The Blue Last

Jury looked up from the snapshots and the file at Wiggins, who was setting newspapers down on his desk.

“You all right? You look kind of squiffy.”

“Squiffy? What’s that? Where’ve you been all morning, anyway?”

“Collecting these old newspapers you asked for.” Wiggins’s frown suggested his superior might be totally out of it.

“Oh. Sorry. I forgot.” He sorted through Danny Wu’s file again, closed it and tapped his chin. “Want some lunch? I mean something beyond that row of black biscuits, oat cakes, rye crisp and whatever liquid refreshment you added eye of newt to?” Jury nodded toward a glass of dark green stuff.

Wiggins looked hurt.

Jury smiled. “I was thinking of lunch at Ruiyi.”

The frown disappeared and Wiggins’s face lit up. There were few places he’d want to visit more than Danny Wu’s restaurant, an idea shared with a great many Londoners. Ruiyi was the best Chinese restaurant in Soho, and generally one of the best in London. There was always a line. For all of his health nuttiness, Wiggins really perked right up in the presence of MSG, at least Danny’s MSG.

While Jury was up and donning his coat, Wiggins crumbled half a black biscuit into his thickish, green, anodyne drink.

Telling himself not to ask, Jury asked, “What’s that?”

“Kava Kava, very good for relaxation, calming down. I should take some along to Ruiyi.” He shook his arms into his coat. “Danny Wu might like it. You know how these Asian gentlemen are about calm, peace, that sort of thing.”

“And tiger bone. This particular Asian gentleman would jettison calm, peace of mind and levitation for a Michelin two-star and a fast car any day.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir.” Wiggins laughed and followed Jury out the door.

“You don’t have to. I just did.”

Struck by the literalism virus.

Wiggins drove smooth as foam on a Guinness, turning from Victoria Street into Grosvenor Place toward Piccadilly. He asked Jury about Mickey Haggerty, whom Wiggins had known, too. Jury told him.

“My God, chronic myelogenous, that’s the worst kind of leukemia. It’s so aggressive, gets into the bones. There must be something they can do.”

“Mickey says not…”

“But-his wife, his kids. He’s got five, hasn’t he? How will they ever manage? I hope he has insurance. With five children-”

“Four. His oldest daughter died in that car crash, if you remember. And I have an idea he doesn’t have much insurance; I think he probably had to spend everything he made. One son’s supposed to be going to Oxford; there’s also a teenage daughter and two grand-children they’ve been taking care of since their parents were killed in the crash.”

“That’s a hell of a lot to have on your platter in any circumstances, but in these…” Wiggins could only shake his head. He added, “Wasn’t his wife with City police too?”

“No, with the Met. Detective sergeant, I think.”

“Move!” Wiggins shouted. Driving exerted a nonsalubrious effect on Wiggins. In front of them, an old-age pensioner whose gray head barely cleared the driver’s seat (so that the Volvo appeared unoccupied) was dithering about trying to decide on which exit to take from Piccadilly Circus. The ordinarily sanguine Sergeant Wiggins showed hidden springs of aggressiveness and hostility behind the wheel.

Finally, the Volvo turned off toward Leicester Square and proceeded to gum things up there, nearly plowing into a wave of pedestrians who (to do the old driver justice) couldn’t care less about the flashing red NO WALK indicator up there attempting to stop them. Wiggins turned off into Shaftesbury Avenue.

Ruiyi was on a heavily trafficked corner in Soho. Wiggins pulled into a handicapped parking spot, switched off the engine and rooted through the glove compartment. He pulled out a handicapped sign and stuck it on the rearview mirror.

“Where’d you get that?” Jury asked as they got out of the car.

Wiggins sniggered. “I am a policeman, after all.”

“Yes, and as one, you can pretty much park wherever you want to, anyway.”

The line was long and out the door of the restaurant. “Bugger all,” muttered Wiggins.

Jury shoved around Ruiyi’s patrons, followed by Wiggins, catching a few black looks, a few snarls and a temper tantrum from a man (who’d had the benefit of several pints before lunch) who had “a mind to signal that copper right across the street.” Upon which, Jury broke out his ID and shoved it up to the fellow’s face, saying, “I am the copper right across the street, mate.”

Through the door, Wiggins said, “We shouldn’t be doing this, sir, stealing a march on all of these people-”

Jury bestowed his own black look on the sergeant as they moved up undeterred.

The elderly waiter who always showed them to a table had been about to seat the couple at the head of the line. But seeing Jury and Wiggins, he held out one arm to bar the couple from stepping up and with the other arm hastened Jury and Wiggins to the only vacant table.

Jury sniggered (as had Wiggins, a few minutes ago) when he heard the couple demand to see the manager. As the manager was Danny Wu, a precious lot of good it would do them to complain about “those two” getting the table they should have had.

Wiggins opened the menu and sighed. It was the same copious list of offerings as always. It was tall and narrow and eight pages long. Wiggins always read it with the reverence a Hasidic Jew might read the Talmud. He listened to the specials the elderly waiter recited and couldn’t make up his mind. The waiter shuffled off to get the tea.

“Is this business or pleasure, sir? Is Danny Wu in more trouble?”

Jury shook out his red napkin and said, “Danny’s always in the same amount of trouble: up to his chest, but not his chin, leaving him plenty of room to maneuver. Haven’t you taken a look at his file?”

“Not since he came under suspicion when that murder occurred in Limehouse. D’ya think he might have Mafia connections?”

“He’s got connections to the Triads, to Whitehall, to Downing Street and most certainly to Victoria Street. I’m not suggesting he belongs to the Mafia or that he freelances for them.”

“You said Victoria Street: but that’s us.”

“ ‘Us’ is right. Not specifically you and me, but someone.”

“How do you-?”

A brown little nut of an old waitress set down tea in a burnt sienna clay pot and two little cups, into which she poured out molten amber.

“How do you work that out, sir?” Wiggins spooned two well-rounded teaspoons of sugar into his tiny cup.

“Have you ever seen this restaurant closed? I mean closed down?”

Wiggins’s brow furrowed as he sipped his tea. “Never, to my knowledge.”

“All anyone would have to do is shriek because a mouse skittered over her shoe and Public Health would come along and slap a CLOSED sign on the door. The obvious way to get Danny to ‘help with our inquiries’ would be to put him out of business. You wouldn’t even need the mouse; all you’d need is a bent Public Health inspector. Cheers.” Jury drank his tea.

Danny Wu was suddenly, almost magically, at their table, dressed with the usual elegance.

“Stegna?” asked Wiggins.

“Right,” said Danny. “How is it you are so conversant with Italian design?”

“From observing mine,” said Jury. “Oxfam.”

Danny laughed and said, “You’re a man clothes do not make, Superintendent.”

“Is that a compliment?” Jury smiled, remembering that this was a Carole-anne question: Is that one of your compliments, then?

Wiggins said, “I like to have a walk along Upper Sloane Street, pop into Harvey Nick’s occasionally.”

With a raised eyebrow, Jury said, “Harvey Nick’s, is it? Well, you’ve certainly picked up the Upper Sloane Street