Dark Room

*6*

FRIDAY, 24th JUNE, THE VICARAGE, LITTLETON MARY, WILTSHIRE-11:00 A.M.

The Reverend Charles Harris watched from his study window as the white Rolls Royce-registration number KIN6-pulled in through the vicarage gates and parked by the front door. The number plate said it all. By the strategic placing of a yellow-headed screw to break the six and turn it into a G, the word KING screamed out from both ends of the ostentatious vehicle. Not for the first time, he wondered how Jinx had remained so apparently unaffected by her vulgar family, and not for the first time either, he berated himself for being uncharitable.

His dismay grew when the chauffeur opened the back door and assisted Betty Kingsley out. Adam he might have coped with, but Betty was a different matter altogether, particularly when, as was clearly the case now, she had been hitting the bottle hard during the journey. With a sigh, he opened the door of his study and called to his wife. "Caroline, we have a visitor. Betty Kingsley has just driven in."

His wife appeared in the kitchen doorway, a look of apprehension on her thin face. "I don't want to see her," she said. "I can't stand it, Charles. It was bad enough talking to her on the phone. She'll just start screaming at me again."

"I don't think we have a choice."

"Of course we do," she snapped, frayed nerves getting the better of her, "There's no law that says we have to answer the door. We can hardly be blamed because Leo preferred our daughter." The doorbell rang. "Just ignore it," she hissed at him. "I won't be harangued by a common fishwife in my own home."

But he was an old-fashioned man with old-fashioned manners. He shook his head in gentle admonishment and crossed the hall to open the front door. "Hello, Betty," he said kindly. She stank of gin, and her lipstick was smeared at one corner. There was something infinitely sad, he thought, about the worn face covered in makeup and the plump body squeezed into a girlish dress. Growing old would always be something to fear because drink had addled whatever wisdom she had, and now there was nothing left to make her interesting.

She pushed past him belligerently to confront Caroline, bumping into a walnut card table as she did so and slopping water from the vase of flowers onto the polished surface. "It's your slut of a daughter drove Jinx to kill herself, not me or her daddy," she grunted, jabbing her finger at the other woman. "She'd never need to kill herself because of us. You've got me that riled, Mrs. High-and-bloody-Mighty. You think you can say what you like about me and mine, when the truth is it's your precious Meg deserves the blame."

Caroline Harris glanced helplessly towards her husband. This is your fault, said her expression, so do something about it, but he gave an unhappy shrug and left her to fight the battle alone. "I really can't see the point of discussing this," she said in a voice that was pitched too high. "Far too much dirt has been peddled already."

"Yes, well, Meg always said you were a tight-arsed bitch who'd rather see everything swept under the carpet than have it aired in public." Betty clutched at the table with a meaty fist and affected a classy accent. " 'Oh, I say, I can't see the point of discussing this.' " She took a deep breath. "But you fucking well discuss it when it suits you. 'Now, now, Betty, don't go blaming Meg for your own failings. Jinx needs a mother to talk to.' " She slammed the table and set the vase rocking alarmingly. "Well, she's got a bloody mother. Me."

"But probably not the one she wants," said Caroline icily. "You were very offensive over the telephone, Betty. You called us murderers before you even knew if Jinx was dead. What did you expect me to do? Agree with you? Charles and I barely had time to digest the news that Leo had left Jinx for Meg before you were on the phone screaming abuse. It's been a terrible shock for all of us."

"Where's the apology? The apology's what I'm after, Mrs., or perhaps you're too grand for that?" Tears welled in the heavily mascaraed eyes. "You know what's being said? The wedding's off because Sir Anthony Wallader wouldn't have his son marry a Kingsley. And why? Because we're too bloody common." She gulped her tears. "But there's only one rotten apple in the barrel and I've a mind to make that public. Your Meg, who couldn't keep her knickers on if she was paid."

Caroline Harris's lips thinned to an unattractive horseshoe, but before she could say anything, the vicar intervened. He placed a hand on Betty Kingsley's arm and drew her round to face him. "Is this true, Betty?" He smiled apologetically. "We know so little, you see. Only what Meg told us over the phone and, in all conscience, that wasn't very much. Just that Leo preferred her to Jinx and they were leaving for a holiday in France."

