Trick of the Mind Page 7

  A smile had touched the corners of Carmichael’s lips. “I remember that robbery,” he said. “It made a big splash in the papers. They don’t make thieves like that anymore—it’s all knock’em over the head these days, more’s the pity.”

  “On the other hand, sir,” said O’Leary, “the violent ones don’t get out of prison for good behavior so easily.”

  “There is that, lad,” agreed Carmichael. “Well, back to business. What did Gibbons say about his own case?”

  O’Leary thought for a moment. “Nothing startling,” he said. “Mostly he was telling me what he’d learned about jewelry, and how different Arts Theft was from Homicide.”

  “He didn’t mention any theories he was working on?”

  “No, I’d have remembered that. He was saying that Arts Theft was more interesting than he’d thought it would be, and I asked if he’d ever consider a permanent transfer there.”

  “And would he?” asked Carmichael, very much hoping not.

  “He said not, sir,” replied O’Leary. “He said he didn’t think the job played to his strengths and besides, there was something visceral about a homicide investigation that he missed in Arts Theft.”

  Carmichael let out a little sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear that at least,” he said. “It’s the first good news I’ve had in two days. Very well. So the two of you talked shop over a couple of pints, is that what I’m to take away from this?”

  “Yes, sir,” said O’Leary. “Like I said, I had a date, and after I’d finished my pint, I had to be off. Jack hadn’t quite finished his bitter, but he told me to go on. So I did.”

  “So at half-six,” mused Carmichael, “Gibbons was sitting in the Feathers, finishing a pint. He’d want his dinner, no doubt, and so far as we know, he was done with his work for the day. He didn’t say anything about needing to finish anything up, did he?”

  O’Leary shook his head.

  “It almost sounds as if, whatever he was up to, it didn’t have to do with his case,” continued Carmichael. “Still, I’ll send Lemmy down to security and have them make sure Gibbons didn’t reenter the building after you’d left him.”

  “He might have had an idea after I went and wanted to check it out,” suggested O’Leary.

  “Exactly,” said Carmichael. “Well, I want you to think over your conversation with him, O’Leary, and let me know if anything else occurs.”

  “Of course, sir. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before now, but with all that’s happened, it seems as though that drink we had was a decade ago.”

  “Natural enough, lad,” said Carmichael, shifting his weight off the desk. “Let me go and read Davies’s report now, and you can go back to our old cases.” He paused, looking thoughtful, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want you to do something else for me, O’Leary. I want you to write as complete a report as you can on your conversation with Gibbons that night.”

  O’Leary, considerably startled, said, “Yes, sir,” rather doubtfully, and Carmichael waved a hand.

  “I know,” he said. “It may be a waste of time. But it’s the only thing we know for certain about how Gibbons spent his evening. He may have made a remark which will jog his memory, if it doesn’t come back on its own. Do your best for me, O’Leary.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “And let me know if you hear from Hollings.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Leary returned to his chair with a sigh, closed his case file window, opened a blank Word document, and sipped at his nowcold coffee.

  4

  The Haverford Case

  Bethancourt woke last of all. The exigencies of the night before had exhausted him, and he slept like a log in consequence, not waking until a full eight hours had passed and the early-winter evening had already begun. A quick call to the hospital reassured him that Gibbons was not going to peg out just yet, so he set about his usual morning routine, walking Cerberus to the newsagent’s for the paper while the coffee brewed. Back at the flat, he arranged himself comfortably at the kitchen table, black coffee and newspaper before him, lit a cigarette, took a sip of the hot brew, and opened the paper to look for any report on Gibbons’s shooting.

  Some two hours later, he had showered, changed, and presented himself and his dog at the door of Gibbons’s hospital room, having passed Cerberus off as Gibbons’s pet. The policemen guarding the door were two different men from the night before, and there was some little delay before he was admitted while they verified his identity.

