Trick of the Mind (16 page)
Authors: Cassandra Chan
She laughed heartily at this idea, and shook her head. “You’re a kind lad, but I’d never keep it all straight. I’ll go find myself a cuppa and have a chat with the nurses.”
“Thanks, Mum,” said Gibbons, smiling at her to show he appreciated her tact.
“Don’t you tire yourself out,” she replied. “You see to it he doesn’t, Phillip.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bethancourt meekly.
Grinning faintly, Gibbons returned his attention to the report. His vision seemed oddly fuzzy, and he had to blink rapidly several times to make the print come into focus.
It was very strange indeed to be reading about his own actions—and to recognize himself in some of the dialogue quoted—and yet to have no recollection at all of the events described. He read doggedly, rather admiring the amount of detail O’Leary managed to cram in, although privately he thought his own writing style was superior. He tried to drink in all the detail, but found himself reading many parts twice in an effort to keep it all in his head, something he would never have had to do in the normal way of things.
All in all, it was quite some time before he reached the part where O’Leary mentioned the Pennycook murder.
“Pennycook?” he said, feeling confused. “In Walworth? Is that why I was there?”
He looked up to find Bethancourt stifling an enormous yawn.
“What?” said Bethancourt, reaching up to resettle his glasses on his nose and push his hair out of his eyes. “Oh, right, the murder. Well, no one knows why you went haring off to Walworth. Do you think you would have, if you had a good idea about the case after O’Leary left?”
Gibbons frowned and looked doubtful. “It doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” he asked. “I mean, why wouldn’t I simply have rung
O’Leary? Why should I take myself all the way down to Walworth when it’s not even my case? And,” he added, more practically, “it wouldn’t have taken me till nine to get from St. James to Walworth in any case.”
O’Leary? Why should I take myself all the way down to Walworth when it’s not even my case? And,” he added, more practically, “it wouldn’t have taken me till nine to get from St. James to Walworth in any case.”
“No,” agreed Bethancourt. “But we don’t know what time you did get there. You might have been investigating for hours.”
Gibbons was unconvinced. “No.” He shook his head. “If I’d had an idea about O’Leary’s case, I might just have checked it out a bit before telling him, but I would never have spent hours investigating it without him.”
“True,” said Bethancourt, stroking his chin and looking thoughtful. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. So you must have been fairly recently arrived when you were shot.”
“Only if I was there looking into the Pennycook thing,” said Gibbons. “If I was there for some other reason, well, there’s no telling really.”
“Might you have gone to look at a pawnshop?” suggested Bethancourt.
“What?” demanded Gibbons, looking totally lost. “Why on earth should I have done that?”
“Well, you were investigating a jewel robbery,” explained Bethancourt. “Stolen jewelry has to be fenced, doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t have to be fenced in Walworth,” retorted Gibbons.
“But I was thinking that O’Leary’s talk of pawnshops and jewelry might have made a connection in your head.”
Gibbons closed his eyes. “If it did,” he said in a moment, eyes still shut, “it’s not there now. And I still don’t see why I would have gone to Walworth, particularly not after all the shops were shut.”
“Oh,” said Bethancourt, crestfallen. “Yes. They would have been shut by then, wouldn’t they?”
“Good Lord,” muttered Gibbons wearily. “Things have come to a fine pass when your thinking isn’t any clearer than someone whose head is stuffed with morphine.” In fact, he rather resented Bethancourt’s muddied thinking. It seemed to him that if anyone was justified in having impaired reasoning, it was himself, not his friend.
Bethancourt grinned sheepishly.
“I had this whole Pennycook connection thrown at me too early this morning,” he complained. “There I was, all absorbed in elite jewel thefts, and then Carmichael wakes me up at an ungodly hour and tosses this grotty little murder at me. What do you expect?”
Gibbons started to laugh, which shifted the tube in his throat and made him cough instead. Which in turn made him cringe with the pain and curl onto his side, shivering.
“God, I’m sorry, Jack,” said Bethancourt, truly penitent. “I never thought—I’m sorry. Do you want me to do anything? Should I ring—”
Gibbons waved a hand at him to quiet him, and Bethancourt obediently fell silent. But Gibbons, even with his eyes closed, could feel his friend hovering, tensed and ready to leap into whatever action might be called for.
