Dark Room

*11*

SUNDAY, 26TH JUNE, THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-7:00 P.M.

There was no pattern to Jinx's thoughts. Bits of remembered conversation plagued her weary brain. Do your brothers resent you? Yes, yes, YES! You were so condescending she wanted to slap you... She had been seven years old. A baby still... the perfect child already in residence with pictures of her perfect mother all over the walls... Was it her fault that her father had begun to despise his second wife within months of the wedding? Relationships don't have to be disappointing, Jinx. She had never known one that wasn't. She had married Russell because she felt sorry for him, and discovered too late that pity is a bad basis for marriage. Yet, without the wisdom to predict events before they happened, could anyone in her shoes have done better? So what are you saying? I don't know, I don't know, I DON'T KNOW! Something terrible happened ... Russell's dead...

Dr. Protheroe looked in on her at seven o'clock. "How's it going?"

She was propped up on her pillows. "I'm a mess," she said honestly, feeling again that ridiculous urge to be plucked from the bed and held in the comfort of his arms. Oh God, she had never felt so alone.

He leaned over her and she could smell the soap on his hands. "When the Sergeant called me in, you told me the police hadn't upset you, but I think you were lying. What did they really want to talk to you about?"

She fixed on the hairs that were sprouting from his shirt where the button was missing, funny little black tendrils that poked wickedly out and made a mockery of his position as clinic director. Adam would have fired him a long time ago pour encourager les autres, but then Adam rated presentation above content, and Adam was a bully. "They just wanted a few details about Meg," she said. "And they didn't upset me. I'm just very tired at the moment."

He pulled the chair forward and sat in it. "Okay. So what's this mess you're in? Physical? Mental?"

A tear glittered along her lid. "Life," she said. "I've made a mess of life, and I don't know how to put it right."

What a very seductive combination it was, he thought, this switch from tough-minded independence in the company of policemen to tearful vulnerability when alone with her doctor. He wished he felt more confident that the tear was genuine. As Veronica Gordon, one of the nursing sisters, had said to him that morning: "She has a way with her, Alan. I think it's those extraordinary eyes. They say one thing and her voice says another." "What do the eyes say?" he'd asked her. "Help," she said succinctly, "but it's the one thing she never asks for."

"Perhaps life has made a mess of you," he suggested now.

"No," said Jinx flatly. "That's the excuse I've always used, but it's not true. I allow things to happen instead of controlling them. Like this place, for example. I don't want to be here, but I am. And the only reason I stay is because my father will pursue me to London and put pressure on me to go home with him, and I want that even less than I want this." She raised the sheet to her eyes to wipe away her tears. "I'm only just beginning to realize how passive I am."

"Why? Because you don't want to do battle with your father?"

"Among other things." She sat up and linked her arms around her raised knees. "Do you know that the only man I have ever been able to talk to on an equal basis is my next-door neighbor in Richmond, and he's in his eighties. I've been trying to remember all afternoon whether there's ever been anyone else, and I haven't come up with a single person."

"What about your people at the studio? Dean and Angelica. Surely you talk to them on an equal basis. As a matter of interest, have you called either of them since you arrived?" He knew she hadn 't. There had only been two calls out, and neither of them had been to her studio.

"There'd be no point. We only ever talk about work, and I trust them to get on with it. Besides, I don't find it easy discussing my private life."

He'd noticed. "Josh? Can't you talk to him?"

She made a face. "When I see him, which isn't very often. In any case, I usually end up apologizing for being Meg's friend. God only knows why he ever went into business with her. She can be very unreliable at times."

For the moment, he let Meg go. "What about Russell? Couldn't you talk to him on an equal basis?"

She stared beyond him out of the window. "He was like my father. He was possessive, he was jealous, and he thought I was wonderful." She fell silent, lost in the past somewhere. He was about to prompt her again, when she continued of her own accord. "It was a classic case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. The odd thing is, he was fine as long as we weren't married. It was ownership that changed him. He became like my father."

"Why do you feel your father owns you, Jinx?"

"I don't. That's how Adam sees it. He thinks he can control us all." She glanced at him. "You, too, Dr. Protheroe."

He frowned. "Because he's paying this clinic to look after you? That's hardly control."

