“You said before you knew him a little.”
“That’s right-I’ve got to sit down for a minute.” They moved to an armchair in front of an elaborate stereo system. “Not well,” Mickey repeated, again taking out his handkerchief and wiping what looked like cold perspiration from his forehead. “Croft knew me because-you remember? I told you his father, Francis, and my dad were such good friends. Simon there-” Mickey nodded toward the body of Simon Croft “-knew I was in the Job, so asked me if I’d just come by once in a while because he thought someone was trying to get at him. That’s how he put it, ‘get at me.’ But he couldn’t or wouldn’t say who or why. To tell the truth, he struck me as more than a little paranoid. Anyway, I did it; I’ve come by here maybe five or six times.” Mickey shook his head. “Obviously, I was wrong. Someone
Mickey rose and Jury moved with him to the raised window behind the desk where Mickey pointed out chipped paint along the sill and obvious gashes on the outside that looked made by a knife. “Whoever did this is a real amateur. We’re supposed to think it was a break-in. But look at the way the marks go. It was done from inside, not out. Like I said, a real amateur.” Mickey moved to talk to the police photographer, and Jury looked at the CDs spread out across the table on which the stereo sat. Without touching them, he let his eyes stray over them. Simon Croft was not so careful about their arrangement as he was about his books. There must have been a dozen or more CDs out of their cases. Jury smiled. Vera Lynn, Jo Stafford, Tommy Dorsey’s band. All of the music was popular in the Second World War. “We’ll Meet Again,” “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.” He’d been too little to take them in when they first came out, but later, yes, he remembered. “Yesterday,” yes, he certainly recalled that. But wasn’t that song much later? In his mind’s eye he saw again Elicia Deauville dancing by herself in her white nightgown. She was eight years old. Eight or nine? Given all the activity behind him in the room, it surprised him how well he could mute the sounds to an incomprehensible cloud of talk, and hear “Yesterday.” And see Elicia Deauville through that hole in the wall. It was her hair that was so astonishing. It was tawny, but several shades of it-taffy to gold to copper, amazing hair. He thought she had lived next door to them on the Fulham Road, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Had it happened? Was he there?
Mickey was beside him. “It’s meant to look like a robbery-” Mickey shoved at the glass slivers with the toe of his shoe “-yet the only thing of any value missing is a Sony laptop. The watch he was wearing was worth more than that. Not a Rolex, that other one that costs as much as a small car. You know?”
“Piaget?”
“That’s the guy. See those pictures?” Mickey pointed out a small painting propped against the books on one shelf. “Bonnard. That one-” he indicated another on the top shelf, ultramarine water, yellow so heavy it looked like the weight of the sun “-Hopper, no not Hopper-the other one-Hockney, that’s it. David Hockney. Those two paintings are easily transported. Who in hell would rob the room and leave those behind?”
“Did they take
Mickey called to one of the crime scene officers. “Johnny? Did you find any computer diskettes?”
“No,” said Johnny. “Not used, but there were some new ones, that’s all, sealed.”
Jury scanned the desk, the shelves. “No manuscript? No notes? Didn’t you say he was writing a book about the Second World War?”
“You think he turned up something someone didn’t want turned up?”
“Don’t you? Everything associated with the writing of it appears to be gone. And that’s all that’s gone. The man must have had hard copy, some, at least. A historical event calls for research; research calls for notes. You saw him-when? A couple of weeks ago?”
“The computer was on; I didn’t pay much attention to whether he was writing from notes.” Mickey looked around the room as if either determined or desperate. “Maybe when they go over the house-”
“The killer could have done that, easily, at his leisure. Assuming this was someone who knew Simon Croft lived here alone, no staff except for the Tynedale cook, who didn’t, in any case, live here. The last time you saw him, you said-are you okay? Mickey?”
Haggerty had grown very pale. He swayed slightly. “Let me just sit for a minute.” As he sat in one of the wing chairs, he took out his handkerchief, damp by now, and wiped his forehead, beaded with cold perspiration. “I’ve got to go over to talk to the family.” He said that and folded the handkerchief.
“Uh-uh,” said Jury. “You go the hell home. Leave the family to me.”
“I can’t-”
“The hell you can’t. I’ll get the initial stuff out of the way; you can talk to them later.”
Sotto voce, Mickey said, “Look, keep this under your hat, Rich, will you? I mean, me being sick.”
Jury said, “Of course, I will. You know I will. Does the family know about Simon Croft yet?”
Mickey nodded. “Two of my people went over there, sergeant and WPC. They told them I’d be talking to them this morning.” Mickey checked his watch, shook his wrist. “Damn thing.”
“Get yourself a Piaget. Give me the details and I’ll go over there now.”
Mickey did so.
Eleven
Ian Tynedale was an intelligent, good-looking man in his late fifties or early sixties. At least Jury assumed that age, given he was a young child when his sister Alexandra was killed. He sat forward on the dining-room chair, elbows on knees. His eyes were red rimmed.
“It wasn’t suicide, if that’s what the gun being there implies,” Ian said. Pulling himself together, he sat back and took out a cigar case and dragged a pewter ashtray closer.
“You’re sure of that?” said Jury.
“Never been surer. Not Simon.” He thought for a moment. “Was it robbery? Were any of the paintings missing?”
“I don’t think so, but of course we couldn’t be sure. You’re familiar with his paintings?”
“Yes, I got a few of them for him at auction. Art’s my life. Italian Renaissance art, to be specific. I’m pretty passionate about that. There was one painting worth a quarter of a million on the wall behind the desk.”
“I think I recall seeing that.” Jury paused. “Mr. Croft was actually no relation, was he?”
“No. The two families have always been exceptionally close. Simon’s father, Francis, and mine knew each other from a very early age. They were boyhood friends, then they were business partners. They were quite remarkable, really. They were every bit as close as blood brothers. Maybe you could say the same for Simon and me. It’s a very close family. Living out of each other’s pockets, you could say.”
“Francis Croft owned a pub in the forties called the Blue Last?”
That surprised Ian. “Yes. How’d you know that?”
Jury smiled. “I’m a policeman.”
“Funny old thing to bring up, though. That pub’s been gone for more than half a century. Bombed during the war. Maisie-that’s Alexandra’s daughter-was a baby then. They were at the Blue Last when it happened. Rather, Alex was; Maisie, fortunately for her, was out with the au pair, Katherine Riordin. Kitty, we call her. She survived because Kitty had taken her out in a stroller. Not the best time for a stroll, you might say, but there were long, long lulls between the bombings and it was pretty safe for the most part. The bombings, of course, were mostly at night. You can’t keep yourself cooped up all of the time, can you? It was a pity, and perhaps ironic that Kitty’s own baby was killed in the blast that took out the Blue Last.”
“I understand she lives here with the family.”
Ian motioned with his head. “That’s right. In the gatehouse. Keeper’s Cottage we call it. You passed it in the drive. ‘Gatehouse’ seems a bit pretentious.”
“And she’s lived here ever since that time?” If Ian was curious about this interest in Kitty Riordin, he didn’t show it.
Ian nodded. “You can imagine how grateful my father was that the baby was all right. Her own baby-Kitty’s- was in the pub at the time. The wrong time. So was Alex.” Turning his cigar around and around as if it aided
