A Mind to Kill

Chapter Thirty-one

The well established and practised discretion of the clinic extended to a pool of cars registered to Henot House, which avoided Jeremy Hall having to hire one in his own name and risk disclosing their whereabouts. He had to identify himself by telephone, though, to get the meetings he wanted and from the quickness with which people – even the police – agreed he decided the danger of being publicly recognized was outweighed by the speed with which every door opened to him. And he was in a great hurry.

Despite the psychiatrist’s warning of Jennifer’s dependence upon him, he’d been confused by the strength of her reaction to his leaving. He only bothered to tell her at all at Julian Mason’s urging and was glad the psychiatrist was with him when he did. She at once came close to tears – which he realized for the first time she’d rarely done during a lot of the horror she’d suffered – and needed the hand-holding assurance repeated several times that he was not abandoning her but would return immediately from talking to people it was imperative he see.

‘Today. Tonight,’ she’d insisted.

‘It should be tonight. Everything’s arranged.’

‘You’re not sure?’

‘If I don’t manage to see everyone I’ll come back and go again tomorrow.’

‘Don’t leave me!’

‘I told you I’m not leaving you: and where and why I’m going. Which you know I’ve got to.’

Hall had been disconcerted but Mason had called it valuable. ‘Think what she’s gone through, without breaking. That showed me just how deep the depression is.’

‘Can you lift her out of it?’

The psychiatrist pulled an uncertain face. ‘I’ve probably got a more difficult job than either you or the priest.’

The incident delayed him but he still arrived in good time for his first appointment, uncomfortable in the jacket he’d had to buy from the clinic outfitters which didn’t stock clothes in his chest size. He was unhappy, too, that Michael Bailey had decreed somewhere as public as Winchester hospital, although the nearby railway station car park was convenient to hide the hire car against its number being noted at the hospital and traced to the Hertfordshire clinic. He walked the intervening distance and grew unhappier at the obvious attention from the suddenly busy corridors, with their open-doored offices, along which he had to pass to get to the pathology department. There was a lot of activity there, too. It had been wise to abandon the car.

Bailey was a tall, gangling man with a stutter, which worsened with the intensity with which he leaned forward to get the blocked words out. Jeremy Hall went through the quadrille of thanking the pathologist for seeing him so promptly and being told in return it was in no way inconvenient: Bailey patted the dossier in front of him and said he had recovered his original statement from the archives at Humphrey Perry’s pre-trial request and of course he’d followed the sensational events.

It took longer agreeing the case of Jennifer Lomax was absolutely incredible – ‘earth shattering’ was the phrase it took the pathologist three attempts to say – threatened the very foundations of conventional imagination and even religious belief. Hall went through the routine recognizing that it was indeed every one and more of those things but that, perhaps most incredible of all, he’d become so closely involved that he’d ceased thinking so and was now accepting the totally abnormal as the totally normal. He invoked professional confidentiality to avoid talking about Jennifer personally, supposing this encounter to be a rehearsal for those to follow.

‘You want to reopen the inquest?’ anticipated Bailey.

‘I don’t know that would be possible. Or whether any useful purpose would be served.’

‘What then?’

‘It is, as you say, an astonishing case,’ said Hall, the lie carefully prepared. ‘Everything about it has to be compiled and assessed for legal and academic study. And that includes any reassessment that might be necessary of what happened in the past.’

‘I understand,’ assured Bailey, getting stuck halfway through the word.

‘All I’ve been able to do is compare newspaper reports with written statements. It’s not clear to me how much of those written statements were actually introduced as evidence or how much the coroner took as read, from access to the statements beforehand.’

‘The usual way,’ smiled the pathologist, uncertainly. ‘He just picked the relevant points to put to me, from my statement.’

Everything decided in advance, Hall thought again. ‘In your report you refer to aspects of the puncture wounds, where Mrs Lomax injected herself. Was that finding examined or taken as read?’

‘Actually I discussed it with Mr Davies before the inquest began,’ admitted the pathologist. ‘He felt it would be distressing for Mr Lomax for us to go too deeply into it at the hearing itself.’

Hall swallowed the sigh. ‘Go through it with me, if you would.’

‘The puncture mark in the left arm was larger than the others on the body and was dangerously close to the vein. The other three were much smaller and properly injected subcutaneously.’

‘What did you think about that?’

