Vertigo 42 Page 19

  The crowd around him was seething and yelling. Jury held his ID up in the air and called out “Special Ops Unit. We’re holding all of you on felony charges. Who’s the organizer of this event?” He wasn’t expecting an answer. But that announcement sent some of the crowd surging toward the door where Arsenal was, presumably, on the other side and used to this noise.

  Both of the dogs were being held now by their owners or handlers, and it would have been very hard to pick out the winner. They were in awful shape, bleeding and with broken bones. Neither looked as if he were eager to carry on.

  “You got no rights here, mahn,” said the referee, a Nigerian Jury thought by the look of him.

  Jury didn’t bother answering that aimless charge. He had Animal Control on his mobile. He told the person at the other end what was going on and where and asked them please to send their officers as soon as possible.

  Then he called the police.

  ____

  “Too bloody bad we can’t take the lot in right here and now,” said Karl Mindt, the man in charge of this unit from the SPCA as he watched the dogs being carried on small stretchers out to vans. “There are kids here; that’s obviously illegal. Not the best way to get them to relate to the animal world. We’ll collect all contact information for all this crowd; we can deal with most of them later. You know this goes on all over London. That kid’s parents should be put away.” He nodded toward a bewildered-looking boy of seven or eight.

  “I never would have guessed at fights in lifts.”

  “Fights just about anywhere these idiots can find an enclosure. Trunk fights are popular. Throw two dogs in the trunk of a car and drive around for a while. Teens don’t bother as much with guns now. Instead, they lead these dogs around. They’re status dogs. And if one gang meets up with another, they can always let the dogs go at it. Superintendent, I’ve been at this job for thirty years and will never fail to be amazed at what people think to do to animals. If such ingenuity were put to work in support of the public good, the crime rate in this city would be halved.”

  Jury watched the officers at the door letting the onlookers file through only after they’d collected their contact information. He said, “You know these online adoption services?”

  “I do. Some of them serve this business.” He looked toward the pit.

  “Ever hear of one called PetLoco?”

  “PetLoco?” Mindt looked disgusted. “No, but the name alone gives me the creeps. Marsha!” He called over to one of the officers at the door. Marsha was taking down names. She was a burly-looking woman who Jury would want on his side, not on his opponent’s. She moved toward them.

  “Marsha here knows a lot about those Web sites.”

  But not about PetLoco, she said. “In general there’s a lot of trafficking in APBTs. You know, American pit bull terriers.”

  “PetLoco’s site doesn’t give an address,” said Jury. “I’d like it.”

  Marsha honked out a laugh. “No surprise there. They don’t want us turning up to go through their computer files. Brixton’s a good bet, since a lot of this shit goes down there.”

  “Can’t go into files without a warrant, too bad,” said Karl Mindt.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about a warrant anymore.”

  Mindt laughed. “Better be careful with that talk, Marsha. This guy’s a superintendent, Scotland Yard.”

  Marsha looked at Jury with eyes the color of steel balls. “Not a rat’s ass. Sir. Nice to meet you.” She walked away, then threw back over her shoulder, “I’ll get you an address, Superintendent.”

  Jury called out his thanks, checked his watch. He was astonished that only an hour and forty-five minutes had transpired since he had set foot in John McAllister’s flat. “Mr. Mindt, thank you very much for getting here so fast and taking care of this. I’ve got to be somewhere.” He put out his hand. Mindt shook it.

  Jury said to McAllister, “John. If this had been an audition, you’d have been hired by the police several times over. Are you used to facing down crowds like this? People like this?”

  John McAllister was wiping blood from his hands. “The dogs’, not mine. I’ve come on the odd fracas in Kenya.” He didn’t elaborate. “Ready to go?”

  “Bloody right, I am.”

  New Scotland Yard

  Saturday, 9:15 P.M.

