The Knowledge_A Richard Jury Mystery Read online

  To my awesome grandson, Scott Holland

  (who could pass this test with

  one hand on the wheel).

  Also by Martha Grimes

  Richard Jury series

  The Man with a Load of Mischief

  The Old Fox Deceiv’d

  The Anodyne Necklace

  The Dirty Duck

  Jerusalem Inn

  Help the Poor Struggler

  The Deer Leap

  I Am the Only Running Footman

  The Five Bells and Bladebone

  The Old Silent

  The Old Contemptibles

  The Horse You Came in On

  Rainbow’s End

  The Case Has Altered

  The Stargazey

  The Lamorna Wink

  The Blue Last

  The Grave Maurice

  The Winds of Change

  The Old Wine Shades

  Dust

  The Black Cat

  Vertigo 42

  Andi Oliver series

  Biting the Moon

  Dakota

  Emma Graham series

  Hotel Paradise

  Cold Flat Junction

  Belle Ruin

  Fadeaway Girl

  Other novels, short stories, and poetry

  Send Bygraves

  The End of the Pier

  The Train Now Departing

  Foul Matter

  The Way of All Fish

  Memoir

  Double Double

  MARTHA

  GRIMES

  THE

  KNOWLEDGE

  A RICHARD JURY MYSTERY

  Copyright © 2018 by Martha Grimes

  Cover design by Daniel Rembert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  FIRST EDITION

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  Text design by Norman E. Tuttle at Alpha Design & Composition

  This book is set in 12 pt. Arno Pro by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH.

  First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: April 2018

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available for this title.

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2801-0

  eISBN 978-0-8021-4625-0

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  18 19 20 21 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Also by Martha Grimes

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Black Cabs

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Spooky Action

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Razorbite

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Heart of Dimness

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  The Blue Deer See

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Oceana

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Back Cover

  BLACK CABS

  London

  Nov. 1, Friday night

  1

  He was a dead man and he knew it.

  As soon as he ceased to be of any use to this bastard, the guy would shoot him.

  So Robbie Parsons had to keep on being of use.

  He was glad he’d earned his green badge; he was grateful for all of those months of routing and rerouting himself around London that had qualified him to drive a black cab.

  Robbie had maps in his mind. He would entertain himself, while cruising around looking for a fare, by setting destinations involving landmarks he would have to either pass or not pass in the course of getting to a certain location. Maps in his mind, so no matter where this black guy told him to go (and he’d told him nothing thus far), Robbie knew how to take the longest way round without raising suspicions. The guy behind him wasn’t a Londoner, but then most Londoners knew sod all about London, anyway. He was a South African, or Nigerian, or Kenyan—from Africa, not from one of the islands.

  Robbie knew this because he’d been driving every sort of person around for thirty-five years. Still, he wasn’t clever enough to sift through all of the countries in Africa to pin down which one this guy came from. Ordinarily, bits of small talk in the back would float up—a passenger mentioning Cape Town or Nairobi or Victoria Falls, something like that—but his passenger tonight was not interested in small talk. The silence loomed. Robbie had never known silence so heavy.

  But then he’d never known silence with a gun in it.

  It had been less than an hour ago that he’d been driving down Ebury Street, poking around in Belgravia and turning into Beeston Place where sat the Goring Hotel. He’d seen the doorman looking for a taxi, and past the doorman, the couple he was apparently getting one for, while trying to shield them with a huge umbrella. Not easy in this rain.

  They were a very handsome pair. Robbie pulled up in front of the Goring and the doorman yanked open the door and ushered in the woman, who was truly beautiful, hair as pale as moonlight, face like a pearl enhanced by her whitish-pink dress. The man was tall and dark and wore a dinner jacket beneath a black cashmere coat. He shoved himself into the cab, shaking the lapels of his coat to get the rain off, but careful not to get it on the woman.

  Robbie slid the glass panel open, said o
ver his shoulder, “Your destination, sir?”

  “It’s a club in the City. I was told it’s on a hard-to-find street.”

  Isn’t it all to the uninitiated?

  “The name of the club, sir?”

  “The Artemis. A casino?”

  “Very exclusive club, sir, one of the best in London. You’re lucky to be getting into it. The waiting list is a year long.”

  She said, “Why would anyone wait a whole year to get into a casino?” and then laughed.

  “I see your point, madam.”

