Free The Blue Last by Martha Grimes Page A

remembered. “Yesterday,” yes, he certainly recalled that. But wasn’t that song much later? In his mind’s eye he saw again Elicia Deauville dancing by herself in her white nightgown. She was eight years old. Eight or nine? Given all the activity behind him in the room, it surprised him how well he could mute the sounds to an incomprehensible cloud of talk, and hear “Yesterday.” And see Elicia Deauville through that hole in the wall. It was her hair that was so astonishing. It was tawny, but several shades of it—taffy to gold to copper, amazing hair. He thought she had lived next door to them on the Fulham Road, but now he wasn’t so sure.
    Had it happened? Was he there?
    Mickey was beside him. “It’s meant to look like a robbery—” Mickey shoved at the glass slivers with the toe of his shoe “—yet the only thing of any value missing is a Sony laptop. The watch he was wearing was worth more than that. Not a Rolex, that other one that costs as much as a small car. You know?”
    â€œPiaget?”
    â€œThat’s the guy. See those pictures?” Mickey pointed out a small painting propped against the books on one shelf. “Bonnard. That one—” he indicated another on the top shelf, ultramarine water, yellow so heavy it looked like the weight of the sun “—Hopper, no not Hopper—the other one—Hockney, that’s it. David Hockney. Those two paintings are easily transported. Who in hell would rob the room and leave those behind?”
    â€œDid they take anything besides the computer? Computer-related stuff? Diskettes?”
    Mickey called to one of the crime scene officers. “Johnny? Did you find any computer diskettes?”
    â€œNo,” said Johnny. “Not used, but there were some new ones, that’s all, sealed.”
    Jury scanned the desk, the shelves. “No manuscript? No notes? Didn’t you say he was writing a book about the Second World War?”
    â€œYou think he turned up something someone didn’t want turned up?”
    â€œDon’t you? Everything associated with the writing of it appears to be gone. And that’s all that’s gone. The man must have had hard copy, some, at least. A historical event calls for research; research calls for notes. You saw him—when? A couple of weeks ago?”
    â€œThe computer was on; I didn’t pay much attention to whether he was writing from notes.” Mickey looked around the room as if either determined or desperate. “Maybe when they go over the house—”
    â€œThe killer could have done that, easily, at his leisure. Assuming this was someone who knew Simon Croft lived here alone, no staff except for the Tynedale cook, who didn’t, in any case, live here. The last time you saw him, you said—are you okay? Mickey?”
    Haggerty had grown very pale. He swayed slightly. “Let me just sit for a minute.” As he sat in one of the wing chairs, he took out his handkerchief, damp by now, and wiped his forehead, beaded with cold perspiration. “I’ve got to go over to talk to the family.” He said that and folded the handkerchief.
    â€œUh-uh,” said Jury. “You go the hell home. Leave the family to me.”
    â€œI can’t—”
    â€œThe hell you can’t. I’ll get the initial stuff out of the way; you can talk to them later.”
    Sotto voce, Mickey said, “Look, keep this under your hat, Rich, will you? I mean, me being sick.”
    Jury said, “Of course, I will. You know I will. Does the family know about Simon Croft yet?”
    Mickey nodded. “Two of my people went over there, sergeant and WPC. They told them I’d be talking to them this morning.” Mickey checked his watch, shook his wrist. “Damn thing.”
    â€œGet yourself a Piaget. Give me the details and I’ll go over there now.”
    Mickey did so.

Eleven
    I an Tynedale