  31

  Dr. Phyllis Nancy was still in the white-walled rooms of the mortuary, gazing down at one of London’s latest victims. In this case, a middle-aged woman. Dr. Nancy was speaking into a recording device that hung by a wire hooked to a pole.

  Phyllis Nancy was the most dependable person Jury had ever known. She was a legend. She was always where she said she’d be and when she said she’d be there. If she promised an autopsy report by 3:00 P.M., it was in the hands of the person who wanted it by 3:00 P.M. Given the uncertain and chaotic lives of those who did the policing of London, Dr. Nancy was really that old cliché: the lighthouse, the beacon in the dark. One wag, a detective known for his drinking habits, called her “the cocktail hour.” “As dependable as five o’clock.”

  There were many reasons to love Phyllis Nancy, and Jury knew all of them.

  She stopped speaking into the recorder, replaced it, and saw him. “Richard.” Her smile was bright. Then she added, after looking him over, “Where in the name of God have you been?”

  “A dogfight.” He told her how that had happened.

  She was taking off her green cotton top. Beneath it she wore another shade of green in a cashmere sweater. “You look in need of a very stiff drink.”

  “How’d you guess? If you’re finished.” He held up the folder Macalvie had given him. “I want your opinion on something.”

  She tapped the device she’d just been speaking into. “After I write this up. I promised DS Stevens by ten.” She looked apologetic.

  Jury checked his watch. “It’s almost nine-thirty. Can you do it in a half-hour?”

  She looked at him as if he’d missed something. “I’ve got to.”

  Jury laughed. “Meet you at The Feathers when you’re done, okay?”

  The bright smile returned. “Fine.”

  ____

  The Feathers sat across the road from New Scotland Yard, near the St. James Tube station, an old two-story pub that served good beer and passable food.

  Phyllis came in spot on 10:10. He didn’t need to ask if she’d gotten the autopsy report to DS Stevens. She crawled up onto one of the high stools. “Half-pint of Guinness, thanks.” She pulled over the file folder by his arm. “I’ll have a look at this while you’re gone.”

  He went to the bar, looked back to see her reading, head down, chin propped between hands.

  When he was back, setting down their mugs, she said, “This was twenty-two years ago, Richard. Why—?”

  “Why am I into it now?” He told her about meeting Tom Williamson, about his visit to Laburnum with Macalvie.

  She looked down at the last page of the report. “The main theory was accidental death. It says she suffered from vertigo.” Phyllis frowned.

  “I think it was murder. So does her husband.”

  She nodded. “So should the coroner, it seems to me. First, a fall down a flight of long steps wouldn’t have enough momentum to take you all the way to the bottom; you probably wouldn’t get more than halfway down. It would take, really, a headlong dive in order to carry yourself to the bottom of these stairs. A running leap, something like that. If you just lost your balance, or if you, say, swooned, as one might from vertigo, the fall would have you landing much farther up the stairs. And given the evidence here”—she turned the pages and pointed—“the blood, the shoes, the flowers scattered down the steps didn’t reach the bottom. If she’d wanted to kill herself and make it look like an accident there are far better ways to do it. Why choose one that in all likelihood is not goin
g to work?”

  “That’s what Brian Macalvie said.”

  “Your cop friend in Exeter?” When Jury nodded, she added, “I agree with him. So accident isn’t likely, not with the way she went down. Why was that put forward as a theory?”

  “Because there wasn’t evidence of anything else, and because of her vertigo. Her history of that automatically made it appear to be accidental. She’d taken falls before, fainted, swooned, whatever.” His mobile twitted. He fished it out. “Jury.”

  Melrose Plant told him they were all at the Blue Parrot: Trueblood, Vivian, and he.

  “You’re really trying to find this other dog?” He was looking at Phyllis, whose eyebrows went up, fractionally. Jury smiled. Phyllis had never been one for the grand gesture, not even in the matter of a raised eyebrow. Then she rose, gestured toward the bar, and walked off. Phyllis would do that: absent herself from others’ space.