  The man said, “They have all kinds of rules. You have to arrive at an appointed time and you really have to dress for it. Rather strange just to do a spot of gambling.”

  Robbie melted into the traffic heading toward Knightsbridge. “I think the Artemis considers itself as more than a casino. I’ve heard about those rules. They don’t want too many people there at any one time and don’t want a lot of cars crowding the driveway.”

  “I hope there’s no secret handshake involved,” she said, “because we don’t know it.”

  Robbie laughed as he lifted his hand to the panel, thinking it would’ve been easier for Eurydice to find her way back from the Underworld if she’d just flagged down a black cab instead of waiting around for Orpheus. Strange to think of this couple in those terms. Orpheus, right down into the Underworld to bring her back. Robbie just had the feeling this man would do it, for her.

  The man tapped on the panel and Robbie opened it again.

  “You can find this place with just the name?”

  “I can, sir, yes.”

  “You don’t have a GPS, though.”

  Robbie rolled his eyes. “No, sir. We don’t need those.”

  “That’s astonishing. Cab drivers in Manhattan—you’ve got to be able to tell them the nearest cross street to your destination. Once I asked the driver to take me to the Waldorf and he’d said, in that grumpy way New York drivers talk, ‘Whatsa cross street?’ Can you beat that?”

  The woman said, “I’ve always been amazed at how you drivers know this city.”

  Robbie was amazed at her amazement. Her accent said she was a Brit, but his was American, definitely. What kind of service were Americans used to? New York. How could you drive around a city and know it so little? What fun was that, to be a stranger in your own hometown?

  Now, having driven away from the Artemis Club, the black cab was in Old Broad Street in the City. The bloke in the back with a gun in his hand.

  Robbie tried to be cool. It wasn’t easy. “If you could tell me your destination—?”

  “When I need to tell you, I will. Drive.”

  All right, then. He’d drive to some congested area in the West End—Charing Cross or Piccadilly—hoping that might give him an opportunity.

  The quickest route would be to go around Bank and head down Walbrook to Upper Thames Street. Then to the Embankment. A route he had no intention of taking. This guy wouldn’t know the difference. Wherever Robbie was going, he wasn’t going in a hurry.

  At this hour on a Friday night the closest most congested area would be Piccadilly—from Green Park past the Ritz to Piccadilly Circus and Shaftesbury Avenue with its theaters—so he decided to head in that direction. But first he snaked around and came out on the A40, which he drove along to Holborn Viaduct. In another few minutes he made a right into Snow Hill.

  There he slowed down a bit as he looked around for police cars, but all he saw of police presence was a couple of uniforms coming out of the Snow Hill station. All of the police in the City should have been alerted by now. Carefully, he switched his bright lights on and off, on and off, and saw the coppers stop and turn and recede into the distance. The radio was out of commission, of course. The man had seen to that.

  “That was a police station back there.”

  “Yes, sir, there’s three thousand of them in London. Hard not to come on one.”

  The guy moved to one of the jump seats just behind Robbie, stuck the gun through the open panel again and said, “Try.”

  Robbie said nothing. He heard the weight shift back to the passenger seat.

  “Where are you headed?” the man asked.

  “West End.”

  “Why?”

  “As you haven’t given me an address, I’m just driving. As you said.”

  The man merely grunted.

  Jesus, thought Robbie.

  Twenty minutes before, Robbie had pulled into the half-moon driveway of the Artemis Club and up to the front door, quite free of other vehicles. You’d have thought the Artemis never had customers, from the lack of cars. That was undoubtedly because patrons were told when they could come and also because attendants took the cars and drove them to whatever car park the club paid for.

  Robbie had braked and was sliding open the glass panel when he was surprised to see an overweight woman in orange coming up the drive, her car possibly having been commandeered by one of the attendants. She was huffing up to the front door.

  “Is this it?” said the beautiful wife.

  “Yes, it is. You’d never know, would you?”

  “Very sedate,” she said, as her husband got out and went round to open the door for her. He paid Robbie with a little “keep the change” wave, and it was some change—it was a huge tip. The two of them, looking rich and handsome, stood for a moment as the lady in orange was about to go in the door.

  “Oh, I’m freez—” the wife started to say.

