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  DUST

  RICHARD JURY NOVELS

  The Man with a Load of Mischief

  The Old Fox Deceived

  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

  OTHER WORKS BY MARTHA GRIMES

  The End of the Pier

  Hotel Paradise

  Biting the Moon

  The Train Now Departing

  Cold Flat Junction

  Foul Matter

  Belle Ruin

  POETRY

  Send Bygraves

  MARTHA GRIMES

  DUST

  A RICHARD JURY MYSTERY

  VIKING

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi — 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2007 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Martha Grimes, 2007

  All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1877-8

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  To the memory of

  my father, my mother, and my brother

  This is just love. It’s nothing like the storm.

  Clive James, “After the Storm”

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  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

  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 CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  THE FIGURE IN THE CARPET

  ONE

  Benny Keegan whistled his way down the hall of the Zetter’s fifth floor, his small dog Sparky obediently at his heels. Benny hoisted the tray on one hand, as he’d watched Gilbert do. The French press slid a few inches and the cups rattled a bit, so he lowered it and held it with both hands. He needed practice.

  Not that the hotel would ever hire him as a waiter; they’d said a sixteen-year-old would need a lot of “seasoning” to acquire that job. The ones who had interviewed him laughed at the word “seasoning”—food, get it? Benny got it and in his head went one better. He was only thirteen: I lied, get it?

  Thirteen, but what he lacked in height and experience he made up for in depth—in his glance, his sober expression, his seeming seriousness, and his experience of the world.

  And they’d gone on: “As you’ll be in the kitchen, mostly on the washing up, and the late shift too…”

  Now here he was, with his unhired dog, pinch-hitting for old Gilbert Snow, bringing coffee on a tray.

  He knocked at the door. No reply. Knocked again. What was the drill? Old Gilbert hadn’t gone into the finer points, given the guest had ordered coffee separately from his dinner; given that, this guest should be here. He knocked again. He had Gilbert’s key card. (“Keep that safe now, young Benny. No one needs to know; I’ll only be gone for a bit. Got to get meself topped up.” His laugh was phlegmy as he pulled on his coat.)

  But the door had given in to the last knock, had opened a quarter inch, and now Benny pushed it delicately, again announced himself. “Room service.” No
one answered. He hoped he hadn’t got the wrong room. He and Sparky were all the way into the dimly lit space and looking around. Right or wrong, it was posh—really modern, or modish. Not three-hundred-quid-a-night posh, but he wouldn’t mind stopping here for a night—sheets on the bed white as glare ice, towels you could pitch a tent with, wood polished to gleaming. Very nice.

  A long ledge against the left wall that could be used as a desk or a table held the dinner service that Gilbert had delivered an hour or so ago. Heavy cutlery, good china. Remains of a hamburger, chipped potatoes, little pots of mustard and ketchup and pickle, their contents slathered around on chips and a half-eaten burger. Where was this person? Maybe gone down to the entrance to speak to the desk clerk or something. Not to the restaurant, hardly, if he’d gotten room service. The sliding door was open to the balcony—patios the hotel called them—and Sparky had gone out there to nose about. All the rooftop studios had them, and this one was really big. He might be out there, enjoying the April night.

  Sparky started up barking, so Benny, still with his tray, stepped out onto the patio. There were a couple of metal chairs out here, and a table. Plants, big ones in big pots. That was when he saw him with Sparky sitting beside. The man was lying face up or face skewed in an uncomfortable position near the table.

  Benny held fast to the tray, the French press shivering, the little cups clicking. The tray felt glued to his hands. He took some deep breaths, trying to start his thinking going again. He kept on clutching the tray and staring down at what he could see of the man’s face. Yung, kind of. Probably a nob; that was a really good jacket he was wearing. But it wasn’t so good now, not with that wide blood stain across it.

  He finally managed to set down the tray. He pushed the dog aside and bent down to get a better look, only to see more he’d have to turn the body over and police didn’t like that, he knew. He had to call the hotel manager or someone, but not yet. After all the agro he’d gotten down in the kitchen, he wanted to be in charge for once, just a few minutes to be in charge of the situation.

  He looked at the man, thought him young. He was certain he was dead; he’d seen dead and it looked altogether different than a coma or passed out. (He’d seen plenty of passed-outs under Waterloo Bridge.) Dead was a look of departure, of left, of the last good-bye, of gone. Still, he should check the signs—vital signs they called it. Like an artery in the neck? That was the best place. He knelt down and put his fingers on the spot where the neck met the shoulder. Nothing, no little throb or anything.

  He heard his own heart hammering away.

  The man was dead, no question. Benny stood and looked carefully around the patio for a sign of something, not sure what. But that’s what detectives did. They looked.

  Your eyes might alight on something amiss or out of place like that. Hands on his hips, Benny slowly rotated his head, looking carefully around. But the balcony was swept absolutely clean.

  Benny whistled for Sparky to follow and went back into the room. He noticed again that the nob’s supper was half eaten. Did that mean the shooter had interrupted him in the eating of it? Or had he not been all that hungry? Burger, potatoes with a couple lines of ketchup over them, house salad. So what this bloke had told Gilbert when he’d brought the dinner was he wanted coffee later for two.