  Jury listened as Plant told him about the various views in the matter, then said, “Aren’t you going rather far afield, gathering at the Blue Parrot—” Melrose interrupted, telling him the Blue Parrot was the field, after all. “You think there was another dog . . . oh, yes, the Tallboys’s dog . . . Now it’s a dead dog?”

  Phyllis was back with two packets of salt and vinegar crisps. She sat down, opened one as Jury said to Melrose, “You’re ignoring the obvious.” When Melrose asked why he’d do that, Jury answered, “Because it’s more fun.”

  Squawk from Melrose. “Look, if you don’t mind,” said Jury, “I’ve got company. We’re having a right rave here, so let’s continue this discussion after you’ve found a dead dog. ’Night.” Jury snapped the mobile shut, stuck it back in his pocket.

  Phyllis had been trying not to overhear, turned away from him, looking out over the room, but now she turned back. “Dead dog? Is that code for something?”

  “No. It’s really a dead dog. I mean, it would be if they found it. Which they won’t. Melrose Plant.” As if that explained the call to the world. “My friend in Northants. It has to do with the man who was shot in the alley.” Jury explained the whole Stanley-Staffordshire ­terrier thing.

  “Great heavens.” Phyllis ate a crisp and turned this over in her mind. Then she said, “This woman went off the tower on the Monday night and the man was shot on Saturday? Do you think their deaths are related?”

  “I can’t imagine how.” Jury took a few crisps, ate one, drank his beer.

  “Well, try. I mean, this is a little town in Northamptonshire. I’d guess the homicide rate in—what’s the name?”

  “Sidbury.”

  “The homicide rate in Sidbury is minus zero. Now here are two murders in five days. And you don’t think there’s some connection?”

  Jury took another drink, ate another crisp. “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

  “You’re supposed to be on a week’s holiday. Lord, but you have the most interesting holidays. Who needs Greece? Who needs Rome?”

  “Not when they have you.” He munched on another crisp.

  Putney

  Sunday, Noon

  32

  * * *

  The address that Karl Mindt had passed along to Jury from his coworker Marsha was a terraced house conversion-to-flats in Putney.

  Jury and Wiggins were standing in front of the panel with mailboxes located on the ground floor just inside a set of glass doors. The logo printed on a card and taped to the mailbox of number forty-one showed a dog whirling about, mouth agape, tongue out, eyes crossed, as if the dog had gone crazy.

  “It thinks itself pretty cute,” said Wiggins. “But are they sending out the right message with that logo?” Wiggins rarely employed an ironic tone.

  “I don’t think they’re sending any message at all. I’ve an idea they don’t have one.”

  “Number forty-one. Sounds like four flights up. No lift.”

  “We’ll steel ourselves.”

  The same “crazy dog” card was taped to the door of number forty-one. The expression on the face of the young fellow who came to the door was not unlike the dog’s: mouth slightly open, one eye wandering off. His uninviting greeting was “Yes?”

  “We’re here about your pet-locating service.”

  “Sorry, the office isn’t open to the public. We’re an online service. If you want, the Web address is on our card.” He produced one from his shirt pocket, handed it to Jury, started to close the door.

  “If you want,” said Jury, sticking his foot between sill and molding, “our address is on our card too.” Jury shoved his card toward the kid.

  “I don’t—” Then both Jury and Wiggins had their IDs out.

  “Bebe!” the kid gave a yell, turning toward wherever Bebe was. The door opened wider because his hand, which was on the knob, turned with him.

  Jury could then see a frizzed ginger-haired head poking out of a door on the left.

  “What?”

  “Police.”

  The rest of Bebe followed. Jury thought her a bit old for the tight jeans, the cherry red, off-the-shoulder top, and the spike heels.

  Bebe in turn looked at the card and IDs.

  Wiggins said, “And you are—?”

