Trick of the Mind, Page 6

  James simply sighed and shook his head.

  “Well,” he said, “let’s order, shall we? And then you can tell me what happened to poor Sergeant Gibbons.” He beckoned the waiter. “Shall I decide?” he asked.

  It was their usual arrangement, James having a reputation as a gourmet, and Davies nodded acquiescence.

  James’s good humor seemed to return as he discussed the merits of various dishes and ingredients with the waiter, but with the ordering of their meal accomplished he turned serious again.

  “So you think this shooting is connected with the Haverford case?” he asked.

  Davies waggled a hand. “We just don’t know at this point,” he said simply. “Everything is being considered.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “We don’t know that, either,” said Davies, frustration in his voice. “For some reason, Gibbons went to Walworth last night and was shot in the street around nine o’clock. That’s the sum total of the facts at the moment.”

  “And your job is to either rule in or rule out the Haverford case as a connection,” said James, nodding. “Well, I don’t know that I can tell you much. Let’s see …” He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers in front of him while he marshaled his thoughts. “The interview with the Colemans was largely inconclusive,” he said slowly. “I came away thinking it unlikely they were running a scam, though they’re a difficult couple to make out. Particularly her.”

  Davies raised an eyebrow. “So why were you inclined to exonerate them?” he asked.

  “Oh, it wasn’t anything to do with our interview,” said James. “It’s just logic. The robbery looked quite professional, or so I gathered from your forensics lads, and I didn’t see how two people only recently arrived in England would have the necessary connections. On the other hand, the fact that they may well be planning to leave the country means they could conceivably keep the insurance money and sell the jewelry elsewhere in the world. Well, I’m sure you’ve worked that out for yourself.”

  Davies nodded thoughtfully and sipped at his wine. “Yes, I explained to Sergeant Gibbons that the pieces themselves were worth more than just the value of the jewels in them, and that only someone very desperate for money would be likely to sell the jewels off individually. I take it the Colemans don’t seem desperate to you?”

  “Not a bit of it,” answered James. “I admit that I found Mrs. Coleman very enigmatic, but there was nothing enigmatic about her clothes. Designer labels and two-hundred-pound Italian shoes—not the wardrobe of anybody desperate.”

  “No,” agreed Davies. He shook his head. “I don’t see myself that Gibbons’s attack can have anything to do with the case, unless he had somehow got on to the thieves and confronted them last night.”

  James was shaking his head, too. “I can’t see how,” he said. “Unless it was all a monumental coincidence. Even if he had somehow discovered who our thieves were, your Sergeant Gibbons is no fool—he would never have confronted them without backup.”

  “No,” said Davies with a sigh. “Did he say anything to you during lunch that might give us a clue?”

  “I did most of the talking at lunch,” admitted James. “We started by going over our interview, but then the conversation went from there to the arts world in general and the type of people who commit crimes involving art or jewelry. Sergeant Gibbons was pumping me for information and, well, there’s no denying I have plenty to give.”

  “And no objections to giving it,” added Davies with a smile. “What did you think of the Yard’s favored son?”

  “Oh, I was most favorably impressed,” said James. “Although, if you want my opinion, Gibbons isn’t going to stay in Arts Theft. He doesn’t have that flair for the artistic that the best of us have, and although an eye for art can certainly be learned, it’s just not his natural bent.”

  “That’s more or less what I thought myself,” admitted Davies. “Nevertheless, he’s clever enough that I thought he would be quite useful while he was assigned to me.” He looked rather glum over this lost opportunity, but then redirected his attention with an effort. “So,” he continued, “there was nothing said during lunch that gave you any notion of something amiss?”

  “None at all.”

  “And what time did you part?”

  “Oh, it must have been about two or half-past. I took a taxi after we left the restaurant and Sergeant Gibbons started off for the tube. That was the last I saw of him.”

  “And he turned up at the Yard at about four,” murmured Davies, running the timetable through his head. “So he must have stopped somewhere along the way.”