‘The largest puncture mark would have been the last injection she self-administered. By then, I believe, she would have already overdosed on insulin. And additionally have taken one lot of temazepam after another. She would have been extremely unsteady.’

‘The majority of the injections were to the right of the body: two to the right arm, one in the right thigh?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You referred to skin hardening, because of the length of time Mrs Lomax had been injecting?’

‘Yes. It happens to diabetics, particularly those who take soluble insulin, which she did.’

‘In which side of the body was that hardening most prevalent, the right or the left?’ Into his mind, abruptly, came a fact that could have greatly contributed to Jennifer’s innocence at the trial, if the other evidence hadn’t been so overwhelming.

Bailey frowned, needing for the first time to go back to the file on his desk. It was several moments before he looked up, smiling. ‘Not a great deal in it, really. But on balance the right.’

‘What about the left arm. What was the extent of the hardening there?’

The pathologist went back to his file, although more briefly this time. ‘Very little. The softness of the skin was a contributory factor, I decided, to the puncture wound being larger than the others.’

‘Something else not in the newspaper reports but mentioned in your statement, was how long Mrs Lomax had been unconscious.’

Bailey breathed in sharply and the irritation made it even more difficult for him initially to respond. ‘Mr Davies was furious with the policeman, for talking about the bladder collapse. That was most unnecessary. Most distasteful.’

‘How long?’ repeated Hall.

‘A considerable time: the bladder collapse was an early indication of organ deterioration.’

‘Working back from the time she was found – three-twenty in the afternoon, according to Gerald Lomax – what time the previous night would she have become deeply unconscious?’

‘Twelve hours, at least. The evening meal had been steak: very little had been digested. The blood alcohol content was also extremely high.’

‘There was no mention whatsoever in any report I read but in your written statement you talked of an abrasion inside Mrs Lomax’s upper lip?’

Bailey nodded. ‘Something else that didn’t need to be brought out to cause Mr Lomax any further distress. In my opinion it resulted from Mrs Lomax, in a very unsteady condition, accidently striking her lip between the glass and her teeth, when she attempted to drink from the brandy goblet that was found on the bedside table.’

‘As a medical expert, what’s your opinion of Mrs Lomax being prescribed meberevine hydrochloride?’

Bailey gave the impression of considering the question. ‘As you know, a diabetic makes excess glucose. Some proprietary brands of meberevine hydrochloride have lactose and sucrose added to them. I don’t think it’s an ideal preparation for a diabetic but the two, by themselves and with the instructions being strictly followed, wouldn’t be overly dangerous. But with an excess of alcohol and insulin it is, as I said at the time, a lethal cocktail.’

He smiled, expectantly, but Hall didn’t respond. Instead, tightly, he said, ‘Thank you,’ and stood up. How many deaths crying out for a proper investigation, as this had been, were dismissed by platitudes, quick chats between fellow members of the local golf club and preconceived, unsubstantiated opinions?

Bailey frowned. ‘But I haven’t told you anything.’

‘Enough,’ assured Hall.

Hall considered recovering the car but decided against it, instead taking a taxi from the station. The recognition took longer than he expected and was encouragingly disinterested.

‘You’re the lawyer, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘She coming home.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Lots of stuff on television.’

‘I saw some of it.’

‘Lot of people believe in ghosts, you know. My Doris does.’

‘So do a lot of other people now.’

‘Suppose you’re right, considering.’

Hall was relieved to get to the one-constable police house at Four Marks, which was the closest to the Lomax mansion. He was early but Harry Elroyd was already waiting in a front parlour with chintz loose covers on the furniture and long ago photographs of the man stiffly upright in army sergeant’s uniform. Elroyd sat nervously with a tattered, yellowing notebook on his knee. With him was Paul Hughes, the police inspector whom Hall had confronted over the press intrusion and who had been called before Mr Justice Jarvis. A third, narrow-faced man very formally offered a card attesting that Derek Peterson was a solicitor at law.

‘Protecting the interests of the Constabulary,’ declared the man.

‘Do they need protecting?’

‘We’ve no indication of the purpose of this meeting.’

The personal curiosity went far beyond the professional but there wasn’t the awe of the hospital and Hall was glad. He recited the same explanation he’d given the pathologist and at once Peterson said, ‘Are you alleging professional negligence or incompetence?’