She smiled. "But if push came to shove, whose interests would you put first? Your own and your daughter's, or mine and the other patients'?"

He found that amusing and gave a short bark of laughter. "That's like asking me if I'd rather be the Archbishop of Canterbury or Jack the Ripper. Why should I be faced with such a dramatic choice?"

"Because if you do something my father doesn't like, you'll probably find yourself out of a job," she said bluntly. "Why do you think that, at the age of forty, Russell suddenly left a comfortable well-paid career in Oxford to buy a down-at-heel art gallery in London? Not through choice, believe me." She smiled grimly. "To coin a phrase, my father made him an offer he couldn't refuse."

Interesting use of words, he thought. "What was the offer?"

"Leave voluntarily, or leave in disgrace."

"You'll have to explain, I'm afraid."

"Adam doesn't play by civilized rules. He uses information to destroy people who get in his way." She shrugged. "He paid fifty thousand pounds for the information on Russell, and that's discounting what he paid his team of investigators to unearth the fact that it existed at all. He doesn't mess about."

He hid his skepticism. "Am I allowed to know what this piece of information was?''

She looked at him. "You don't believe me, do you?" She could see that he didn't. "Then it'll be your funeral, Dr. Protheroe. Everybody underestimates Adam. He encourages people to believe they're dealing with a gentleman when they're not. You see, he's not like Betty. You can't tell his origins by looking at him or speaking to him. He's far too clever for that."

Protheroe felt he was being drawn once again towards a choice between her and her father, and chose to sidestep the issue. "I neither believe nor disbelieve," he said. "I am merely wondering what Russell could have done that was so bad. Even ten years ago, and particularly at a liberal university like Oxford, leaving in disgrace seems a somewhat old-fashioned concept."

"Not if you go to jail it isn't." She sighed. "Russell went to Europe every summer on lecture tours. When he came back he'd bring upwards of fifty kilos of cannabis packed into the chassis of his car. It was a straightforward transaction. He made the collection in Italy and was paid on delivery in England. He used the money to fund his art collection. He had no conscience about it. His view was that cannabis was less dangerous than alcohol or cigarettes and that the government was mad to criminalize its use. But the penalty for smuggling is prison. Adam offered him resignation or prosecution. Russell chose resignation."

"Did you know he was smuggling drugs?"

She shook her head. "Not till afterwards."

"How did Adam find out?"

"According to Russell, he traced the contact in Italy and bought him off. Adam works on the principle that everyone has a chink in his armor, and if he keeps going long enough, he'll find it. I think what probably happened is that his people calculated the value of Russell's collection, realized he couldn't have afforded it on his salary, and started digging into the trips abroad."

"Presumably it was Russell who told you about it, not your father."

"Yes."

"Did he explain why your father wanted him to leave Oxford?"

"To get him away from me."

"Then why did Russell marry you, Jinx? Why didn't the blackmail hold good after he'd left? Presumably he was no keener to go to prison afterwards than he was before."

She gave a hollow laugh. "You sound as though you think I'm making this up."

"Not at all. I'm just trying to understand."

She didn't believe him. "I've told you before, Dr. Protheroe. We got married without my father's knowledge. I persuaded Russell that Adam would back off the minute I became Mrs. Landy, because whatever he might want to do to Russell, Adam would never drag me in the mud. And I was right. He didn't."

Alan pondered over that for a moment, thinking that far from being passive, Jinx was describing herself as a consummate manipulator. "Didn't it ever occur to you that your father would react the way he did?"

She frowned, but didn't say anything.

"If my math is correct, Russell was only twelve years his junior. Did you seriously think Adam would welcome him as a son-in-law?"

"Of course not, but at the time Adam found out, there was no question of my marrying Russell. Look, we were having a quiet little affair which was nobody's business but our own." She stared wretchedly at her hands.

"Who told him?"

"My brothers."

"And how did they know?"

She smoothed the sheet across her lap. "Russell used to write to me during vacations, and they opened one of his letters and showed it to Adam. I should have expected it, really. They were always looking for my clay feet." She paused. "The irony is, my father's hated them for it ever since. I think he knows that nothing would have come of the affair if they hadn't drawn it to his attention."

"Are you saying you wouldn't have married Russell if you hadn't felt guilty about what your father did?"

