“Knightsbridge, not Limehouse,” said Wiggins. “Moved up a bit, looks like.” He gave Jury an address.

“That’s not far. Just around the corner. Thanks, Wiggins.”

No one answered the bell in the little house in the Brompton Road, but as Jury turned away, a man who’d come out of the house next door said, “You looking for Vince?”

“I am, yes.”

“Try the Grapes. He’s usually over there around this time. You know, it’s just down the road.” He nodded his head to the right.

Jury thanked him and returned to his car.

24

Jury had drunk in the Bunch of Grapes a number of times; since the last time there had been some refurbishment. Unnecessary refurbishment. Some things are best left alone.

A lot of smoke from a lot of cigarettes obscured faces. He figured Mori would be one for standing at the bar. Jury looked down its length as he pulled out his phone and found the picture Wiggins had sent. A slightly pudgy face topped by curly dark-brown hair. The face was sitting or standing at the end of the bar and Jury made his way to it.

“Are you Mr. Mori?”

Vincent Mori looked over his shoulder. “Who?”

Jury had his warrant card out and held it up to Mori’s eyes.

“I didn’t do it,” said Vincent Mori and returned to his pint.

“Nobody says you did.”

“Well, good. So what is it?”

Jury signaled the barman for two drinks.

“The Met is buying these days?”

“Yep.”

“If I didn’t do it, why are you here?”

“Somehow I get the impression maybe you did.”

“Don’t push your luck—oh, Christ. How could I be so dumb? It’s about Tony, isn’t it?”

“It’s about Tony.”

Mori lowered his head and half-framed it with one of his hands. “Bloody hell.”

It was the first sign of emotion Jury had seen, and it looked like strong emotion. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mori.”

“Yeah. Me too. Tony was supposed to be invincible. But why would his goddamned wife shoot him?”

“Self-defense.”

“Ridiculous. Tony didn’t do guns, didn’t beat up women. Never.”

“Apparently, he got to the house in a rage.”

Mori snorted a laugh. “Tony didn’t do rages, either. If she shot him, she meant to shoot him going in.”

“Why?”

Vincent shrugged. “You think I know?”

“Probably …”

Mori only looked at him.

“What I’m here for is your opinion, your ideas about Tony Servino. You’re the only person I know so far who’s defending him, who thinks pretty highly of him.”

Vincent laughed again. “I can believe that.”

“What I’ve heard about Servino is that he was a womanizing alcoholic, a man who would sell out anybody, including his partners—of which you’re one—a gambler who cheated all the time, a rotter, a scoundrel, a man who very possibly tried to kill his wife by means of a car accident.”