Dark Room

*7*

At the outset Bobby Franklyn had been careful with the four stolen credit cards, all of which carried the flamboyant signature that was so easy to copy. He had started in a modest way with purchases under thirty pounds to avoid incurring the inevitable telephone checks, but after two days he was seduced by a leather jacket at one hundred and fifty pounds and caution gave way to greed. He sweated under the beady eye of the shop manager while the call for authorization was made, only to hit an adrenaline high when the jacket was handed to him and he knew that the cards had still not been reported missing. In the next five days, using each in turn, he bought goods to the value of six thousand pounds without, apparently, ever reaching any of the credit ceilings. He had yet to touch the woman's cards.

Of course, he grew careless. It was the nature of the beast to proclaim his cleverness and flaunt his newfound wealth, for there was no forward thinking in Bobby's intellectual makeup, merely a childlike need to gratify immediate appetites and demonstrate that he was a cut above his peers. He strutted his stuff with increasing arrogance, provoking jealousy and resentment, and was grassed up by an old school friend, turned police informant, for a smoke and the price of a beer.

FRIDAY, 24TH JUNE, ROMSEY ROAD POLICE STATION, WINCHESTER, HAMPSHIRE-12:15 P.M.

At about the same time that Jinx was considering absconding, DS Sean Fraser tapped on the open door of DI Maddocks's office. "You remember what the Super said about a third party nicking our couple's IDs and money? Well, I took a look at the charge sheets for the last week and came up with a cracker. It's too bloody neat to be coincidence, Governor. A lad by the name of Bobby Franklyn was brought in this morning by the uniformed boys. He lives on the Hawtree Estate, single-parent family, five kids all running wild. He's the eldest. Seems he's been using stolen credit cards to buy electrical goods and clothes to the tune of six thousand quid in five days. When they prised up the floorboards in his bedroom, they found four cards in the name of Mr. Leo Wallader and two in the name of Miss M. S. Harris. He claims he found them in a shopping bag in the High Street, but when Ted Garrety phoned through to find out when they'd been reported missing, he was told that as far as the companies who issued them are concerned, they're still kosher. Ted's been trying to contact the two cardholders. Wallader's registered address is Twelve Glenavon Gardens, Richmond, and Harris's is Forty-three-A Shoebury Terrace, Hammersmith. Two London numbers with no answer at either end. What do you reckon?"

The permanent scowl on Maddocks's heavy face smoothed into alert interest. "Is Franklyn still here?"

Fraser nodded. "He's a nasty piece of work. Seventeen years old, and knows his rights. We've hauled him in before but this is the first time he's been old enough to charge. According to Garrety, he had five televisions, half a dozen stereo systems still in their boxes beside his bed, and a quantity of brand-new flashy clothing in his closet."

"Does he have a brief with him?"

"A young woman from Hicks and Hicks. She's advised him to keep his mouth shut."

The scowl returned. "Miranda Jones, I suppose. If women stuck to what they're good at instead of muscling in on the male preserves, the world would be a better place." He flicked a lazy glance at the young sergeant's prudish face. "You'd agree with that, wouldn't you, Sean?" he goaded him, knowing that Fraser hadn't got the balls to contradict a superior officer.

Fraser stared at a spot on the wall above the Inspector's head and toyed briefly with the idea of thumping the bastard. He really hated Maddocks. He suspected the man's misogyny was pathological and put it down to the fact that Maddocks was in the middle of his third divorce. But it was no excuse, any more than it was an excuse for his apparent willingness to abandon the six children he had had along the way. "She's better than some of the men they send, Gov."

"Okay, let's take a look at him," said Maddocks, abandoning his sport to push his chair back and stand up. "No chance he's our murderer, I suppose?"

Fraser stood aside to let him pass. "I wouldn't think so, Gov. According to Ted Garrety, he has a reputation for liking little girls. A thirteen-year-old accused him of rape a couple of years back, but no charges were ever brought because her mother removed her very speedily when it emerged how many other boys her daughter had slept with. The view is that Franklyn has all the makings of a pedophile, and give it another two to three years and we'll be banging the little sod up on a regular basis for child molestation. A type like that is deeply inadequate, so he'd probably rob two mature dead adults without a qualm, but I doubt very much he'd have the bottle to abduct them while they were alive."