‘No. I simply want to talk to Constable Elroyd to understand a few things more clearly.’

‘Whom do you represent?’ asked the solicitor. ‘I can’t let this proceed unless I am sure you are representing someone.’

‘Mrs Jennifer Lomax, who is the unencumbered heir to the estate of Gerald James Lomax,’ said Hall, matching the formality.

Peterson nodded, the reluctance obvious. Mrs Elroyd came hesitantly in with coffee and biscuits on a tray. She was so intent upon Hall that she jarred the tray against the table edge, spilling the coffee, and hurried out muttering apologies. She was a lot fatter now than she’d been in the wedding photographs on the sideboard.

The irritation at the solicitor’s attitude was fleeting. If there were oversights in the investigation into Jane Lomax’s death – and Hall was becoming increasingly convinced there had been – then this man was responsible. Was there anything after so long to learn from a portly, rubicund country policeman who could probably spot an illegally shot pheasant through thick canvas but miss an inconsistency that might have led to a murder charge? ‘Did you know Mrs Lomax, before you went to the house that afternoon?’

‘Knew who she was,’ said the man, the voice blurred by his local accent. ‘She and the mister. They’d made themselves well enough known since moving in…’ He looked uncertainly at the senior officer. ‘Not, perhaps, as much as the new Mrs Lomax, though. I hope she’s going to be all right.’

‘So do we all,’ said Hall. ‘But let’s stay with the first Mrs Lomax. What sort of things did you see her at?’

‘Village show. She was high church so she worshipped in Alton but she gave a lot of money, over?1,000, to the church roof appeal here in the village. Even attended services there sometimes.’

‘So she was well liked?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘What about the pub?’

‘Pub?’

‘There is a local pub, isn’t there? Did she ever go there?’

‘No. They never did things like that.’

‘You hear a lot in a village like this, a man in your position?’

Elroyd smiled, proudly. ‘Keep my ear to the ground. Eyes open.’

If only, thought Hall. ‘Did you ever hear that Mrs Lomax drank?’

‘I never did. That’s what surprised me that day, all that drink around.’

‘Not enough to mention it to anyone? A senior officer, maybe?’

Peterson stirred.

‘I didn’t know she had an illness: that she shouldn’t,’ protested the man. ‘What people do in their own house is their business, as long as it’s not breaking the law, isn’t it?’

‘That sounds perfectly satisfactory to me,’ said Hughes, in quick support.

It did, conceded Hall. ‘I know what you found in the kitchen and in the bedroom but what about the rest of the house? Was it tidy or untidy?’

‘Very tidy. Mrs Simpson was the housekeeper then. She’s a very neat person. Her cottage is a picture.’

‘Mrs Lomax was in her nightdress, in bed, when you entered the bedroom?’

‘Dr Greenaway and the ambulance people were trying to revive her.’

‘This is all in Constable Elroyd’s statement,’ reminded Peterson.

Hall ignored the interruption. ‘What about the clothes Mrs Lomax had been wearing, before she changed into her nightdress. Was there any sign of them around the bedroom?’

Elroyd shifted, uncomfortably, squinting down into the ancient book. Looking up doubtfully he said, ‘I haven’t made a note here of any day clothes.’

‘Would you have done?’ asked the inspector, irritatingly ahead of Hall.

‘I think so, sir. I was very careful that day. I realized how important it was.’

No you didn’t, thought Hall. ‘So what’s the answer, Constable?’

‘There couldn’t have been any visible in the bedroom.’

‘So Mrs Lomax must have put them away before getting into bed?’

‘Presumably,’ said the policeman, even more doubtfully.

‘Is there any importance in whether or not Mrs Lomax left her day clothes lying around?’ said Peterson.

Again Hall ignored the solicitor. To Elroyd he said, ‘What about underclothes?’

The constable visibly blushed. ‘I’ve no note of any, sir.’

‘And you would have done, if you had seen any?’

‘I took a careful note of everything.’

‘Like the sleeping pills, the temazepam, in the bath-room medicine cabinet?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the constable, brightening.

‘Did you take a note of the chemist who dispensed the sleeping pills?’ He felt a quiver of excitement at something that occurred to him from Gerald Lomax’s written statement and wondered if he was interpreting it correctly: if he were, this could be the most vital question of the day. It could also be, he realized, the most damning for Jennifer.