  But it was the moment that froze. Robbie heard an unfamiliar crack and the husband stumbled before he fell straight down, right on his face. A few seconds later, another crack, and the woman fell beside him. At first perfectly still, she then slowly stretched her arm toward her fallen husband. And then, dead still. Those beautiful people; that beautiful woman: her pale skin and Grace Kelly hair, all blending in with the diaphanous dress—Robbie thought, when he’d seen her in the Goring’s driveway, she was so white and lightweight, so insubstantial that she could have been blown away by the wind and the rain, transparent and spectral.

  A ghost, that’s what she’d looked like.

  Now fallen, a ghost was what she was.

  Robbie was completely befuddled; he shoved open his door, started to get out, when a large shadow fell across his path and he was pushed back behind the wheel, as, simultaneously, the intruder’s other hand put the radio out of commission by bringing the gun down on it like a hammer.

  The man yanked open the passenger door and piled in.

  “Drive,” said a deep voice.

  That, mate, thought Robbie, as if the words were a broadax breaking through a frozen lake of fear, could be your first mistake.

  From Snow Hill he drove to the Embankment, followed that into West End, took Grosvenor Road, turned into Chelsea Bridge Road and up to Sloane Square. On this side of the square there was a taxi rank.

  When he saw a police car pulled up at the corner of the King’s Road he considered speeding up or even broadsiding it or running up on the curb. But then not only would he likely be dead, so would the driver of the other car.

  Sloane Street was wide and handsome and undisturbed, not a glutted part of London. From where the police car was stopped, he skirted the square to the side that held the rank.

  “This Mayfair?”

  “Sloane Square. Chelsea, one side; Belgravia, the other. That’s the King’s Road up there.”

  His passenger said nothing.

  There were half a dozen taxis lined up at the rank, which surprised him as it was a wet Friday night, one of those times when people fought over cabs.

  He drove past the line as slowly as he could without giving rise to suspicion. As he passed the taxis, Robbie switched on the FOR HIRE part of his sign, then switched it off again. He did this twice more as he looked out of the passenger’s window to see if he knew any of the drivers. He recognized Brendan Small, if not an actual friend, a good acquaintance; he also thought he knew another driver—James somebody, couldn’t think of his la
st name. But he didn’t think they’d spotted him. He knew he couldn’t go round the square again, so he had to depend on this single try.

  He glanced in his side-view mirror and saw that Brendan was out of his cab, standing by the driver’s door and apparently staring in the direction of the King’s Road, which Robbie had just entered. Past Peter Jones, past a bus stop where several people, clearly tired of waiting for the number 22 or number 19, were trying to flag down a cab.

  He killed the FOR HIRE sign, but that didn’t seem to deter them. One or two watched the back of his retreating cab with a “How dare you?” look. Taking umbrage, Londoners were so good at that.

  Something caught Robbie’s attention in the mirror. There was a light winking two cars behind him. It was a black cab and the FOR HIRE sign was going on and off. Brendan! You old bugger, you, you’re answering my signal. Then he saw that behind Brendan another cab was turning his sign on and off. And behind that, there was yet another cab. No wonder the people at the bus stop were going crazy: it wasn’t just Robbie, but also three other cabs with their signs lit up refusing to stop when people tried flagging them down.

  How long would they follow? All he could do was consider his next move—getting from the King’s Road to South Ken, then Mayfair around the Green Park Tube station and the Ritz. When the fellow behind him suddenly said, “All right, all right!”—as if Robbie had been arguing with him all along—Robbie jumped.

  “We’ve been long enough driving that nobody could be following—”

  Not unless you consider three black cabs nobody.

  “Greenwich.”

  Greenwich, bloody hell. With its long lonely stretches of cavernous parkland, its scattering of terraced houses and empty playgrounds. “An address, sir?”

  “You’ll get that when we get to Greenwich.”

  Bugger all.

  He wondered if London cabbies were as good as he thought they were, which was the best in Europe. Best in the world, even. Forget America; we’re clearly beyond that. Ask the passenger for a cross street? Don’t make me larf.

  Robbie thought about all of the thousands of miles he and the other knowledge boys had to drive around London on their mopeds learning not just every street within a six-mile radius, but all of the theaters, like the ones on Shaftesbury Avenue, and in proper order, no, let’s not forget that; every bloody point of interest, every memorial, every monument—all of it etched on the mind. He could have crosshatched a sheet of paper with streets, monuments, restaurants and sports venues without referring to an outside source.