The woman's thick lips worked aggressively. "Why should me and the boys take the blame for your daughter's screwing?" she slurred drunkenly. "Adam says we've ruined Jinx's chances with our goings-on, but I can't see it myself. Leo's a right bastard- like his father-but we did nothing to upset the applecart." She took a deep breath. "Not our fault," she resumed after a moment. "Meg's jealous, always has been. Sets out to bed anyone Jinx likes. Common is as common does. Bedded Russell, in case you didn't know."

Charles turned a shocked face towards his wife but Caroline looked away and refused to meet his eyes. "I didn't know," he said. "I'm sorry."

HO FORENSIC LAB, HAMPSHIRE-11:30 A.M.

Dr. Robert Clarke, the Home Office pathologist, took pity on the three policemen and herded them out of the laboratory and into his office, peeling off his gloves and mask as he did so. "Not a pretty sight," he agreed, opening his window to allow in the sweeter-smelling air of the busy road outside, "but sealing both caboodles in body bags and spraying with Nuvanstykil is the only way to kill the maggots off and make what's left presentable enough to examine. Coffee?" he suggested.

The three men swallowed convulsively, and wondered how he could consider taking anything into his mouth after what they had glimpsed going on inside the bags. The stench of putrefaction still lined their throats, as it had done since yesterday when they had stood beside the ditch and stared in gagging repulsion at the pulsating white mass seething turbulently amongst the pieces of clothing and decomposing body parts that lay there. They shook their heads vigorously.

"No thanks, Bob," said Detective Superintendent Frank Cheever, wiping his lips with a handkerchief. He was older than the other two policemen, a fine-boned, rather studious-looking man with gray hair and pale blue eyes which he fixed unnervingly on the person he was talking to. He was something of a dandy and caused much amusement amongst his officers over what they considered his fetish for silk. He wore silk bow ties, tucked matching silk handkerchiefs into his jacket breast pocket, and kept his expensive silk socks at permanent stretch by the use of sock suspenders. Rumor had it that he also wore silk underwear "But don't mind us," he murmured, looking unhappily at the empty coffee mug on the desk. "You go ahead."

"I will." The doctor stuck his head round the door, waved the mug in the air, and asked his secretary to bring him a black coffee. "It takes the taste away," he said insensitively as he settled himself behind his desk and waved them towards some empty chairs, "Now, let's see what we've got." He consulted some typed notes in front of him. "I won't bore you with the life history of Calliphora erythrocephalus, which is the bluebottle we're dealing with here, but in essence the time lapse in warm weather between the laying of the eggs and the pupal stage is some ten to eleven days. We found no pupa cases, and the larvae at the time of the discovery were on the way to being mature third-stage maggots, which would suggest the eggs were laid some eight or nine days before." He tapped a calendar. "Yesterday was the twenty-third, so we're looking at the fourteenth or fifteenth as likely dates for laying. Add another day or two for Calliphora erythrocephalus to find the bodies, and my estimate for when death occurred would be the twelfth, thirteenth, or fourteenth, with Monday the thirteenth as my first choice." He beamed at his secretary, who came in with his coffee and a plate of chocolate biscuits. "Sure you won't join me, gentlemen?"

They became visibly paler. It occurred to Detective Inspector Maddocks, a tall heavyset man in his mid-forties with a permanent scowl on his face, that Bob Clarke was doing this on purpose, a kind of trial of strength between the hard man of pathology and the hard men of CID. He'd always suspected the little bugger-Clarke was a miserable five feet six inches-of having a chip on his shoulder. Now he was sure. God, how he loathed arrogant little men! There was a horrible similarity between this cocky little scientist and the math teacher who was the cause of his pending third divorce.

