Martha Grimes - The Black Cat: A Richard Jury Mystery (Richard Jury Mysteries)

To my old cat, Blackie

November 1989-April 23, 2007

That would be waving and that would be crying,

Crying and shouting and meaning farewell

WALLACE STEVENS

It was already in the bloody London tabloids, the case not yet three days old and his own face plastered all over the paper when it was really Thames Valley police, and not the Met, not he, who owned the case.

Superintendent Richard Jury, high-ranking detective with the Metropolitan police, but without much feeling for rank, and whod climbed the ladder without much feeling for the rungs, found himself at the moment in High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, in a mortuary looking down at the body of an as yet unidentified woman.

What had made it so fascinating, he supposed, was not simply that the glamorous girl (woman, surely, only Glam Girl made much better copy) had been shot dead in the grounds of a pub not far away, in Chesham, but that forty-eight hours on, they hadnt discovered who she was.

Jury looked at her and wondered why the portrait of Chatter-ton came to mind; then he remembered Millais had also painted Ophelia, or his idea of her. And there was that larger concept that had looked so familiar-the Pre-Raphaelite period-that Romantic period of Rossetti, Holman Hunt, Millais, and rich fantasy, vibrant colors, and the death of youth. The Pre-Raphaelites were really into dying young.

Dr. Pindrop. Jury loved the name, although it didnt suit the doctor. Silence was not the doctors milieu. He sputtered a lot, showing signs of being about to erupt but managing not to do so.

Two shots, said Pindrop, one missing the vital organs- Here he pointed at the badly wounded shoulder in case Jury was blind. It was the second one in the chest that did for her.

Jury nodded, said nothing, tried to memorize the womans classically sculpted face.

Superintendent?

Jury looked up.

Youve had a right good look. Can I cover her up now?

Jury assumed the irritation was for the usual reason: why was New Scotland Yard sending people round? No. Leave it for a moment. Jury continued his right good look. A.38 had done the job, according to forensic. No gun had been found, a couple of casings had.

The doctor had shown him the clothes shed been wearing, designer dress, shoes, small handbag.

Labels messed up. Looks like Lanvin. Thats the French chap.

No. Saint Laurent. The other one.

Pindrop smirked. Oh. You know this French lot, do you?

I know a lot of things. Jury wanted to laugh.

The doctor gave a Dr.-Watson-as-played-by-Nigel-Bruce sort of grunt-laugh.

The dress was beautiful. It was sedate and yet not. The neckline consisted of layered ruffles. The sleeves were transparent as glass, reaching nearly to the elbow. The dress was the same color as her hair, a burnt orange. It was made of silk or air. Hed never seen a dress that looked so decorous and so sexy at the same time. The shoes were designed by Jimmy Choo. That name was writ large across the instep of a sandal of exquisitely crisscrossed, narrow leather ribbons of iridescent copper. The bag was Alexander McQueen. Jury didnt know him but imagined he ran with the others, along Upper Sloane Street. All of this getup would run to a couple thousand quid, he bet.

Expensive, said the doctor. Mustve been well-fixed.

Or someone was. He looked up. Do you live in Chesham?

No. In Amersham. Old Amersham, not the one on the hill.

A proud distinction, apparently. You cant say if shes a local, then?

Dr. Pindrop ran his hand through thinning hair. Jury figured him to be at the back end of his sixties. Id swear Id seen her before.

This surprised Jury, since the doctor brought this out with a bit of sympathy that he hadnt shown until now.

She looks familiar to you. This at least was something.

Yes, for some reason. Perhaps she is a local. If not Chesham, perhaps Amersham, Berkhamsted well, you know.

Im not familiar with the area.

The doctor pulled up the sheet and dropped it over her face. Then why did they want you?