‘Hemels, Bury Street, EC3,’ read out the man, triumphantly. ‘And the date of dispensing. June thirteenth.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hall, sincerely. ‘That was most helpful. And there was the empty wine bottle in the kitchen wastebin? You even recorded what wine it was, Margaux?’

The plump man checked his notes. That’s right, sir. Margaux.’ He mispronounced it, stressing the X.

‘Apart from the Margaux bottle having been put in the bin, would you describe the rest of the kitchen as messy?’

‘Only the table. There were even food scraps on the table. But everything else was in its proper place.’

‘Do you intend trying to reopen the inquest, upon some new evidence?’ demanded Peterson.

‘I’m not sure there would be sufficient. Certainly not now that Mr Lomax is dead,’ said Hall. ‘I don’t even intend seeing the coroner.’

‘What, then, is the point of all this?’

Hall hesitated. ‘I’m not sure yet whether Mrs Lomax shared the housekeeper’s love of tidiness: I intend to ask her. But I don’t understand why Mrs Lomax would have discarded an empty wine bottle in a wastebin but left the rest of the dinner – even food scraps – uncleared on the table. Or why she went to the trouble when she got upstairs – still, it would seem, with a glass of brandy in her hand – presumably to hang up her clothes. Or why some insulin ampoules were properly thrown away in the bathroom – where the temazepam was neatly in a medicine cabinet – but others on a bedside table-’

‘… From my reading of the inquest evidence Mrs Lomax was clearly drunk,’ broke in Hughes. ‘Drunken people do inconsistent things.’

Which was unarguably true, Hall cautioned himself. He still wasn’t sure if there was the remotest chance of his achieving anything with what he was doing – insane idea for an insane situation echoed in his head – but he had to be careful against turning discrepancies into incontestable facts. ‘Had you been involved, inspector, wouldn’t those inconsistencies have prompted you to question Gerald Lomax a little more closely than he was?’

‘No,’ said Hughes, at once. ‘Mr Lomax wasn’t there. How could he have helped us beyond telling us how he found his wife?’

‘Is that all?’ demanded Peterson.

Hall was reluctant to be dismissed – could imagine the solicitor’s “and-I-took-no-nonsense” dinner-table anecdotes that night – but there wasn’t anything else about which he wanted to satisfy himself. ‘I’m sure you’ll help me further if something else comes up that I want clarifying.’

‘Are you going to the house?’ asked Hughes.

Hall shook his head. ‘I didn’t intend to.’

‘We’re still having to keep officers there all the time. And it’s not just all the media people who’re hanging around for Mrs Lomax to come back. There’s a lot of souvenir hunters now. The house nameplate has gone and we caught a family three days ago digging up plants, to take home and put in their own garden. We’ve charged them. The gardener says he’s lost some tools.’

‘What is it you want, Inspector?’

‘A private security firm. We’ll perform a police function but we’d like the general protection taken over by someone else.’

‘I’ll arrange it,’ promised Hall.

Elspeth Simpson lived just two miles along the same road as the village policeman, who hadn’t exaggerated the woman’s house-proudness. Even the garden flowers were in order of colour and in regimented lines and inside everything looked as if it were arranged soon to be packed away for safekeeping. The tiny, bird-like woman was as neatly packed as her belongings, her white hair tightly netted, the white collar of her uncreased paisley-patterned dress hard with starch. She appeared relieved that Hall refused tea but looked anxiously at a man of his size occupying one of her best-room chairs. He did his best not to ruffle the protective loose covers on the arms.

For the first time that day he discerned no attitude at all towards him. Elspeth chattered like a bird and he let her, eager for the gossip of which he quickly guessed she was the self-appointed village archivist. Jane Lomax’s death had been a tragedy, awful. Poor Mr Lomax had been very brave. They’d been devoted. There was a sniff at how quickly he had married again and at Jennifer’s name but it wasn’t for her to criticize. The second Mrs Lomax had fitted every bit as well into the village and local life, apart from the church, although she supported its events and had put money towards the new organ. She didn’t understand how the murder (‘that awful thing,’) could have happened but thought everything in court had been all wrong (‘no disrespect to you, of course, sir,’) because ghosts weren’t natural (said without a suggestion of a smile) and it wasn’t God’s way. There was only one ghost, the Holy Ghost. Perhaps it wouldn’t have occurred if the second Mrs Lomax had gone to church, not that she was criticizing, of course.

