Dark Room

*16*

TUESDAY, 28TH JUNE, THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-12:50 P.M.

Alan Protheroe wiped a weary hand across his face, then pushed himself out of his chair and wandered restlessly towards the window. Could he, hand on heart, say he believed anything Jinx told him, when what she claimed to remember could be as fantastic as she chose because there was no one left to contradict her? There were three dead people, and all three were intimately connected with this one woman. Logic dictated that she must know something about their deaths. Logic also dictated that her father knew something, or why had he put her in here with such very precise instructions concerning her care? Adam was as anxious as she was, it seemed, that her memories lie dormant.

"I'm not sure I can believe that," he said with his back to her. "You described Russell to me only a couple of days ago as possessive and jealous. You said your marriage was stifling. Now you tell me he and your best friend were having an affair. That doesn't quite square, does it?"

"Russell believed in double standards," Jinx said reasonably. "If he was capable of cheating customs, do you not think he was equally capable of cheating his wife?"

"That's hardly an answer, you know. Obsession with one woman doesn't usually lead to philandering with others. Surely the two are mutually exclusive?"

"It depends what sort of obsession you're talking about. Russell was far more obsessed with himself than he was with me. I was little better than a trophy that he could show off to his middle-aged friends, the child bride who adored him so much she forsook fortune and fame to marry him. Meg was a different kind of trophy, the one that proved to himself he was still sexually active and attractive at forty-plus. But we had no more value to him than the paintings in his collection. He liked owning things."

He turned round. "My problem is, I have to take your word for that. Sadly for Russell, the dead can't speak for themselves."

"Is there a reason why you shouldn't take my word?" She said it without hostility but there was anger in her eyes. "Suddenly, you're a policeman, yet ten minutes ago you only wanted to help." She made as if to get up. "This is just a professional exercise for you, and I'm hungry anyway. I want some lunch."

He refused to be intimidated. "Don't be so childish," he said sharply. "Healthy skepticism and a wish to help are not mutually exclusive, Jinx. Arguably, the one strengthens the other. Convince the skeptic and you will have a stronger ally for the future. Perhaps if you changed your mind-set vis-a-vis the police in that area, you could shed your paranoia and make a positive attempt to help them find Meg and Leo's murderer. Or are you as disinclined to do that as you were to have Russell's murderer named?"

She looked at him with dislike. "I'll phone Colonel Clancey and ask him to post Russell's diaries and letters to you. I keep them in my bookcase at home. For what it's worth, the entry on the day we got married went like this: 'Felt and looked great. Wore black velvet suit and white satin shirt. Speech afterwards was a triumph of wit and erudition. What a pity there were so few guests to enjoy it.' I interpret that as self-obsession but then, admittedly, I'm an arrogant woman and I was put out that his bride didn't rate a mention."

"Still, I'm surprised you didn't mention the affair before. It's a little odd, don't you think, that Meg should have slept with both Russell and Leo? Was she in the habit of stealing your men friends?"

"If you want to be strictly accurate about it, I stole them from her. She had a six-month fling with Russell, got bored with him and introduced him to me. She did the same with Leo, told me he was a business acquaintance and said he and I would get on like a house on fire. It was only later that I realized 'business acquaintance' meant lover."

"Didn't it upset you to get her castoffs?"

"Everybody's somebody's castoff. In some ways it's easier if you know your predecessor, because then you know you're not competing with Superwoman."

He resumed his seat. "You're avoiding the question. Were you upset?"

"Only in retrospect. Meg was a great deal more attractive than I am and completely careless of other people's feelings, particularly men's. She had no qualms about taking up with someone, then dumping him two or three months later for somebody else. The trouble is, I'm less adept at that so I got lumbered with the jerks when it suited her."

"But she took up with them again later when that suited her." He shook his head in genuine bewilderment. "If this is true, Jinx, then I can't understand why you describe her as the only real friend you've ever had."

"I'm not doing this very well," she said, surprisingly sanguine about his disbelief. "You'd have liked Meg." She marshaled her thoughts. "Look, when I say I got lumbered with them, that doesn't mean I hold her responsible for what happened afterwards. She kept telling me not to marry Russell, said I was mad to tie myself down at twenty-one, but by then it was too late. I couldn't just abandon him after what Adam had done, and that wasn't Meg's fault."

Alan was highly doubtful that Meg Harris was a woman he would have liked. If Jinx had said one thing that was true, it was that she was unable to make sensible decisions about her personal life, particularly where her choice of friends was concerned. She appeared to be completely blind to their character flaws, and he wondered if she realized that it was only the egocentric personality that seemed to attract her. Was this because she found it difficult to differentiate between self-centeredness and self-confidence? She had so many mixed feelings about her domineering father that it wasn't surprising she found people impossible to read. "I suppose it wasn't Meg's fault either that she had an affair with Russell after he was married?"

She looked at him for a moment. "Not entirely, no. Presumably Russell had some say in it." She shrugged. "Anyway, they were very discreet. I didn't find out about it till after he was dead, and by then it was water under the bridge."

"Who told you?"

"No one. She wrote him some letters which he'd hidden amongst a stack of old exam papers in the attic at Richmond. They were rather sweet," she said, remembering. "The sad thing is, I think she really did love him, but she couldn't bear the thought of being tied to one person. She was terrified of ending up in a country backwater like her mother and being the dutiful wife."

"Did you ever talk to her about Russell?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I couldn't see the point."

"Did the police know about it?"

"If they did they never mentioned it."

"Why didn't you mention it?"

"Because I didn't find the letters until a year later and by then the case was effectively closed." She plucked at her lower lip. "I don't think you realize what it's like to be part of a murder inquiry. It's not a very comfortable experience. I'd have needed something much stronger than a couple of faded love letters to make us all go through that terrible mill again."

He leaned forward. "So for the next nine years, you pretended nothing had happened, and then you learned about her and Leo and you were afraid history was about to repeat itself."

She didn't say anything. Perhaps she realized how thin it all sounded, and how odd her own behavior must seem in the circumstances.

"So what did you do, Jinx?"

"I thought it would be better if no one knew, so when we got back to London I told Leo to phone his parents and make sure they didn't say anything until he gave them the go-ahead. I said I needed to speak to my father first." She propped her chin in her hands and stared wretchedly at the carpet. "But I can't remember if I spoke to Adam or not, so I don't know whether- She broke off abruptly.

