The Blue Last

“Hell, yeah, there’s something about her. Like not being Alexandra and Ralph Herrick’s daughter. That’s something.”

“Odd, how she’s got the black hair, the dark eyes… and yet. She doesn’t look like Vivien Leigh. Gemma does, in miniature.”

“Like Liza.”

“What?”

“Don’t you remember you used to tell her that. People think she looks like Vivien Leigh or else Claire Bloom.”

Jury frowned. “Vivien Leigh and Claire Bloom don’t look anything alike. Our waitress looks like Vivien Leigh, in case you didn’t notice.”

Mickey turned around and looked at her. From across the room, she smiled at him. Or them. “She looks like Claire Bloom.”

“Hell, she does.”

This bickering went on.

Finally, Mickey asked, “When will you talk to dear old nanny Kitty? A.k.a. Maisie’s real mother?”

“Today. You talked to her. How did she strike you?”

“As the mother of an impostor.”

“That was your objective assessment, was it?”

Mickey’s hand squeezed Jury’s shoulder. “That’s what you’re here for-objectivity.” He removed his hand and shrugged. “You’ll see.”

A laugh caught in Jury’s throat. “I’ll see? You mean I’ll agree that Maisie is really Erin Riordin and that Kitty Riordin is her mother? Mickey, all you’ve got to go on are those old snapshots-”

“And instinct. You said yourself my instincts are good.”

“I did? I’ll bet the instinct here is just a by-product of those pictures. Mickey, what if I don’t agree with you? What if I find out Maisie Tynedale really is who she says she is?”

“Then I’ll drop it.”

Jury flinched, surprised. It was true he wanted Mickey to be open to this possibility, but he wasn’t sure he wanted Mickey to put so much faith in his, Jury’s, ability.

“Look, Rich, you’re the best cop I know. You’re certainly the best with witnesses. Look at how much you got out of these people that I didn’t. I didn’t know this little Gemma Trimm even existed, for Christ’s sake.”

“I only found her by chance, by luck. I was outside, walking.”

“Still…” Mickey sighed.

“How is Liza?” She was Mickey’s wife when Jury met her. Liza had been with the Met herself, detective sergeant, and a very good one. She’d gotten pregnant and given up the Job.

“Wonderful. Liza knows what it is, what it’s like. She knows. It’s almost like she can read my mind; her intuition is almost magical. She knows what this is like, too.” Mickey fisted his hand and made light hammering blows against his chest. “And she doesn’t go on about my smoking. People do, my mates do, as if stopping the fags would save my life. They’ve given me a new painkiller which is an improvement on the other.”

Jury would have thought the doctors at least could eliminate pain, if nothing else. “Do you get a lot of pain?”

“Some.” Mickey swirled the dregs of his coffee.

Some, of course, meant a lot. As if, as if.

“Nothing’s gonna stop this. It’s everywhere now, in blood and bone.”

“I’m sorry, Mickey. I really am.” Jury felt it, too. What a loss it was going to be. What on earth would Liza and the children do without him? “How are the kids with all this?”

“They’re great. I’m proud of them, too.”

One of Mickey’s children was grown and married and gone to another country. Then there were the twins, a boy and a girl who’d lived after a car crash had killed both their parents, Mickey and Liza’s daughter and son-in-law. That had happened two years ago. Jury supposed the twins were no more than six or seven now. In addition, there were two others, one in her late teens, a boy readying himself for university. Mickey had too many responsibilities.

“Peter is going to Oxford next year. I’m really happy about that.”

Although you couldn’t easily tell it, Mickey had read literature there. He loved poetry, was always pulling out a line here and there.

“Beth, she’s already talking about London University. Clara and Toby-the twins-are in public school.” He moved his gaze from whatever lay outside the window to Jury. “Liza will probably go back to the Met; well, she’ll have to do something because my bloody pension sure won’t do it. Not as far as Oxford goes, that’s certain. I don’t like being forced to think about all this, know what I mean? Of course, I’d think about it anyway, but in the abstract, kind of. I’d think but I wouldn’t have to feel everything ending.” He pushed his cup away. “I really need a drink.” He barked out a laugh. “Well, at least I can stop worrying about whether I have a drinking problem. ‘Drinking problem.’ I love that euphemism. That last round I did with the chemo they thought might have stopped it. I went into remission for a while. I thought I might even have it licked. I didn’t.

“There’s a chilling side effect to this cancer. People don’t want to be around it; they feel they should do something but don’t know what the something is. They steer clear; they cross the street, metaphorically, and maybe even literally. It amazes me that my mates, my colleagues, who’ve seen every form of violent death, who walk with it every day-they can’t take this.”

“Because it’s a lot closer to home, Mickey. Because they’re your mates, your friends.”

Mickey looked at him, smiling. “You’re my friend, too, Rich, but you’re here. I love this fragment:

The world and his mother go reeling and jiggling forever

In answer to something that troubles the blood and the bone.

Written on the wall of an Irish pub, that was. The three of us should’ve been there together.”

The expression in Mickey’s eyes when he said this was so utterly confident of Jury’s friendship, Jury knew he would do whatever it took to help him.

Fourteen

Keeper’s Cottage was small but comfortable. Jury was standing in the living room beyond which he saw a kitchen; upstairs (he guessed) would be one large bedroom and a bath, not en suite.

Kitty Riordin invited him to sit down and offered to get him tea. He thanked her but declined.

A table at Jury’s elbow held several silver-framed pictures, together with a few pieces of milky blue glass. The pictures were of the Tynedale family, the largest of Maisie herself.

“You’re here about Simon Croft.” It wasn’t a question. Her expression went from soft to sober. “I was… I couldn’t quite take it in.” Her hand clenched and pressed against her breast in a gesture that was very much like Mickey’s had been. As if she were in mourning, she was dressed in black; around the collar of the dress was a bit of ocher ruffle, which softened the effect. The dress was old-fashioned, as was she herself, a cameo of a person.

She said, “It’s unbelievable that anyone could have murdered him.”

“Then you know of no one he’d had a falling out with?”

With an impatient gesture, she waved this away. “I’ve been with the family for over fifty years, Superintendent. Of course, I don’t know everything about their private lives-well, obviously I don’t.”

“How often did you see Simon Croft?”

“Not often. When he came here, sometimes.”

“And did he come regularly?”

“Hm. He’s very fond of Oliver Tynedale.”

“Who would inherit Mr. Croft’s money?”

Almost before the words were out, she laughed. “Oh, good lord, Superintendent. I hope you’re not looking for the murderer there?”