Which was a fair summary, thought Maddocks, as he examined the depressingly low-grade young man in the interview room, who couldn't open his mouth without uttering obscenities and who fingered his crotch from beginning to end of the interview, apparently unaware he was doing it. He appeared unhealthy and unwashed, with pinched, sharp features, eyes that looked anywhere but at the person he was talking to, and a sullen cast to his mouth. At such times, the fascist in Gareth Maddocks wondered why society tolerated weasels like this within its midst.

"We have something of a problem here," he murmured after Franklyn had replied "No fucking comment" to the first three questions. "I'm going to deal this one straight, Bobby, so that you know where I'm coming from. I think, then, you might decide to give me some answers. I'm not interested in your credit card fraud. As far as I'm concerned, that's a separate issue. What I am interested in are the two people named on the cards, Mr. Leo Wallader and Miss M. S. Harris, and the reason I'm interested is because I have two corpses I can't identify, who were found in Ardingly Woods yesterday afternoon. Now, guesswork tells DS Fraser and myself that our couple could very well be Mr. Wallader and Miss Harris, and it would save us a great deal of time and effort if you could confirm that for us, Bobby. We think the chances are you stumbled on the bodies a week or so ago and did what any normal red-blooded male would do, and removed their wallets." He smiled amiably. "What the hell, eh? They were dead-not by your hand, no question about that-but they weren't going to need their credit cards anymore, were they? How about giving us a break on this one? It really would help us to know who they are."

"Sod off," said Bobby. "No fucking comment."

Maddocks glanced towards the young solicitor. "What say the Sergeant and I leave the room for five minutes and you discuss options with your client? It's worth pointing out, I think, that we might very well decide to bring additional charges against Mr. Franklyn if and when we identify our dead couple as Wallader and Harris, and I should add that perverting the course of justice will be the least of them."

Fraser watched Bobby's involuntary masturbation with marked distaste. "If we're forced to go house to house on the Hawtree Estate, I wonder if we'll turn up someone else, a young girl perhaps, who was in the woods with Bobby."

"There weren't no one with me," said Franklyn in a rush, ignoring his solicitor's warning hand on his arm. Shit, if they ever found out he'd screwed a twelve-year-old. "Okay, okay, so I did find them two bodies, and Jesus, they were sodding 'orrible. Smashed bloody faces and bluebottles everywhere, but I was on my own. D'you fink I'd 'ave been able to lift them cards if I'd 'ad someone wiv me. Use yer fucking brains. They'd 'ave wanted an in on the goods, wouldn't they? But it was like you said, them two was dead and they wasn't gonna use their sodding cards again. Couldn't see no 'arm in taking them and doin' a bit of business."

"You had a duty to report it, Bobby," said Maddocks mildly, his habitual aggression cloaked in an encouraging smile which said: Don't worry about it lad, we're men of the world, you and I, and we both know rules are made to be broken.

"Fuck that! It weren't none of my business. If I were a bit keener on you lot, then maybe, but you've never done me no favors, so why should I do one for you? They was so bloody dead you wouldn't believe. Couldn't see what difference it'd make to them if they was found a week ago or if they was found today. They'd still be dead, wouldn't they?"

Maddocks couldn't argue with that. "Are you sure you were on your own, Bobby? If you had a girl with you we need to know now. It is important." He was thinking of the skid marks on the bank, made by a woman's heel.

"Yeah, I'm sure." He pondered for a moment. "I'll tell you this for free. If a girl 'ad seen what I saw, she'd still be puking all over the sodding shop. I'm not thinking about it too much myself." His skin grew even more unhealthy-looking. "I 'ad to 'old my breath to search them. It was that bloody disgusting. Reckon there was a million bluebottles in that ditch. You gonna charge me? It weren't me what did them in. I don't do that kind of stuff."

Maddocks glanced at Fraser, who shrugged. The lad's story certainly had the ring of truth. "No," said the DI, standing up. "At the moment I don't intend to add any charges to those you're already facing, but we will want to talk to you again, Bobby, so I advise you very strongly to make yourself available. Neither DS Fraser nor I want the trouble of having to look for you." He paused at the door. "Just one last thing. Had there been any attempt made to bury the bodies?''

"You mean in a grave?"

"No, I mean had they been covered over with anything?"

"Only wiv leaves."

"Well covered?"

"Yeah. Pretty well."