"All right, Jenny. Thank you." Clarke dunked a biscuit into the cup and munched on it with pleasure. "Their hands and feet were tied, as you know, so we've got two people quite unable to defend themselves. Cause of death was ferocious bludgeoning with a blunt instrument." He pushed some X-ray photographs in Superintendent Cheever's direction with the flick of a finger. "We took these before we put them in the bath. You see how both skulls have been fractured in several places. This one, in particular, shows a clear rounded depression in the woman's parietal bone. A long-handled club or sledgehammer would be my bet, certainly something very substantial. Notice the break in the man's right clavicle, which would imply a missed shot"-he made a downward swing with his hand-"possibly glanced off the side of his head and landed with the force of a two-ton truck on the poor wretch's shoulder." He shook his head. "What we're looking at is two people on their knees with hands tied behind their backs and a maniac using them for target practice with something very heavy indeed. I think we can assume the first blows were delivered from behind because those are downward sweeps, and the blows that shattered the jaws and cheekbones were done after the bodies had toppled onto their sides. Imagine our maniac holding his hammer like a golf club and driving at both faces when they were on the ground. That should give you a good idea of what probably occurred."

Cheever dabbed at his lips again as he examined the photographs. "Where do you think it happened? In the ditch itself, or at the top of the bank?"

"My guess would be on the bank. The sort of blows I envisage would have been harder to achieve in a confined space. No, I see him killing them at the top of the slope, then pushing the bodies over. It's not very pleasant to dwell on"-he dunked another biscuit in his coffee-"but the golf-swing blows may have been his method of driving the corpses into a roll. Not that it would have worked very well," he said thoughtfully. "He'd have had to lay them out straight and give them a heave around their middles to really get them going."

"What about those slide marks we found five yards down?"

Bob Clarke sorted out another photograph. "Very interesting," he said. "Clearly made with a thin, hard heel. See here, quite deeply scored as if the wearer was sliding on one side with the heel digging in as a brake. But it's no more than an inch wide, so I'd suggest it was a woman's shoe."

"The female corpse was wearing running shoes," said Chee-ver.

"Yes. She couldn't have made marks like this, and neither could our male corpse. His heels are a good four inches wide. They weren't done all that recently, either-you can see where the grass has started to sprout again in places-so the chances are, there was either a woman present while the murder took place or someone else, who didn't report it, found the bodies before your old lady did."

"If that's true," said Cheever pensively, "then it's conceivable they may be our wallet thief. The logical assumption is that the murderer removed anything that could identify them, but it's not beyond the bounds of possibility that someone else did the business." He glanced towards his colleagues. "What do you think?"

Gareth Maddocks gave a noncommittal shrug, his narrowed eyes, sunk in folds of thick flesh, watching the pathologist's biscuit-dunking routine with disgust. "You said it meant a woman might have been present during the murder," he reminded him. "Does that mean a woman could have delivered blows like this, or was she there only as a witness to a man delivering them?"

Apparently oblivious of the other man's distaste, Clarke rubbed biscuit crumbs from his fingers and started in on his coffee. "Assuming she had two people, incapacitated, on their knees in front of her and assuming a sledge or club hammer with a reasonable length handle, then any woman with the strength to swing the thing several times could inflict this sort of damage. But it's an unlikely modus operandi for a woman acting alone."

"Not impossible, though?"

"Nothing's impossible, but frankly, statistics and psychology are against you. It was a very physical crime, requiring energy and extreme savagery, neither of which are typical of female murderers. That's not to say there aren't some extremely savage and dangerous women about, but in my experience, they prefer to conduct their murders within the four walls of a house, using a pillow over the face, poison, guns and knives even. I'd plump for a man or men, if I were you, with the possibility of a woman in tow who witnessed the whole event. It really is a pity there's been so little rain recently. A nice piece of soggy ground, and I could have told you how many people were there, what they weighed and probably how tall they were." He paused briefly. "Of course you realize there'll have been a great deal of blood, and that's a brute to clean off, as you know. Your killer will probably have left bloodstains in the car he drove away in. I certainly feel those are areas worth concentrating on."

"Tell us about the victims," said Frank Cheever. "We've got height, build, and coloring. Anything else? What do their clothes say?"