  “I was going to ask,” said James, “what you’d found out from the other end of the case.”

  “Nothing.” Davies scowled. “I’ve put feelers out, and may yet get something—it’s early days, after all—but so far no one’s picking up any rumor of a big theft like this. I’ve got one lad who’s a very reliable source for this kind of thing, but he’s come up empty-handed. In fact, if Gibbons hadn’t been shot last night, I was planning to meet with you both today to look at the scam angle. But now you tell me there’s nothing there, either.”

  “Well, the bloody jewelry went somewhere,” said James. “And we certainly can’t have Scotland Yard sergeants wandering about getting shot. I don’t know that the Haverford robbery has anything to do with it, but if it does, I’ll ferret it out, I promise you. I’ll work double time on this case whether it’s outright theft or a scam, and I won’t stop until we’ve got it cleared up and know for sure and certain if it was the reason Gibbons was attacked.”

  “Thank you, Colin,” said Davies. “I appreciate that, and I’m sure the sergeant will, too.”

  And in truth he did feel better. He was a more than competent detective, but James had what amounted to genius in cases like this.

  Detective Sergeant Chris O’Leary had barely got three hours’ sleep and in consequence his blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He was normally a rakishly handsome young man with black hair and fair skin who had much success with the ladies. He was a few years older than Gibbons and had only received his promotion to sergeant during the past summer, but despite Gibbons’s much earlier promotion, the two men had been friends ever since Gibbons had joined the force.

  O’Leary might be short on sleep, but his mood—at least as he presented it to Gibbons—was upbeat and full of good humor.

  “We’ll sort it out, never fear,” he said encouragingly when he stopped by the hospital on his way into the Yard. “You just concentrate on healing up so we can have you back on the job.”

  Gibbons grunted. Everyone seemed very intent on reassuring him, but he did not want palliatives, or to be told that his colleagues were handling everything; he wanted to be handling it himself.

  “So you didn’t find out anything last night?” he asked. “No one saw anything?”

  “Not that they wanted to say,” answered O’Leary. “You know that neighborhood, Jack—they don’t talk to the police if they can help it. But Lambeth station has everyone out this morning. I haven’t been down there yet, but I rang as I was coming in, and DC Cummings tells me they’re bringing in everyone who reported hearing the shots last night. They’ll dig up something in the end, I’m sure.”

  Gibbons merely grunted again and shifted cautiously while O’Leary hid a yawn behind his hand.

  “Carmichael’s not turned up yet,” he went on, “but Inspector Hollings is already down in Walworth, and Inspector Davies is off looking into your robbery. I don’t suppose you think the shooting was connected to that, do you?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely, does it?” said Gibbons. “I mean, I’d barely started investigating—I don’t remember most of yesterday, but I can’t believe I solved the case between lunch and dinner.”

  O’Leary grinned. “It would be like you if you did,” he said.

  Gibbons waved this away. “Nonsense,” he said, in no mood for flattery. “On the other hand,” he a
dded, “I can’t see why anyone else would want to shoot me. I wasn’t robbed, was I?”

  “No,” said O’Leary. “They gave me all your effects in hospital and your wallet was there and everything accounted for. You had your ID, two credit cards, an Oyster card, and twelve pounds, seventeen pence.”

  “That sounds about right,” sighed Gibbons. “I can’t remember what money I had left, but it was certainly less than twenty quid. So when did you find me?”

  O’Leary obliged with a recap of the events of the previous evening, passing over his own horror at finding his colleague lying in a pool of blood on the street with a pack of frantically busy paramedics ministering to him while the rain came down.

  For his part, Gibbons felt grateful for any information that helped fill the gaps in his memory. He kept thinking that with enough reminders he would eventually remember more, but so far this hope had come to nothing.

  Carmichael was thoroughly out of temper with himself. He had intended to rise early and make another visit to the hospital before getting on with the day at Scotland Yard, but instead he woke too late to do anything but shower and grab a quick cup before setting off for work. He was the more annoyed as he knew he was now at an age where he could no longer do without sleep as he had in his youth, but refused to admit it to himself.