"You don't know whether you gave him a reason to have them murdered."

53 LANSING ROAD, SALISBURY-1:15 P.M.

WPC Blake inserted her foot in Flossie Hale's door and refused to remove it. "I'm not going away until you talk to me," she said firmly, "so you may as well let me in."

After a second or two the pressure against her foot lessened and the door swung open. Flossie regarded her without enthusiasm from a face rainbow-hued with healing bruises. She clasped an old candlewick dressing gown across her broad chest with a plaster-encased forearm, looking twenty years older than her forty-six years. "What do you want?"

"Just a chat. How are you feeling now?"

"So-so." She gave a wheeze of bitter amusement. "Still a bit tender when I sit down, but I'm surviving." She led the way into a tiny sitting room, stuffed with overlarge furniture. "You might as well take a seat," she said ungraciously, propping her plump arms on a television set and leaning her weight on it. "By rights I should be in my bed, but I can't say I fancy it much at the moment. I tried to persuade the hospital to keep me in a bit longer but they turfed me out for some old boy with piles." She gazed disconsolately at the young policewoman. "I suppose life's pretty grim for everyone these days."

Blake nodded. "It seems that way. I only ever hear hard-luck stories."

"I wouldn't mind so much if I didn't pay my taxes. You're entitled to expect something for all the money you shell out."

Privately, WPC Blake thought it highly unlikely that Flossie had ever declared an income in her life, but she nodded sympathetically. "I agree with you, which is why I'm here. Part of what you should expect in a civilized society is peace of mind and safety, and until we find the man who assaulted you, I'm afraid you won't have either." She ignored the expression of stubborn resistance that settled on Flossie's face, and took her notebook from her handbag. "You're not the only prostitute he's beaten up. There was another one three months ago and he was just as vicious with her. She says he paid her forty pounds. Was that what he paid you?"

"It may have been," she said grudgingly.

"She also said she thought he was expecting someone young and attractive and took against her when it turned out she was old enough to be his mother. Was that your experience?''

She shrugged. "It may have been," she said again.

"She advertises in telephone boxes and shop windows. I think that's how you get your customers too, isn't it?"

"Maybe."

"Okay, well, I've done a bit of legwork in the last couple of days around the girls who advertise the same way, and while no one else seems to have suffered in quite the way you and the other woman did, three of them gave me a description of a well-spoken, handsome young man who became aggressive during his climax." She consulted her notebook. "One described him as twisting his hand in her hair and almost pulling it out by the roots. Another said he hit her about the face with her own hairbrush, and the third said he pulled her wig off, then got so angry with her he stuffed it into her mouth. She said he apologized afterwards and paid her an extra ten pounds for her trouble." She looked up. "All three girls are in their twenties, but they all agreed he had a thing about hair and hairbrushes. Does this sound familiar, Flossie?"

She sighed. "Seems you've been working overtime, love. Go on then, what's the description?"

Blake read it out. "Height, about five feet eleven. Slim, muscular build, with hairs down the center of his chest. Good-looking, boyish face with dark blond, slightly curly hair, possibly highlighted at the sides, and blue or gray eyes. No facial hair. One girl suggested he plucked his eyebrows, because they were very fine and nicely shaped. Clothing varied between a dark suit and white shirt to Levi's and white T-shirt. They all described him as clean, well-spoken, and probably the product of a public school. Is that about right, would you say?"

"He looked as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but God, he was a vicious little brute." She touched a hand to her bruises. "I'll tell you something-he couldn't sustain himself for half a second. All the shouting and yelling and hitting he went in for was his way of pretending he could keep it up. It didn't occur to me the first time around-I mean, let's face it, you don't feel much when you've been on the game as long as I have-but the second time around he never even got it in he came so quick. And he didn't half punish me for that. It wasn't just that I was old enough to be his mother-though I guess that had something to do with it-mostly it was because he was inadequate."

"Is there anything you can add to the description?"

She shook her head. "Sorry. He was very good-looking, beautiful really, reminded me a bit of Paul Newman in The Hustler. Not that that'd mean anything to you. You're too young to remember it." She paused for a moment. "But there were some odd things he said. 'It's not my fault, my father made me evil.' That was one of them. And then when he was leaving: 'I never had to kill a woman before.' "

"Before what?"

Flossie regarded her morosely. "I guess he meant he'd beaten up on lots of girls but that none of them had died." She shivered suddenly. "Gawd, he was mad, one of them split personalities. Looked like a little angel when he arrived and turned into a zombie with staring great eyes the minute he got a hard-on. Bloody miracle he hasn't killed someone yet, that's my view."

Blake agreed with her. "Any idea how he got here? Car? Did he walk?"

"I don't know. I just wait for the bell to ring and let them in." She frowned. "Mind, he did have some car keys with him. I remember him fishing them out of his pocket when he left. He had a really nice jacket on, tight fit, padded shoulders, and he pulled his keys out and held them in his palm while he told me to keep my mouth shut." She screwed her forehead in concentration. "There was a black disc on the key ring. It was hanging down between his fingers and I remember staring at it because I didn't want him to think I was staring at him." Her eyes gleamed suddenly. "It had an F and an H on it in gold lettering, same initials as mine, which is why I noticed them. You know what? I reckon F.H. are the little sod's initials."

THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC-1:30 P.M.

There was a tap on the door and Hilda poked her head inside. "I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Protheroe, but there's a Detective Inspector Maddocks, and a Detective Sergeant Fraser here. I've told them you're busy but they say it's too important to wait."

"Five minutes," said Alan.

The door opened wide before Hilda could answer, and Maddocks pushed past her into the room. "It is important, sir, otherwise I wouldn't insist." He stopped when he noticed Jinx. "Miss Kingsley."

Alan frowned angrily. "Since when did being a policeman give you the right to barge, uninvited, into a doctor's consulting room?"

"I apologize, sir," said Maddocks, "but we've already waited fifteen minutes and we do need to talk to you rather urgently."

Jinx stood up. "It's all right, Dr. Protheroe. I'll come back later."

"I'd rather you stayed," he said, looking up at her with a clear message in his dark eyes. "I can't help feeling this is very poor psychology."

"For whom?'' she asked him, with a mischievous glint in her eye. "Illi intus out illi extra?"

He dredged through his Latin for a translation. The insiders or the outsiders, he decided. "Oh, illi extra, of course," he said with a barely perceptible nod towards Maddocks. "Caput odiosus iam maximus est.'' His odious head is already maximum size, was what he hoped he'd said.

