brûlée they had had for dessert. ‘You know, you should really see that house.’
‘I might very well do that. Is the same agent handling it?’
‘I think so. Anyway, it would be the same estate agency. It’s Forester and Flynn. They’re on the main street of the village. Lark Rise.’
‘I wonder what effect all of this had on the leasing of the house.’
‘Not much, I shouldn’t think,’ said Harry. ‘It’s not as if there’d been a murder there.’
Jury looked away, then looked speculatively at Harry.
‘What? Do you think there was? Christ, I can’t begin to get my mind around that possibility.’ Harry shook his head and looked down at Mungo, who was swishing his tail on the pavement and looking from one to the other. ‘Good old dog, what do you know that we don’t?’ To Jury he said, ‘How in hell could Mungo here have got to Chelsea from effing Surrey?’
‘Maybe Mungo didn’t. Maybe he got there from Piccadilly or Sloane Street or West Ham. Why are we assuming that whatever happened, happened in Surrey? How do you know that Glynnis Gauh and Robbie and Mungo didn’t return to London?’
‘But... Mungo’s been gone for months. How could he be that near home and not show himself before now?’
‘In a dozen ways. Someone could have found him on the Heath or in Green Park or wherever and taken him in. They might have put up flyers, tried to find the owner; or the RSPCA could have taken him in and eventually found a caretaker. He could have been dropped off in Chelsea. Although I’m not sure but what that raises another set of questions: the first would be another why. But this is the wildest speculation we’re engaged in.’ Jury was trying to flag down a cab, all of which seemed committed to their ample, empty selves and chugged on by. ‘And maybe the answer is so glaringly obvious we’ll wonder we could have missed it.’
‘I’d be happy to drive you home.’
Jury shook his head. ‘No, you’d be going out of your way. I live in Islington. It’s late. I don’t mind a cab.’
A cab finally pulled up to the curb and Jury stuck his head in to tell the driver he was going to Islington. ‘It’s been, as always, fascinating.’
‘How about tomorrow evening?’
‘Tomorrow evening?’ Jury frowned a little. ‘I don’t think I can make that; but what about the next evening?’
‘Night after tomorrow, then? Old Wine Shades?’ Jury nodded, climbed into the cab and gave directions to his street. The cab swept on. Jury looked out of the cab’s rear window to see Harry and Mungo growing smaller in the distance and looking strangely lonely.
Or was that just me? he wondered.
14
It’s none of my business–’
(Meaning, yes, it was.)
‘Except I just don’t understand–’
(Meaning, it was beyond the understanding even of Tony Blair.) ‘Why you’d ever want to go to dinner night after night with somebody you hardly know at all instead of staying home like you usually do. I mean, if you want to go down the pub, well, there’s the Mucky Pup hardly a fifteen-minute walk away.’ Carole-anne shrugged and went on flipping through the pages of some beauty magazine, stopping now and then, looking (she had informed Jury earlier) for a new hairdo.
To think any model’s hair in those glossy pages could look better than Carole-anne’s beautifully unkempt, easy-come, easy-go, ginger-gold hair was ludicrous. Jury said, ‘He’s telling me a fascinating story and it’s taking a long time to do it.’
‘It sounds like what’s-her-name? Who was going to get beheaded if she didn’t keep the king interested?’
‘Scheherazade.’
Carole-anne sat on the sofa in Jury’s one-bedroom flat that looked out on the street and its oblong of park. Carole-anne’s was on the third floor, and in between, on the second, was a flat of doubtful provenance, as it appeared to belong not so much to Stan Keeler as to Stan’s dog Stone. Jury thought he heard Stone walking about up
‘I might very well do that. Is the same agent handling it?’
‘I think so. Anyway, it would be the same estate agency. It’s Forester and Flynn. They’re on the main street of the village. Lark Rise.’
‘I wonder what effect all of this had on the leasing of the house.’
‘Not much, I shouldn’t think,’ said Harry. ‘It’s not as if there’d been a murder there.’
Jury looked away, then looked speculatively at Harry.
‘What? Do you think there was? Christ, I can’t begin to get my mind around that possibility.’ Harry shook his head and looked down at Mungo, who was swishing his tail on the pavement and looking from one to the other. ‘Good old dog, what do you know that we don’t?’ To Jury he said, ‘How in hell could Mungo here have got to Chelsea from effing Surrey?’
‘Maybe Mungo didn’t. Maybe he got there from Piccadilly or Sloane Street or West Ham. Why are we assuming that whatever happened, happened in Surrey? How do you know that Glynnis Gauh and Robbie and Mungo didn’t return to London?’
‘But... Mungo’s been gone for months. How could he be that near home and not show himself before now?’
‘In a dozen ways. Someone could have found him on the Heath or in Green Park or wherever and taken him in. They might have put up flyers, tried to find the owner; or the RSPCA could have taken him in and eventually found a caretaker. He could have been dropped off in Chelsea. Although I’m not sure but what that raises another set of questions: the first would be another why. But this is the wildest speculation we’re engaged in.’ Jury was trying to flag down a cab, all of which seemed committed to their ample, empty selves and chugged on by. ‘And maybe the answer is so glaringly obvious we’ll wonder we could have missed it.’
‘I’d be happy to drive you home.’
Jury shook his head. ‘No, you’d be going out of your way. I live in Islington. It’s late. I don’t mind a cab.’
A cab finally pulled up to the curb and Jury stuck his head in to tell the driver he was going to Islington. ‘It’s been, as always, fascinating.’
‘How about tomorrow evening?’
‘Tomorrow evening?’ Jury frowned a little. ‘I don’t think I can make that; but what about the next evening?’
‘Night after tomorrow, then? Old Wine Shades?’ Jury nodded, climbed into the cab and gave directions to his street. The cab swept on. Jury looked out of the cab’s rear window to see Harry and Mungo growing smaller in the distance and looking strangely lonely.
Or was that just me? he wondered.
14
It’s none of my business–’
(Meaning, yes, it was.)
‘Except I just don’t understand–’
(Meaning, it was beyond the understanding even of Tony Blair.) ‘Why you’d ever want to go to dinner night after night with somebody you hardly know at all instead of staying home like you usually do. I mean, if you want to go down the pub, well, there’s the Mucky Pup hardly a fifteen-minute walk away.’ Carole-anne shrugged and went on flipping through the pages of some beauty magazine, stopping now and then, looking (she had informed Jury earlier) for a new hairdo.
To think any model’s hair in those glossy pages could look better than Carole-anne’s beautifully unkempt, easy-come, easy-go, ginger-gold hair was ludicrous. Jury said, ‘He’s telling me a fascinating story and it’s taking a long time to do it.’
‘It sounds like what’s-her-name? Who was going to get beheaded if she didn’t keep the king interested?’
‘Scheherazade.’
Carole-anne sat on the sofa in Jury’s one-bedroom flat that looked out on the street and its oblong of park. Carole-anne’s was on the third floor, and in between, on the second, was a flat of doubtful provenance, as it appeared to belong not so much to Stan Keeler as to Stan’s dog Stone. Jury thought he heard Stone walking about up
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