Slowly the worst of the pain receded and he was able to catch his breath and ease himself back up on the pillows. Bethancourt was sitting bolt upright in his chair and Cerberus was on his feet, watching him as if deciding whether or not he needed rescuing. Gibbons managed a wan smile to reassure them, but in truth he was done in for the moment.
“I think we’d better finish this later,” he said hoarsely.
“Right,” said Bethancourt, popping to his feet. “I really am dreadfully sorry, Jack.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” said Gibbons, a little irritated by this third apology. “Just come back later, all right?”
“Certainly,” said Bethancourt, gathering up his coat. “Count on it. Cerberus, come.”
Gibbons, left alone, swallowed carefully, shifted his position slightly, and then lay very still until he fell into a fitful doze.
Dead Ends
T
wo days’ worth of work had produced a wealth of negatives, thought Carmichael sourly as he gazed down in frustration at the list he was endeavoring to make of Gibbons’s movements on Tuesday evening.
wo days’ worth of work had produced a wealth of negatives, thought Carmichael sourly as he gazed down in frustration at the list he was endeavoring to make of Gibbons’s movements on Tuesday evening.
He was compiling the schedule from a wealth of brief reports that had been filed, it seemed to him, by half the London constabulary, and which outlined some of the many things Gibbons had not done on Tuesday night. He had not returned to the Yard, or been seen at his flat in Hammersmith or at any of the nearby establishments that he was known to patronize there. Here his landlady, who lived upstairs, had been very helpful, pointing out the various pubs, restaurants, and shops Gibbons often went to.
Gibbons had not entered the underground station at St. James, and interviews with various bus drivers were still ongoing. He had not eaten at any of the usual haunts of young detectives in the area.
But in all the piles of paper before Carmichael, there was not a hint as to where Gibbons had gone or what he had done when he got there.
“Why the devil,” muttered Carmichael to himself, “couldn’t it have been a balmy summer night with half the population out on the street? That would have been some help.”
But, of course, it hadn’t been. It had been a nasty, blustery, cold November night, the kind of night on which everyone hurried home as quickly as possible, their attentions firmly fixed on their own warm firesides.
The phone rang and Carmichael picked it up with a growl. Ian Hodges, however, had never been known to be impressed by anybody’s temper but his own.
“The mobile’s done,” he announced without preamble. “I’m faxing the list of numbers over to you now.”
“Gibbons’s mobile?” said Carmichael, rather surprised.
Hodges snorted. “Of course Gibbons’s,” he answered scornfully. “Would I be ringing about anyone else? And don’t bother me about the notebook,” he added in a warning tone. “It’s in awful shape and we’re working as fast as we dare. If you want it unreadable, you can have it now.”
“It won’t do me any good if I can’t read what’s in it,” retorted Carmichael. A sudden awful thought occurred to him. “You are going to be able to salvage it, aren’t you, Hodges?”
“Remains to be seen,” replied Hodges shortly. “There. Jennings says your phone list has gone.”
And he rang off.
Carmichael picked up the fax himself, but then sent Constable Lemmy to make copies of it and to do the tedious work of matching the unidentified numbers with their owners. In his present mood, he hadn’t really much hope the numbers on Gibbons’s mobile would lead anywhere, but at least it was something new to work on.
The rain had stopped when Bethancourt emerged from University College Hospital, so he turned without much thought in the direction of Regent’s Park. He liked to walk when his mind was occupied; strolling along with his dog at his side and perhaps smoking a cigarette was his preferred method of letting his thoughts wander and seeing what came of it. And Cerberus was more than happy to let his master indulge himself in this.
So they turned into the gray world of the park in winter, walking briskly to keep warm and trying to avoid the puddles—as well as the raindrops, which periodically blew off the tree branches—while Bethancourt tried to avoid thoughts of Gibbons wrung out with pain in his hospital bed. There was no doubt the incident had unnerved him.
“Life’s a funny old thing,” he observed to his dog while he strolled along and tried to recover his composure. “One thinks one’s prepared for it, but there’s always something around the corner one’s never thought of.”