Jinx smiled at him. "If you recognize that, Dr. Protheroe, then I don't think it's poor psychology at all. It means you hold the advantage. In any case, I really am starving, so with apologies for desertion, I think I'll go and find myself some lunch." She gave him a brief nod, then slipped past Fraser and Hilda, who were standing irresolutely by the door.

"All right, Hilda, thank you very much." He gestured towards the sofa. "Sit down, gentlemen."

"May I ask what Miss Kingsley said to you?" inquired Maddocks as he took a seat.

"I've no idea, I'm afraid," said Alan amiably. "It was all Greek to me."

"You answered her, sir."

"I can run that stuff off by the yard," he said. "Vos mensa puellarum dixerunt habebat nunc nemo conduxit. I haven't a clue what it means but it always sounds intelligent. What can I do for you?"

Maddocks eyed The Times, which was folded neatly on the coffee table. "Presumably you've read that?"

"I have."

"So you know that Mr. Leo Wallader and Miss Meg Harris are dead."

"Yes."

Maddocks watched his face closely. "Does Miss Kingsley know?"

Alan nodded. "I told her after I read it."

"What was her reaction, sir?"

He stared the Inspector down. "She was very shocked."

"Did you also tell her that the man who attacked you was wielding a sledgehammer?"

Alan thought about that. "I can't remember," he said honestly. "I mentioned the disturbance to all my patients this morning, but I really can't recall whether I gave precise details or not." He eyed Maddocks with curiosity. "Why?" he asked. "Do you see a connection between the assault on me and the deaths of Mr. Wallader and Miss Harris?"

Maddocks shrugged. "We certainly find it interesting that Miss Kingsley and a sledgehammer appear to be the only common factors between three murders and a vicious assault," he said bluntly.

"The third murder being Miss Kingsley's first husband?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm afraid I don't follow your logic. Let's say, purely for the purposes of the argument, that there is a connection between the murder of Russell Landy and the murder of Mr. Wallader, and that the connection is Miss Kingsley's attachment to both men. Marriage in the first instance and marriage plans in the second. And let's go on to say-again purely for the purposes of argument-that because Mr. Wallader changed his mind and decided to marry Miss Harris instead, someone decided she also had to die. How does the assault on me fit into this hypothetical scenario? I have known Miss Kingsley as a conscious and functioning individual for a week. We have a doctor-patient relationship. I am neither married to her nor engaged to marry her. I have not slept with her, nor do I have plans to sleep with her. I know none of her friends and she knows none of mine. She is a paying guest under my roof who is free to leave whenever she chooses." His eyes narrowed in speculation. "Have I missed something that makes this spurious connection even halfway believable?"

"Yes sir," said Maddocks evenly. "Coincidence. It's not something that we, as policemen, can readily ignore. Our experience shows that where there's smoke there's fire." He smiled slightly. "Or to put it another way, where there's Miss Kingsley there is also a sledgehammer."

"Are you suggesting she wields the damn thing herself?"

"I'm not suggesting anything at this stage, sir, I am merely drawing your attention to the coincidence. You would be foolish to pretend it doesn't exist."

"Well, it certainly wasn't Jinx who took a swing at me last night. She's not big enough or strong enough, and judging by the build and the height, it was a man."

"We understand you had a visit from her father's solicitor yesterday."

"It wasn't him, either. Inspector. He's a tiny little chap with dainty feet and hands. I'd have recognized him immediately, ski mask or no ski mask."

Maddocks smiled. "I was thinking more in terms of Mr. Kingsley himself. Perhaps you said something to the solicitor that his boss didn't like."

"I wouldn't know. I've never met Mr. Kingsley, so I've no idea what he looks like." He thought for a moment. "In any case, I'm sure it was a young man, and Mr. Kingsley's sixty-six."

"What about Fergus Kingsley? He's on your list."

Alan nodded. "Yes, he was about the right size. So was the waiter who served me at dinner, but my conversations with both were perfectly friendly and I can't see either of them taking the trouble to hang around the clinic waiting to belt me." But was that right? He had run up against Fergus twice now, and neither time had he felt comfortable with him.

Maddocks saw the sudden thoughtfulness in Protheroe's expression. "Tell me what you and Fergus Kingsley talked about," he invited.

"Nothing very much. He was waiting beside my car when I came out. He expressed an interest in buying it, as far as I remember, then asked me to meet his brother. I explained I was in a hurry and suggested we leave it to another time. Then I left."

Fraser looked up with a frown. "But you weren't in a hurry, sir. According to the report we've seen, you decided to go for a drive and treat yourself to a decent meal because it's some time since you've had an evening off."

Alan gave another amiable chuckle. "So I made a polite excuse and left. Is that so odd? I'd spent a long time talking to his father's solicitor, I was hungry, and I had promised myself a slap-up meal. At the risk of sounding churlish, I didn't particularly want to spend another half hour making small talk with a total stranger."

"You've never met Miles Kingsley then?"

"No."

"But both brothers have visited their sister here." It was a statement rather than a question and Alan wondered how Maddocks knew.

"As I understand it, Miles came last Wednesday at about nine o'clock when I was off duty. Fergus came on Saturday."

"So they both know their way around." Another statement.

Alan frowned. "Fergus spoke to Jinx in the garden, so presumably he could find his way back to the tree they sat under, and Miles, who saw her in her room, could probably find his way back there. Does that amount to knowing their way around? I wouldn't have thought so."

"I was thinking more in terms of the layout of the driveway, sir."

"Oh for God's sake!" Alan snapped impatiently. "Any moron can wait in the bushes near a gate in the hopes of someone driving in. You don't need to be acquainted with a place to follow a car going at five miles an hour, which is all I was doing because I didn't want to wake the patients by crunching the gravel." He sighed heavily. "Look, unless you've got something a little more concrete to put to me, I really can't see the point of continuing. My own view is that you should put your suspicions to Miss Kingsley herself, to her father, and to her brothers." He nodded towards The Times. "In fact, if, as you are implying, there is such a strong link between all three murders, I share Sir Anthony's and Mrs. Harris's surprise that you haven't done it already."

"You're very defensive of this family, sir. Is there any particular reason for that?"

"Such as?"

"Perhaps you're more partial to Miss Kingsley than you pretend and perhaps that's why someone saw fit to attack you with a sledgehammer."