‘Why didn’t you stay on as housekeeper to the second Mrs Lomax?’

‘George, my late. He was ill, before they got married. I had to leave to look after him all the time. Emphysema. Mr Lomax was very good to me. Gave me?1,000 when I left and?500 for the funeral. And the second Mrs Lomax used to call by sometimes to see if I was all right. By then Alice – that’s Mrs Jenkins – had been engaged so there wasn’t any cause for me to go back.’

‘You made a statement after the first Mrs Lomax’s death but you didn’t give evidence at the inquest?’

‘I went but the policeman – not Harry Elroyd, the one who organized it all – said the coroner didn’t want me because I hadn’t been there that day.’

‘Why was that?’

‘It was my day off, a Friday. Mr Lomax always came home early on a Friday, so Mrs Lomax wasn’t too long alone.’

‘Because of her diabetes.’

‘Yes. And they were devoted, like I said.’

Lomax must have been a consummate actor. ‘You knew she was a diabetic?’

‘Of course. That’s why I couldn’t understand a lot of what was said at the inquest.’

Hall breathed, deeply. ‘What exactly didn’t you understand, Mrs Simpson?’

‘Mr Lomax saying she was careless with her treatment. She never was, as far as I was concerned. She’d always done it, you see. It was automatic, like washing her hands.’ As if in reminder the woman checked her own to ensure they were clean.

‘Didn’t you tell anyone at the time?’

‘Harry Elroyd. He said I couldn’t really know, which I suppose was right. I mean she never did it in front of me. Always in the bathroom attached to the bedroom. But she always said something when she went to do it. She had to do it twice a day, you see. Morning and night.’

‘Said something like what?’

‘“Pin-cushion time.” That’s what she called it.’

‘None of this was in your statement. I’ve read it.’

‘I wasn’t asked.’

And if you don’t ask you don’t get, thought Hall. ‘What about something else Mr Lomax said at the inquest, about Mrs Lomax’s drinking?’

‘I didn’t understand that, either,’ the elderly woman chirped at once.

‘Tell me why,’ encouraged Hall.

‘I’d never seen her drink, hardly at all. There used to be church council meetings at the house… did you know she was on the church council…?’

‘No.’

‘She was. And used to let there be meetings at the house midweek, on the nights Mr Lomax was in London…’ There was a pause. ‘… I thought sometimes she was lonely, in that big house all by herself.’

‘Tell me about the meetings.’

‘I was on the church council myself then. Mrs Lomax was very generous: they both were. She used to serve drinks, before the meeting started. All sorts of drinks, anything you wanted. She always had sherry, as if she was joining in, but usually I’d see she never finished it.’

‘Never finish one glass?’

The woman nodded. ‘I asked her about it. She said it wasn’t good for her to drink.’

‘You used to stay behind on church council nights?’

‘Always. George wasn’t so bad then.’

‘But on the other days what time would you come back here?’

‘Five usually. Certainly in the week when Mrs Lomax was by herself although I used to stay later when the mister was home and they had people in. I thought that was only fair for the way they let me go early other times, because of George.’

Hall patiently let her finish. ‘I don’t want to talk about the nights when people were in: not even when the church council met. After a night when Mrs Lomax had been by herself and you arrived the following morning, did you ever find empty wine bottles like the one Harry Elroyd discovered, after Mrs Lomax was found in a coma?’

She shook her head. ‘Not that I can recall.’ Her small, sharp-featured face creased into a frown. ‘Is there something wrong? About what happened, I mean?’

‘No,’ said Hall, quickly. ‘It’s just that everything is so unusual. It’s got to be gone into more thoroughly than usual. You understand that, of course?’

‘Of course,’ agreed the woman, invited into a confidence.

Hall looked around the polished-for-approval room in obvious admiration. ‘You’ve got a very nice house, Mrs Simpson. Perfectly kept.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You kept Mrs Lomax’s house like this?’

‘Of course!’

‘What about Mrs Lomax?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘As far as you were concerned she wasn’t careless about her medication. Did she rely upon you to keep her house like this…’ Hall swept his hand admiringly around the room. ‘Or was she messy?’

‘Never!’

‘How often did you arrive in the morning to find the remains of a dinner like the one described at the inquest?’