Cerberus wagged his tail, keeping most of his attention on a squirrel running across the lawn some distance away.
“Right,” said Bethancourt. “Back to business. Only I don’t seem to be getting very far with this business. It could be,” he added, somewhat despondently, “that I’m not much of a detective without Jack.”
Cerberus’s silence was disdainful, or so it seemed to his master.
Bethancourt sighed, and tried to think positively. Surely there was some line he could pursue on his own. He could hardly hope to find the jewelry himself, not with both Colin James and Scotland Yard hot on the trail, but perhaps he might contribute some color to the picture they were painting.
“What about the other people mentioned in Miss Haverford’s will?” he asked aloud.
After all, so far as he could make out, the Colemans had not, until recently, played much of a role in Miranda Haverford’s life. It could be possible that either her maid or this Ned Winterbottom had believed they would inherit the jewelry, and upon discovering that they did not, had taken steps to insure that they would receive it anyhow. If Gibbons had suspected that, it would provide either of them with motive to shoot him. Well, Bethancourt corrected himself, not the maid, since she was dead, but her heirs.
He rather suspected that this was exactly the kind of flight of fancy that Carmichael had been referring to earlier, but it was all he could think of.
“I’ll need to talk to the solicitor,” he muttered to himself. “Which means I’ll need an introduction. Someone must know the blighter.”
Cerberus had paused to inspect the base of a tree, so Bethancourt took the opportunity to take out his mobile and ring his own solicitor. Ronald Fairclough, Esq., was meeting with another client, but his secretary assured Bethancourt he would ring back at the earliest opportunity.
“It’s nothing important,” said Bethancourt. “I only want a favor. Tell him to take his time.”
That accomplished, and the tree duly marked by Cerberus, the two moved on. And Bethancourt, looking down at his pet, had another idea.
“I can’t very well demand Chief Inspector Carmichael or Colin James keep me abreast of their investigations,” he said. “But James does appear to enjoy walking his dog of an evening. And you’ve not been for a nice ramble on Hampstead Heath for a long while, have you, Cerberus? A casual meeting on the Heath isn’t at all the same thing as importuning a mere acquaintance.”
Cerberus seemed to agree; at least he wagged his feathered tail in what seemed to Bethancourt to be approval.
“We’ll go this evening, then,” he said, well satisfied with this plan.
That left what he should do at the moment. It was beginning to rain again, so he whistled to Cerberus and turned back, still puzzling over this question. He had just decided that he had better find some other distraction while he waited for word from his solicitor when his mobile rang. But it was not Fairclough.
“It’s a perfectly awful day out,” said Marla. “I just nipped out to pick up some salad doings, and I got chilled to the bone. So I bought some champagne and orange juice.”
A smile was playing about Bethancourt’s lips. “You’re a woman of infinite resources,” he said. “Are you warm again now?”
“I could use a bit of help there,” Marla admitted. “Also, I think I could use some help with this champagne. Now I’ve got it home, it looks an awfully big bottle.”
“I am at your command,” said Bethancourt. “I shall be round at once.”
“Good,” she purred. “I’ll get out of my boots and coat and see you soon, then.”
Inspector Grant Davies smoothed his tie and regarded Martin Bloore thoughtfully.
They were sitting in a pleasant pub just off New Bond Street. The establishment had been refurbished for the tourist trade with pale woods, cozy upholstery, and wide windows that let in the thin afternoon light.
Across the table from Davies, Bloore sat at his ease, an overweight man with a cherubic face and round blue eyes, dressed in bespoke tailoring. He habitually wore a slight smile, indicative of arrogance, but it was absent at the present moment in the interests of sincerity. The problem was, Davies believed him.
“Truly, Inspector,” Bloore said. “I haven’t got your jewels.”
Davies smiled. “But, Martin,” he said, “that’s what you’d tell me if you had got them.”
“Nonsense,” replied Bloore automatically. “If I had found them, I would naturally alert the police at once like any good citizen.”
Davies let this pass at face value. “Of course you would,” he answered. “I never implied otherwise, did I? I merely asked if, in the course of your business transactions, you had possibly heard of some less principled citizen who might have an eye for heritage jewelry.”
