“Good shot, Jury. For once. Yep. You were right. Both Matthew Bewley and what’s-her-name—”

“Josephine?”

“Right. Both of them said the fellow in the photo was the one in the Hell Bay Hotel restaurant. This was years ago, though.”

“I know.”

“He’d sat down at a woman’s table, but their impression was that it was pure chance, that he hadn’t gone there to see this woman.”

“Tony Servino was there to see another one. Yes, years ago,” Jury added sadly. Then he said, “Thanks, Macalvie.” Jury was about to ring off when he quickly brought the mobile back and said, “What do you mean, ‘for once’?”

But Macalvie had already gone.

Jury tapped his phone again, found it juiceless. “Wiggins, can you ring Tom Brownell? This is dead.” He held up his phone.

Wiggins tapped a number, listened, then handed it to Jury. “Brownell.”

“Tom, it’s Richard. Listen. Have you read the Telegraph lately?” Jury laughed. “Nor have I. But there was a column in the paper a couple of days ago.” Jury summarized Wiggins’s summary. “I think you should talk to this Temple.”

“In what capacity? I have no Met standing.”

“Just do the standard ‘I’m not here in any official capacity.’”

“‘Official capacity’ might be the only way to get him to talk to me.”

“Not you, Tom. You can get a response from a man in a coffin. No wonder you had a hundred percent clear-up rate.”

“Don’t go there.”

“Okay. Ninety-nine, then. I was thinking we might want to visit that foundling hospital that Summerston funded.”

“Tomorrow morning? Around ten, eleven?”

“That’s fine. Tomorrow afternoon I’m going to go to Paris.”

“Paris?”

“I want to see Manon Vinet’s partner, the woman who’s been working there for years. When I come back I’m going to Northants, to Ardry End. I want to talk to Flora Flood. Although, when I think about it, that had better be left to you. She likes you.”

“In her position, she shouldn’t like anybody.”

“You think she’s that vulnerable?”

“I think she’s that guilty.” Tom rang off.

28

The Summerston Foundling Hospital was, strictly speaking, neither for foundlings nor a hospital. It was, however, making gestures in both directions by way of the rubbed bronze figurines that sat on either side of the massive gate, across whose center was positioned a bronze plaque with the single word SUMMERSTON. One figure was a hunched woman wrapped in scarves, face bent over a small child similarly wrapped. The figure on the other side stood much straighter, arms extended, perhaps intending to take what the hunched woman held. This figure was uniformed as, possibly, a nurse.

To open the gate, the plaque with the name on it had to split in two, perhaps suggesting the Sisyphean nature of Summerston’s work.

Jury had never seen such pretense fashioned as entryway.