Alan smoothed his jaw reflectively. "But wouldn't I have to have told someone I was partial to her to provoke such a response?"

"Not necessarily, sir. You looked pretty matey to me when you were spouting Greek at each other. Perhaps someone else sussed that your feelings aren't quite as reserved as you say they are."

Alan's booming laugh brought a responsive twitch from Fraser's lips. "I'm afraid I was teasing you, Inspector, when I said it was all Greek to me." He stood up. "I am doubtful, ipso facto, whether any conclusion you've drawn can be relied upon. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to see."

Outside, Maddocks scowled angrily as he reached into the car for the handset. "Put me through to Detective Superintendent Cheever," he grunted into the mouthpiece, "and tell him it's urgent, girl. DI Maddocks and I am at the Nightingale Clinic in Salisbury." He drummed his fingers impatiently on the roof. "Yes sir ... No, look, we've run into a spot of bother here. The doctor's playing hard to get and the whole setup stinks. He and the girl were having a very cozy little chat when we arrived and our view is he knows a damn sight more than he's telling ... Yeah, Fraser agrees with me." He glared at the Sergeant, demanding support. "No, I think we should talk to her now. We're on the spot, she's seen us, and she knows Wallader and Harris are dead. If we leave it any longer she'll have a solicitor in tow guarding her interests. Matter of fact, I'm amazed her old man hasn't parked one here already, although maybe he's set the doctor up as watchdog." His eyes gleamed triumphantly. "Will do, sir." He listened for a moment. "Yes, got it. Letters from Landy ... abortion '84 ... Wallader or Landy the father."

He replaced the handset and grinned at Fraser. "We've been given the chance to show a bit of initiative, lad, so let's grab it with both hands. And whatever happens I don't want that arrogant jerk of a doctor around. So no by-your-leave on this, okay?" He nodded towards the path round the corner of the building that led onto the terrace. "We'll go this way."

Jinx was sitting in her armchair, watching the local news on the television, and didn't notice the two men approaching. She felt their shadows blot out the sun on the back of her shaven head as they stepped quietly across the threshold of her open French windows, and she guessed immediately who it was. Unhurriedly, she used the remote to switch off the television, and twisted round to look at them. "There's a rule here that visitors seek permission before they impose themselves on patients. I don't think you've done that, have you, Inspector?"

Maddocks strolled in and perched himself on her bed as he'd done before. "No," he said bluntly. "Does that mean you have objections to helping the police?"

"Several," she said, "but I can't imagine it'll make any difference." She smiled coldly. "Not to you anyway." She glanced up at Fraser with a look of inquiry. "It might make a difference to your partner." She examined the younger, pleasanter face closely. "No? Ah well, we can't all have principles, I suppose. It would be a dull, dull world."

"You're very sharp for someone with memory loss," said Maddocks.

"Am I?"

"You know you are."

"I don't," she said. "I'm the first person I've ever met who's suffered from amnesia, so I've no yardstick by which to judge it. However, if you're interested, you don't become a zombie just because a few days of your life are missing." She gave him an amused smile. "I don't suppose you remember every woman you've rogered, Inspector, particularly if you were tanked up when you did it, but it hasn't done you any harm, has it?" She reached for a cigarette. "Or perhaps it has and that's why you accuse me of being sharp."

"Point taken," he said affably.

She flicked the lighter to the cigarette and eyed him through the smoke. "Freud would have enjoyed that," she remarked idly.

He frowned. "What?"

She gave a low laugh. "Your somewhat unfortunate remark following so closely on my description of your rogering habits. Freud would suspect that that's what your lady friends say to you at the moment coitus occurs." She heard Fraser's snort of amusement. "It's not important, Inspector." She tailed off into a long silence.

Maddocks was not amused. "We have a few questions to ask you, Miss Kingsley."

She watched him but didn't say anything.

"About Leo and Meg." He waited. "We understand Dr. Protheroe has told you they're dead."

She nodded.

"It must have been a shock."

She nodded again.

"Well, forgive me for saying this, Miss Kingsley, but the shock didn't last very long, did it? Your fiance and your best friend have been bludgeoned to death with a sledgehammer, their faces smashed in just as your husband's was, and you're sitting here quite calmly, smoking a cigarette, and cracking jokes. It's about the most unconvincing display of grief that I've ever seen."

"I'm sorry, Inspector. Would it make you feel better if 1 did the little womanly thing and wept for you?"

He ignored her. "About as unconvincing, frankly, as this amnesia rubbish."

"I'm sorry?" She compressed her lips into a savage smile. "I'm afraid I've quite forgotten what we're talking about."

Maddocks glanced at Fraser, who was grinning to himself. "We're talking about the deaths of three people, Miss Kingsley, all of whom were closely associated with you and all of whom have been brutally murdered. Russell Landy, Leo Wallader, and Meg Harris. In addition, we are talking about a violent attack on Dr. Protheroe last night which, but for his own quick thinking, would have resulted in a similar bludgeoning to that received by your husband, your fiance, and your best friend. Presumabiy he told you he was attacked with a sledgehammer?" He flung the question at her, watching for a reaction.

"He didn't," she said quietly.

"How do you feel about that?"

"Fine," she said. "1 don't expect Dr. Protheroe to tell me everything."

"Doesn't the fact that a sledgehammer was used worry you just a little, Miss Kingsley?''

"Yes."

"Then tell me now that you find the situation amusing, because I sure as hell don't, and neither do the two heartbroken mothers whose maggot-ridden children were dug out of a ditch last Thursday."

She drew on her cigarette and stared past him. "I'll tell you whatever you like, Inspector," she said with an odd inflection in her voice, "because it won't make any difference." She shifted her gaze back to his. "You will still twist everything I say."

"That's nonsense, Miss Kingsley."

"Experto credite. Trust one who has been through it." She flashed him a faint smile. "You're no different from the last lot. They also wanted to prove my father was a murderer."

TUESDAY, 28TH JUNE, THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-2:30 P.M.

Fraser moved into Jinx's line of vision. He pulled up the second armchair and sat in it, leaning forward, hands clasped between knees, his face less than a meter from hers. Grab the initiative, the Dl had said. And Fraser, at least, was intelligent enough to recognize that they wouldn't get anywhere with intimidation. But then, unlike Maddocks, he didn't feel he had anything to prove, not against women anyway.

