“Apparently, they got someone else to identify the body, the librarian the niece worked for. According to her, the dead woman’s Mariah Cox.”
7
He spent some time in High Wycombe gathering what forensic evidence was available and being treated with remarkable amiability by Thames Valley police, given he was hardly a necessary adjunct to their deliberations. He said as much to the DCI to whom David Cummins had introduced him.
DCI Stevens only laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. We’re not all Morse here.”
Jury frowned, puzzled. “Morse?”
“My God, man, you don’t know Morse? Thames Valley police? Oxford?”
“Oh, that Morse. The TV one. Well, you can take it to the bank that I’m not him either. But I would like to talk to the aunt, this Edna Cox.”
“Sure. DS Cummins can take you. It’s rather odd, but what made me wonder about the Cox woman’s failure to identify the victim was that she was too abrupt in her denial. It was the way of someone who was refusing to face something unpleasant. Ordinarily, you’d register a huge relief, finding the body you’re looking at isn’t someone you love. That’s why we got the librarian in, the one who runs the place, name of Mary”-he looked down at a paper-“Chivers. She identified her. Of course, she said too that it hardly looked like Mariah, and no wonder the aunt didn’t recognize her: the ginger hair, the look of her, the clothes. D’you think Mariah was going off to London to work as a pro, weekends?”
“Could be. I want to talk to both of these women, if you don’t mind.”
“Mind? No. We’re always happy to have someone from the Met come round.”
Jury smiled. “No, you’re not.”
“Sorry,” said David Cummins as they piled into the car. “I tried your cell but got no answer. Then I tried the Yard, got your sergeant.”
“And he called my flat. The message was taken by a friend from upstairs. I’ve an answer machine that hasn’t worked since the day I got it, so if she’s passing and hears my phone, she goes in and answers.” Jury saw a red light coming up and pulled out the scrap of paper. When Cummins braked, Jury handed it to him.
The DS read it, frowned, laughed. The light changed. “My God. How did you sort that out?”
Jury pocketed the message. “She spends most of her time reading runes and translating from Old English. Never quite got the hang of it myself.” He looked out at the passing scenery. “You say the victim’s with the local library. So how would a librarian’s pay run to Yves Saint Laurent?”
“Wouldn’t.” Cummins laughed. “Nor the shoes.” They were approaching a roundabout. “Not unless she got a pair from my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“Chris has the lot: Jimmy Choo, Prada, Gucci, Tod’s, Blahnik, you name it.”
Jury couldn’t. He was simply surprised, given he imagined a policeman’s pay here might be only slightly higher than a librarian’s.
“Chris knew straightaway whose shoes they were. From the photo-” Realizing he’d said too much, Cummins cut it off.
Jury looked over at him. “Police photos?”
“Look. I just showed her the one of the shoes. I know I’m not supposed to-”
“No, you’re not.”
“It’s just… it’s just Chris…” Negotiating the roundabout, he stopped talking again.
The DS’s obvious embarrassment made Jury sympathetic. “So Chris has a shoe hang-up.” He laughed.
Relieved now, Cummins laughed. “God, yes. You’ve got to meet her.”
“I’d like to. She sounds fascinating. In the meantime, let’s stop by the library.”
Mary Chivers was one of those people who called all detectives “Inspector,” no matter what their rank: constable, sergeant, superintendent. Detective Sergeant Cummins was anointed with the same inspectorhood as Superintendent Jury.
Mary Chivers had been holding a book, blowing dust off its spine, when they walked in. Jury liked the act of blowing dust from a book, he could not say why. Miss Chivers was a little bundle of a woman with whom one could tell books would be safe. Indeed, the whole little library felt like a safe house or sanctuary in its whispery silence. The whispers were supplied by three women at a reading table sharing news or secrets.
DS Cummins, who had been one of those to question her before, introduced Jury.
“I couldn’t believe it at first,” she said in answer to Jury’s question. “I could not believe this dead woman was Mariah Cox. I don’t mean I didn’t recognize her, I did, despite that ginger hair-but I certainly had to look twice, let me tell you. It was the situation, where she was found, the way she’d been dressed, why it’s perfectly understandable that Edna would have made that mistake. Poor Edna.” Here Mary Chivers ran her hand over the cover of the book she still held, and her eyes over the high stacks of books, as if assuring herself they hadn’t run away.
She went on. “Mariah was plain, but she had good bones. Yes, with the right makeup, and a bit of artistry, she could make herself another face. Yes, I can see that…”
Jury said, “She got on well with your staff?”
“Of course.”
“No one appeared to dislike her or be jealous of her or have any reason you know of to harm her?”
Mary Chivers shook her head slowly, decidedly. “Understand, Inspector, that Mariah Coxwas as nice aperson as couldbe-completely dependable, conscientious, kind. She was quiet, retiring, one of those women, you know, who would more or less fade into the background. Mariah was not one to stand out.”
Not one to stand out. Mariah had scarcely disturbed the air around her and yet had morphed into a lovely, sophisticated, and-Jury was beginning to suspect-sex-for-sale woman. For Jury, it was not so much that she had done it, but why.
Edna Cox lived in the end one of a terraced row of houses, with lace curtains at the front window. The place was dispiriting enough on its own; with the additional blow of a death in the family, it was bleak as the North York moors.
Edna Cox still appeared to be denying the knowledge that the dead woman in the police photograph could possibly be her niece. “You know my Mariah, Mr. Cummins,” she said, as if that took care of it.
DS Cummins said, “It wasn’t like her, I agree, but…”
Edna Cox was having no buts about it. Given the way she was perched on an overstuffed chair edge, it wasn’t like sitting at all. If she moved half an inch forward, she’d be on the hooked rug.
“I said it once and I’ll say it again: Mariah does not own clothes like that. And her hair-it was never that color. Have you talked to Bobby? They got engaged hardly two weeks ago.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Jury. “Bobby-?”
Edna Cox looked away, apparently done with answering.
“That’d be Bobby Devlin,” said Cummins. “Bobby has the flower stall next the station. Nice fellow.”
Edna Cox blurted out: “Mariah wouldn’t be caught dead in those pointy-toed sandals.”
Unfortunate choice of words, thought Jury.
“And she didn’t have the money for them, neither. Shoes like that or that dress. That lot’d cost her half a year’s wages.”
Jury had picked up a framed photo of Mariah Cox and sat now looking at it. Here was a plain girl with straight dark hair to her shoulders, untidy bangs nearly eclipsing her eyes. But Mary Chivers was right: you could still see the bones, and they were very good. It was exactly the kind of face that someone trained in the art of makeup could do marvels with. Perhaps Mariah herself had the talent; perhaps there’d been a lot of practice in putting on another face. He set the photo on a glass-topped coffee table that didn’t fit the rest of the furnishings and said, “She’d been gone before, hadn’t she?”
“Well, yes, most weekends, and sometimes she’d stay over in London with this friend of hers she knew at school…” She looked down at the rug at her feet as her voice trailed away.