  Despite having got nearly five hours’ sleep, he felt anything but alert and the messages backed up on his mobile phone testified to the fact that his underlings had got ahead of him, making him even more irritable. He left for the Yard having snapped at his wife and been tartly reproved for it, and tried to take stock of all his messages along the way. He intended to ring Gibbons when he was done, but he was still sorting it all out when he arrived at his office and in his hurry to get hold of Hollings he forgot.

  When Carmichael stormed into the office, Chris O’Leary was on his sixth cup of coffee and really did not think he could stay awake much longer. The sight of his superior striding past—without so much as a glance to acknowledge the sergeant’s presence—stung him to alertness, and he straightened in his chair as he watched Carmichael turn out of sight around the corner. There was a pause and then O’Leary—who was waiting for it—heard the door of Carmichael’s office slam shut.

  The appearance of his superior in a foul mood had given O’Leary a shot of adrenaline; he dropped the cold remains of his coffee into the bin and turned with a sigh back to the computer, whose screen was beginning to blur before his eyes. But it was only a moment before he heard Carmichael’s heavy tread returning and he looked up, startled to find the chief inspector frowning down at him.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Carmichael demanded.

  O’Leary swallowed. “Inspector Hollings told me to look into Gibbons’s past cases,” he replied, trying to keep his tone perfectly even and innocent. “To find out,” he added when Carmichael continued to glower at him, “who might have been released from prison lately and be holding a grudge.”

  “And are there any?”

  “I’ve only found one so far, sir,” answered O’Leary. He did not mention that he had made slow going at his assigned task because he kept falling asleep and had to stop and walk around the office to wake himself up.

  But Carmichael’s frown disappeared. “Who is that?” he asked. “One of my cases?”

  “Yes, sir,” said O’Leary, turning to his notebook. “I have it here—Frank Mulligan was released a fortnight ago. He was convicted—”

  He broke off as Carmichael waved an impatient hand. “Scratch that,” he said. “Frank Mulligan couldn’t successfully shoot anybody on the best day he ever had. Anyone else?”

  O’Leary shook his head. “Not yet,” he answered. “Most of the people Jack has helped to put away are still in prison.”

  “Well, that makes sense,” said Carmichael. “Gibbons has mostly worked murder cases, and he’s only been a detective for the last four years or so—murderers usually get a much longer sentence than that.”

  There did not seem to be much to say in reply to this obvious fact, so O’Leary contented himself with nodding agreement while Carmichael rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful.

  “What’s really wanted,” he said, “is to nail down Gibbons’s movements yesterday. Davies left me a message saying the poor lad doesn’t remember Tuesday at all.”

  “He doesn’t seem to,” agreed O’Leary. “I stopped by the hospital on my way in today, and found Jack fretting over the memory loss.”

  Carmichael sighed. “I haven’t been by the hospital yet,” he said guiltily.

  O’Leary wasn’t sure what to say to this, either, and there was a brief silence.

  “Well,” said Carmichael briskly, “if Gibbons can’t tell us himself, we shall just have to ferret out his movements on our own. Davies seems to have made some progress—he said in his message Gibbons had lunched with that insurance investigator. He mentioned a report, but I didn’t see it anywhere on my desk.”

  “I think he sent it by e-mail, sir,” said O’Leary. “At least, that was what he said he was going to do when he stopped by earlier. He waited a bit for you, but then went off to see if he could come up with anything on the robbery Gibbons was investigating.”

  Carmichael was looking cross at the thought of having to delve into his e-mail file; the chief inspector had never really taken to the new medium. In his opinion, e-mail merely gave people a chance to bother him with things they would never have thought of troubling him with back when they would have had to actually pick up the phone and speak to him. An idea occurred to him and he looked about, frowning as he failed to find the person he was looking for.

  “Where’s Constable Lemmy?” he demanded.