"Ah, well, Jerry's having a field day with them." Clarke pulled out another set of notes. "It'll be a while before he can give you a full analysis, but this is what he's come up with so far. These people weren't poor, quite the reverse in fact-Jerry says look at the wealthier end of the market. The woman first. Not much help from the jeans, which are stone-washed, men's Levi 501s, but the T-shirt is American, made by a company called Arizona, and imported into this country by the Birmingham-based Interwear. Preliminary talks with them indicate that these T-shirts retail at fifty-five pounds from only ten stores throughout the country, all of which are centered in either London, Birmingham, or Glasgow. We're expecting a faxed list this afternoon, and Jerry will send it through to you as soon as it arrives, with precise details of the size, color code, and style that she was wearing." He followed the notes with his finger. "Her running shoes are a Nike brand, retailing at eighty-five pounds, and her underwear, again not too helpful, is top-of-the-range Marks and Spencers. The point is, nothing that she was wearing was what you or I would call cheap, considering all her clothes are of the casual type.

"Now, the man. He's the better bet, by a long chalk. The pullover is dark green, army-style with leather-patched elbows, designed by Capability Brown and retailing only through Harrods at a price of one hundred and three pounds." He smiled at Frank Cheever's grunt of excitement. "That's only the beginning, my friend. The shirt is a casual green-brown check from Hilditch and Keys in Jermyn Street, retailing at eighty-five pounds. Trousers by Capability Brown again, one hundred percent lined cotton, with pleated front and button detail, color described as taupe, and retailing out of Harrods for two hundred and fifty pounds. Socks by Marks and Spencers, shoes probably purchased in Italy because Jerry has no record of an importer who deals in that particular brand, but he's working on it. His best advice is that our chap has an account with Harrods and probably one with Hilditch and Keys as well. He has located some interesting fibers on both sets of garments which he believes are from the same carpet, probably a thick-pile, off-white Chinese rug, and some hairs which he suggests tentatively are cat hairs, but give him a few more days and he claims he'll be able to describe the room these two were in before they were taken to Ardingly Woods."

"Anything else?" asked Cheever.

Clarke chuckled. "Isn't that enough to be getting on with? Good God, man, we've had them less than twenty-four hours. What else are you expecting?"

"Some reasonable fingerprint impressions," Cheever said. "You were doubtful yesterday, but perhaps you've had new thoughts today? If either of them have previous records, that's got to be the quickest route to identification."

"Yes, well, I'll be in a better position to judge that when we've got them out of the bags."

"What about the green nylon twine that was used to tie their hands and feet? Anything useful to say about that?''

"Not really. It's available in most garden centers, DIY stores, and supermarkets. Impossible to break and takes years and years to wear through. The knots were standard grannies, repeated several times to stop them slipping, and they were very tight, so presumably the victims struggled to get out of them. That's an avenue worth exploring. How does one man tie up two healthy adults? And when did he do it? Before he transported them to Ardingly, or after he got them there? If it was before, how did he get them to the middle of the forest? If it was after, why didn't one of them run away while the other was being trussed? I really think the most likely scenario is that you should be looking for two or more suspects."

DI Maddocks rubbed his jaw in thought. "Are you sure it was a hammer and not a heavy branch? If it was a branch, we could be looking at a rather more spontaneous attack. Our maniac, and I use the word advisedly, stumbles on a sleeping couple in the wood, renders them unconscious, ties them up, and then bludgeons them to death before absconding with their money. Could it have happened like that?"

"Not with a branch," said Dr. Clarke amiably. "Whatever made that neat hole in the woman's skull was cleanly and symmetrically shaped, very hard and heavy, and was probably at right angles to its shaft to penetrate so deeply. I wouldn't put my life on a sledgehammer, but I'd certainly put my savings on it."

The third policeman, Detective Sergeant Sean Fraser, who was leaning against the wall by the open window, stirred into life. "With respect, Governor," he said to Maddocks, "if it had been a spontaneous killing, we'd have found a car somewhere. A guy who buys his clothes at Harrods isn't going to hitch a lift to Ardingly Woods for a snooze with his bird." He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers against his leather jacket sleeve. "It's interesting listening to the doctor's description of how it happened. Pick any war you like, and you'll have seen film footage of victims kneeling in front of open graves before they're dispatched with a shot in the back of the head to topple forward into the pit. I'd say it's a fair bet these two were executed."

The others digested this in silence for a moment.

"What sort of execution are we talking about?" asked Superintendent Cheever finally. "If it was a professional contract killing, we'd be looking at X rays of bullet holes. You said yourself, a shot in the back of the head. I can't see a pro using a sledgehammer."