‘Never. Not even when there’d been a party. They always brought in caterers, so nothing was ever left. Sometimes things were put away wrongly in the kitchen. Mrs Lomax would tell me about it the following day. How she’d had to put it in the right place.’

‘In the right place,’ echoed Hall, letting his thoughts coalesce. ‘Did you come into the house on the Saturday, the day after the tragedy?’

‘Not the day after. The same day. Mr Lomax came to the house the night it happened. Asked me to come in to clear up. Actually drove me there in his car.’

Momentarily Hall closed his eyes in despair. Thar would have been what time.’

‘Just before seven. George and I were settling down to listen to The Archers on the radio. It hadn’t started.’

‘Four hours after he’d found Mrs Lomax unconscious and she’d been taken to hospital?’

‘I can’t tell you how shocked I was. It was terrible.’

‘The bed was soiled?’

‘Poor love.’

‘You changed it?’

‘Of course I did,’ said Elspeth, with a trace of indignation. ‘Mr Lomax didn’t intend to sleep there, of course. He slept in another room.’

‘What else had to be done, to Mrs Lomax’s bedroom, to tidy it up?’

‘There were things all over the cabinet. A syringe and ampoules. I knew what they were, of course.’

‘But you’d never seen them before, not scattered about like that?’

‘No.’

Another idea came abruptly to Hall. ‘Tell me about the bed itself. Was it a double, in which they slept together? Or two singles?’

The woman pursed her lips, as if she was reluctant to disclose an intimacy, which he was sure she’d never been. ‘Double.’

‘Which you made, every day?’

‘Yes.’

‘On what side did Mrs Lomax sleep, left or right?’

She frowned. ‘Left.’

‘So it would have been with her left hand that she reached out for anything on the bedside cabinet?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘What about the clothes Mrs Lomax had worn… it would have been the Thursday, the day you were there, wouldn’t it?’

‘A grey dress with a very faint yellow pattern,’ remembered the housekeeper. ‘Doesn’t sound like it but it was beautiful. It was hung up in the closet.’

‘She always hung her clothes up?’

‘I told you, she liked things neat and tidy almost as much as I do.’

‘What about underclothes?’

‘Where they always were, in the laundry basket in the bathroom.’

‘Put away?’

She frowned. ‘That’s what you do with dirty underclothes: put it away to be washed.’

‘Did you see much of Mr Lomax, when you were back at the house that night?’

‘He was lost. Devastated. He just wandered about, from room to room, not knowing what to do.’

‘How did you see a lot of him if he wandered about from room to room and you were working in two specific places: the bedroom and the kitchen?’

The question surprised the woman. ‘Because he was always where I was, I suppose. I hadn’t thought about it.’

‘How long were you back at the house?’

‘Not very long. There really wasn’t much to do but obviously he didn’t want to do it himself. No more than an hour, I suppose.’

‘Mr Lomax had taken you there. Did he drive you home?’

She shook her head. ‘He was too upset. He got a taxi for me. Fred Knowland. Works out of Alton. He was the man Mr Lomax always called: took people to the station at Winchester or Alton, things like that. All the way to London sometimes.’

Briefly, believing he could indulge himself, Hall tried to imagine what the carnation button-holed Superintendent John Bentley, the hitherto successful investigator of every murder, would have done now.

Elspeth, the gossip to whom any verbal silence was torture, said, ‘It was funny, about Fred.’

‘What was?’ said Hall.

‘He collects cars. Knows about them. He’s got an old open-topped bus he restored and hires out for weddings. It’s ever so popular. He saw the mister’s car, when he picked me up – it was one of those big American ones then – and said it was unusual for him to be home so much during the week and that he’d seen him arriving the previous night.’

Hall looked steadily at the woman. The previous night? You mean the Thursday?’

‘That’s what he said. He was working a contract, picking up someone from Winchester station, and he’d seen the mister’s car turning off the M3.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That he had to be mistaken. That the mister had been in London that night, like always – Mrs Lomax told me he was going to be, before I left – and that he never came home on the M3 anyway. He always said the A3 was quicker and there weren’t so many cars.’

‘Did you tell anyone this? Harry Elroyd?’

‘Why should I have done? It wasn’t right because I knew the mister was in London. It was daft.’

