neighborhood much worth his notice. While they walked, Jury talked about Mungo.
‘Well, fancy that!’ Carole-anne was completely rocked by that intrepid hound’s finding his way back to Chelsea all on his own.
Jury didn’t believe he had, but it sounded good.
Jury said, ‘Do you think if someone took Stone and dumped him somewhere else that he’d find his way back?’
‘You do, don’t you?’
‘Oh, thanks.’
15
Sergeant Wiggins was stirring his morning tea, not with a spoon, but with a long thin object that could have been a twig, a root or a finger dropped off by forensics.
Jury was training himself not to ask, and not succeeding, except he managed to get round a direct ‘What is it?’ by making a comment. As now: ‘Yes, I’ll have a cup, but I want a spoon to stir it, a proper spoon, and not that thing you’re using.’
This of course was tantamount to ‘What is it?’ since Wiggins would have to explain. ‘It’s vanilla bean, isn’t it?’
‘What? Why in hell would you be stirring tea with it?’
‘It’s been found to be good for the digestive tract.’ Jury had draped his jacket, an elderly brown tweed, over the back of his chair and was rolling up his sleeves as if preparing to dive into a sea of casework. ‘Wiggins, your digestive tract has probably gone home to its mother. Does nothing stop in your stomach before it barrels right into your intestines? You’ve got enough digestive aids–black biscuits, herbs, roots and leaves–to rid an entire nursing home of irritable bowel syndrome.’
Wiggins’s sigh was long-suffering. ‘You seem a bit out of sorts today, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Considering I might be out of work tomorrow, yes, I do mind you saying.’ Jury was opening and shutting drawers, looking for nothing unless it be Divine Intervention or at least Divine Explanation for his troubles.
‘You exaggerate so much. Dr. Nancy called about that Soho Shooting.’
Jury smiled. ‘Did she want me to call her?’
‘No, she wanted you to come to her.’
Talk about Divine Intervention.
Wiggins added, ‘It’s that shooting in front of Ruiyi? Danny Wu’s place? In Soho?’
Jury shrugged into his jacket, wondering how many more questions Wiggins would ask to establish the geography. ‘In London?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. See you.’
Dr. Phyllis Nancy, in her green lab coat apron and pale-green plastic cap (looking as if she’d emerged from a beautifying sauna), looked up from the cadaver on the stainless-steel table and smiled.
‘Phyllis.’ Jury smiled back.
‘This was blunt trauma.’ She was speaking of the man who’d been downed by a gun outside of Danny Wu’s restaurant. The one Racer claimed had been murdered by Danny. ‘I mean the blow that killed him, not the bullet, oddly enough. There’s a heart bruise, which is like a heart attack. The bullet went straight through, nicked a few organs–trachea, esophagus–came right out the back. Do you think’–she pulled her apron over her head and the cap off it–’I could have another look at the crime scene?’
‘Oh, indeed you can. The restaurant is just opening around now for lunch. Or did you bring your Betty Boop lunch box?’
‘It’s not Betty Boop. It’s dinosaurs. Just hold on and I’ll be back in two minutes.’
She was, too. Phyllis was spot on time for an autopsy or for lunch. She was famous for her promptness.
Soho was as usual crowded enough to stop the Chunnel train.
Phyllis, with her ginger hair, her brilliant smile and her ID, had the customers in line for Ruiyi parting like the Red Sea. Having cleared this pathway of air, she brought out a heavy-duty tape and measured that path from curb to inside the door, where the line of customers started. She wrote down the measurement, put pen, notebook and tape in her bag, smiled at them all and said, ‘Thanks.’
Jury said, ‘Phyllis, what were you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ she murmured, ‘but now we’re at the head of
‘Well, fancy that!’ Carole-anne was completely rocked by that intrepid hound’s finding his way back to Chelsea all on his own.
Jury didn’t believe he had, but it sounded good.
Jury said, ‘Do you think if someone took Stone and dumped him somewhere else that he’d find his way back?’
‘You do, don’t you?’
‘Oh, thanks.’
15
Sergeant Wiggins was stirring his morning tea, not with a spoon, but with a long thin object that could have been a twig, a root or a finger dropped off by forensics.
Jury was training himself not to ask, and not succeeding, except he managed to get round a direct ‘What is it?’ by making a comment. As now: ‘Yes, I’ll have a cup, but I want a spoon to stir it, a proper spoon, and not that thing you’re using.’
This of course was tantamount to ‘What is it?’ since Wiggins would have to explain. ‘It’s vanilla bean, isn’t it?’
‘What? Why in hell would you be stirring tea with it?’
‘It’s been found to be good for the digestive tract.’ Jury had draped his jacket, an elderly brown tweed, over the back of his chair and was rolling up his sleeves as if preparing to dive into a sea of casework. ‘Wiggins, your digestive tract has probably gone home to its mother. Does nothing stop in your stomach before it barrels right into your intestines? You’ve got enough digestive aids–black biscuits, herbs, roots and leaves–to rid an entire nursing home of irritable bowel syndrome.’
Wiggins’s sigh was long-suffering. ‘You seem a bit out of sorts today, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Considering I might be out of work tomorrow, yes, I do mind you saying.’ Jury was opening and shutting drawers, looking for nothing unless it be Divine Intervention or at least Divine Explanation for his troubles.
‘You exaggerate so much. Dr. Nancy called about that Soho Shooting.’
Jury smiled. ‘Did she want me to call her?’
‘No, she wanted you to come to her.’
Talk about Divine Intervention.
Wiggins added, ‘It’s that shooting in front of Ruiyi? Danny Wu’s place? In Soho?’
Jury shrugged into his jacket, wondering how many more questions Wiggins would ask to establish the geography. ‘In London?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. See you.’
Dr. Phyllis Nancy, in her green lab coat apron and pale-green plastic cap (looking as if she’d emerged from a beautifying sauna), looked up from the cadaver on the stainless-steel table and smiled.
‘Phyllis.’ Jury smiled back.
‘This was blunt trauma.’ She was speaking of the man who’d been downed by a gun outside of Danny Wu’s restaurant. The one Racer claimed had been murdered by Danny. ‘I mean the blow that killed him, not the bullet, oddly enough. There’s a heart bruise, which is like a heart attack. The bullet went straight through, nicked a few organs–trachea, esophagus–came right out the back. Do you think’–she pulled her apron over her head and the cap off it–’I could have another look at the crime scene?’
‘Oh, indeed you can. The restaurant is just opening around now for lunch. Or did you bring your Betty Boop lunch box?’
‘It’s not Betty Boop. It’s dinosaurs. Just hold on and I’ll be back in two minutes.’
She was, too. Phyllis was spot on time for an autopsy or for lunch. She was famous for her promptness.
Soho was as usual crowded enough to stop the Chunnel train.
Phyllis, with her ginger hair, her brilliant smile and her ID, had the customers in line for Ruiyi parting like the Red Sea. Having cleared this pathway of air, she brought out a heavy-duty tape and measured that path from curb to inside the door, where the line of customers started. She wrote down the measurement, put pen, notebook and tape in her bag, smiled at them all and said, ‘Thanks.’
Jury said, ‘Phyllis, what were you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ she murmured, ‘but now we’re at the head of
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