"Then how did you know they were there?"

Franklyn's sharp little eyes shifted nervously. "Because some-think 'ad been at the guy," he said, "a fox maybe. The 'ead and top 'alf of 'is body 'ad been dug out, least that's what it looked like. I didn't know the woman was there till I started taking the leaves off 'im and found 'er 'ead beside 'is sodding legs. To tell you the truth," he said, "I wish I'd never seen them now." He wiped his hands on his trousers. "It's got me in a bother and I'm not sure I cleaned myself properly afterwards. I've been worrying about that."

THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-6:30 P.M.

Alan Protheroe looked in on Jinx later that afternoon and found her walking with gritty determination about her room. "I'm not going out in a wheelchair again," she told him angrily. "I hadn't realized quite how sensitive I am to being stared at. It was a deeply humiliating experience." She jabbed a finger at her bandages. "When's this idiotic thing coming off my eye?"

"Probably tomorrow morning," he said, wondering if it was only humiliation that had sparked her anger. It would be a while, he thought, before she felt confident enough to admit she remembered anything. "You've an appointment at Odstock Hospital for nine-thirty. All being well, it'll be removed then."

She came to a halt beside her dressing table. "Thank God for that. I feel like Frankenstein's monster at the moment."

His amiable face creased into a smile. "You don't look like him."

There was a short silence.

"Are you married, Dr. Protheroe?"

"I was. My wife died of breast cancer four years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Why did you want to know?" he asked her.

Straightforward curiosity. You're too nice to be running around free, and most of your shirts have buttons missing. "Because it's six-thirty on a Friday evening in June and I was wondering why you were still here. Do you live in?"

He nodded. "In a flat upstairs."

"Children?"

"One daughter at university, who's nineteen and very strong-minded."

"I'm not surprised. You've probably been using her as a guinea pig for your theories on individual responsibility since she was knee-high to a grasshopper."

"Something like that."

She eyed him curiously. "As a matter of interest, what happens when one of your patients chooses a wrong set of values? Acts in bad faith, in other words. I can't believe they all toe the existentialist Protheroe line. It's a statistical impossibility."

He lowered himself into one of the chairs, stretched his long legs in front of him, and clasped his hands behind his head. "That's an extraordinarily loaded question but I'll have a stab at an answer. By 'wrong' you presumably mean that they leave the clinic with the same problems they came in with? In other words, their time here hasn't persuaded them that another modus vivendi might be worth considering?"

"That's a simplistic way of putting it, but it'll do, I suppose."

He lifted an amused eyebrow. "Then the simplistic answer is that my methods haven't worked for them, and they either remain as they are or seek alternative therapy. But they're usually the ones who discharge themselves within forty-eight hours because they didn't want to be here in the first place."

Like me, she thought. "You must have your share of backsliders, though. I can't see Matthew sticking to the straight and narrow once he's away from here."

"I think you're underestimating him. He's only been here two weeks, you know. Give him another month and then tell me he won't make it."

She looked appalled. "A month? How long am I supposed to stay here then?"

"As long or as short as you like."

"That's not an answer. How long does my father expect you to keep me?"

"This isn't a prison, Jinx. I don't keep anyone."

"Then I can leave tomorrow after the bandages have been removed?"

"Of course you can, subject to what I told you on Wednesday. You're still not physically fit, so I'd feel duty-bound to inform your father that you'd discharged yourself."

She smiled faintly. "Does that mean I'm mentally fit?"

"My impression, for what it's worth, is that you're tough as old boots." He leaned forward and studied her face closely. "I'm having some difficulty squaring this rugged self-reliance of yours with the picture the police gave me of a heartbroken, vulnerable woman who drove her car at a wall."

She pressed a fingertip to her eyelid to hide the awful rush of tears. "So am I," she said after a moment, "but I've read the piece in the newspaper over and over again and I can't come up with another explanation." She lowered her hand to look at him. "I phoned Meg's answering machine today. I thought if I could only talk to her and Leo, they could at least tell everyone that I wasn't upset about him going."

"Is that something you can remember?"

"You mean not being upset?" He nodded and she shook her head. "No, I'm just so certain that it wouldn't have worried me."

"Why?"