That’s how Knowland described it – ‘bloody daft: had to be, didn’t it?’ – when he responded to Elspeth Simpson’s call. The man’s recognition was instant – the reaction bright-eyed greed – and Hall immediately guessed Fred Knowland had profited hugely from the press invasion of the area and imagined even greater financial benefit from this encounter. The man, fat from sitting permanently in a driving seat, sparse-haired and quick to smile, asked as many questions as he answered and Hall didn’t doubt he would alert the press posse before he’d had time to get back to Winchester station. Elspeth was visibly distressed at having another chair seat dented, picking up and moving ornaments and picture frames and then putting them back in their original place.

‘It was exactly that, a mistake,’ she said, more than once, trying to hurry things on so she could polish and tidy away their intrusion.

‘What car was it?’ Hall persisted.

‘Cadillac de Ville,’ said Knowland. ‘Beautiful car. Had one once. Sorry I got rid of it.’

‘What colour?’

‘Mr Lomax’s? Black.’

‘You must have known the number?’

‘The system’s funny. The filter off the M3 is from a roundabout on to the road to get into Winchester. I was actually going in the opposite direction, on to the roundabout, as this car came off. I was never in a position to see a number. It was dark – it was past ten: I was going to pick up a contract customer – and it was raining. I just recognized the shape of the car: knew it immediately.’

‘As Mr Lomax’s?’

‘Why is it important?’

‘I’m clearing up the estate: there’s some dispute about whether it was a company car or personally owned,’ lied Hall, improvising.

‘No,’ responded Knowland, answering the question. ‘I recognized it as a de Ville.’

‘How many people were in it?’

‘What’s that got to do with whether it was a company car or not?’

‘Mr Lomax would have been alone, wouldn’t he? If there were several people it couldn’t have been his.’

‘It was by me in a second. But one person, I think.’

‘You must know most of the unusual cars around here, driving all the time as you do? And having the interest?’

The man smiled. ‘Not many I don’t see.’

‘So around the time we’re talking about how many other Cadillac de Villes were there in the area?’

The smile went. ‘None, as far as I know. That’s why I thought at first it had to be Mr Lomax. Until I talked to Elspeth.’

‘I think you’re right,’ agreed Hall. ‘I’ve been wasting my time.’ Knowland would obviously lead the media horde to Elspeth Simpson, who was looking visibly confused at his questions about the car. It was going to be a confused story.

‘Far to go?’ asked Knowland.

‘London.’

‘I could drive you back. Drove people around a lot for Mr Lomax. I could tell you a few stories.’

All of which had already been told and re-told and embellished, Hall was sure. ‘I’ve got a return ticket.’

‘Winchester station taxi?’ said Knowland, showing off his local knowledge and nodding to the retained vehicle outside. ‘He’d understand if you paid him off. It’s more comfortable by car. Give you a company rate, like I used to give Mr Lomax.’

‘No. But thanks.’

‘You got a number I can call you on, if anything else occurs to me?’

‘Sure,’ agreed Hall at once, offering a card with the chamber’s number.

Knowland’s hand snatched out and enclosed it like a lizard’s tongue capturing an insect. ‘Will you be down again?’

‘Maybe.’

The man’s hand was shaking with excitement as he offered his own card. ‘You need a car, just give me a ring. I’ll meet you anywhere. Come to collect you if you like.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ said Hall, accepting it.

A relieved Elspeth hurried them to the door and said she hoped Mrs Lomax would soon be back in the village and Knowland quickly said the same. He drove out on to the main road ahead of them, risking a barely sufficient gap in front of an approaching lorry, to a blast of protest.

‘What’s she like?’ demanded the driver, taking up the earlier conversation as if it had never been interrupted.

‘Who?’

‘The ghost.’

‘There’s nothing to see.’

‘Can you talk to her.’

‘I can’t,’ avoided Hall, unwilling to spend the entire journey under interrogation. ‘She talks to Mrs Lomax.’

‘She’s going to have to be locked up for the rest of her life, isn’t she? In an asylum?’

‘She’ll be going abroad soon,’ said Hall, the font of all false rumours. ‘To a special place in the sun.’

‘I suppose she can afford it with her money,’ agreed the driver, miserably.

They reached the station ahead of any pursuit. Hall had the fare ready, thrusting it into the driver’s hand and, avoiding the main ticket office, cutting into the underground tunnel to reach the London-bound platform. The train already there hid him from the main entrance opposite. He didn’t go on to the platform but to his right, out into the car park. He drove without direction away from the city, not bothering to look at a map until he reached Stockbridge and was sure there was no pursuit.

