“Guv.” She nodded and left. Pretty. Jenkins thought so, too, Jury guessed, from the way he watched her go.

He said, “Right now, I know sod-all.” He stashed a notebook in his coat pocket. “I’m sending my men round to this Smart Set place tomorrow. You’d say this was done by the same shooter, right?”

“I don’t know. The same as Bidwell, yes, but Chesham? If I could only work Chesham into the mix.”

“They all worked for escort agencies.”

“Yes, but it’s location that doesn’t make sense. Mariah Cox was in London nearly half the time. Why not kill her in London like the others? Then we’d get the serial killer syndrome.”

“I hope the newspapers don’t get hold of that angle. I can just see the dailies-” Jenkins drew a banner in the air: “‘Escorted to Death.’ That kind of thing. ‘Death Has an Escort.”’

Jury smiled. “You’re probably right. Did you notice her shoes?”

Jenkins frowned. “Shoes? That again?”

“Strappy sandals.” Jury checked his watch, although he didn’t need to, as the bells were hammering away at the hour of ten. Jury was thinking of the Old Wine Shades. It wasn’t far from here. It wasn’t far from Bidwell Street, either. He thought he would stop in for a drink. “You know a pub called the Old Wine Shades?”

“Hm. Yes. Martin’s Lane, near King William Street. The river?”

“That’s the one. Care to stop for a drink? I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get home. Take you up on that later, may I?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to meet your friend.”

“I think you really would. Good night.”

Jenkins gave him a small salute and they parted.

“Supposed to be here around nine. I mean, he usually is on a Monday night, but not tonight.” Trevor said this as he poured out a measure of wine into Jury’s glass. “On the house, Mr. Jury.” Trevor watched carefully to see how Jury’s mouth would receive this Haut-Médoc.

Jury definitely responded to “on the house,” considering what this glass would cost him if it were on him instead. “That’s very generous of you, Trevor.” He raised the glass. “Here’s to you.” He tasted the wine. “Wonderful.”

“One of Mr. Johnson’s favorites.”

“You’ve known him a long time, have you?”

Trevor had pulled out another bottle and was wiping it down, giving it a good rub. There were few customers tonight in the Old Wine Shades, two couples at tables and three men down at the end of the bar. He took Jury’s question to be rhetorical, it seemed. He said, “Knows his wine, Mr. Johnson does. He once rattled off the names of every premier cru vineyard in Bordeaux.”

The cork was now out of the bottle he’d just rubbed down, and he was taking it down the bar with two glasses he picked up along the way.

For the one millionth time, Jury would have given an ear for a cigarette. He could really understand van Gogh if the man had quit smoking.

Think. Three women. Three escort agencies. If the paper tried to make the case for a serial killer, if someone pulled in the Chesham murder to make three, the police would be faced with panic. The two women in London looked to have been done by the same person, but he wasn’t at all sure that this person had killed Mariah Cox in Chesham.

Trevor was back, refilling Jury’s glass.

“I can’t afford this, Trevor.”

“Oh, not to worry. Mr. Johnson told me to have this out for him tonight. Though he should have been in before now-and speak of the devil,” said Trevor, and Jury looked around. “You’re quite late, Mr. Johnson. What’ve you been up to?”

Harry slid into the tall chair beside Jury, smiling. “Nothing I wouldn’t want to run in the Times tomorrow, Trev.” He turned the bottle round. “Good. The St. Seurin. I see he’s had half the bottle.”

“Two glasses, Harry.”

“Set me up a glass, Trevor.” To Jury, he said, “God, but you’re looking less than lively.”

Jury thought Harry appeared to be the exact opposite. “Death does that to me. How about yourself?”

Harry had taken out his cigarette case and extracted a cigarette, which Trevor lit for him with a match from an “Olde Wine Shades” matchbook. Jury had never noticed the “e” on the end of that fussy “Olde” before. The pub was, however, very “olde.” It dated back to the Great Fire. Not many buildings standing in London could claim that antiquity.

Harry blew smoke away from Jury and said, “Yes, I’d say death puts a damper on things. But it’s cheering to know you’re on the case.”

“What case is that?”

“Whatever case you’re on.” Harry lifted his glass, sniffed, and tasted it.

“I’ve just come from St. Paul’s,” Jury said, then asked himself, annoyed, why he had told him that. Hoping for some reaction. If Jury had said he’d just come down from the space shuttle or the Pleiades, it would make no difference. It was impossible to surprise a response out of Harry Johnson.

Harry looked at his watch. “They still hearing confessions at this late hour? Maybe I should go.” He smiled at Jury. “But I won’t. So what happened at St. Paul’s?”

“You’ll find out soon enough from the tabloids.” Jury twirled his wineglass, asked, “Where were you an hour ago, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “Let’s see. An hour ago I was just going through Watford, I think.”

“Why were you in Watford?”

Harry said, “No reason, except I was out for a drive. I like to get beyond the Ring Road. Clears my mind.”

“Talk to anybody? Anybody see you?”

Harry signaled to Trevor, who came down the bar with a bottle wrapped in a napkin. He presented it as if it were a baby in a blanket. “Very pleasant Chassagne-Montrachet.”

That’s right, give yourself time.

Harry nodded, and Trevor set about uncorking it. He said to Jury, “Now. Did I talk to anyone? No. Next question: Do I have an alibi for the designated time? Alibi for what? There was a murder in the Lady Chapel? Was this another woman? Another tart-pardon me, escort?”

Jury didn’t answer. He shook his head when Trevor set a clean glass before him. “No, I’ve got to be going.” Trevor poured Harry’s.

Harry said, “So now it’s a serial killer. Superintendent Jury: do you honestly think I’d murder three women just like that?”

Jury smiled and slid off his chair. “I wouldn’t put it past you, Harry. Night.”

He headed for the door.

40

Early the next morning, Jury was in the Snow Hill station talking to Dennis Jenkins.

Jenkins said, “What else do we know about the first victim? Kate Banks? You talked to this woman”-Jenkins flipped open a folder on his desk-“Myra Brewer?”

“Right. But I still don’t think Kate Banks is the first; I think she’s the second. Stacy Storm-I think she was the first.” Jury produced a folder, copies of documents brought from Chesham. “Escort services, all three, and it seems different agencies. We can’t find the client who-I’m guessing here-Kate Banks was with. Anyway, according to the record, Kate hadn’t an appointment with a client that night. That’s what King’s Road Companions claimed. What about this Stacy Storm?”

“Also no client booked for the Saturday night. Of course, the usual blather about ‘client confidentiality.’ You’d think these women were all high-powered attorneys. Like what’s-his-name-Cochran? O. J. Simpson’s lawyer. He was guilty.” Jenkins rocked back in his chair.

“What?”

“O.J. He was guilty.”

“Probably, but unless he was Kate’s date, I don’t much care. The trouble is, I’ve got nothing when it comes to motive.”

Jenkins had come down in his chair and was leafing through the folder, stopping at a page. “You don’t think this might have been more than one killer?” Head still bent, he looked up at Jury from under his eyebrows. “No?”

“No. All three were working in the same job, and the killer used the same MO. They were all shot at close range.”