Miss Husselby continued: “There was a boy here in Brighton. Crystal had been going out with him. He was only the son of a greengrocer and had no money at all, whereas the Norths, Crystal’s family-well, they had plenty. I was surprised Crystal took to him, but she did. He was charming. I used to buy my vegetables at their shop. Charming and handsome.” She looked at Jury as if to include him in the little circle of charm and looks. “A number of the girls were mad about him. Which probably was the reason Crystal wanted him. No one else could gain a toehold-
“Until he saw Kate. And that was the end of Crystal. Kate didn’t do anything; she wouldn’t have. But even though she wouldn’t go out with him, he was still a goner. She was like a field of lavender. One whiff and you were out cold.” Miss Husselby laughed, rather liking her analogy.
“When he broke it off with Crystal, she was beside herself. But there was nothing she could do.” Miss Husselby sighed and sat looking at the mantelpiece. Or, rather, the painting over the mantel. “There it goes again.” She rose and walked to the painting and adjusted its slight imbalance with the tip of her finger. She walked back. The minute her back was turned, it resumed its uneven keel. “Forgive me,” she said. “What was I saying?”
“About Kate and this young fellow.” He didn’t reintroduce the lavender field.
She sighed and poured them both some more coffee. He knew it would be tepid but didn’t mind. “Thank you.”
“I did keep up with Kate until a few years ago. But I lost all trace of Crystal.”
Jury took out the photo, the snapshot of the girls on the pier. “Is Crystal among these girls?”
She took the picture, looked, nodded. “Right there. Frowning. These are Kate’s friends. But I don’t see… Oh, of course, Kate would have been the photographer, wouldn’t she? That explains the frown on Crystal’s face.” She handed the snapshot back to Jury.
“Then you don’t know about the accident.”
“What accident?”
“Crystal’s.” Jury told her.
Her eyes widened. “That’s terrible. But what foolishness, to cross when traffic’s coming. Just because the pedestrian has the right of way doesn’t mean a car’s going to stop. Those crossings can be treacherous. There, you see.” She spread her hands wide. “There you have it. Playing with her unborn child’s life. Just to make a point. What happened to Crystal? I assume she must have been hurt.”
“Yes, rather badly. Almost completely paralyzed from the waist down. She pretty much lives in a wheelchair.”
“I should feel sorry, you know. I wish I did.” She leaned toward Jury, imparting a confidence. “She’d have done anything, beg, borrow, or steal, to hold on to Davey-”
“Davev?”
“The greengrocer’s son.”
For a long moment, Jury just stared at her. Then he asked, “His name wasn’t Cummins, by any chance?”
“Why, yes. Do you know him?”
“I do.” Jury sat silent, thinking. Then he rose. “You have no idea how much this has helped, Miss Husselby. I can’t thank you enough.”
She reclaimed his coat from the small closet, saying, “I’m glad I could be of help. I’ve so little to do these days. I do hope you can untangle things.” She made to open the door, but it was stuck. “Oh, blast this door. It’ll get me in the end.”
Jury opened it, smiling. He doubted much would get Shirley Husselby down.
58
It was the anonymity of train rides that Jury liked. The presence of other people who didn’t know you and didn’t want to. No one felt obligated to speak. A train ride was a small-talk vacuum.
There were only ten or a dozen other passengers traveling to London, all engaged in reading or gazing out of windows at the Sussex countryside, or else plugged into earphones or mobiles.
Across the aisle sat a pretty woman in her late thirties or early forties. It was hard to guess ages anymore, especially of children, who these days seemed to peak at thirteen or fourteen and go downhill from there. Children looked older than they were, adults younger.
It wasn’t the woman’s face that had caught his attention, but her shoes. Strappy. What a great word. He wished there were some quality in a person that word would fit.
Strappy sandals. Jimmy Choo? Tod’s? Prada? No, he didn’t think so. She was nicely but not richly dressed, not enough to be wearing Jimmy Choo. The shoes were sea green, very graceful. He had never noticed women’s shoes before, unless he’d a reason to look; the ones he’d seen of late, the shoes, he had to admit were quite beautiful. More works of art than shoes-which was, of course, what the designer meant them to be. He shut his eyes and pictured Carole-anne’s shoes.
What he was doing here was deliberately distracting his attention from the case. He was trying not to go over the conversation with Shirley Husselby because he thought he should leave it for a while; if he could let it settle, maybe something would surface. It had certainly been worth the trip to Brighton: that Chris, or Crystal, Cummins had gone to school with Kate Banks yet hadn’t admitted how well she had known her.
There was a point in a case when Jury felt it was all there and finding it was rather like shooting a pinball machine; like a series of steel balls in the channel of a pinball machine, all waiting for someone’s hand to shoot them onto a field of possibilities, targets, numbered holes, rubber bumpers, and the players needing to exert just the right amount of pressure to send the balls into the holes.
Chris, or Crystal, had, in the end, married Davey.
Jury’s question was, why hadn’t David Cummins been more forthcoming about their having known Kate Banks, and known her well? David was a policeman; he knew that kind of information could be vital.
He must not have wanted it to be.
At Jury’s signal, the porter stopped and Jury asked for tea and a jam roll that he eyed but did not eat.
He rested his head on the headrest and sipped his tea while the train throbbed into Redhill station. A few people rose to get off, looking bleary-eyed, as if they’d just been hauled by the Trans-Siberian express instead of the Southern Railway from Brighton. A few got off, a few got on. He tried not to notice, trying to hold on to the pleasure of anonymity.
Soon to be breached. Through half-closed eyes, he watched a small, stout man settle himself opposite with a rustling and crackling noise that turned out to be a sandwich and a bag of crisps placed on the table between them. Then a slurp and smack that turned out to be coffee. His fellow passenger did not take closed eyes as a barrier to conversation or companionship. The train clung stubbornly to Redhill; he wished it would move. It did.
“Care for one?” He was holding the bag of crisps across the table.
Some people didn’t appreciate the finer points of train travel. Jury opened his eyes, smiled, shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“That looks good.”
Jury realized he meant the jam roll. “Got it from the tea trolley.”
The man looked over his shoulder but didn’t see the trolley. “Think I might have one myself when it comes by.”
“Might not be by again before London. We’re not far out. Have this one.”
“Oh, now-”
“Really. Go ahead. I’m not hungry. I don’t know why I got it.” He smiled. “Throwback to childhood, I guess. Jammies.”
The man pulled the jam roll toward him, smiling, too. “Thanks. Name’s Mattingly, incidentally.” Mr. Mattingly held out his hand.
Jury shook it. “Richard Jury.”
“Speaking of childhood. I’ve just been with my sister for two days. We had great times, we did, as kids. She’s in a bad way now. Real bad.” Looking away from the jam roll to the scenery sliding past, he sounded sad.
“I’m sorry.”
Mr. Mattingly nodded and went on. “It’s a trial, no doubt about it. She’s holding on. I don’t see how, and neither does she. Nothing but skin and bones now.” He wrestled the plastic off the jam roll.