Richard Jury Mysteries 10: The Old Silent Page 4

  "Billy Healey was walking along a public footpath with his mum—correction, stepmum, which it seemed to make a big difference to some minds—walking along this footpath about four hundred yards below their house on the coast, an isolated house—"

  Jury nodded to Wiggins quickly to pick up the extension. Wiggins did, very quietly, getting out his notebook at the same time.

  "—near Polperro. That's about thirty, forty miles from Plymouth— Wiggins. How's January treating you?"

  As if that were a cue, Wiggins sneezed and said hello, himself. "How'd you know I was here?" Wiggins smiled at this little magic act of the divisional commander's.

  "Nobody breathes like you, Wiggins. It's an especially uplifting sound. Shall I start again?"

  Said Jury, "I think I can remember those details. I'll try hard."

  "Let's hope so. Anyway, it was around four, maybe a little after, and they were walking. Nell Healey—that's the stepmother—said that they'd been walking the path so that Billy could look for bird eggs. They usually did this in the afternoon, she said, even though they never found any, but it was a fantasy both of them seemed to get a kick out of. Anyway, Billy said he was going in to fix some sandwiches for him and Toby. Toby was indoors.

  "The way his stepmother put it, Billy ran and walked by turns over the ground back to the house and would turn and wave every so often." He paused and Jury heard some rustling of papers and what sounded like the click of Macalvie's cigarette lighter.

  Wiggins frowned. "Thought you'd given that up, Superintendent."

  "I wish you'd join my forensics team, Wiggins. They can't see their own shoes much less through telephones."

  "You know what your doctor—"

  "Wiggins." Jury gave him a look.

  "Oh, sorry, sir. Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Macalvie. He'd just gone back to the house for the sandwiches."

  Macalvie continued. "He didn't come back."

  There was a pause and an uncharacteristic clearing of his throat, as if something had lodged there. One might have thought the divisional commander was getting emotional.

  Wiggins didn't take it this way: "How many packs a day are you up to by now?"

  "Into thin air, you'd think. She waited and finally went back to the house. Thought he'd got caught up in some game with Toby, couldn't find either of them, and then thought maybe he was doing the hide-and-seek bit with her. So for a while she wasn't anxious. And, of course, it's not like losing sight of your kid in the middle of Oxford Street or Petticoat Lane. Then she looked outside, everywhere, and then she called the police. Do you want all this detail or just the highlights?"

  "I'm amazed you remember all this detail. It wasn't even your case."

  Another pause. "Well, let's say I took an interest. A kid being held for five million in ransom money—"

  Wiggins whistled, went on writing.

  "That's a case you can hardly avoid developing an interest in. And watching Goodall making a right cock-up of it. There was one botched attempt by his men to make contact with the kidnappers. I was detective sergeant then." The tone was a combination of wistfulness and wonder.

  Even Macalvie had once been a constable. Even as a divisional commander, he didn't hesitate to do constable's duty. Jury had watched him write a traffic ticket once. Macalvie's net got tossed out and anything that came up he inspected closely. Anyone else in his position would throw back the little-fish cases. Macalvie would dissect minnows. "You assigned yourself to it, more or less?" asked Jury, smiling.

  "I got myself assigned to it."

  Even as a police sergeant, Macalvie was known to be better than most of the men on the force.

  "You know the story about the actual investigation; you've obviously read the accounts—"

  "I'd rather hear your version."

  "I don't blame you. I got myself assigned to the Healey case because there is nothing, nothing as touch-and-go as an abduction. I'd sooner try to balance on razorblades than negotiate a kidnapping. You know the pressures that exist there and the chances of getting the person back. The need for rational thought. Well, it's pretty hard to be rational when it's your kid. And let me tell you the emotions churning round that house could have bulldozed half of Dockland."

  " 'I've told you and told you not to come here alone,' Citrine—Nell Healey's father—kept saying. People love hindsight; we'd rather look back any day than forward. What a scene, what a scene. Blaming the kid's stepmother for not taking better care of him. Then there was the father, Healey, who was pretty much useless, ranting around and yelling at the mother—stepmother, excuse me—'How could you leave him alone, Nell? Didn't you ever stop to think Billy might be a target for kidnappers?' I ask you, Jury. 'Mummy, I'm going to make a sandwich,' and she's supposed to be sitting there wondering if he'll be kidnapped? Okay, I'm not a father—"

  Jury smiled slightly.

