He did, for one. Strange he felt no desire for her, no ardor. He felt himself to be almost clinically cold. It was, of course, as he’d told Carole-anne, not a date for pleasure but for work. Still, that wouldn’t have been reason for feeling he was made of ice. Was it because of the terrible condition of Lu Aguilar? Guilt? No, because it certainly hadn’t stopped him getting into bed with Phyllis (the very thought of whom started the ice melting). No, there was something missing, something not coming across.

Then he thought, She’s acting. That was part of it. Of course, he imagined she often did. The thing was, there was no real ardor on her part, either. All of her actions were rote, which wouldn’t be surprising except that she wasn’t here in the role of escort; he hadn’t hired her. It was a plain old date. Why did she need the act? He said, “This chap in Chesham Stacy was engaged to…”

Abruptly, Rose polished off the rest of her drink and held out the glass for another, held it out not to Jury but to the barman, who nodded. “Engaged? Don’t be daft. That what he told you?” Her tone was strangely spiteful. She stubbed out her cigarette. “Bobby never meant anything to her. He was just for laughs.”

The serious, sympathetic Bobby Devlin was hardly a fellow a girl would keep by her “for laughs.” He thought Rose had it exactly the wrong way round. It was the men Mariah-Stacy was having casual sex with who were there for laughs.

“Anyway,” Rosie went on, “he wasn’t her type at all. That bewildered-little-boy act? Oh no, that wasn’t-” She stopped mid-sentence. She had said too much.

Jury watched her try to backtrack.

“I mean, that’s the impression she gave me.”

“‘Bewildered-little-boy act’? That’s more of a thing you’d see, rather than something you’d be told, and certainly not told you by Mariah herself. So when did you meet him?”

She looked off, round the room. “Oh, I just ran into him once, you know, by accident.”

“Bobby Devlin told me he rarely went to London; he hates it. So I’m assuming you ran into him in Chesham. You didn’t mention that. Indeed, it’s strange, especially since you know so little about Mariah’s life. But you did know about her, didn’t you? You knew her intimately. She pretty much kept Bobby under wraps.”

Rose ignored the martini placed before her and slid the cigarette case back into her bag. She snapped the bag shut and reached for the pashmina shawl that she’d draped across the back of her chair. “This is getting boring, you know that? I don’t know why I’ve got to spend the evening talking about Stacy Storm.”

“You don’t have to. But it’s either here or later at the station.”

Her eyes hardened. “This wasn’t a date at all, was it, not a proper date? This was just to get something out of me, find out things.” She pulled the black shawl around her and leaned toward him. “Next you’ll be saying I had something to do with her murder, won’t you?”

“No. You were in London. Don’t worry; we checked out your alibi.”

She looked so stunningly self-satisfied at that, Jury wanted to laugh.

“You mean you don’t think I ran over to Chesham in my Manolo Blahniks and shot her? Well, good for you. Ta very much for the drinks.” She slid from the stool and walked across a room that was growing ever more crowded.

But Jury hardly registered her departure.

Manolo Blahniks?

While he was walking toward the Green Park tube station, his mobile ding-ding-dinged and he considered throwing it down in front of the Mayfair Hotel and stomping it to death.

How childish. “Jury.”

“It’s me,” said Wiggins. “I did find somebody connected with Roedean. Taught there twenty years ago and remembers ‘her girls,’ as she called them. Specifically, Kate Banks. Name’s Shirley Husselby. You want the Brighton address?”

“Yes.”

Wiggins gave it to him. “You going there, then?”

“First thing tomorrow. Thanks, Wiggins.”

Jury didn’t stomp the mobile to death. Reprieve.

57

How did these places seem never to change? It was pleasant, he thought, looking across this shingle beach toward the sea. Time seemed to have stopped here and, without meaning to, stayed.

He turned and walked along King’s Road, facing the sea. Years ago he had been here on a case, one of the saddest cases of his career. But they were all sad, weren’t they?

Walking on, Jury had no trouble finding the house. It was on a narrow street just off Madeira Drive with a long view of the sea. It was one of a line of terraced houses, the numbers uniform and easy to see on the white posts to which they were attached. He used the dolphin door knocker, wondering what it was about dolphins that made them so popular as door knockers. He heard an approach and then what seemed to be a mild argument on the other side of the door until finally it opened with a yank.

The woman who yanked it was elderly and fragile-looking and, he assumed, must be Shirley Husselby. She was the one Wiggins had found. He took out his ID, saying, “I’m Superintendent Richard Jury. My sergeant called?” He didn’t know why he made a question of it, unless it was to give this small woman the opportunity to say, “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry for the delay opening the door. This door will be troublesome.” She gave it a little kick. “You don’t look like a superintendent. I expected someone short, stout, gray, and squinting.”

Jury thought of Racer and smiled.

“Do come in.” She threw out her arm, ushering him in. Then she explained further. “It’s the ‘superintendent’ part. That’s a very high rank of policeman for one so young.”

“Me? I’m not young at all, I’m-”

Her finger to her lips, she stopped him. “Superintendent, don’t tell people your age. It’s none of their business. I never do. Anyway, you look young and quite handsome. Please”-she held out her arm again, toward the front room-“just go on through, but watch that runner! The fringe wants to catch at your heel and send you sprawling.”

Jury thanked her for the warning. The fringe said nothing.

In the living room, he was warned not to sit on the armchair to the left of the fireplace unless he wanted a good pinching. “The springs in that chair are so temperamental I never know what they’ll do. Just sit beside me on the sofa; I think it’s on its good behavior.”

Jury looked around at this quite ordinary, very comfortable-looking room: a crisp fire burning, old but good chairs and tables, pretty cream linen, and tulip-patterned slipcovers-all of them looking welcoming but apparently full of traps for the unwary.

“Now, I’ve just made fresh coffee.” The silver tray and coffee service sat on a coffee table before the sofa, steam rising from the spout. There were cream, sugar, and small biscuits. All of it looked quite nonthreatening.

“Be careful of the coffee. It’s hotter than you might think. Cream? Sugar?”

Jury declined cream and sugar but took the china cup and saucer carefully. “Thank you.” The coffee was no hotter than coffee ought to be. He thought she had a watchful air, as if she were prepared to call Emergency if the first sip had him on his back on the floor. Then he said, “I expect you’ve heard about this series of murders in London?”

“Yes. You want to talk to me about Kate Banks, is that right?” He thought her cup rattled against the saucer as she set it down. “She was one of the best students I ever had. I felt absolutely terrible when I read about her. I just couldn’t believe it. Why, of all people…” She shook her head. Her mouth shut tightly, as if holding back emotions that threatened to overflow.

“You think it so unlikely something such as that would happen to her?”

“Of course. She was universally liked at school. Roedean, that is. Really, she was a remarkable person.” Miss Husselby rose and went to the fireplace, saying, “Oh, this fire is unbelievably lazy, and then sometimes it will just shoot out!” She poked at the recalcitrant logs, burning by whim. Nothing in Miss Husselby’s world cooperated.