She gave her faint smile. "He was thoroughly miserable, so yes, Reader, I married him. Actually, I was pretty miserable too. I had another year at Oxford after he'd gone and it was just a series of tearful phone calls. I thought we'd both be happier if we made the thing official."

"But you weren't?"

She didn't answer.

"How long were you married?" asked Protheroe.

She looked at him. "Three years."

"And you didn't enjoy it?" he persisted.

"I found it very stifling. He was afraid I was going to leave him for a younger man, and became jealous of everyone." She seemed to think she was being disloyal. "Look, it wasn't that bad. He was very funny when he was on form, and when I think of him now it's with affection. On the whole, the good times far outweighed the bad."

Quite unconsciously, Alan echoed Fraser's thoughts of the day before. What a dismal epitaph on a dead husband. When I think of him now it's with affection. But how clear it was to Alan that she tried not to think of him at all.

"As a matter of interest," he asked curiously, "did you approve of his smuggling?"

She picked at her fingernails. "I shared his views on the idiocy of criminalizing cannabis. Or any drugs in fact. Black markets always undermine social orders. But I thought he was a fool to have done it. Someone was bound to find out about it sooner or later."

"What sort of a lover was he?"

She gave a snort of laughter. "I wondered when we'd get round to that. Sigmund Freud has a lot to answer for. Why do you give so much credence to the fantastic theories of a cocaine addict? I've never understood that."

He smiled. "I don't think we do anymore, or not to the extent you're suggesting. Freud has his place in history." He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, deliberately extending the space between them. "But wouldn't you agree that the sexual relationship between a man and a woman is an integral part of the whole relationship?"

"No. I don't have sex with Eric Clancey and I get on better with him than anyone else."

"He being your elderly neighbor?" She nodded. "Yes, well, I was referring to relationships where there is a sexual content."

"And you've had my answer. In my experience the best relationships have no sexual content whatsoever." She reached for her cigarettes. "In fact, Russell was a good lover. He knew which buttons to press, and when, and he was considerate and not overly demanding. Bed was one of the few places where we could communicate on a level playing field because it was only there that Russell could put aside his jealousy." She lit a cigarette. "There was no telephone in our bedroom, so Adam couldn't reach me."

Adam again. "Was there any basis for his jealousy? Were you attracted to other men?"

"Of course," she said honestly, "In my shoes, so would you have been. The grass looked a great deal greener on the other side of the marital fence, but I never did anything about it." She drew deeply on her cigarette. "It was my father he was really jealous of. He recognized that Adam was as possessive as he was, and it frightened him. He was sure Adam would win in the end."

"You told me the other day that you loved your father. Was that true, or were you telling me what you thought I wanted to hear?"

"It was partly true." She eyed him with sudden amusement. "I never know whether I want to sit on his lap and be hugged by him, or dance a jig of freedom on his grave. I expect Freud would have found me fascinating."

"Does he ever hug you?"

She shook her head. "He hates demonstrations of affection. I kiss him on the cheek sometimes if I catch him unawares, but most of the time he won't even touch me."

"Does he hug your stepmother?"

"No."

"Your brothers?"

"No."

"Do they hug their mother?"

"No. We're a very undemonstrative family."

"Is there any love at all in that house, Jinx?"

"There's passion," she said. "They fight like cats and dogs for Adam's approval."

"But you don't join in?"

"I don't need to," she said dismissively. "I already have it. Adam paid good money to transform his most intelligent child into something he could be proud of. The fact that I am incapable of making sensible decisions about my personal life is a minor irritation." Angrily, she turned away from him, propping her chin on her hand and staring into the mirror. "He made a lady out of me and he's besotted with her."

"Is that why you call him Adam? To prove you aren't a lady?"

"I don't follow."

"I assume it's a statement of equality. 'You and I are no different, Adam. If you can't behave like a gentleman, then I can't be a lady.' Something like that?"

She continued to stare into the mirror. "You really do assume far too much, you know. In normal circumstances, I hardly think of Adam at all, and never in such analytical terms."

"You said earlier that the best relationships were the ones without a sexual content," he reminded her, "yet you clearly don't have a good relationship with your father. Should I infer from that that you and he have had a sexual relationship?"