  "—but it seemed to me old Roger could have been offering comfort and succor to his wife instead of hurling insults. Citrine was at least level-headed enough to get down to business. He seemed pretty cool, though it was taking its toll on him, obviously."

  Watching the tiny spider repairing its web, Jury asked, "How did she react? Nell Healey? What did she say to all this negligence bit?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?" Jury frowned, looked over at Wiggins scratching away on his pad. He was better than a tape recorder.

  At the other end of the telephone, Macalvie let out a sigh. "Nothing. She was sitting on a window seat, a kind of bay window, and looking out, as if to sea. I thought she was out of it, frankly. In shock, or something. All the while Goodall was talking. He had a very soothing voice, and he was trying to assure Citrine—all of them—that the police were doing everything in their power. He gave the Kidnapping Speech, or what I think of as the Kidnapping Speech: 'Mr. Healey, as we're dealing with a crime that can mean life imprison-

  ment, it's always possible that the victim might be harmed in some way. Naturally, you need some assurance that the boy is still alive—' The Kidnapping Speech went on. How, if Citrine paid this ransom, it would be best to have a detective go with him, the usual crap. Argument over more police intervention further endangering the boys' lives. Argument over marked bills. Argument over police going along. Argument over publicity. Argument over Roger Healey insisting on paying, period. Charles Citrine talking to somebody from the bank—there was a V.I.P. there from Lloyd's. It went on."

  "But Citrine finally refused to pay up."

  There was another pause. "It wasn't Citrine, see."

  "The ransom wasn't paid."

  "Citrine was directing the Lloyd's person to get the money ready. I was sick of listening to the usual codswallop of junk about 'options' and 'alternatives.' So I said, 'You hand over that money and you're signing both those kids' death warrants.'"

  Jury shook his head. "That's the 'negotiation'-type thing we're talking about?"

  "Jury, you know and I know, and I'm sure Goodall knew the chances. Not just the chances but the game. You know the way people like that think—"

  "I wish I did."

  "Then I'm telling you: they say to themselves, Now I've got the money, what do I do with the evidence? Especially if it has eyes and ears? At least until they get the money, there's a chance they'll keep the victim alive."

  "I'm not arguing with you, Macalvie. Tell me the story."

  Another pause. It seemed to worry Macalvie if someone wasn't arguing with him. Some people were like that; they needed it just to sort things out. Macalvie wasn't asking for approval; he was asking for consultation. "Okay. The minute I said that, they all started rabbiting on, the biggest rabbit being Superintendent Goodall, who quickly told me to shut up. Actually, he went frostbitten with anger. Roger

  Healey shouted at me. It was the "how-can-you-know?' routine. Citrine looked pretty ashen, but at least he was trying to keep his head. Finally, he said, 'You might be right. But then you might be wrong.' "

  "That pretty much covers the ground."
He could almost see Macalvie smile. "Then?"

  "Then he said he'd pay any amount of money to get Billy back."

  "But you changed his mind?"

  Silences from Macalvie were unusual. There'd been at least three in this accounting, and now there was another. Jury could almost hear the air hum out there in Exeter. "No. It was Nell Healey's mind. She turned her head from that window she'd been staring through and gave me a look that could cut diamonds. I must admit it even pinned me to the wall. Well, you've met her—"

  "Just go on, Brian."

  "And she said, 'I think you're right; don't pay it.' And then she turned back to the window. Here I thought she wasn't taking in anything, that she was in shock, that—well, let me tell you, that got to me, that did. Apparently, she'd been taking it all in: Goodall's speech, the others' yelling, her old man's intentions—all of it. And hell broke loose. I thought Roger Healey would throttle her right then and there. It was the exact opposite scenario, wasn't it? You see all these films where the wife is wild, tearful, pleading for the rational husband to pay, pay, pay."

  "But he didn't. I don't understand, if it was two against one."