  Two. Well there you have it, plain as the nose on your face: man hears a knock, goes to the door, says hi, and his mate comes in. Maybe the dead bloke sits down to finish his meal and—Benny raised his hands, left gripping right and fired his imaginary pistol. Pow!

  Sparky had his nose tucked in a corner by the telly. Benny bet he could pick up stuff your police K-9s left behind in the dust. He was smart.

  Taking care, using the white napkin from the tray as a glove, he went through the man’s pockets—knowing he wasn’t supposed to touch anything, but bloody hell, he wanted to find some identification. There was a wallet in the hip pocket, which he drew out and opened carefully. There he was.

  Benny took out his own tiny address book. It had once belonged to a big soft doll in the Moonraker bookshop, where he worked afternoons. The doll was called Traveling Girl and was all tricked out in coat and hat, and with a suitcase and this address book. When the owner said she might as well give the doll to Oxfam, as obviously nobody wanted it, Benny had asked for the address book. He didn’t want the doll. Well, actually, he wouldn’t’ve minded having it, but how would he look, a big lad such as he, carting a doll with a suitcase around?

  He had listed two numbers in the address book. (He knew them by heart, but he still liked referring to his address book.) One was the Moonraker. He found the other one and went to the phone and dialed.

  Richard Jury was sitting mostly dressed in his Islington flat in a very contented mood, listening to the shower in his bathroom spilling down over arguably the most beautiful shoulders in the Greater London area.

  At the same time he hoped that the feet clattering down the stairs from the third-floor flat were not aimed at his door.

  Do not stop here, Carole-anne. Do not knock. Do not come in and ask, “If you’re on the sofa, who’s in the shower?” Unlike the majority of prayers sent up, this one was answered. The noisy clodhoppers continued on to the front door, which opened and closed….

  (Thank you, God…) …then thought better of it and started back.

  (…for nothing. Yes, thanks for setting me up and then pow! Right in the kisser.)

  Tap tap tap, heels on the floor.

  Rap rap rap, hand on door.

  Jury cupped his hands around his mouth: “I’m taking a shower! Come back later!”

  Silence, then the feet moving off. Jury settled back into his former state of dazed contentment and picked up his tea.

  Front door again. Different steps. Softer, slipperlike: flap flap flap. They stopped at his door.

  This would be the tenant in the basement flat who rarely came to his door. Mrs. Wasserman. There was a gentle rapping of old knuckles.

  This time Jury got up hurriedly and made tracks back to his kitchen to give his voice more distance to travel. “I’m in the bathroom!” In the bathroom, the water drummed down.

  Muffled words came from the hallway. He crept back to the sofa and heard the slipper tread move away, the building’s front door open and close.

  He sighed heavily and picked up his mug of tea.

  A scrabbling sound on the stairs alerted him. The scrabble stopped at his door. Then silence. Then a brief thumping.

  My God! Had he no private life? Was he the poster boy for Interruptions, Inc.? Was he the standard-bearer for “You-Have-No-Secrets-from-Us, Ltd.?” Was his personal hell going to be a hallway down which an eternity of footsteps come and go belonging to people he could not see?

  Oh, the bloody hell with it! He got up and flung open his door. “Come in, come in, never mind your coming is unbelievably poorly timed! That’s my girl in the shower, smartening herself up. When she comes out you can ask her lots of questions about who she is and what she’s doing here in my shower. Our love life’s an open book. Come in. Come in. Can I get you something? Beans on toast? A quart of gin?” Jury stood aside and swept his arm from door sill to living room in a welcoming way. The dog walked in.

  The dog plopped itself down and yawned.

  “What? Bored already? Oh, I’m sorry we didn’t bring a doggy bag from the restaurant with that leftover caviar. Would you like me to rustle up a crème brûlée? Cadbury bar? Bone?”

  Jury reached under a foot rest and pulled out a heavily chewed raw-hide number and slid it over to the dog.

  “Who’re you talking to?”

  Jury hadn’t realized the shower had stopped until he heard her voice.

  “Stone. The dog from upstairs.”

  Phyllis’s wet head popped out of the door. He could see the top line of a towel wrapped around her chest. She ducked back in. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Take your time. We’ve got all of Islington coming through.” But he said it t
o himself, for the bathroom door had closed.

  So he talked to Stone for a while. Nothing earthshaking, just pleasantries, as they both settled comfortably back.

  The phone rang. Of course! It was only half past ten; what was keeping people?

  It was Benny Keegan on the other end.

  Jury was astonished. “Benny! How are you? Where are you? What’s going on?” It was understood Benny could call him anytime, day or night. The boy never had before this.

  “I’m at the Zetter; it’s this posh place in Clerk’nwell. Clerk’nwell Road it’s on. See, I got me this job here where I help in the kitchen some nights.” Benny lowered his voice. “Tonight they’re low on staff, on room service, and they asked me to take up a tray to this guest.”

  Jury smiled. The last time he had checked, Benny Keegan was thirteen. The hotel must have rescinded the child labor laws. But this was hardly the time to bring up age. “Go on.”

  “I take this what you call a French press—too many nobs in this place for my tastes—on me tray up to the fif’ floor. I knock and the door kind of opens. Still I knock and keep knocking but nobody comes. So I goes in and nobody’s in the room and I goes out to the balcony. See, rooms on this floor all have them. Then I see him. He’s dead, in’t he?” That last part was more or less squeaked out.