Only then did he begin to review his day, trying to get it into perspective. The circumstantial evidence begged for a proper investigation that could never be carried out now that Gerald Lomax was dead. But Jennifer couldn’t have been involved: he was sure she couldn’t. Or could she, he wondered, remembering a particular phrase in Gerald Lomax’s statement.

‘Eleven to one, one to eleven, eleven to one, one to eleven…’ incanted Mason, his voice measured, even, soporific. He held the watch in front of Jennifer, as he had the first time he’d hypnotized her. ‘Eleven to one, one to eleven…!’

‘ Why not go along with it? Humour the idiot? Can’t hurt me, after all. Can’t make me go anywhere.’

‘Can you hear me, Jennifer?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Jane?’

‘Yes. She’s not trying to stop me this time.’

‘ Help anyway I can, honey.’

‘Do you believe we can get rid of Jane?’

‘No.’

‘ Right! ’

‘So you’re not going to try any more?’

‘No point.’

‘You told me the last time how strong your mind was. Always better than anyone else.’

‘Not any more,’

‘ Right again! ’

‘Do you want to die?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to kill yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘You haven’t lost your strong mind, Jennifer.’

‘Jane’s there.’

‘So you’re giving your mind over to her? Letting her have it?’

‘She already has it.’

‘Not if you don’t abandon it to her.’

‘Too tired.’

‘No you’re not. You fought, in court. Made Jeremy fight. You beat Jane, because you stayed strong-minded. You can beat her again, rid yourself of her, but you must stay strong.’

‘ What a load of crap! ’

‘I can’t get rid of her. Ever.’

‘Do you want Emily?’

‘Can’t have her.’

‘Won’t you fight to have her?’

‘ Don’t listen! ’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re not fighting. You’re letting Jane take over.’

‘She wants to hurt Emily.’

‘She can’t. Emily’s safe. Nothing can happen to her. If Jane wants to hurt Emily, throw Jane out.’

‘Don’t know how.’

‘Could you believe Mr Dawson?’

‘Not really.’

‘Jane could believe him, couldn’t she?’

‘ Shut up! ’

When Jennifer didn’t reply the psychiatrist repeated: ‘Couldn’t she?’

‘ Don’t bother to listen. It’s crap.’

‘She doesn’t want to listen.’

‘Because she’s afraid.’

‘ Shut up! ’

‘She’s getting angry.’

‘No, Jennifer. She’s getting scared.’

Mason was excited, at the animation that was emerging through the hypnotic trance. ‘Try with Dawson, Jennifer. Try as hard as you can.’

‘It’s not just that.’

‘What then, Jennifer?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘You’ve got to talk about it, if I’m to help you.’

‘Too awful.’

‘ Oh go on! Shock him.’

‘Was it something that happened in prison?’ Mason guessed.

‘Don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Were you attacked in prison, sexually?’

‘Horrible.’ She physically shuddered.

‘You’re not in prison any longer. Never will be, again. What happened can’t hurt you.’

‘Jeremy wouldn’t want me if he knew, would he?’

Hall didn’t try to establish any contact, hurrying directly to his rooms at the clinic to telephone Humphrey Perry before the solicitor left for the day. ‘You’ve got the name? Hemels, Bury Street.’

‘There’ll never be a record, after all this time,’ protested Perry.

‘We won’t know, until we try to find one. And take a photograph of Jennifer with you.’

‘What could it prove, anyway?’

‘We don’t know that, either. Anything from America?’

‘If there had been I would have told you.’

‘You’ve got to admit it was an inadequate inquiry.’

‘All right,’ conceded the solicitor, reluctantly. Falling back on his most frequent complaint, he said, ‘But you’re still clutching at straws.’

‘And as I keep telling you, that’s what we’ve been doing from the beginning.’

Hall bumped into the psychiatrist almost immediately outside his door. ‘I was coming to see if you were back,’ said Mason.

‘I was just going to see Jennifer.’

‘I think you should.’

‘I’ve been on all the rides,’ said Emily. ‘Lots of times. And been in the pool every day.’

‘What would you like to do now?’ asked Annabelle.

‘Go home to Mummy and Daddy. And go to school with my friends.’