Myra shook her head at such intransigence. “I don’t care what’s said, Kate Muldar was a smart girl, a first-rate student. I told you she liked that big bookshop in Piccadilly, Waterstone’s. She loved to go in there and get books and sit in their café and read. That was what she loved-not pubs, not going dancing or anything like that-just stopping in that bookshop.” Myra sighed. “I’ll get the photograph album.”

49

The mobile was charged, but Jury had just shut it off, not wanting any disturbance while talking to Harry Johnson.

At the same time Wiggins was enjoying Myra Brewer’s seed cake, Jury was enjoying the view of Belgravia from the top of Harry’s steps, flanked by the two stone lions.

The door was opened by little Mrs. Tobias, Mungo by her side (or under her feet). Of course she remembered Superintendent Jury, then took a moment to study Detective Inspector Jenkins’s warrant card.

“I think he’s expecting us,” said Jury.

“Oh, yes, sir. Come in, please.”

She showed them into the living room, or, rather, Mungo did. He was in the lead.

Harry rose from a settee on the other side of a silver coffee service and welcomed them heartily.

Jury marveled that the scene in which he now found himself was an exact replica of the one in which he and DI Tom Dryer had turned up a month or so before to slap the cuffs on Harry. Metaphorically speaking, because the cuffs were never slapped on. It was uncanny, really, the similarity: the settee, the coffee, the Times, that silver cigarette box. In a moment, he would offer them coffee. And cigarettes.

“Coffee, gentlemen?”

They declined. Harry took a cigarette from the box and offered the box to DI Jenkins. He knew better than to offer it to Jury. “Please sit down.” He waved them into a couple of dark leather chairs. Jenkins took one; Jury didn’t. Jury remained in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb.

Jenkins spoke: “Mr. Johnson, I’m investigating the case of a young woman who was murdered two nights ago in St. Paul’s churchyard.”

“Ah, yes. I read about it.” Harry rattled the paper to indicate where.

“Superintendent Jury here is under the impression you knew her. Deirdre Small, her name was.”

Harry smiled one of his blinding smiles. “Superintendent Jury is under the impression I’ve known everyone murdered in London.”

“And have you?” asked Jenkins in a wonderfully affable way before he sat back and crossed his legs.

Jury would recommend him for a citation.

Harry laughed. “No, not all.”

“Including Miss Small? You didn’t know Deirdre Small?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

Mungo, who had left the room, now returned with Morris (sans blue collar, of course, which was in Chesham). Both were sitting at Jury’s feet, both staring upward, hard, in a breath-holding manner.

Jenkins said, “You didn’t know her, then?”

“Of course not. I’ve just said that.”

“And the other two murdered women-Stacy Storm and Kate Banks?”

“No, I didn’t know them, either. Look, am I a suspect in this triple murder?”

But he said it with a smile, and not a nervous one, either. It was the smile of one who’s played an enormous joke on his pals.

Which was, at least, how Jury took it. And just how it was, he was pretty sure.

“Because if I am-I’m remarkably short on alibis.”

“Why do you say that, sir?”

“At the time of these murders, I was alone. No witnesses. I live alone, you see. I’m assuming the news”-he picked up the Times beside him-“was accurate in its reporting of the time of death? I was here by myself. That is, except in the case of the Small woman. That night, I was in Chesham.”

“In Chesham?” said Jenkins.

“That’s right.”

There was a pause. Then Jenkins said, “If you stopped anyplace in or around Chesham, someone probably saw you and would remember.”

“I don’t think so.” He smiled. Harry was eating it up, his exposure to guilt, enjoying being a suspect as most people would enjoy not being one.

“Why did you go to Chesham, Mr. Johnson?”

“Because of the cat.”

Jenkins turned halfway round to regard the cat sitting like a statue at Jury’s feet.

“No,” said Harry. “Not that one. That’s my cat. I’m talking about another black cat.” His glance shifted to Jury. “You can ask Superintendent Jury.” Harry’s smile was all over the place. “I’m sure he’s worked it out that I went to Chesham because of the cat.”

Jenkins turned to Jury, eyebrows raised, looking for some sort of corroboration.

“What cat?” said Jury.

50

It was the first time Jury had ever seen Harry Johnson flummoxed.

Harry said to Jenkins, “It was a joke, Inspector. And Superintendent Jury’s in on it.”

Jury had mastered many looks in his time, but the one of puzzlement he now pasted on his face he knew might be the best. “Joke? I’ve been a little busy with three murders; there’s hardly been time for jokes.” God, how he’d love a cigarette. To light up while he went on holding up this door frame, that would be the image of unbeaten, unbeatable cop. If Trevor had appeared at his elbow with a bottle of Montrachet, Jury’d have drained it dry.

Mungo and Morris looked almost as if they were joining in this celebration, their paws dancing. At least, that’s how Jury preferred to see them.

“Very funny indeed, Superintendent,” said Harry. To Jenkins, he said, “It’s a long story, Inspector.”

“I’m good with long stories, Mr. Johnson. If you’d accompany us to the station, I’d appreciate being told it.”

Harry got to his feet, uttering imprecations under his breath. “Am I under arrest?”

“No, sir, not at all. You’d just be helping us with our inquiries.”

Harry sighed. “You know this is ridiculous. All because of the damned cat.”

Outside, Jury remembered to switch on his mobile and saw he had a half-dozen missed messages. They were all from Wiggins. He told Jenkins he had to make a call.

“I’ve a photo here to show you, boss. It’s important.”

Wiggins didn’t tell him why, refusing to give up that information in the interest of suspense, apparently. No, Jury had got to look at it because Wiggins wasn’t sure.

“As soon as I get through with Harry Johnson, Wiggins.” He looked around for Plant’s car. There was one sitting across the street, an old model Bentley. A hand ventured out of the driver’s side window, and two fingers formed a V. Jury rolled his eyes. Was he supposed to do that back? At least he didn’t have to cross the street and give a secret handshake.

Jury got in the car beside Jenkins.

Melrose waited until the car with the three men pulled away from the curb before reaching into the backseat for the cat carrier and the True Friends cap.

He tilted the rearview mirror to check how he looked. He looked idiotic. The cap looked like a little boat sailing on the pale waves of-Oh, for God’s sake! It was ridiculous enough without waxing poetic about it!

Melrose pushed back the visor. Yes, he had to wear it. There were many things he didn’t look like, and an animal rescuer was right up there at the head of the list, right after Niels Bohr. That impersonation had also been done so that Jury could get into Harry’s house. Were they to spend their lives trying to get into Harry’s house? Harry had gotten a big kick out of the Niels Bohr act.

His silk wool suit was a bit upmarket for the pittance of a salary he must’ve been getting from an animal shelter. He exchanged the suit jacket for an ancient canvas one that looked starched enough to stand up to several attack dogs. With that on, and the hat, he got out of the car, pulling the carrier after him.

Had Jury said that Wiggins just got himself a hamster? That sounded unlikely.

Melrose walked up the stone steps. It was a handsome brick edifice with white steps that looked just scrubbed, and stone lions that managed to complement the house without being pretentious.