  Once inside, he was greeted with a scowl by his friend, who was lying in what looked like a terribly uncomfortable position.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said dully.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Bethancourt, thinking his friend sounded hoarse and looked very weak. He settled himself in the armchair while Cerberus sniffed curiously at Gibbons’s side.

  “Cross,” replied Gibbons, reaching out automatically to pet the dog. He eyed his friend who looked, to his mind, abominably comfortable and well rested. “My parents,” he added sarcastically, “are very impressed with the accommodations Scotland Yard has provided for them. Apparently a grateful nation has stumped up for a suite at The Montague. One overlooking the garden.”

  “How nice,” said Bethancourt, refusing to be baited. “Where are your parents, by the way? I rather thought I’d find them here.”

  “They’ve gone off to have dinner,” answered Gibbons.

  “Oh, yes, it is dinnertime, isn’t it?” said Bethancourt, glancing at his watch. “I’m all discombobulated today. So have the doctors said anything more?”

  “Not very much,” said Gibbons. “They seem reasonably pleased with me and are being cautiously optimistic.” He yawned.

  “Are you sleepy?” asked Bethancourt. “Because if you’d rather I leave and come back later, just say so.”

  “No,” said Gibbons. “It’s just the damn painkillers. They make me drowsy—I’ve been napping half the day and hardly had a coherent thought.”

  “Better that than a lot of pain,” said Bethancourt. “I don’t imagine your tummy is feeling very good just now.”

  “Oh, there’s still plenty of pain,” Gibbons assured him. “But they claim it’s less excruciating with the drugs than without. It’s bad enough being laid up like this—it’s hell not to be able to think clearly on top of it.”

  Bethancourt, a clear-thinking man himself, sympathized. “Er,” he said guardedly, “is that really the most comfortable position for you?”

  “No,” said Gibbons crossly, “it is not. It is, however, the only position in which my abdomen doesn’t hurt. The rest of me is cramped and uncomfortable. Eventually, the cramping will bother me enough that I’ll decide the abdomen pain wasn’t really so bad and I’ll shift position and stay that way until the pain in my stomach gets to be too much.”

  Bethancourt considered this in silence for a moment. He was a person who abhorred any kind of discomfort and who had a knack of settling himself in quite cozily wherever he happened to be.

  “It sounds dreadful,” he offered.

  Gibbons glared at him, and Bethancourt reflected that what his friend really needed was distraction.

  “So what’s the news?” he asked, ignoring the glare. “Have they found out who shot you yet?”

  Gibbons’s glare turned into a sigh of frustration. “Not that I know of,” he replied. “But I haven’t heard from Carmichael today.”

  “I’m sure he’s hard at work,” said Bethancourt. “I mean, think how you would feel if he was the one who was shot.”

  “I know, I know.” Gibbons tentatively straightened one leg.

  “It must be driving you crazy; not being able to help, I mean,” said Bethancourt. “At least … well, the nurse said you didn’t remember much about yesterday.”

  “Nor do I,” said Gibbons glumly. “Everything’s a blank after I left my flat to go to work.”

  “Well, let’s come at things from a different angle,�
� said Bethancourt, who had an inventive mind. “You rang me yesterday evening to say you had an interesting case.”

  Gibbons looked up. “Is that exactly what I said?” he asked.

  Bethancourt shrugged. “It’s easy enough to find out,” he answered, reaching into his coat pocket. “I should still have the message.”

  He turned on his mobile and spent a moment scrolling down his messages.

  “Here it is,” he said, and rose to hold the phone to Gibbons’s ear. “Ready?”

  Gibbons grunted affirmatively. Bethancourt pressed a button and Gibbons heard his own voice, oddly unrecognizable to him.

  “Got an interesting one on,” said the voice. “I’d like to hear what you make of it. Ring me when you get a chance.”

  “That’s got to be the Haverford robbery,” said Gibbons as Bethancourt shut off the phone. “Even if I had stumbled onto something else, I wouldn’t have used that phrase ‘got an interesting one on.’ That’s definitely a reference to my own case.”

  “So what was interesting about the Haverfords?” asked Bethancourt, resettling himself in the chair.