"We really are trying to keep an open mind," he assured her, "but what we find difficult to ignore is the similarity in the method of killing and the fact that the three victims, although separated by ten years, were all known to you. We are not talking about passing acquaintances here, Miss Kingsley, we are talking about the two men who have probably been closest to you during your life and the woman whom your parents described at the time of your accident as your best friend." He smiled ruefully. "Do you see the problem we have? Even to the most impartial observer, your involvement with all three people would appear significant."

She nodded. Jesus wept! Did he think she was a moron? "I understand that. It appears significant to me, too, but for the life of me I can't tell you why. I've gone over it again and again and I keep coming up against the brick wall of Russell's murder." She stubbed out her cigarette to avoid the smoke blowing into his face. "The reason that was never solved is because the London police concentrated on me and my father. We were both ruled out of direct involvement because we both had alibis. I was then ruled out of indirect involvement because there was no obvious reason for me to want Russell dead. My father, on the other hand, had loathed him and made no secret of it, so the police convinced themselves that he'd ordered a contract killing and they abandoned the search for anyone else. But supposing they were wrong? Supposing my father had nothing to do with it, where is the significance then in my knowing all three victims?" She looked earnestly into his face. "Do you understand the point I'm making?"

"I think so. You're saying that if someone else entirely killed Russell, then there may be an unknown link between the murders."

"Yes, and if you make the same mistake the London police made, then that unknown person will get away with it again."

"It's a little hard to accept, Miss Kingsley. We've been sent detailed accounts of the Landy case and there's no hint of a mystery person in the background."

She shook her head vigorously. "There is. I kept telling them about this artist Russell was rude to. He mentioned twice that he'd seen him hanging around the gallery, and he said if he came again he'd report him to the police. Then he was murdered." She spread her hands in a pleading gesture. "I am sure that's the man you should be looking for."

"It was mentioned in the report but the view seems to be that it the man existed at all, he was more likely to be your father's contract killer than a resentful artist. It would be different if you could have supplied the police with a description or a name but, as I understand it, you couldn't give them any information at all."

"Because I didn't know anything. All I could tell them was what Russell told me. An artist came to the gallery with some bad paintings, Russell told him they were bad, the man became abusive, and Russell ordered him out. He never mentioned it at the time, but he did tell me on two occasions later that he'd noticed a man watching the gallery and he thought it was this same artist." She sighed. "I know it's not much but no one was even remotely interested in following it up. They were all so hooked on my father having done it."

"With reason, don't you think?"

She didn't answer.

"He made no secret of his dislike of your husband."

"Oh, I know all the arguments. I listened to them often enough at the time. My father knew the right contacts in the underworld for a contract killing. He's ruthless, he's tough, he began life as a black marketeer, and he's thought to have made millions through dodgy business practices although no one's been able to prove it. He has the credentials of a home-grown Mafia godfather, with the same blind loyalty to family, for whom the death of a hated son-in-law would be a natural way to solve a problem." She smiled bleakly. "I was even shown a psychological assessment of him, based on facts known to the police, in which he was portrayed as a psychopath with a phenomenal sex drive. This, apparently, was why he visited prostitutes, because as I was the real object of his desire, he was unable to satisfy his animal needs properly."

Fraser waited for a moment. "And you don't think any of that's true?" he prompted.

"I don't know," she said honestly, "but I don't see that it matters. The police squeezed that character assessment for all it was worth, but they still couldn't link Adam with Russell's death. Doesn't that mean Adam probably had nothing to do with it?"

Fraser shook his head reluctantly. "It might mean he paid a great deal of money to put distance between himself and the murder." But he, too, found the black saucer eyes in the white face compelling and he tried to soften the blow a little. "That's not to say I've a closed mind on the matter, Miss Kingsley. It was a botched job for a contract killing. Russell was still alive when you found him, so his murderer was damn lucky to get away with it and so was whoever hired him."

Her tongue moistened her dry lips before, abruptly, she pushed herself back into her chair and clapped her hands over her nose and mouth. "I should have thought about this a long time ago," she said in a muffled voice. "God, I've been a fool." She took her hands away. "My father's a perfectionist in everything he does," she said, "and so are the people he employs. None of them would have dared do a botched job. Adam would have skinned them alive."

Fraser eyed her curiously. "Meaning you think he was capable of ordering Russell's murder, but didn't in fact do it."

"Yes." She leaned forward again. "Look, my father was in London that day, so his alibi always had holes in it. He wouldn't pay to distance himself only to end up being compromised. Plus, as you said, Russell was still alive when I found him and might have survived if I'd got there earlier, but Adam would never employ anyone who was so incompetent that the victim was still conscious an hour after he'd been attacked."

"Perhaps the killer was interrupted?"

"No," she said in excitement. "Don't you see? If Adam had ordered the killing, he would have given instructions for Russell to be killed anywhere but the gallery. He knew I had the only other key, so knew I was the most likely person to find the body, unless somebody happened to go round the back and saw the stockroom window had been smashed." She saw his skepticism. "Oh, please, Sergeant," she begged him, "hear what I'm saying. The police said Adam was so besotted with me that he became pathologically jealous of Russell. But if that were true, he'd have had Russell killed as far away from me as possible, certainly not left alive and bleeding to death where I would probably be the one to find him. The last thing he'd have wanted was for me to have a nervous breakdown and retreat into my shell. Don't you think?"

Fraser was impressed with this argument. "Did you make that point to the London police?"

"How could I? I've only just thought of it. Look," she said again, "I know it seems odd, but when something that awful happens to you, you block it out as soon as you can or you go mad. Before my breakdown I never had time to think it through properly, there was the police, the funeral, the miscarriage-" She faltered slightly. "And then when I came out of hospital, I made up my mind to shut it away and never, never get it out again. It's only since my accident that it's started to come back. The nightmares, seeing Russell on the floor, the blood-" She faltered again but this time didn't go on.

Maddocks had listened to the exchange with growing skepticism but he spoke gently enough. "The police weren't wedded to a contract killer, Miss Kingsley. They always recognized that your father might have wielded the sledgehammer himself. Let's say he went to the gallery, and he and Russell had a row. Do you think he'd care then whether you found the body or not? He'd be saving his own skin, and hightailing it out as fast as he could."

Jinx turned to look at him. "You can't expect to have it both ways, Inspector. If Adam is the organized criminal you all claim him to be, then he would have arranged for the mess to be cleared up. And he wouldn't have left Russell alive." She pressed her palm to her temple. "He doesn't make mistakes, Inspector."

