Benny frowned. Why would anyone want him, Benny? Mother o’ God, the Social! He turned around and called to the back room, “Hey, Ben, some one t’ see ya.”
Also interested in the stranger, the dog Sparky left its cushioned bench in a window and hurried over to stand by Benny. Then Benny turned back, hoping he was giving the impression of not caring tuppence for this man’s presence. He said, “ ’Course, he coulda gone down the shops.” He took a duster from his hip pocket and applied it to Miss Penforwarden’s desk. A stack of books sat there, the topmost being Interpretation of Dreams, which Benny didn’t think he’d like, but maybe Gemma would.
“Okay,” said the man, “suppose we start with your name, then.”
“Me? Well-” a glance at the books “-it’s, ah, Sigmund-Sid, for short.” Another glance at the books “-Austen.”
“Sid Austen. It’s nice to meet you. Tell me, the dog-is he yours or Benny’s?”
Sparky was looking from the man to his master as if seeking some lesson in what they were saying. Sparky gave one of his barely discernible barks.
“Oh, him. He’s just the shop dog. Always have ’em in bookshops, them or cats, if you never noticed.”
The voice of Miss Penforwarden preceded her into the main room. “Benny, would you just-oh!”
Benny shut his eyes. Cover blown, fuck it. He went to help her with the stack of books she was carrying.
“Thank you, dear.” Then she said to the tall man, “May I help you?”
“No, thanks. I was just speaking to young Sid, here.”
Miss Penforwarden looked confused. “Benny?”
Jury held out his warrant card. “I’m Richard Jury. Detective superintendent, New Scotland Yard.”
“Here, let me see that, then,” said Benny, trying to cover up his embarrassment. “I didn’t know you was-were-a copper, ah, policeman. Should ’ave showed me this.” He handed it back to Jury.
Jury had known this was Benny; he’d been described-so had the dog-by the owners of Delphinium, the flower shop. The two young men, gay as a couple of maypoles and just as thin, one in a pale yellow shirt and the other in pale pink reminded Jury of calla lilies.
“Benny? Why on earth…” The one named Tommy Peake had pressed his long fingers against his mouth, like the image on the old war poster en-joining everyone to avoid any talk of troop activities.
Basil Rice (in the yellow shirt) had said, “Why, Benny’ll be at Smith’s, won’t he?”
“No. Benny goes to the Moonraker about this time. That’s a bookshop just along the street,” he said to Jury.
“I take it the Keegan boy does a lot of odd jobs?”
Basil nodded. “And very good he is at them. Everyone says so.”
“Where does he live?” asked Jury.
This question seemed to bring Basil and Tommy up short. Tommy said, “Now you mention it, why, I don’t think we’ve ever known, have we?”
Basil shook his head, frowning, as if they should have known.
“The newsagent didn’t know either. No one seems to know where he lives or what his phone number is, if he has one.”
“No, Benny’s not on the phone. Look, I do hope our Benny isn’t in trouble.”
Jury shook his head. “No. Thanks.” He turned toward the door.
Happily, Tommy said, “Just you remember, Benny’s clever. He’s shifty.”
“I’m shiftier. Good day, gentlemen.”
When Benny asked to see Jury’s ID again, Miss Penforwarden said, “Benny, he’s a Scotland Yard superintendent.”
“You can’t be too careful, Miss Penforwarden, not these days. The thing is, why would a detective want to talk to me?” His eyes widened, not with awe, but anxiety. They’ve found out, that’s what. They found our place, mine and Sparky’s. Benny looked down at Sparky, who was looking up at him as if absorbing this bad news and wanting to show support. He banged his tail on the floor several times.
“Maybe we could talk somewhere, Benny.”
Miss Penforwarden, eyes fixed on Jury as if he were a rock star, made no move to leave.
Looking for means of controlling this situation, Benny said to her, “I think maybe he needs to talk to me in private, Miss Penforwarden.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, well, you go right ahead. I’ll just pop back to my room and if you need anything… perhaps, Superintendent, you’d care for tea?”
Jury said, “That’s kind of you, but I’ve had my quota.”
“Then I’ll just go along to wrap some books.” She left.
“There’s a couple chairs right back here.” Benny led Jury to the armchair by the window and pulled up a straight-back chair for himself. “It’s okay that Sparky’s here, I guess?”
Soberly, Jury nodded. “He looks as if he can be trusted.”
“Hear that, Sparky?”
Sparky made no sound; he was concentrating on Jury.
Jury said, “I’ve talked to several people you work for-the florists, the newsagent-I mean, in trying to find you. They all know your schedule, so you must be very dependable.”
“I am. It’s what you gotta be, right? I mean I guess you’re dependable or you’d never catch anybody.”
Jury could tell Benny was pleased and trying not to look it. When he, Jury, was this age, he remembered how important it was to appear cool and detached. When you were on your own, you needed to seem in control, otherwise things could start coming apart fast. The glue that held them together could too easily dissolve. And Jury was pretty certain this boy was on his own and didn’t want people knowing it. He thus skirted the issue of where Benny lived. Jury felt a moment of melancholy. He remembered what being alone was like. He had never had the courage to strike out on his own, at least not until he was older-sixteen, maybe. But there hadn’t been much choice, had there? The only relation remaining then was his cousin, the one who lived up in Newcastle now. She had grudgingly offered to have him come live with her when he was young, and he had refused, with thanks that he felt she never deserved.
What lay beneath this calm exterior was desolation. It was an emotion no kid should have to feel-not Benny, not Gemma, not himself back then. Yet he wondered if it wasn’t the legacy of childhood. At some point in the game, you would come to it, no matter how you were raised, no matter if you had a big family around you, desolation was inevitable, it ran beneath everything, the always-available unbearably adult emotion that clung to one’s still-breathing body like drowned clothes.
A curtain shifted, spinning light across the windowpane and the faded blue of the rolled arms of the easy chair where Benny sat, his light blue eyes fixing Jury with unchildlike patience.
“Benny, you make deliveries for Miss Penforwarden sometimes to Tynedale Lodge?”
“That’s right-hey, wait a tic. That’s why you’re here! It’s about that Mr. Croft that got murdered!” How stupid he’d been, thought Benny, thinking this police superintendent came about him. “He was shot to death over in his house on the Thames. I saw it a few times, me and Sparky delivered some books to him. And Sparky likes to have a look round there at night…” Benny stopped, looked off.
“He does? But then you must live near the river, right?”
“Oh, not too far, I guess. Sparky, he just likes a bit of a wander nights.”
Sparky looked from one to the other, seeming ready to contravene any unfavorable account.
Jury didn’t push for the address. Benny didn’t want to give it out, clearly.
“Had you been to Simon Croft’s lately? Within, say, the last month or two?”
Benny shook his head. “The last time I think was September.”
“Was he, well, friendly?”
“Him? Sure. Why?”
“Nothing. Listen: tell me about Gemma Trimm. I just met her yesterday and she mentioned you.”
“Oh, aye.” Benny sat up straighter. “Talked about me, did she?”