  “Nothing. There aren’t any.”

  Bethancourt raised an eyebrow.

  “Well,” amended Gibbons, “it sounds as though old Miss Haverford would have been quite interesting, but she’s dead.”

  “That’s homicide, not robbery,” pointed out Bethancourt.

  “No, no, she died naturally. I believe she was ninety-seven.”

  Bethancourt let out an exaggerated sigh. “How could she be robbed if she’s dead?” he asked. “Really, Jack, can’t you just begin at the beginning and go on until you reach the end?”

  “No, I can’t,” said Gibbons sharply. “At the moment, there is no beginning or ending for me—it’s all jumbled together. And I don’t like it any better than you do.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” apologized Bethancourt. “I was forgetting. Truly, Jack, I don’t mean to be flippant.”

  “I know you don’t,” muttered Gibbons. He took a deep breath. “Miranda Haverford,” he began, “was by all accounts an eccentric old lady who knew her own mind and made sure everyone else knew it, too.”

  “That sounds like my grandmother,” observed Bethancourt, not at all inclined to feel charitably toward this specter.

  “Miss Haverford,” continued Gibbons doggedly, “owned a quite fabulous collection of jewelry, inherited from her grandmother. Or perhaps it was her great-grandmother; I can’t remember.”

  “No matter,” said Bethancourt. “I am willing to take the bejeweled ancestor on faith.”

  “Being of sound mind, Miss Haverford made a will a few years back, leaving most of her estate to her only living relative, a second or third cousin.”

  “Including the jewels?”

  “Well, of course including the jewels, otherwise why should I be dragging the poor git into the case at all?” demanded Gibbons.

  “Right,” said Bethancourt. “Just trying to keep it all clear in my head. The Haverford distant cousin now has possession of the jewels.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” contradicted Gibbons.

  Bethancourt looked confused. “He doesn’t?” he repeated doubtfully. “But I thought you said …”

  “I said the jewels were left to him in the old lady’s will,” said Gibbons. “Her estate is still in probate at the moment.”

  “Ah! The light has dawned. Go on.”

  Gibbons rubbed his face and Bethancourt saw with a pang that he already looked tired. “Where was I?” he asked.

  “The jewels were in probate.”

  “Oh, right. Well, they still are. Or were, until Sunday night, when they were stolen.”

  “Hence the phrase ‘Haverford robbery,’” said Bethancourt. “Where were the jewels when they were stolen?”

  “Where they always were—in a safe in the study of Miss Haverford’s house. It was professionally broken into, or at least so forensics says. I wouldn’t know, myself.”

  “Neither would I,” admitted Bethancourt. “Although I’ve always wanted to know how to break into a safe,” he mused. “I wonder how one learns something like that.”

  “Presumably from experienced thieves,” said Gibbons. “Or perhaps from the Internet these days—most information seems to be out there somewhere.”

  “Yes, that’s an idea,” said Bethancourt. “I shall have to Google it when I get home. I wonder if it turns out to be like making a soufflé—you know, the instructions seem perfectly simple and it’s only when you’re in the middle of things that you realize you have no idea what you’re doing.”

  Gibbons, who had never made a soufflé, yawned and returned to the topic at hand. “The robbery,” he continued, “seemed fairly straightforward. The jewelry was famous in its way, and Miranda Haverford’s obituary made all the broadsheet newspapers. Any thief worth his salt could have set his eyes on jewelry kept in an empty house.”

  “Very tempting,” agreed Bethancourt. “So what made you think the case was interesting? It seems on the face of it to be open and shut—or at least it will be once you put a name to the thief.”

  “I don’t know, do I?” said Gibbons grumpily. “We went over the scene-of-the-crime on Monday and met with the insurance agent, who had all the details about exactly what was stolen. Forensics hadn’t finished processing everything yet, but Hodges said it looked like a professional job. We spoke briefly to the Colemans, who had reported the robbery themselves, and Davies introduced me to the insurance investigator.”