"He beat a Negro half to death," said Maddocks idly, "who went on to become your uncle. Perhaps that was another mistake. Perhaps he'd meant to kill him, too."

Jinx dropped her hand into her lap and clasped it tightly over the other. She was feeling extremely unwell but knew Maddocks would exploit it if she said anything. She concentrated on Fraser, willing him to respond.

"Let's say you're right, Miss Kingsley," the Sergeant said after a moment, "and that there's another link between the three murders. Have you any idea what-or who-it might be?"

"The only one I can think of is Meg," she told him gravely. "She was as close to Russell and Leo as I was."

Maddocks stirred again. "Closer," he said bluntly. "According to some letters and diaries found in Leo's house, your friend Meg Harris was having an affair with your husband at the time of his death and also jumped in and out of bed regularly with your fiance. One of them, and it's clear from entries in her diary that she didn't know which, was the father of a child she aborted shortly after Landy was murdered."

There was a brief silence before color flared in Jinx's cheeks. "No wonder she was so upset when I lost my baby," she said slowly.

Maddocks frowned. "You don't seem very surprised about the affair."

"I knew about that," she said, "but I didn't know she'd had an abortion. Poor Meg. She must have felt guilty if she thought hers had been Russell's child as well."

"So this is something else you withheld from the London police?"

She held his gaze for a moment. "How could I tell them something I didn't know? It was long after Russell was dead that I found out about the affair."

"Ah," he murmured, "I think I could have predicted that. Did Miss Harris tell you?"

"No." She repeated what she'd told Alan Protheroe about the letters in the attic and her reluctance to reopen old wounds. "But perhaps if I had said something, Meg and Leo would still be alive," she finished bleakly. "It's so much easier to be wise after the event."

"Yes," said Maddocks thoughtfully. "Things do seem to take a very long time to germinate in your mind, don't they? Who else knew about this affair?"

"I don't think anyone did. I told you, they were very discreet."

"Did you tell your father about it?"

"When I found out, you mean?" He nodded. "There was no point."

"Anybody else?"

She shook her head. "Only Dr. Protheroe. I told him this morning."

Maddocks nodded. "Did you and Miss Harris ever discuss Landy's murder?"

"Once or twice, before I went into hospital," she said unevenly. "We discussed it before, but never afterwards."

"Did she say who she thought might have done it?"

She rested her cheek against her hand and tried to picture scenes in her mind. "It's so long ago," she said, "and neither of us was very inclined to dwell on it, but I think she went along with the initial police view because that was the only one that was reported in the papers. A robbery that went wrong. As far as I know, that's what most people still believe."

"So she never knew that both you and your father were under suspicion?"

She pretended to think about that. Everyone knew, you bastard ... every damn friend I ever had knew. Why the hell do you think I've been so fucking lonely for the last ten years... "I had to supply the police with a list of our friends, most of whom were Russell's, but Meg was on it as a friend of mine, and I do remember her telling me that the police were asking about the relationship between Russell and Adam." She frowned suddenly. ' 'You know, I remember now. She did make one rather odd comment. She said: "They will keep asking for information but I'm sure it's better to let sleeping dogs lie. There's been so much pain caused already.' "

"What did she mean by that?"

"At the time, I probably thought she was talking about Russell and Adam's relationship, saying she couldn't see the need to supply any more details. But now I think she might have been referring to her affair with Russell. I know the police dug very hard for evidence of something like that on the principle he might have been killed by a jealous husband." She paused for a moment. "But she knew I didn't know about the affair, so perhaps she didn't want to hurt me unnecessarily by revealing it to the police."

"It must have upset you when you finally found out about it," said Fraser.

She turned to him with visible relief. "I know it sounds callous, but in fact it made me feel better. Russell and I hadn't been getting on for months before he died, and I'd always felt guilty about it. It's awful to have someone die on you when you know you've made them unhappy. I kept thinking, if only I'd done this, or if only I'd done that"-she gave a troubled smile-"and then I was let off the hook by a couple of love letters."

Maddocks watched her performance with cynical objectivity. The story was too pat and too well polished and he saw Dr. Protheroe's hand at work behind the scenes. "So let me get this straight, Miss Kingsley," he said acidly. "Number one: At the time of Russell Landy's death, you and he were not getting on but you told the London police you were. Number two: You believed your father was capable of putting out a contract on your husband but defended him anyway. Number three: Russell and your best friend were having an affair but you knew nothing about it, and she did not reveal it to the police. Number four: She aborted the child she had conceived either by your then husband or the man who later became your fiance, but neither you nor the London police were ever told about it. Number five: When you discovered your friend and your husband had been having an affair, you kept the information to yourself. Number six: Your best friend, who knew she'd had an affair with your husband and knew also that your husband had been murdered, nevertheless proceeded to resurrect an old affair with your fiance and so persuade him to abandon you for her. Number seven: He and she were subsequently murdered in an identical fashion, though in a different location, to the way your husband was murdered." He arched his eyebrows. "Is that a fair summary of what you've told us?"

"Yes," said Jinx honestly. "To my knowledge, that is accurate-assuming the abortion and the way Meg and Leo were murdered to be true. Those are the only two things I didn't know."

He nodded. "All right, then I have one last question on the Landy murder before we talk about Wallader and Harris. According to the reports we have, you were ruled out of direct involvement because you had a cast-iron alibi? Who gave you the alibi?"

"It was Meg," she said. "I spent the afternoon and early evening with her and then she drove me to the restaurant for seven-thirty. I waited there about an hour, and when Russell didn't show, I took a taxi to the gallery. Isn't that in the report?"

Maddocks ignored the question. "Wouldn't it have been simpler to phone the gallery?"

"I did. There was no answer. So I phoned home but there was no answer there, either."

"Then why assume he was at the gallery? Why bother to take a taxi there?"

"Because it was on the way home."

"But you paid off the taxi before you went inside."

"It was nine o'clock at night and the driver wouldn't let me leave the cab without paying. I think he was afraid I was planning to leg it down the nearest alleyway. He said he'd wait five minutes and if I wasn't back by then, he'd go. As it was, I was back within two, screaming my head off. The driver dialed nine-nine-nine while I sat with Russell, then he waited outside till the ambulance arrived. That's why the police had no trouble tracing him afterwards to support my story."

