Read The Winds of Change for Free Online Page A

‘silky.’’
    Viktor Baumann seemed to like that description of himself. But the man was so self-referential, Jury wasn’t surprised. ‘I might want to see you again, Mr. Baumann, if you don’t mind. I think you would want to know of any developments, in case this does have to do with your daughter.’
    ‘Absolutely, Superintendent.’
    Jury bowed a bit farther into diffidence. ‘Do you think I could have a closer look at your coin collection?’
    Baumann frowned, then brightened. ‘Oh, you mean the ones out there? Of course. I’ll just tell Grace’- he frowned -’no, on second thought ... ‘ He took a card from the small silver stand on his desk, then grabbed up the black pen in the holder, turned the card over and jotted a note. He handed it to Jury. ‘Grace tends to be a bit possessive. I’d rather not get into this with her. Just tell her what you want and give this to her. Otherwise she’ll spend ten minutes thinking up reasons why she can’t unlock the glass.’ Baumann opened the door. ‘I’ll see you again, Superintendent. Grace will see to it.’ He nodded and walked out.
    Grace’s eyebrows did their little dance upward in question. Jury handed her the card. ‘I just wanted to get a closer look at some of those coins.’
    The card having directed her to see to his wishes, she crimped her mouth, took keys out of a drawer, rose and went to the glass doors, which she unlocked. She handed him back the little card as if she had no interest in Jury’s curiosity.
    Jury had absolutely no interest in hers, or in the coins. He had simply wanted to leave Baumann on a friendly note. She stood at his elbow as he looked at the coins.
    ‘I shouldn’t pick those up if I were you,’ said Grace. ‘Mr. Baumann is extremely careful of his coins. They’re quite valuable.’
    Given that the card had told her to give him every assistance, Jury considered taking her to task but decided it would be a waste of his time. ‘Thank you,’ he said, stepping back.
    She locked the doors in a self-important manner. Then the keeper of the coins smiled thriftily and showed Jury the door.

6

    The anonymity of train rides had always appealed to Jury. There were few other passengers in his car and he sat awhile just enjoying the emptiness of the Great Western experience.
    He had brought along the Emily Dickinson book and as he read the poems he wondered what it must be like to have the kind of perception she had. It must hurt like hell; it must be intensely painful; it must be like cutting your teeth on glass. But at least you were awake. There had been too many times in the last few weeks he felt as if he were sleepwalking through life.
    When the train stopped at Pewsey, a tired-looking woman with three small children got on and settled them down in the four seats with a table between. The youngest of the three clamped his huge eyes on Jury, across the aisle.
    Jury closed his own eyes, having marked his place in the book with his plastic tea stirrer. He hoped to discourage the staring child. He leaned his head against the window. He did not want to connect with anyone. He was tired. He stayed this way for a minute, uncomfortable with his head on the cold glass, then righted himself and opened the book again.
    Physically, he had recuperated from the shooting. It had been two months, after all. But mentally he found himself too often still lying on that dock on the Thames, wondering what in hell had brought him to that pass. He read: ‘Of all the souls that stand create, I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done.’
    ‘And subterfuge is done.’ What a wonderful line. Who Emily elected would remain forever a mystery. Now, if he were to elect one, who would it be? His mind went blank. Then into this blankness came a face that took him utterly by surprise. A woman he had never considered and now he wondered how he could have missed it, a woman extricating herself from the shadows on numerous