Because it didn't worry me last time. "Because," she said out loud, "I didn't want Leo myself." She looked away from him, fearful perhaps of seeing his disbelief. "I know it sounds like sour grapes but I'm relieved I don't have to marry him. I can remember hanging around the studio till all hours just to avoid going home and spending cozy evenings with him, and I don't think it was cold feet about the wedding. I was beginning to actively dislike him." She gave a hollow laugh. "So much for rugged self-reliance. Why was I marrying someone I didn't like? It doesn't make sense." She lapsed into a brief silence. "It wouldn't be so bad," she said suddenly, "if I didn't have to keep shoring up my defenses."

"Against what?"

She pressed her fingertips to her good eye again to shut him out. "Fear," she said.

He waited a moment. "What is there to fear?"

"I don't know," she murmured. "I can't remember."

ROMSEY ROAD POLICE STATION-7:00 P.M.

Events moved extraordinarily quickly once the bodies were given tentative names and addresses. A telephone call to the Richmond police uncovered the interesting information that 12 Glenavon Gardens had attracted the attention of another branch of the Hampshire police some ten days previously, following a road traffic accident involving Miss Jane Kingsley, the owner/occupant.

"You want to speak to a Sergeant Halliwell at Fordingbridge,'' said the voice at the other end to Fraser. "He asked us to make some inquiries about Kingsley because it looked to them like the RTA was a deliberate attempt to kill herself. The gist is, she was engaged to Leo Wallader, who lived with her in Glenavon Gardens for about two months before buggering off on the night of Friday, the tenth of June, three weeks before the wedding, to shack up with Kingsley's best friend. We talked to Kingsley's neighbors, who mentioned another suicide attempt on Sunday the twelfth, and also to Wallader's parents by phone. The information we were given is that Wallader and his new girlfriend have scarpered to the Continent until the fuss over the canceled wedding has died down."

"Any idea what the name of the girlfriend is?" Fraser held his breath.

"Harris. Meg Harris."

Bull's-eye! "Do you have an address for Wallader's parents?"

"Let's see now. The father's Sir Anthony Wallader. Address: Downton Court, Ashwell, Near Guildford."

"What about Meg Harris's parents?"

"Sorry. She only came into it as the new girlfriend. We've nothing on her at all except her name."

"Okay, can you fax me everything you've got on this?" He read out the number. "Within the next five minutes, if possible."

"Will do. What's the story then?"

"Not sure yet, but we've got two bodies here that we think are Wallader and Harris. You'd better warn your chaps to expect us sometime tomorrow. Cheers."

Fraser cut the line, flipped through a police directory, and dialed Fordingbridge. "Is Sergeant Halliwell still there?" he asked. "Yes, I know it's late." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "Okay, well, this is urgent. Can you find him and ask him to call either DI Maddocks or DS Fraser in the Ardingly Woods incident room." He rattled off the number. "And make that a priority, please."

He gathered his notes together and made his way down the corridor to the fax machine, which was already printing the first of two pages being transmitted down the wire from Richmond. He skimmed both sheets before shouldering his way into Maddocks's office. "Here's the Hampshire connection, Governor. Leo Wallader was engaged to a Miss Jane Kingsley up until a couple of weeks ago. They were supposed to be getting married on the second of July, but Leo jilted her on the tenth of June for her best friend, Meg Harris." He looked up. "Miss Kingsley's father is Adam Kingsley of Franchise Holdings and the wedding was supposed to be taking place at Hellingdon Hall, which is where Kingsley senior lives. It's a mansion to the north of Fordingbridge." He handed Maddocks the sheets of paper. "I've asked for a Sergeant Halliwell at Fordingbridge to give us a call. He's the one who requested this information when his guys hauled Miss Kingsley out of her car on the thirteenth of June, unconscious and drunk as a skunk. A suicide attempt, they reckon, following a previous one on the twelfth of June." He tapped the Ordnance Survey map on the wall. "According to the guy I spoke to in Richmond, the RTA was at Stoney Bassett airfield, which is"-he spread his hand across the map-"two thirds of the way between Ardingly Woods and Hellingdon Hall, say fifteen miles from the woods to the airfield and another seven from the airfield to the Hall. I've a real gut feeling about this one, Governor. The geography's right, we've got skid marks on the bank made by a woman's shoe, and the doc said a woman could have done it."

Maddocks was an older and warier hand. "Let's wait to hear from Halliwell," he said.

