long. Restless, poor thing. She’d just go off sometimes, take the kids, sometimes not. She’d leave them with me, usually. We were still best friends even though I thought she didn’t do right by the kids. Well, I was Kate’s godmother and I should act the part.”

“What about Kate’s siblings?”

“There was just the one, a brother. They called him Boss, for some reason. He had an unusual name, anyway: Brent. I never did know where that came from. I don’t think it was a family name.”

Wiggins had his notebook out, which necessitated putting down his cup. “And where might we find them, your friend Eugenie and her son?”

“No joy there, Mr. Wiggins. They’re both gone. Eugenie to lung cancer, and the boy, Brent, was in a car crash. Probably joyriding with his friends. His mum had warned him about that.”

The voice faded out, as if that had been more than she wanted to say and she was looking through a mist that had collected over tea. She said, “You know, I felt shocking little when they went. It’s as if I had just let go?” She was posing the question to the room, not expecting an answer. “Carelessness, I mean. It’s like I should’ve held on to the string tighter. It would be nice to see them again. I expect a lot of us only come to that when it’s too late.”

There was a silence. Then Jury said, “Probably all of us find the feelings we’ve misplaced when it’s too late. It’s not you; it’s inevitable; it’s the human condition.” He was silent for a moment. “That’s the whole of her family, then?”

She nodded. “Now there’s just me. Maybe that’s one of the reasons Kate came round so much.” She brought her hand to her forehead. “Well.”

Jury gave her a moment, then asked, “What about men? Was there anyone in particular?”

“Not that she ever said. No, she didn’t talk about any men friends. I told her, ‘Katie, you should be going out, having a bit offun.’ She’d just laugh. She said, ‘I haven’t yet found a man who could sit alone with a book for half an hour without getting jumpy.’ Well, I wasn’t sure what she meant by that. I do know Kate was a great reader; she loved books. Her favorite place in London was that big Waterstone’s bookshop in Piccadilly.”

Myra took the handkerchief from her face and looked anxiously from the one to the other. “But you’re suggesting… what are you saying? That it was some man she knew? She was all dressed up, you said. Like she was on a date? But then why would she be coming round here?”

“It could be,” said Wiggins, “that she’d left someone-her date-and then come round.”

“Then it wasn’t just some stranger. He must’ve been here with her. That’s shocking, shocking. It’s as if it happened right on my doorstep.”

“It could have been someone who knew where she was going. That’s why we need to know about her friends.”

Jury thought they were finished here, at least for now. He took a card from an inside pocket and passed it over to her. “Call me anytime at all if you think of something that might be relevant.”

Wiggins put away his notebook and rose, too, lifting his teacup one last time and finishing off the tea. “Thanks for this, Mrs. B.” He gestured toward the tray.

“Well, you fixed it, Mr. Wiggins. Come back sometime when you have a minute to spare.” She trailed them to the door.

“I might do that. I might just look in sometime.” He smiled at her.

The old Wiggins, thought Jury, was back.

37

Mungo wanted to know why Harry had brought out the cat carrier-or dog, he supposed, but forget that; he wasn’t going anywhere. The carrier was sitting on the piano bench. He eyed it with suspicion. He realized Harry knew there were two cats in the house; he’d put the blue collar on one of them. And that, Mungo supposed, was to tell the cats apart. All of this puzzled him.

He pulled Elf out of the bottom drawer and carried him around the living room, looking for a drop-off. Maybe he could lift up the top of the window seat bench and drop him in, except Morris was lying on it, like a loaf.

Why are you doing that? said Morris.

It helps me think, Mungo said. It didn’t. Mungo was doing it just for the laugh. Elf was hissing and flailing his tiny paws. He’d just started this only in the last week or two.

This isn’t getting me back home, Morris said.

Mungo stared at the cat and shook his head (and Elf with it). Nothing but complain, complain since last night at the Old Wine Shades. He gave up trying to find a new place and just dropped Elf in the coal scuttle. The kitten was as black as the lumps around him. That was funny. He said, I don’t get it. The Spotter should have sorted it out. He’s smart; at least, he once was.

If you think about it, it would take a mind reader to work out what we were doing. Stare, stare, stare, you said. How could the Spotter tell from that? Morris put her head down on her outstretched paws (a posture she’d picked up from Mungo). I just want to go home.

Whine. Whine. Mungo paced, nails clicking on the hardwood floor, stopping when he heard a scuffle in the kitchen and Mrs. Tobias’s raised voice. Probably Schrödinger jumping up on the counter and nicking food. More noise.

Quick! he said to Morris. Hide!

Morris jumped from the window seat and slid slick as a whistle beneath the desk. That’s the way with cats, thought Mungo, quicker than time; they made time shrink and clocks run backward.

His bit of philosophizing was broken by Shoe erupting through the kitchen door with a kipper like a knife in her mouth.

Mrs. Tobias was fast on the cat’s trail and waving a skillet.

Schrödinger streaked through the living room and then into the great nowhere.

Mungo enjoyed the little chase; it was such a cliché. He’d seen it over and over again in The Beano.

“Where’s that cat?” came from the hallway. “I’ll kill that cat one day.” Mrs. Tobias shouted up the stairs: “You’ll be out of house and home faster’n you can pinch a kipper, my girl!” She stormed back into the living room, saw Mungo sitting by the kitchen door (to which he’d rushed in order to distance himself and, thus, Mrs. Tobias from the desk). She waved the pan. “Took one of my kippers, Shoe did, stole your master’s dinner!”