  “Who are the Colemans?” asked Bethancourt. “Neighbors?”

  “No, no. Rob Coleman is the Haverford cousin. He and his wife visited the house on Monday morning in order to water the plants and generally keep an eye on things.”

  “Ah, I see.” Bethancourt contemplated all this in silence for a moment while Gibbons gingerly stretched out his other leg and grimaced.

  “All right?” asked Bethancourt anxiously, reflexively getting to his feet in order to help.

  Gibbons glared at him. “You’re worse than my parents,” he said. “Do stop hovering like a mother hen.”

  “Sorry.” Bethancourt sank back down, but behind his glasses his hazel eyes were uneasy as he watched the painful process of Gibbons resettling himself.

  “That’s better,” said Gibbons at last, panting a little with the effort. “What was I saying?”

  “The Colemans watered the plants,” said Bethancourt. “I expect the insurance investigator is casting a suspicious eye on them?”

  “It was mentioned,” said Gibbons. “I would probably know better,” he added with a frown, “if I could remember yesterday morning. Inspector Davies says I went off with Mr. James to interview the Colemans.”

  Again he was aware of a friendly feeling toward James, one that could not have been generated by their brief meeting on Monday.

  “I think the interview must have gone smoothly,” he said, breaking into Bethancourt’s comments. “At least, I think James and I must have got on well together. Anyway, Davies says I wrote up a report, so we’ll know about that when he comes back. Maybe it will jog my memory,” he added hopefully.

  “Just the thing, I should think,” said Bethancourt. “And your memory may come back of itself, once you’re off all the drugs.”

  But despite these words, he was concerned. Gibbons looked very pale and his voice was faint; Bethancourt did not think his friend was well at all.

  Upon leaving the hospital Bethancourt paused, standing hesitantly on the wet pavement with the rush of traffic on Euston Road speeding past, unsure of what to do.

  Having just heard the details of the case, he was keen to look into it all, but found himself at a loss without Gibbons to guide him. Normally, after having discussed a case, he would toddle off with his friend on any line of inquiry Gibbons thought might prove profitable. Bethancourt could think of several lines that might be followed up in this instance, but he had no authority with which to pursue them. One could not, he thought wr
yly to himself, go about questioning people if one was merely a friend of a police detective; actually being a police detective was indispensable.

  Neither did he think his interference would be well received by Chief Inspector Carmichael. If he had managed to provide Carmichael with a possible motive in Gibbons’s personal life, he might have wormed his way into the case by way of being a witness, but that was a closed door.

  He took a deep breath of the chill, dank air, hoping to clear his mind. Cerberus, having got bored with his master’s inaction, had wandered on to inspect a nearby lamppost, and Bethancourt absently followed his pet, deep in thought.

  There was, he reflected, no evidence at all that Gibbons’s shooting had been connected with the case he had been working on. Nevertheless, something had occurred on Tuesday which had changed Gibbons’s view of the Haverford case. That, in Bethancourt’s mind, was the first thing to be cleared up. And on that score there might be an avenue to follow aside from the police.

  But, he reluctantly admitted to himself, not right now. It was past nine o’clock and quite dark; in front of him the rush-hour traffic along Euston Road had died down. And he had yet to return the Volvo to the rental agency.

  He sighed at the thought of the number of parking tickets the Volvo had no doubt accumulated during its stay in the neighborhood and began to walk in that direction.

  “Come, Cerberus,” he murmured, and the great dog fell obediently into step with him while he began to page through the telephone numbers stored on his mobile. “There we go,” he said at last, and pressed the number that would dial his insurance agent. Becky Rankin would not be available now, but he could leave her a message and she would act on it as soon as she arrived at the office in the morning; Bethancourt was a very good customer.

  They gathered at the end of the day, none of them at their best, all with frayed tempers from long hours of work in which very little progress had been made. Now, at nearly ten o’clock, they slouched tiredly around the conference table, its surface littered with open notebooks and paper cups of coffee.