"I've known gangs take each other apart with baseball bats, sir," said Fraser, "but looking at what we've got, a man and a woman, mid-thirties to forties, I'd say it's a jealous husband we should be after. An execution of passion, that's my guess."

Cheever punted the idea about his head. "I still don't understand why no one's reported them missing. Well-dressed people don't vanish for two weeks without anyone noticing."

"Unless it's their families who've done away with them," said Maddocks. "Perhaps we've got a Menendez situation on our hands, wealthy parents slaughtered by teenage sons out of greed for money or revenge for prolonged sexual abuse, depending on who you believe. It happens far too often for comfort. There was Jeremy Bamber-remember him?-did away with his entire family for the house and money and then tried to blame it all on his dead sister. Makes you wonder why any of us bothers to lumber ourselves with the next generation."

Dr. Clarke consulted his watch and stood up. "Well, unlike you chaps, I don't earn enough to make it worth my children's while. A little kudos now and then for getting it right, that's my only real satisfaction for all the hours I put in on your behalf. Look for the bloodstains. Your individual, or more likely your duo or trio, will have had quantities of bright red hemoglobin splattered across their fronts. Someone, somewhere, will have seen it and said: 'Ah!' "

"Assuming Joe Public notices anything beyond his stomach and his prick," said Maddocks sourly.

"All being well," went on Clarke, opening the door, "I should be able to pinpoint their ages a little better for you by the end of the day, probably get some usable fingerprints, and in addition, tell you if the woman has ever given birth." He ushered them into the corridor. "But first I'll have to unzip those charming bags. Care to lend a hand, any of you?" He was chortling to himself as he headed for the lab.

"He's a miserable old fraud," said Superintendent Cheever to the others. "He earns twice as much as I do and puts in half the hours."

The smell of death issued from the lab as the pathologist opened the door and went inside.

"I suppose you noticed," said Maddocks, grinning at his boss while nodding towards the young sergeant, whose face had taken on an unhealthy hue under its thatch of blond hair, "that the good doctor ate his biscuits without washing his hands."

THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-MIDDAY

Jinx was standing in her bay window, leaning against the back of a chair for support. She was aware of the ginger head poked around her door for a long time before she said anything. "Why don't you come in?" she said finally to the pane of glass in front of her.

"You talking to me?"

"There's no one else here."

Matthew eased his thin frame through the gap in the door and joined her in her study of the garden. He found it impossible to stand still for very long, and out of the corner of her eye, she watched his nervous twitching with amusement. God, he was unattractive.

"Are you religious?" he asked bluntly.

"Why do you ask?"

"You had a vicar in here yesterday. Thought you might be one of the God squad."

She flicked him a sideways glance, saw he was busy picking at the spots on his chin, and resumed her own scrutiny of the sunlit lawn and the people on it. "He's the brother of a friend of mine. Came to see how I was. Nothing more sinister than that."

He gestured towards a man on the right. "See the guy in the checked shirt and blue trousers? Recognize him? Singer with Black Night. Used to shoot smack every two hours. Now look at him. And the guy next to him. Owns a freight company, but couldn't do the business unless he downed two bottles of whiskey a day. Now he's dry."

"How do you know?"

"I've done group therapy with them."

"Did Dr. Protheroe ask you to come and see me?" she asked cynically. "Is this group therapy by the back door?"

"Do me a favor. The doc never asks anyone to do anything, just sits back and rakes in the loot." He kicked his toe at the carpet. "The way I see it, the less he does the longer we're here, and the better he's pleased. It's money for old rope, this lark."

"He's obviously doing something right," Jinx pointed out, "or none of the patients would improve."

Matthew ran a shaky hand around his stubble. "Just keeps us away from temptation, that's all. There's no booze here, no drugs, but my guess is everyone looks for a hit the minute they leave. I'm sure as hell going to. Jesus, it's a bloody morgue, this place. No excitement, no bloody fun, death by boredom. I'd fix myself now if I could lay my hands on something."

She was suddenly tired of him. "Then why don't you?"

"I just said, there are no drugs on the premises."

"There must be some. I was offered a sleeping pill last night. Why don't you dissolve a few and shoot them," she said evenly. "It'd be a hit of sorts, wouldn't it?"

