The Stargazey Read Online Free PDF Page A

other end of a phone. As if reading his mind, Chilten said, “Didn’t have any breakfast so I got a couple jam doughnuts. So how do we know?”
    â€œI’ll describe her: Very pale blonde, somewhere around five-seven, five-eight, as best I could judge. Very good-looking, hardly any makeup, maybe none. Then there was the coat. Long and dark—mink, if I had to guess.”
    â€œSable. Okay, it’s probably the same one. Traffic must’ve been weird if you could keep her in view all the way to Fulham Palace Road. That’s a hell of a walk.”
    â€œAs I said, she reboarded and rode.”
    Chilten chewed awhile. “This is very weird behavior.”
    Jury didn’t know whether he was talking about Jury’s or the woman’s. Both, probably. He gave Chilten a moment to digest this information, along with his jam doughnut. Jury was hoping for an invitation; met with Chilten’s silence on that point, Jury invited himself. “Look, I’m not trying to muck up your turf, but I would really like to have a look at the mise-en-scène.”
    â€œHoly Christ. What the hell’s that?”
    Jury blushed, glad Chilten wasn’t there to see it. For some reason, he had hesitated over saying “murder scene” and had used the fancy phrase instead. Yes, it sounded affected. “I might be able to help; I mean, I might be able to add something. Or not.” Jury shrugged, as if Chilten were present to see how he tossed this off.
    â€œI seem to remember locking horns with you a few years back, in one of your I’m-not-trying-to-muck-up-your-turf moods.”
    Jury gave a short bark of laughter. “Lock horns? Me ? You must be thinking about my sergeant. His name’s Wiggins.” Jury looked across at Wiggins, who, hearing his name, stopped his ablutions and stared. Jury gave Wiggins a can-I-help-this-unreasoning-goon? shrug. So what do you say, Roy?”
    â€œRonnie, not Roy.”
    Jury smiled. He’d done that deliberately. “Sorry.” He waited.
    â€œIf you wanna come to Fulham this afternoon, you can have a dekko at your mise-en-scène. Meet me at the palace gates.” He added a salting of sarcasm. “You must know where it is.”
    â€œThe herb garden. It says she was found there, in a patch of lavender.” Jury frowned at the ironic benignity of the scene. The mise-en-scène. He smiled.
    â€œYeah, well, Linda Pink might give you an argument there.”
    Chilten gave information the way others did blood, a drop at a time. Jury stopped himself from asking the obvious question—Who’s Linda Pink?—and, instead, said smoothly, “We’ll see you in an hour, Roy, and thanks.” He hung up and muttered, “Linda-bloody-Pink.”
    Wiggins raised his eyebrows. “Who’s Linda Pink?”
    â€œWe may never know.” Jury sat back, allowing himself, if only for a few moments, to be stunned, to be enveloped in sadness. “I should have gone in.”
    â€œPardon me, sir? Gone in where?”
    Jury didn’t answer. Instead, he rose. “Come on, Wiggins. Chop-chop.”
    With great and grave reluctance, Wiggins stood too, downed whatever the putrid stuff was in the glass, and asked, “Are you sure, sir? Aren’t you afraid I’ll lock horns again, me?”
    Jury shoved his arms in his raincoat. “Never. You’d never make the same mistake twice.”

4
    T he thing about Detective Inspector Ronald Chilten was this: He loved to cloak mystery in mystery. If there was no mystery to hand, Chilten stirred up an atmosphere, an ambience—indeed, his own little mise-en-scène—that would keep the other person in suspense. He could do it over a three-car pileup or the color of a hair ribbon found at the scene or the number and nature of the books a teenager was carrying home from school when he was mugged. If he could keep you in suspense when there was no real