Half an hour later they transferred to the Superintendent's office and brought him up to date on what they knew. "I accept there's a remote chance that Wallader and Harris are sunning themselves on the Riviera," finished Maddocks, "either because Franklyn's lying to us or because our two bodies nicked the credit cards only to have them nicked again by Franklyn, but it's so damned unlikely that it's not worth considering. It explains why no one's reported them missing. According to Halliwell, Leo's family said they ran away to France to avoid the embarrassment of the canceled wedding. So what do we do? Tell Sir Anthony Wallader we think his son's in the bath at the lab and ask him to make an identification? Or wait till we're sure the ID's accurate before we tell the families? We can probably lift some fingerprints from Harris's flat in Hammersmith, but Richmond say there's no way they can go back into Glenavon Gardens without alerting Jane Kingsley to the fact that something's up. Which could be a bad move if she's involved."

Frank Cheever steepled his fingers on his desk and gazed thoughtfully out of the window. "Did I ever tell you," he said at last, "that I began my career as a beat bobby in London's Mile End?"

Maddocks and Fraser stared straight ahead. If he'd told them once, he'd told them a hundred times. Maddocks prepared to be bored. There was no merit in the old fool's reminiscences, beyond the one undeniably interesting fact that Cheever had been born a bastard to an East London prostitute. Even Maddocks had to admit that to work his way up through various police forces, while remaining married to the same woman for thirty-eight years, was an achievement for a boy who began life in the gutter.

"I was barely out of school," he mused, "and one of the first bodies I picked off the street was a black fellow who'd been bludgeoned within an inch of his life." He thought about that for a moment. "It turned out the poor wretch was engaged to the sister of an East End gangland boss and there was circumstantial evidence to show the future brother-in-law had done his dirty work himself. All my guv'nor needed was confirmation of identity, but when the victim came round he refused to cooperate and we had to drop it. I've never seen anyone look so scared. He was black as the ace of spades but he went white to the gills every time we mentioned a prosecution." He looked from one to the other. "The bastard who bludgeoned him was called Adam Kingsley. He wasn't prepared to have black blood in his family." He fixed his pale eyes on Maddocks. "But he got it anyway. The black fellow had more guts than Kingsley credited him with. He married the sister a week later, and went up the aisle on crutches to do it."

Maddocks whistled. "The same guy? This girl's father?"

Cheever nodded. "He made a fortune out of buying up cheap properties with sitting tenants, then sending in his heavies to evict the wretched people in order to flog off the properties with vacant possession. He turned respectable in the sixties, probably about the time his daughter was born." He stared out of his window into the darkness. "All right," he said, "I suggest we tread carefully on this one. You and I, Fraser, are going to visit Sir Anthony Wallader tomorrow morning. We'll leave at eight sharp to be with him between nine and nine-thirty, and I want you to warn Dr. Clarke that we may be bringing him back with us." He turned to Maddocks. "Meanwhile, Gareth, I suggest you split your team in two, half to concentrate on Meg Harris, the other half on Jane Kingsley. I want to know where they met, how long they've known each other, what sort of personalities they are. In particular I want to know about the relationship between Jane Kingsley and her father. Okay? See what you can come up with by the time we get back."

"But we don't approach Kingsley himself, presumably?"

"No."

"What about the daughter? Halliwell says she's in the Nightingale Clinic in Salisbury suffering from the effects of concussion. Do we leave her alone as well? She has a drunk-driving charge hanging over her head, so we could get away with interviewing her on that without too much difficulty."

"You think so, do you?" said Cheever dryly. "Listen, my friend, this isn't the Samaritans we're dealing with, and you make damn sure Kingsley doesn't get a sniff at the questions you're asking. Understood? No one makes a move on that family until we know exactly where we are and what we're doing. If Jane is anything like her father, you handle her as delicately as you'd handle a snake. Of course you leave her alone. You leave them all alone.

SATURDAY, 25TH JUNE, DOWNTON COURT, NEAR GUILDFORD, SURREY-9:30 A.M.

