Jury sat in his flat the next morning with his mug of cold tea thinking about last night’s conversation with Vincent Mori in the Grapes. How terrible, to come home and find your baby drowned in its bath and no one there. How could that happen? Flora Flood had said nothing about a child. Vincent had asked him, “For God’s sakes, Tony, why didn’t you call?” He said he had called somebody. Somebody came. “Who, Vincent?” “I don’t know. All Tony said was ‘somebody came.’”

He was a nice guy … a bit on the side … If Daisy Brownell has your back … Fixer.

Jury sat the cold mug on the floor, picked up his land line and called Brian Macalvie.

When Jury walked into his office at New Scotland Yard an hour later, he found Sergeant Wiggins, not ordinarily a bookish man, hunched over a book that lay on his desk, his mug of tea apparently forgotten. His boss had certainly been, the way Wiggins squinted up at him as if a perfect stranger had barged in.

Jury gave a brief laugh. “What are you reading, Wiggins? Looks like a page-turner.”

Wiggins held it up. “It is, sir.” Brownell. Jury recognized the book Melrose had been reading.

“Ah yes, our Tom Brownell.”

“Well, yours, not mine. I haven’t been working with him. He sounds brilliant.”

Jury smiled. “He is. Very smart, certainly. Very modest and unflashy. But getting to this case, what have you learned about the Bryher victim?”

“Madeline—or Manon, which is a kind of nickname—Vinet,” said Sergeant Wiggins, “had a lot of different jobs: managed a restaurant once, worked as a nurse or nurse’s aide, was a partner in a book shop, Libre Albertin, then worked in a chocolate shop she finally bought in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Ran that for years with a friend or partner. Commander Macalvie thinks you should go to Paris and talk to this co-owner friend and see what you can find out.”

“Commander Macalvie thinks I should go anywhere in the world he himself doesn’t want to. Why doesn’t he just ring her?”

“He said he tried, but she wasn’t very responsive, and, anyway, you’re better at that sort of thing. He couldn’t get anything out of her.”

Jury gave a dismissive laugh. “Better at it than he is? I can’t imagine him saying that. Did he say anything about the photo and Matthew Bewley?”

Wiggins screwed up his face. “Maybe that’s what I didn’t understand. He said he’d ring you later about the ID. What’s he talking about?”

“An identification.”

Wiggins rolled his eyes. “That’s generally what ID means; identifying what?”

“Tell you later. What about Gerald Summerston?”