  “Brenda Bluestone.” From her jeans pocket she pulled what resembled a Nicorette and popped it into her mouth. Jury was familiar with Nicorette from the hard days of stopping smoking. He felt a moment’s sympathy for Brenda Bluestone. “They call me Bebe.” She continued. “I can’t think what you’d want. Has somebody complained? We’re a sorting business; we can’t help it if a person is unhappy—”

  “We can exchange information inside, Miss Bluestone.” Jury smiled.

  Once in the PetLoco official office, she said it again, “I can’t think why police would come round.”

  There was a big metal desk with a computer facing away from Jury and Wiggins where Bebe-Brenda sat. Along the wall behind her was a long shelf that held three more computer screens. The screens were filled with small pictures of dogs, cats, and the odd rabbit. Their locations were given below their pictures. Jury could make out a few: Bermondsy, Shoreditch, Fulham. On the wall above them was a big poster featuring some two dozen dogs.

  “What’s this about?” asked Brenda while Jury and Wiggins were settling in folding chairs that Wiggins had pulled over from the mismatched ones around the room.

  “Just a few minutes of your time, Brenda.”

  “Call me Bebe,” she said with a twinkly smile they were unlikely to get again.

  Call me Ishmael. Jury said, “Thanks. This is just a routine inquiry that has to do with a woman in Northamptonshire—Sidbury’s the name of the village—who’d contacted you for a dog and had paid for a Staffordshire terrier. Her name is Tallboys. Hildegard Tallboys. Could you look up that account?”

  “You understand we have a strict confidentiality policy—”

  “Oh? Did that Maltese on the screen behind you have you sign a document?”

  She was not amused. “Our clients don’t want their details given out. It’s like adopting children. See—”

  “It’s nothing of the sort.”

  A flush spread up from Bebe’s throat over her face, lending her even more color. With great reluctance she typed in the client’s name, at least Jury presumed so.

  “Yes. That’s her. Crutches Close, Sidbury, Northants.”

  Jury nodded. “According to Miss Tallboys the dog was to be delivered on Tuesday, but wasn’t. Your records must show that.”

  Bebe kept looking at the screen, as if something would appear that would help her situation. “Well, not exactly. The delivery of the dog was never confirmed.”

  “But it’s been six days. Don’t you follow up? Miss Tallboys claims she called that evening to tell you and also the next morning. And that she got a runaround.” This was Jury’s invention.

  Now Bebe’s fro
wn deepened as she brought her face closer to the monitor. “I don’t understand why there’s no record of such calls.”

  “What about your coworker, the one who answered the door?”

  “Nigel? Oh, he wouldn’t know anything. He doesn’t handle listings or deliveries. He’s a kind of night watchman, isn’t he? He sleeps here.”

  Jury wondered about this but didn’t pursue it. “Who was the person in charge of taking this dog to its destination?”

  “We don’t give out—”

  Wiggins got in on this one. “Miss, we’re from Homicide, not the RSPCA. This is a murder investigation. There’s a dog was to be delivered to this Miss Tallboys by Thursday. That didn’t happen.”

  “But two other things did,” said Jury. “A man was murdered near Crutches Close, and a dog, a Staffordshire terrier, was found wandering around by a resident. The dog was wearing a leather collar with a metal name plate: STANLEY. Jury was aware that for the length of this recitation, Brenda Bluestone was sinking like the Wicked Witch of the West, after Dorothy tossed a bucket of water on her. “So who was the handler of Miss Tallboys’s Staffordshire terrier?”

  Bebe was recovering quickly. At least enough to post a denial. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

  Jury rose. So did Wiggins. “Then we’ll have to come back with a warrant.”

  “And then,” added Wiggins, “you’ll likely know what we mean.”

  Bebe waved them back down, temporarily furious. “Listen, it’d be my job if I gave out information like that. Instead, why’n’t you ask Digby? That’s Digby Horne, he’s the owner of PetLoco. Tell him about the warrant, I’d like to see his face.” She gave them the details, address in South Kensington, and phone number. Wiggins took it down in his notebook.