  "It could have been a dozen against one. She had the money."

  Jury sat up suddenly. "I thought it was Roger Healey's or the father's money."

  "No way. Those two had some, sure. Healey had a little, Charles Citrine quite a bit of his own. But not five million, not that kind of money. It wasn't them the kidnappers were holding up; it was the stepmother. She had the money. Her mother Helen's money, apparently, a fortune. Some left to the husband—but he had his own, anyway—a bequest to the sister-in-law, the rest to her daughter."

  It was true that the accounts said that the Citrine-Healey family had refused to pay the ransom. Not which one of them. Charles Citrine had been the spokesman; therefore, the assumption was that it was his considered opinion that the police were right; paying the money would do nothing to insure his grandson's safety. Indeed, it might jeopardize it.

  Jury's head was in his hand; he was thinking of Nell Hea-ley, remembering those hours during which he'd followed her.

  "Eight years later," said Macalvie, "she kills her husband. Why?"

  Rubbing his hand through his hair as if that might wake up his brain, Jury said, "I don't know, Macalvie."

  Another silence. "That is one awesome lady, Jury."

  Thus did Nell Healey join the ten percent of the population Divisional Commander Macalvie could live with.

  5

  The narrow house in the street in Mayfair was flanked by a jeweler and an art dealer, both of them so pricey that each shop window displayed only a single piece: a sapphire necklace that seemed to float above its crystal display pole; and, in the art dealer's, a single painting in a heavy gilt frame suspended by nearly invisible wires. Mayfair itself seemed suspended in some dimension that escaped the pull of gravity.

  Inside the offices of Smart Publishing, Jury found another dimension of light and muted sound—sylvan music piping from hidden speakers that went well with walls painted watery yellow; the rooms, the hallway were relieved only by an off-white that shaded into the pale color. It had the look of meringue, possibly conceived by the editor of the cookery column.

  From what Jury could tell in the reception room where he sat thumbing through Segue, there were two other magazines—a glossy one called Travelure, and an artier number called New Renascence. He loved that title. It was devoted to, or divided between, haunts and habitats of the moneyed. Interiors filled with marble, mauve curtains, Kirman carpets, and gloved servants; al fresco scenes by sun-beaded pools; acres of landscaped gardens and deep-shadowed paths through cypress and lacy willows, made for trysts and meditations. A world, in other words, that existed nowhere except between the covers of New Renascence.

  Segue was by far the most serious of the three, in addition to being the most expensive, the richest and glossiest. No tales of the buskers' lot here, Jury was sure. On the cover was a serious-looking, serious-minded cellist against a backdrop of blue velvet. Jury was trying to place the name, but giving up because he knew he'd never really heard of the cellist, when the receptionist walked in with a cup of coffee. Bone china, not plastic.

  She stopped short and asked him his business. He told her he had an appointment to see Mr. Martin Smart. When that failed to budge her, he added (after shoving his warrant card forward), or anyone else who just happened to know Roger Healey—did she, for instance? That sent her quickly to her desk, where the china cup and saucer rattled as she picked up the interoffice phone.

  Having got the okay, she said, in a high, strident voice that detracted from a soft, mellow body, that she would take him to Mr. Smart. Three flights up, and they hadn't a lift.

  He followed her from staircase to staircase. Her hips swayed nicely beneath the gray silk dress whose shadows shimmered and dissolved as she moved. Otherwise, everything about her seemed to come to points: the tips of her breasts and the tips of her shoes; her chin, her tilted eyes, the wing shape made stronger by artful application of kohl liner; her glimmering hairdo of shellacked, highlighted spikes. She reminded Jury of a small, rocky promontory. As he followed down the hall of the top floor, he felt a pang; it was poignant in a way; for she now reminded him of a thirteen-year-old getting herself up in an older sister's garb, who would have been excessively pretty had she not tried to be glamorous.

  She stood at the doorway of Mr. Smart's office, which was empty of Mr. Smart, and said, "He'll be here in just a minute."