But Bloore shook his head. “Odd things do sometimes come to my ears,” he admitted. “Only rumors, of course, but they stick in the mind nonetheless. But not in this case, Inspector. If you ask me, somewhere out there is a group of smash-and-grabbers, scared out of their wits. They’re probably sitting on the jewelry with their knickers in a twist even as we speak.”
“But in that case,” objected Davies, “you’d have thought they would have tried to unload their bounty before they realized what they’d got. I understand, of course, that sort of thing would be beneath your radar, but I’d have expected my own sources to get wind of it.”
“True, true,” said Bloore, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s a mystery.”
And Davies, however unfortunately, believed it was as much of a mystery to Bloore as it was to himself. But Bloore would be looking now and some judicious surveillance should alert him if the old criminal found anything.
“Well, thanks for meeting me, Martin,” he said, swallowing the last of his beer.
“Always a pleasure to be of help, Inspector,” replied Bloore, the slightly condescending smile returning to his round face.
But it was very odd, thought Davies, as he buttoned up his overcoat and adjusted his scarf before leaving the pub. He had contacted Bloore because if a big heist like the theft of the Haverford jewels had been in the planning, he would have expected Bloore to get wind of it. Not necessarily that Bloore would have known exactly what was afoot, but he would have been aware that certain people had disappeared from the scene, and he might have been willing to mention a name or two to Davies. Particularly if Bloore had no reason to believe he himself could lay hands on the jewels. Bloore knew well enough that if Davies could take him down, he would, but thus far Bloore had avoided that fate, and by occasionally making himself useful, he ensured that he did not become Davies’s top priority.
But if Davies was any judge, Bloore had heard and noticed nothing. And considering how easy the theft had been to carry out, that might mean that it was an amateur job, which would leave the field wide open.
When Gibbons next came to, his father had arrived and it was apparently lunchtime on the ward from the sounds of carts and trays coming in from the hallway. His father was hunched over a battered paperback edition of
Far from the Madding Crowd,
his thick fingers keeping the pages spread apart on his lap. He looked up when he heard his son stir.
Far from the Madding Crowd,
his thick fingers keeping the pages spread apart on his lap. He looked up when he heard his son stir.
“Hullo, lad,” he said, smiling a little, but not as falsely or brightly as his wife. “How are you doing, then?”
Gibbons blinked and remembered to swallow cautiously around the tube in his throat before answering, “Well enough, I suppose.”
“You’re a bit pale,” said his father, eyeing him judiciously, as if evaluating the quality of a cut of meat. “It’s a pity about this infection thing.”
“It’s more the damn tube than anything else,” said Gibbons. “Have they given you any idea when I can have it out?”
“Not much longer, I don’t think,” his father answered. “They said they only leave it in for a few days after surgery. And of course they wanted to make sure no further surgery was needed. But they seem to have decided you’re holding together all right.”
He grinned at his youngest son, and Gibbons managed a wan grin back.
“I’m glad of that, at least,” he said.
“There was a young man here,” continued his father. “Said he’d come back when you were awake.”
“What did he want?” asked Gibbons suspiciously.
“He didn’t say. He only had a clipboard, though. Maybe it’s something about the national health.”
“Brilliant,” muttered Gibbons. The very last thing he needed was to have a bureaucrat added to his endless list of medical visitors. It felt as if they could not leave him alone for five minutes.
“Ah,” said his father. “Here’s the lad come back again.”
“Hello, Mr. Gibbons,” said the new arrival. “I’m Ernest Fursdon, your physiotherapist.”
Gibbons regarded him sourly. Fursdon was a trim, painfully fit young man about Gibbons’s own age, and looking at him reminded Gibbons that before he had been shot, he had been meaning to make a few sit-ups part of his morning routine. Fursdon’s regular features were attractive without being handsome and somehow made his face very forgettable, at least in Gibbons’s opinion.
“I’m here to get you moving again,” continued Fursdon. To his credit, he said it quite seriously, without the trace of a cheerful smile.
“So soon?” asked Gibbons’s father doubtfully, while Gibbons continued to regard this apparition from his bed with a baleful gaze that suggested he was sizing up his chances of successfully strangling the man, or at least turning him out.
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