"No," she said calmly, "you should not infer any such thing. I will not allow you to foist some tacky child-abuse theory onto me because it happens to be in vogue at the moment. Anyway, what would you know about any of this? I thought you said you weren't a psychiatrist."

He could feel her anger. "Why so defensive? Is it because you recognize that but for his self-control, you and he might have had a sexual relationship? Perhaps the desire wasn't all one-sided."

She closed her eyes suddenly. "I really do urge you to remember what my father does to people he doesn't like, Dr. Protheroe. You'd be quite mad to make an enemy of him."

Now why, he wondered, did he get the feeling she was talking about herself?

With an effort of concentration she remembered Dean Jarrett's home telephone number. "Dean?" she said when he picked up the receiver at the other end. "Look, I'm really sorry to bother you at home-

"Who is it?"

"It's Jinx."

"Oh my God!" screamed his well-remembered voice. She could picture him so clearly. The telephone was in the sitting room, an art deco excrescence, amongst all the other art deco excrescences in his vibrant and colorful living space. He would be lying on the chaise longue, she thought, his peroxided silver head propped against the ornate tracery at the end of it, receiver in one hand, glass of champagne in the other. Dean performed even when he was alone, and she loved him for it because she couldn't do it herself.

"We've been worried sick," he rattled on. "I said to Angelica, 'Angelica sweetheart, supposing we've lost her?' We didn't know what to do-face the dread prospect of phoning that awful man who passes for your father and puts the fear of God into us, or sit tight and rely on you to come round eventually. You know he phoned and spoke to Angie, and he was most fearfully rude, all but called her a nigger, but he wouldn't say where you were. Just said you were unconscious in hospital and told us to get on with what we were paid to do. Then the fuzz came rushing round asking questions, and we nearly died of shock." He floundered to a halt. "Business is fine," he went on more calmly after a moment. "Don't you worry about the studio. Thank God, people have enough faith in yours truly to stay with us."

She smiled. "I know, that's why I haven't been worried."

"You should have phoned," he said. "We've been that upset. We wanted to send you some flowers. Angelica's been sobbing her heart out, said someone ought to be visiting you."

"I'm sorry. The trouble is"-she paused-"well, to be honest. I'm only firing on about half a cylinder at the moment. I gave myself a hell of a crack on the head and ended up with galloping amnesia." She forced a laugh. "Can't remember much about the last three or four weeks. Silly, isn't it? Look, I'll give you the details of where I am, and then you can get in touch when you want to." She gave him the address and telephone number of the clinic. "But I don't intend to stay here much longer," she said. "As soon as I can find the energy, I'm hopping on the first train back to London."

He clucked like a mother hen. "Stay as long as you need. No sense in coming back before you're ready. Everything's tickety-boo this end, or it will be when I pass on the good news that I've spoken to you. Actually, my darling, you sound great even if the memory is a bit dicky. Is it worrying you?"

"Yes." She took a deep breath. "Have I spoken to either of you between the fourth of June when I left for Hampshire, and now? Can you remember? I mean, did I phone you at all while I was with my parents, or did I come into work on the Monday after I got back? That would be the thirteenth."

"No," he said apologetically. "That's what the police kept asking when they came to the studio. Had we seen you? Had we spoken to you? Did we know why you'd gone back to Hampshire on the Monday? And we told them the truth. Not a cheep out of you since Friday the third. Angelica phoned over and over again on the thirteenth when you didn't come into work, and all she got was your answering machine. We were girding our loins to contact Hell Hall on the Tuesday morning when the devil himself phoned with the awful news that you were unconscious. Since which time we've been tearing our collective hair out." He was silent for a moment. "Do you really not remember anything since the fourth?''

She heard the note of concern in his voice. "No, but it's all right," she said with a light laugh. "I've been told the important stuff, like the wedding's off, Leo's scarpered with Meg, and I tried to kill myself. I just don't remember any of it."

"Well, for what it's worth, dear, neither of us believes the crash was deliberate. You were making it clear as crystal for a good week before you set off for the Hall that you'd made up your mind not to go through with the wedding. Angie and I assumed you were going to break the news to the old devil then, and call the whole thing quits. It came as a bit of a shock to find you hadn't."

She stared at her reflection. "Did I say I wasn't going through with it?"