"Not the sort I want, and where'd I get a syringe from?"

She glanced at him again. "Then walk out. Go into town. Or are we prisoners here?"

"No," he muttered, rubbing his arms as if he were cold, "but someone would see. This place is crawling with security officers in case the proles get at the rich and famous. Anyway, what would I use for money? They take it off you when you first come in."

Which presumably explained why she didn't have her handbag. There were a few clothes in her wardrobe, but no handbag. She had assumed it'd been lost in the crash. "Well," she said with idle sarcasm, "if I was as desperate as you seem to be, then I'd go and mug some poor old woman for the money. I can't see what's stopping you."

"You're just like everybody else," he said angrily. "Go and knock down old ladies, beat the shit out of a bank manager, steal some kid's piggy bank. Jesus, I'm not a criminal. All I want is one bloody hit. You should listen to the doc sometime. 'What's keeping you here, Matthew? You're over twenty-one, you know what you're doing, so go phone your supplier, get him to bring you something.' I bloody rang my old man and told him, 'The doc's not trying to cure me, he's trying to encourage me, and this is what you're paying for.' "

"What did your father say?"

"He said: 'No one's stopping you, Matthew, so go ahead and do it.' I don't know what the hell's wrong with everyone. How about that walk then? Do you fancy a walk?"

"I can't," she said rather curtly. "My legs aren't strong enough yet."

"Yeah, I forgot. You tried to top yourself. Okay, I'll get a wheelchair then."

"I suppose Dr. Protheroe told you I was suicidal," she said bitterly.

"Shit, no. Like I said, he doesn't do a damn thing. Everyone knows about you. You've been in the papers. Millionaire's daughter who tried to kill herself."

"I didn't try to kill myself."

"How would you know? The word is you can't remember a thing."

She turned on him. "You bloody little shit," she said. "What the fuck would you know about anything?"

He touched a surprisingly soft finger to the tears on her cheek. "I've been there," he said.

She was still standing in front of the window twenty minutes later, propped against the chair, when Alan Protheroe came in. "I have a message for you from Matthew," he told her. "It goes something like this: 'Tell the bird in number twelve that I've found a wheelchair but it's so filthy that I'm having to clean it. She probably wouldn't say no to some sodding lunch in the garden, so I've laid it out for her under the beech tree.' " His amiable face broke into a grin. "Does that charming invitation appeal at all, Jinx, or should I tell him I've ordered you back to bed? As before, he totally ignored the Do Not Disturb sign outside your door, so in my view he hasn't earned your company for lunch, and the chances are he'll bore you solid with constant reiterations of his urge to shoot smack. However, it's an entirely free choice."

She smiled rather cynically back at him. "I'm beginning to understand how you operate, Dr. Protheroe."

"Are you?"

"Yes. You work on the principle that people always do the opposite of what the figure in authority is telling them to do."

"Not necessarily," he said. "I'm interested in encouraging each individual to establish his own set of values, and it's remarkably unimportant what triggers that process off."

"Then you force us to make choices all the time."

"I don't force anyone to do anything, Jinx."

She frowned. "Well, what am I supposed to do? Have lunch with Matthew or tell him to shove his head in a bucket. I mean, he's a patient too. I wouldn't want to do the wrong thing."

He shrugged. "It's nothing to do with me. He'll clean the wheelchair till it shines, because he's made up his mind you're worth it. His brain's a bit one-tracked at the moment, because he's been doing drugs for years, but his father's a barrister and his mother's in advertising, and ten years ago he got three A levels, so he can't be entirely stupid. It's a free choice, Jinx."

"I wish you wouldn't keep saying that. In my philosophy, there's no such thing as a free choice any more than there are free lunches. You always pay in the end." She allowed him to see her dislike. "And, as a matter of interest, if you're prepared to tell me so much about Matthew, then what have you told him about me?"

He arched an amused eyebrow. "I said the bird in number twelve is streets brighter than you, went to Oxford to read classics, and probably thinks you're a greasy-haired git who hasn't got the balls to go out and knock down an old lady for the sake of a hit. Which is pretty close to the truth, isn't it? He related most of the conversation you had with him."