  “He’s here somewhere, sir,” answered O’Leary. “He’s been here ever since I came in.”

  “Probably at the bloody vending machine,” muttered Carmichael. “Tell him I want him when he comes back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Leary stifled a yawn as Carmichael turned away. Blinking industriously, he tried to focus on the screen before him, then sighed and gave it up. He thought Carmichael was very likely right about where Constable Lemmy was and it reminded him that he was out of coffee.

  He stretched and rose, but encountered Lemmy before he was many steps away from his desk.

  “DCI wants you,” he told him, jerking a thumb in the direction of Carmichael’s office.

  Lemmy nodded stolidly, and turned his steps in that direction. O’Leary watched him go, a little perplexed by Lemmy’s lack of reaction. When he had been a newly christened detective constable, any mention of a DCI would have sent him trotting alertly off, eager to demonstrate his abilities. But since he had arrived at the Homicide Department, Lemmy had exhibited none of the bright-eyed enthusiasm, which was the normal earmark of new detectives. He was also a rather silent young man, which made him difficult for his colleagues to make out. He was amiable enough, and willing enough, but he appeared to be oddly lacking in interest in his supposed chosen profession.

  When O’Leary returned with a fresh coffee, he found Carmichael waiting impatiently by his desk.

  “Here I am, sir,” he called, hastening his pace. “Did you want me for something?”

  Carmichael muttered something O’Leary was too far away to catch, but the chief inspector’s tone was not encouraging. He turned a blue-eyed glare on O’Leary.

  “Did you leave here with Gibbons last night?” he demanded.

  O’Leary was taken aback. Subsequent events had superseded the ordinary routine of leaving work with a friend from his mind, and the unexpected memory brought him up short. “Er, yes, sir,” he said, swallowing. “We stopped by the Feathers for a pint. We often do if we’re leaving at the same time.”

  Carmichael rolled his eyes. “And it didn’t occur to you to tell me?” he said. “Even though I had just stated the importance of tracking Gibbons’s movements yesterday?”

  O’Leary shook his head mutely, chagrined to be so caught out
.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he offered. “It was such an ordinary thing, I’d actually forgotten it.” He frowned. “Did Gibbons mention it in his report or something?”

  “Lemmy noticed the two of you walking out together,” answered Carmichael. “It’s a miracle he did—it’s about the first thing he’s noticed since he’s been here. Well, come along—out with it, lad. What time was all this? And did Gibbons give you any notion of where he was going when you parted?”

  O’Leary thought furiously but had to shake his head in the end.

  “No, sir,” he answered. “I had a date last night, and left the pub before he did. That was about half-six.”

  “And nothing unusual struck you during your conversation? Gibbons didn’t seem worried, or on edge, or anything?”

  “No, sir,” said O’Leary again, rather wishing he had something to report that was not negative. “It was quite an ordinary drink after work. He told me about these jewels that had been stolen, and I told him about the case I was working on.”

  “Hmm.” Carmichael hitched a hip onto the edge of O’Leary’s desk and folded his arms while he thought. “You’re on the Pennycook murder, right? I don’t remember much about the case—the victim was an old-time criminal, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir,” said O’Leary. “Alfred Pennycook was a fence down in Walworth, and had been for decades. He did a couple of stints in prison for it along the way, but he was getting old for the game. Sixty-three he was, and as far as we’ve been able to make out, what business he still did was mostly carried on by his nephew. The old man had emphysema and didn’t get around much anymore. It’s hard to make out why anybody would want to kill him—by all accounts, he hadn’t much longer to go—so Inspector Hollings and I have been looking into old grudges. There’s no lack of them.”

  “Yes, I remember now,” said Carmichael. “Old Pennycook was involved in the big McDonald jewel heist, way back in the seventies, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right, sir. He went to prison for that one—his first time, although from his record, he’d been in a fence for years, only nothing could be pinned on him before the McDonald robbery. He got out early for good behavior.”