Maddocks chuckled softly. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

She studied him with a remarkably cool gaze. "All I'm doing is telling you the truth, Inspector."

"And let's face it, girl, you've had ten whole years to get it right."

One of the security staff at the clinic, Harry Elphick, after learning about the assault on Dr. Protheroe, made a detour on his departure to check the outbuildings near the staff parking spaces. He remembered some weeks back seeing a sledgehammer in one of them, and it occurred to him that it might be worth a second look. He reasoned, quite logically, that the most likely person to take a swipe at Dr. Protheroe was one of the more aggressive junkies in his care, and he went on to reason that because the Nightingale was not a prison, then any observant patient had the same opportunities as he to notice the sledgehammer. Harry would have considered it naive rubbish to assume that none of them would bother to attack Dr. Protheroe because they knew he didn't carry drugs in his car. Harry, ex-Army and past his middle years, had little time for the sort of overprivileged dregs that Dr. Protheroe treated, and it was with some satisfaction that he opened an outbuilding door and, after a cursory search, found a sledgehammer with red Wolseley paintwork ground into its head.

"When did you first discover that Leo and Meg were having an affair?"

Jinx stared at her hands for a moment before reaching for her cigarette packet. "When I came round a few days ago. My stepmother told me."

Maddocks frowned. "Are you saying that's the first you knew about it?"

She leaned back in her chair to light a cigarette. "I don't know," she said. "I can't remember anything much from before the accident."

"What do you remember?"

She stared at the ceiling. "I remember saying good-bye to Leo at breakfast on the morning of June the fourth. I was coming down to Hampshire to stay with my parents for a few days."

"That's a very precise memory."

"Yes."

"When did you find out they were dead, Miss Kingsley?"

She toyed with another lie, then thought better of it. She was too fond of Dean to drop him in this bastard's shit. "Sunday," she said. "I knew you were lying about what had happened to them, so I asked a friend to phone the Walladers. Anthony told him they were dead and the friend rang me back to tell me."

"Which friend?"

"Is that important?"

"It depends whether you want me to believe you or not. This friend might confirm that you were genuinely shocked when you heard the news. Otherwise I'm having some difficulty trying to understand how a woman whose best friend and fiance have been brutally butchered can retain such extraordinary composure."

"My number two at the studio. Dean Jarrett."

"Thank you. Were you upset when your stepmother told you Leo had left you for Meg?"

She shook her head. "Not particularly. I was more relieved than upset. I think I made it clear to you on Sunday that I had severe doubts about Leo. I am sure in my own mind that I had no intention of marrying him, irrespective of whether he was having an affair with Meg."

"Then why did you try to kill yourself?"

"I wish I knew." She smiled suddenly. "It seems very out of character for someone with extraordinary composure." She flicked ash from her cigarette. "So out of character that I don't think I did."

"You were drunk and you drove your car at full speed towards the only structure of any substance on a deserted airfield. What other explanation is there?"

"But I didn't kill myself," she pointed out.

"Because you were lucky. You were thrown clear."

"Perhaps I threw myself clear," she said. "Perhaps I didn't want to die."

"Meaning what, precisely?"

Her eyelashes grew damp but she held the tears in check. "I don't know, but I've had far more time to think about this than I have about Leo and Meg, and it seems to me that if I wasn't trying to kill myself, then the only other explanation is that someone else was trying to kill me." She abandoned any attempt to persuade Maddocks and turned instead to Fraser's more open face. "It would be so easy. My car was an automatic. All anyone would have to do was aim it at the post, put it into drive, wedge the accelerator at full throttle, and then release the hand brake. If I was unconscious and belted in, I'd have been crushed in the wreckage. That might have happened, don't you think? It's a possibility, isn't it?"

"If you'd been belted in, how could you have been thrown clear?"

"Then maybe I wasn't belted in," she said eagerly. "Maybe the idea was to have me go through the windshield. Or maybe I came round in time and released myself."

He would have liked to believe her, but he couldn't. "Then this hypothetical murderer would have seen what had happened and finished you off. He couldn't afford to leave you alive if he'd just tried to kill you."

From her pocket she took the newspaper clipping that Betty had given her and pressed it into his hands. "According to this, I was found by a young couple. He wouldn't have had time to finish me off if he saw them coming."

"Look, Miss Kingsley," said Maddocks, "I hate to be cruel but facts are facts. According to your neighbors in Richmond, this wasn't the first time. Your first attempt was on the Sunday. Whether you like it or not, indeed whether you remember it or not-and by your own admission you have a habit of blocking out anything that disturbs you-something so terrible happened that you primed yourself with Dutch courage and then had a second go at finishing it all."

Something terrible happened... "I've never been drunk in my life," she said stubbornly. "I've never wanted to be drunk."

"There's always a first time."

She shrugged. "Not as far as I'm concerned, Inspector."

"You had consumed the equivalent of two bottles of wine when you had your accident. Miss Kingsley. The bottles were found on the floor of your car. Are you telling me you can absorb that amount of alcohol without being what the rest of us would term drunk?"

"No," she said. "I'm saying I would never have wanted to drink that much."

"Not even if you had done something you were ashamed of?"

She fixed him with her steady gaze. "Like what?"

"Been party to a murder perhaps?"

She shook her head. "Do you not see how illogical that argument is? As I understand it, Meg's and Leo's bodies were found near Winchester, which means that whoever murdered them must have worked out some fairly complicated logistics. I can't find out from the newspapers whether they were killed in the wood or taken there after they were dead, but whichever it was, someone went to a great deal of trouble to get them there. But why would anyone go to those lengths if they were so ashamed of what they'd done that they then tried to kill themselves? It doesn't make sense. On the one hand you're describing a very calculating personality who set out to get rid of two people; on the other, you're describing a weak personality who may have struck out in a moment of anger but was then so appalled by what he'd done that he tried to make amends by killing himself.''

"You really have given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

The huge black eyes filled again. "As you would have done, if you were in my place. I'm not a fool, Inspector."

Maddocks surprised her by acknowledging this with a nod. It was on the tip of his tongue to say, Point taken, but he checked himself in time. "There's no logic to murder, Miss Kingsley, not in my experience anyway. It's usually the last people you'd expect who do it. Some of them show remorse early, some of them show it when they're convicted, and some of them never show it at all. Believe me, it is not uncommon for a calculating individual to plan a murder, carry it out, dispose of the body, and then have an attack of conscience. We see it over and over again. There's no reason why this case should be any different."