"Spot on," she said tightly. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

"So, what do I tell him? That you'd like to have lunch with him in a wheelchair, or that you wouldn't?"

"You know I wouldn't."

He tipped a finger at her. "Then that's what I'll tell him." With the briefest of waves he disappeared through the door.

"NO!" she shouted. "COME BACK!" But he didn't come back and, more angry than she could ever remember, she set off across the floor and thrust herself out of her own doorway. "DR. PROTHEROE!" she screamed at his retreating figure. "DON'T YOU DARE SAY A WORD, YOU BLOODY, SODDING BASTARD!"

He turned round and started to walk back. "You do want to have lunch with Matthew?"

She waited until he had reached her. "Not particularly," she said quietly, "but I will."

"Why?" he asked curiously. "Why do something you don't want to do?"

"Because you won't tell him no kindly. You'll tell him exactly what I told you, and I don't want you to do that. He's been nicer to me than anyone else and I think you might hurt him."

"You're right on every count, Jinx."

She gave a bored sigh. "Oh for God's sake. Look, I know why you're doing it. You're no different from Stephanie Fellowes. You want me to get out of this room, you want me to stop feeling sorry for myself, and you want me to start mixing again. But why can't you just say, 'Do it, please, Jinx, because it's good for you?' Why involve that wretched boy in your silly games? He's not responsible for what's happened to me."

Why couldn't she see that the room he wanted her to leave was the one in her mind? What was keeping her there? "I agree, but I didn't involve him, he involved himself." He tapped the Do Not Disturb notice taped to the wall beside her door. "Don't you think it's a little patronizing to refer to him as a 'wretched boy,' Jinx? He's twenty-eight and doesn't require protection from me or from you." He grinned broadly. "And one last point: as a matter of policy, I never instruct anyone to do anything. You either do things willingly, or you don't do them at all. My credibility's at stake here. I can't have people refusing. It would undermine everything I stand for."

"Then please tell Matthew thank you very much and yes, I'd love to have lunch with him." She reached up and tore off the notice, crumpled it into a ball and threw it at him. "As a good existentialist, Dr. Protheroe, I'm sure you know why I did that."

His thundering laugh boomed along the corridor as he walked away, tossing the ball into the air and catching it again. "Because you enjoyed it,'' he said over his shoulder.

She was wheeled around the gardens like a highly prized pig in a wheelbarrow, with her lanky escort showing her off with pride to anyone who was interested. She loathed every minute of it, spent the entire time chain-smoking, and ground her teeth at what she regarded as a Protheroe-inspired hijack. She perked up when, at the end of a tour of the boundary wall, they came to the main gate and paused by the gatekeeper's box. He glanced at them briefly through the window, then resumed his reading of the newspaper. Jinx gestured towards the unrestricted exit. "Why don't we just keep going?" she suggested. "You can get some smack and I can take a taxi home."

"Sure," said Matthew. "You take it over then."

She squinted up at him. "Take over what?"

He made pushing motions with his hands. "The wheels. It's no skin off my nose if you want to scarper. You're not my responsibility." He squatted down beside her. "But if you want out, why don't you just tell the doc and phone for a taxi from your room?''

She shrugged. "Probably for the same reason you don't."

"Yeah," he said. "Reckon the guy from the band's got it about right. What he says is, when you've flung yourself into the ultimate abyss and you're still alive when you reach the bottom, it's probably worth asking yourself what the hell you're doing down there. So, do you want lunch? Or do you want out?"

"Both," said Jinx, "but I'll settle for lunch. You're not a rebel at all, are you?"

Matthew grinned. "That depends," he said.

"On what?"

"Cui bono? If it's me who gains, then I might be interested. What's the deal?"

"I don't know yet," she said thoughtfully, "but I'll tell you this for free. If you ever manage to kick the habit, you could make millions. You're even more manipulative than my father."

"It takes one to recognize one," he said, spinning her round. "You're not exactly backward in that direction yourself. Hold tight now. Let's see how fast this contraption will go." He bent down to press her back into the seat, and as he did so, she turned her head to smile at him.

The shock of deja vu was so extreme that she flung her hand out instinctively and caught him a glancing blow across the face. Meg and Russell ... Meg and Leo ... BLOOD ... Whore ... whore ... WHORE.