  Jury nodded. "Thanks." When Jury smiled at her, she smiled herself, but uncertainly, and kept her hand on the porcelain doorknob, swinging the door slightly back and forth, biting her lip, perhaps thinking she might linger there herself for the moment of Mr. Smart's absence. She had very small white teeth. Definitely thirteen, he decided, even though she was thirty.

  Jury seated himself in a pricey-looking leather chair that seemed, in its softness, to fold around him. The dark green walls stenciled in old gold beneath an old gold molding, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the library steps, the mahogany escritoire that housed a wet-bar, the massive desk, the Italian leather furniture all struck Jury as expecting the imminent return of the CEO. The desk itself was piled with papers and magazines, all artfully arranged in stand-and-deliver stacks. Jury craned his neck to look at the wet-bar. No cat in there; Mr. Smart had settled instead for Courvoisier and hand-cut crystal. The whole office looked hand-cut. Indeed it was the most bespoken-appearing room Jury had ever seen—everything measured, trimmed, and cut to precise tastes.

  Jury turned and half rose when one of the personnel (the only one not dressed to the nines that Jury had seen in these offices) stalked in, leaving in his wake a trail of papers, plunked the rest on the desk, and turned to leave, nodding to Jury.

  At least Jury thought he had turned to leave. Instead he folded his arms under sweaty armpits and asked Jury what he wanted, in an abstracted and rather unfriendly tone. But before Jury could answer, he'd navigated the lake of the desk, sat down, and reduced everything on it to a shambles within five seconds.

  Martin Smart made annoyed clicking sounds with his tongue, murmured he wished to hell she'd leave his stuff alone, how was he supposed to find a goddamn thing? The ordered desk files became a swimming mass. Apparently satisfied, he stuffed a cold-looking, rather shredded stump of cigar in his mouth, folded his arms, and sent papers aflutter as his arms clamped down on them. He said to Jury, "Something I can do for you? Oh, don't bother with that."

  Jury had bent in his chair to pick up a few of the orphaned papers that Smart had left in his wake.

  "I can find them easier if they're down there. What can I do for you?" he repeated, round his cold cigar. He seemed to be running his hands underneath the papers searching for matches, gave it up, opened a drawer, peered in, gave that up, and asked Jury if he'd like a drink.

  "No, thanks. Like a light?"

  Smart yanked the cigar from his mouth, looked at its unplea
sant condition, shrugged and said, "Why bother?" He put it down on the papers. "You're a superintendent, right?"

  "Right."

  Mr. Smart pursed his lips and shook his head in wonder. "How'd you get that high? Wha'd'ya have to do to get way up there?"

  He sounded genuinely interested, as if he were either doing a bio on Jury or thinking of applying for a job with the C.I.D.

  "It's not the rarefied air you might imagine. Chief superintendent, assistants to commissioner, and the commissioner himself. They're all above me. No one's above you."

  Martin Smart seemed to like this analogy. He smiled broadly. "Wrong. You're forgetting the readers." He squinted, leaned over his mess of papers, and said, "Superintendent Jury. Jury, Jury, Jury." He tapped a staccato beat with his index fingers. "Where've I heard that name? Oh, hell. You were the one at that place up in West Yorkshire when—"

  "Roger Healey was shot." Jury couldn't somehow bring himself to say murdered.

  Smart clapped his hand to his forehead. He made a quick turn in his leather swivel chair, rolled it over to the green-curtained window bay, sat like a patient in a wheelchair staring out from his hospital prison, then turned and inched the chair back. "Roger." He found a cigarette and a silver-brushed lighter that had managed to go missing under a cover of old Segue copies. "Hell."

  "You were close to him, were you?"

  "Not exactly. He wasn't a staffer; he was a contributor. But absolutely one of the best. First rate. A few times he'd bring in a piece and we'd talk. A nice man. A really nice man. Old Alice out there"—he poked his cigarette toward the hall—"had a real thing for him. All the women did. Well, he was nice to them, wasn't he? Bring round flowers and candy." He knocked some ash from his cigarette with the tip of his little finger. "A damned bloody shame, that was. No one can figure it out."

  "Did you ever meet Mrs. Healey?"

  "Never did, no."

  "Any of your staff know Roger Healey? Aside from the flowers and candy?" Jury smiled to take the bite from his tone.