BooksBarbecue
Back The Old Success Save as PDF
Chapters (53)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Martha Grimes
  3. MARTHA GRIMES
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. PART I
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. PART II
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. PART III
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. PART IV
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. PART V
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. PART VI
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. PART VII
  52. 40
  53. Back Cover

“The pretense was a pretense. My guess is that for some reason you wanted to believe you were that shallow. But I’ve seen you around other people, listening to them. Your focus is immense. You almost become the other person. I’ve seen it. The person you’re trying to describe is utterly self-involved and that’s simply not you.”

“You asked what I missed about the job. And that’s it.” But his tone had changed. “The vanished fame, the lost acclaim, the old success.”

“You feel a terrible loss and all that’s part of it, but it’s the part easiest to talk about. No, what you lost is far more than that. The old success was Daisy.”

Tom looked at the fire. In the reflected light, his face looked like a mask of ice. Visible lines, cracking.

“And she’s gone, gone, gone. I’m sorry, Tom.”

PART II

Fixer

19

The next morning, Jury took the North Circular Road to the Golders Green exit and had only to drive a short distance before he came to a jumble of warehouses and lockups, where he saw CRENSHAW’S CARS and, beneath the name of the business, ALEX CRENSHAW, PROP.

It told him something about Alex Crenshaw: the brevity, the exactness, the lack of flourish. Jury already liked the guy.

Liked him even more when he got out of his car and looked around the lot. If the Porsche next to which he parked his police-issue Cortina was proof of what Crenshaw could do with a fix-up, he was in the right business. The sleek black body looked as if it had never been on the road, let alone had any dents or rust. Jury thought surely it must be a new car until he saw a for sale sign discreetly placed beneath a windscreen wiper. The asking price told him it was definitely not new. And nor could Jury afford this used version. There were a dozen other cars—all European—out here and all in the same pristine, new-looking condition. But what really won Jury over was the repair shop itself. On the far left was a lighted room, small, and clearly the office. The rest of it consisted of two bays. Above the first hung a sign: CRITICAL CARE. And above the second: ON THE MEND.

Jury smiled. Here was a man who could look at cars not as things just to be pushed and pried and hammered on but as objects with feelings.

The cars out here were definitely out of the critical-care unit: the two Ferraris, the Lamborghini, the Aston Martin, the gorgeous red BMW convertible—all looked mended to within an inch of their lives. It was the BMW Jury was inspecting when he heard a voice at his elbow, a North London accent delivered in a mellifluous voice.

“Good car, that. Engine like a hummingbird. You like it?”