"Not in so many words, but you were back to your old sunny self again, and I said to Angie, well, thank God for small mercies, she's come to her senses and told Leo to get stuffed, and Angie agreed with me. Well, you know we never liked him. He's very pretty, of course, but he wasn't for you, Jinx. Far too interested in number one, and you want someone who cares for you, sweetheart. Let's face it, we all do."

She laughed. "How's George?"

"Unmentionable. He's left me for a Filipino chef."

"I'm sorry. Are you surviving?"

"Of course. Don't I always? Now, tell me why you rang. I feel in my bones there was a reason, and it wasn't just to hear my dulcet tones."

She raised her knees and propped her elbows on them. "I want you to phone Leo's parents and say you need to contact Leo or Meg Harris as a matter of urgency."

"With reference to what?"

Something terrible... "Can you invent an excuse? Say you're an old school friend of Leo's, that you're only in the country for a week and that you want to meet up with him. He went to Eton, if they ask. I just want you to try and find out where they are, without letting on you know me. Is that okay with you? I want to be able to talk to them and show there are no hard feelings. Could you do that for me?"

"Sure. What's his parents' number?"

"I don't know, but you can get it through directory inquiries, because I did it myself once. It's A. Wallader, Downton Court, Ashwell, Guildford, and if he answers, it's Sir Anthony and if she answers, it's Lady Wallader. And Dean, whatever they say, you must ring me back tonight. Please. I don't care what they tell you, you must ring me back. Okay?"

"No problem," he said breezily.

The phone rang twenty minutes later. Jinx picked it up with trembling hands and cradled it against her face. "Jinx Kingsley."

"It's Dean," he said carefully.

"They're dead, aren't they?"

There was a short silence. "Why did you get me to make the call if you already knew?"

"But I didn't," she said quietly. "I guessed. Oh God-and I was so hoping I was wrong. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I didn't know who else to ask. Who did you speak to?"

"His father. He was pretty upset."

She rushed into self-justification. "The police came this afternoon and asked me questions about them, but they wouldn't say why. And I thought, my God, they're dead and no one's telling me." She chewed her lower lip. "Did Anthony say what happened to them?"

There was another silence. "Look, love, half an hour ago I thought you were unconscious; then I find you aren't. I don't know what to do. I phoned back because I promised I would, but let me talk to your doctor in the morning. It'd make me a damn sight happier, it really would."

"No," she said coldly. "Tell me now." She thought she heard his nervous finger rattle the receiver rest. "And don't hang up on me, Dean, because I swear to God you'll be out of a job if you do." Oh Jesus! She sounded like her father ... No matter how much she tried to deny it, his tyranny and passion were in her, too...

"You don't have to threaten me," he said in mild reproof. "I'm only trying to do what's best."

"I know and I'm sorry, but I'm slowly going mad here. I must know what's happened." She waited but he didn't respond. "Okay," she said abruptly, "then I'm calling in your debts." Her eyes narrowed. "Just remember that the only reason anyone feels confident about you running the studio in my absence is because I've encouraged you to make a name for yourself along with me. I didn't have to do that. I could have done what everybody else does, and put your work out under the studio's name. You owe me for that at least."

"I owe you a great deal more, Jinx, which is why I'm shitting bricks this end. I don't want to make things worse for you." He heard her indrawn breath. "Okay, take it easy, I will tell you, but you must promise me you won't do anything silly afterwards."

"Do you mean try and kill myself?''

"Yes."

"I promise," she said wearily. "But if I was desperate enough to want to do it, then giving my word in advance wouldn't stop me. It's only fair you should know that."

Perversely, he found this honesty more reassuring than the pledge. "Sir Anthony said Leo and his girlfriend had been murdered. Their bodies were found last Thursday in a wood near Winchester but the police think they were killed the week before."

She clenched her fist against her heart. "Which day the week before?"

"The Monday, according to Sir Anthony, but I'm not sure he knows. He really was very upset."

Ice settled in a frozen block inside her. "What else did he say?"

"Nothing much."

"Did he mention me?"

He didn't answer.

"Please, Dean."

"He said Leo had been engaged to a woman whose husband died the same way."

She stared at her terrible image in the mirror.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm sorry I made you do it. It wasn't fair."

"Don't worry about it." But the line had gone dead and his words fell on deaf ears.