Sir Anthony Wallader ushered the two somber-looking policemen into the drawing room of his house and waved them towards empty chairs with a perplexed frown creasing his forehead. "To tell you the truth, gentlemen, I've had it up to here"-he raised his hand to the side of his neck-"with that wretched girl and her suicide attempts. I don't say I applaud my son in what he's done, but I do object to the way Philippa and I keep being dragged into something that is, frankly, none of our business. You do realize how long I've spent on the telephone to your colleagues round the country, not to mention the appalling conversation poor Philippa had with Jinx's stepmother. Philippa would insist on doing the right thing and sending her best wishes for Jinx's recovery, but Betty was as rude and offensive as one would expect from someone of her class and background." He gave a shudder of distaste. "She's the most objectionable creature, little better than the lowest East End tart, if I'm honest. God knows, we're well out of that family entanglement."

Fraser, who knew Cheever's background, writhed quietly on behalf of his boss. The Superintendent merely nodded. "It's not an easy situation, sir."

"You're right, of course. And why should we be made to feel responsible for a grown woman's inability to deal with her emotions? Is this really so important that you can't wait for Leo to get back?" He sank onto the sofa and crossed one neat leg over the other, every inch the aristocrat. In different circumstances, Fraser might have been tempted to kick his arse. There was no sincerity, he felt, in Sir Anthony Wallader. "Philippa and I barely know Jinx. Leo brought her down for the odd weekend but not enough for us to feel comfortable with her. She's a very clever girl, of course, but rather too modern for our taste."

"In fact, we'd very much like to talk to your son," said Frank Cheever evenly. "Do you have an address or telephone number where we can contact him?''

Sir Anthony shook his head. "We haven't heard a word since they left. Not surprising really. They're embarrassed." He clasped his hands over his knee. "We are too. We've been keeping our heads well down, as you can probably imagine. Not the done thing, jilting the bride four weeks before the wedding, but the trouble is, we can't criticize him for doing it. Embarrassment tempered with relief is probably the best description of how we feel at the moment. She was quite wrong for him, took everything far too seriously, as amply demonstrated by these suicide attempts."

Fraser was examining some family photographs on the table beside him. "Is this your son, sir?" he asked, pointing to one of a tall, fair-haired man leaning against a Mercedes convertible with his arms crossed and a broad smile on his face. The family resemblance was strong. He had the same wide forehead as Sir Anthony, the same thick hair, the same elegant tilt to his patrician head.

"Yes, that's Leo."

"Where exactly did he and Miss Harris say they were going, Sir Anthony?"

"They didn't. They just said they were taking the car across the Channel until the flak stopped flying."

"You spoke to them in person."

"Not face-to-face. Leo phoned on the Saturday morning to say the wedding was off, and that the best thing he and Meg could do was make themselves scarce."

"Saturday being the eleventh of June?"

"That's right. Two weeks ago today."

"And you haven't heard from him or Meg since?"

"No." He swept his trousers with the palm of his hand. "But I have to say that I can't see why any of this is important. It's hardly a hanging offense if your erstwhile fiancee makes an attempt on her life. Or is it now? I'm afraid the law makes less and less sense to me as I get older."

Frank Cheever removed a folded piece of paper from his inside breast pocket and spread it out on his knees before passing it across to Sir Anthony. It was a photocopied montage of the credit cards that had been in Bobby Franklyn's possession. "Do you recognize either of the signatures on this page, sir?"

Sir Anthony held it at arm's length. "Yes," he said after a moment, "the top four are Leo's." He half closed his eyes. "The bottom two are M. S. Harris, so presumably Meg's." He shifted his gaze to the Superintendent. "I don't understand."

"I regret this very much, Sir Anthony, but we have reason to be very concerned for your son and Miss Harris. We came here because we hoped you could give us some idea of where they were and so assure us they were still alive." He nodded towards the piece of paper. "A seventeen-year-old boy was charged yesterday in Winchester with credit card fraud and those six cards were in his possession. He informs us that he stole them a week ago from two bodies that he found in Ardingly Woods, some two miles to the west of Winchester. It is my very sad duty to tell you that it is our belief the bodies are those of your son, Leo Wallader, and his friend, Meg Harris."

Perhaps the information was too shocking to take in; perhaps, quite simply, it didn't make sense. Sir Anthony gave a surprised laugh. "Don't be absurd, man. I've already told you. They're on the Continent somewhere. What is this? Some sort of practical joke?" His brows snapped together angrily. "That wretched man Kingsley's doing, I suppose."

"No sir," said Cheever gently, "not a practical joke, although, for your sake, I wish it were. We do have two unidentified bodies"-he glanced towards the smiling photograph-"one male, aged between thirty and forty, six feet one inch in height with blond hair, and one female, aged between thirty and forty, five feet four inches in height, with short dark hair. While there is still a chance that the boy lied to us about how he came by the credit cards, I must warn you that it's very remote. Certainly the description of the male seems to fit your son, although we have still to compare the female with Miss Harris. As yet we have no description of her."

Sir Anthony shook his head in denial. "There must be some mistake," he said firmly. "Leo's in France."

"Perhaps you can give us a description of Meg," suggested Fraser.

"She came here once," said the older man slowly. "Dropped in for lunch on her way back to London when Leo and Jinx were down for the weekend. Philippa took to her immediately. She was a nice girl, clearly besotted with Leo, a far better prospect in every way than Jinx. Good family, decent background. Philippa and I were pleased as punch when the boy phoned to say he was planning to marry Meg instead. The family comes from Wiltshire, I believe. A pretty girl, dark hair, slim, always smiling." He lapsed into silence.

"What sort of age-" began Fraser, but Cheever glanced across at him and made a damping motion with his hand.

Despair settled on Sir Anthony's face. "This will destroy my poor wife, you know. Leo was the only one. We tried for more, but it wasn't to be." He pressed a thumb and forefinger to his eyelids to hold back the tears. "What was it? Some sort of accident?"

Cheever cleared his throat. "We don't think so, no. The pathologist's view is that they were murdered." He clamped his hands between his knees. "I'm so sorry, Sir Anthony."

He shook his head again angrily. "No, no, this is outrageous."

There was another long silence.

Sir Anthony raised a trembling hand to his forehead. "Who would want to murder them?"

"We don't know, sir," said Cheever quietly. "They've been dead some time, perhaps as long as two weeks. At the moment, we're looking at the thirteenth of June as the most likely date for when it happened."

"That would be the day Jinx tried to kill herself," he said flatly.

"So we understand."

Sir Anthony's mouth worked. "I suppose you know her husband was murdered," he said harshly.

Frank Cheever leaned forward with a little frown. "You mean Miss Kingsley's husband?" This was news to him.

The other man nodded. "She was Mrs. Landy then. It was nine or ten years ago. Her husband's name was Russell Landy. He was an art dealer in Chelsea." He fixed Frank with a penetrating stare. "He was clubbed to death with a hammer but his murderer was never found. Landy was so badly beaten that his face was unrecognizable. The newspapers described it as one of the most brutal killings anyone could remember. How was my son murdered, Superintendent? Will I be able to recognize him?" He saw the brief hesitation in the policeman's eyes, a shutter close on something horrific. "Was he clubbed to death like Landy?"

Frank wiped a weary hand across his face. Good God, he was thinking. Could it be this easy? "Death is never pretty, Sir Anthony, less so when several days have elapsed."

"But was he clubbed to death like Landy?" There was anger in Wallader's voice.

"At this stage," said Frank carefully, "nothing has been ruled in or out. The pathologist hasn't had time to finish his examination, and, until he does, it would be wrong to speculate, but I give you my personal assurance that I will pass on his conclusions to you as soon as possible after they have been reported to us."

Whatever spark had fired Sir Anthony's anger extinguished itself as rapidly as it had ignited. He looked lost suddenly, as if the fact of his son's death had only just dawned upon him. "I suppose you need me to identify the body." He started to get up.

"There's no hurry, sir. I'd like you to take as much time as you need to talk it through with your wife. Please don't feel this is something you have to do immediately."

"But it is," he said abruptly, pushing himself from his chair. "Philippa's out for the day doing her voluntary stint in the hospital, so she won't even know I've gone. You talked about a remote chance," he reminded the policeman with tears in his eyes. "For my poor girl's sake, I'm praying for that."

HO FORENSIC LAB, HAMPSHIRE-11:45 A.M

He stood, dry-eyed, over what was left of his son, now transferred to a clinically clean table, his torso discreetly veiled by white cotton sheeting. The hair, as thick and blond as it had been in life, was unmistakably Leo's, and dreadful though it was, there was still enough of the facial structure left for recognition.

His eyes sought out Dr. Clarke. "What should I tell my wife?" he asked him. "I don't even know how to begin."

Clarke looked down at the poor dead body. "She'll need comfort, Sir Anthony, not truth. Tell her how peaceful he looked."