"Then you might as well clap the handcuffs on me now," she said, "because I can't defend myself."

Nothing would give me more pleasure, sweetheart. "There's no question of that," he said affably. "As Sergeant Fraser said, we are pursuing various lines of inquiry, and this is just one of them. However, I'm sure you realize how important it is that you give us some indication of what went on in the two weeks prior to your accident and the deaths of Leo and Meg. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only person left who can shed any light on the matter."

She drew on her cigarette with a worried frown. "What about Meg's friends? Have you spoken to any of them? Surely they can tell you something."

"Acting on the information you gave us, we spoke to Josh Hennessey yesterday. He told us that the first he knew about Leo and Meg getting together was a phone call from Meg on Saturday, June the eleventh. She told him your wedding was off, that she and Leo were leaving for France but that she would pop into the office before she left to bring him up to date with her side of the operation. She never showed and he has never heard from her again. He also gave us the names of some of Meg's close friends. We spoke to a couple of them, Fay Avonalli and Marian Harding, and they told us the same story."

"But didn't you ask Josh about her and Leo's relationship before that? I mean, he and Meg have worked together for years, he knows everything about her, so presumably he knew about the affair."

It was Fraser who answered. "He gave us the name of one man who featured seriously for two or three months at the beginning of this year but he said Meg had hardly mentioned Leo at all, and he was surprised when she phoned to say they were planning to get married. He said Leo had been around for years, and they had an off-and-on relationship which resurrected itself whenever they were both at a loose end. But he'd never known them to stick together for more than a month or two because Meg always got so irritated with Leo's"-he sought for a suitable word-"selfishness. He said he told her she was mad to think it would be any different this time, and gave the relationship a month to run. He also told her she was a prize bitch and that the only reason she wanted Leo was because he was marrying you." He smiled sympathetically. "According to him, Meg was jealous of you. Apparently, she resented you inheriting Russell's money on top of the money you will inherit from your father. She said you always landed on your feet, while she ended up in the cesspit."

"Which is true in a funny sort of way. All Meg ever wanted was enough ready cash to give her the good times. She said it was so unfair that she had a vicar for a father when penury was the one thing she loathed. She couldn't understand why I didn't touch Adam for money at every opportunity."

Fraser echoed Protheroe's skepticism of earlier. "I'm surprised you liked her."

"I didn't have many friends. In any case, she was fun. I suppose it was a case of opposites attracting. I take life too seriously. She gloried in it. She's the only person I've ever known who lived entirely for the present." A tear fell onto her cheek. "I was far more jealous of her than she was of me."

"So would you say your jealousy extended to anger over her stealing of your men friends?" asked Maddocks.

Jinx stubbed out the butt of her cigarette. "No," she said tiredly, "it didn't. I'm sorry, Inspector, but I really don't think there's anything more I can tell you."

Alan Protheroe was waiting by their car when they rounded the corner of the building. "I trust, gentlemen, that you showed Miss Kingsley rather more courtesy than you showed me when you pushed your way into my office." His eyes narrowed. "I have extreme reservations about these bully boy tactics of yours."

"We had a little chat, sir," protested Maddocks, "which you could have joined at any time, had you or Miss KingsJey wished it."

Alan shook his head in irritation. "You're a type, Inspector, and it's not a type I admire or even believe should be in the police force. Do you really need reminding that Miss Kingsley was in a coma less than a week ago? Or that your colleagues at Fordingbridge believe she has twice tried to kill herself?"

"It's a funny business, that suicide attempt." Maddocks nodded towards Fraser. "She told the Sergeant here she thought someone was trying to kill her. What's your reading of it, Doctor? Attempted suicide or attempted murder? Does Miss Kingsley strike you as the suicidal type? I can't see it myself."

"But attempted murder convinces you?"

Maddocks grinned. "I'd say that was a clutching at straws to lay the blame on someone else."

"So what are you left with if it was neither?''

"A little piece of theater, I think. She's one hell of an actress, this patient of yours, but then I'm sure you know that already."

Alan nodded abruptly towards the front doors. "One of my security staff has something to show you. My view is it should be handed to the Salisbury police, who I understood were dealing with the assault on me, but they appear to be passing the buck to you." He led the way inside and gestured towards the sledgehammer which was lying on top of the reception desk with a plastic bag neatly attached to its head. "Harry Elphick," he said, introducing the security officer. "He found it in one of the outbuildings. It has flakes of red paint on the metal which might have come from my Wolseley."

Maddocks smiled appreciatively. "Good man, Harry. What made you go looking for it?"

Harry, who prided himself on his judgment, recognized a good'un when he saw one. "Well, sir, it was like this. Begging the doctor's pardon, I don't set as much store by the youngsters here as he does." He launched into a rambling account of his reasoning processes, finishing with: "So, as I always say, when you're looking for an answer, look for the obvious, and the obvious in this case is that one of the little tykes on the premises thought he'd chance his arm."

Maddocks glanced towards Alan with a malicious smile. "Or her arm," he murmured. "I hadn't realized until Miss Kingsley stood up in your room just how tall she is. Five feet ten would be my guess."

THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC-10:00 P.M.

Veronica Gordon heard the commotion from the front hall as she was sipping her cup of tea in the staff sitting room. She walked out and frowned angrily at the sight of Betty Kingsley trying to wrestle free of Amy Staunton. "BLACK BITCH," Betty was shouting. "Get your hands off me. I want to see my daughter."

"What on earth is going on?" Veronica asked icily, laying a hand on the older woman's collar and yanking her back with surprising strength. "How dare you speak to one of my nursing staff in those derogatory terms. I won't tolerate it, not from anyone, and most especially not from a drunk." She looked very angry. "What a disgraceful exhibition. Just who on earth do you think you are?"

Betty's face grew sullen as she shook the hand off. "You know who I am," she said aggressively. "I'm Mrs. Adam Kingsley and I've come to see my daughter." But she was wilting visibly in the face of the sister's sobriety and superior aggression.

"That's out of the question," Veronica snapped. "It's ten o'clock at night and you're in no condition to talk to anyone. I suggest you go home and sober up, and come back again tomorrow morning in a rather more presentable state than you are in at the moment."

Betty's eyes bulged in her powdered face. "My husband's going to hear about this. You've got a right nerve talking to me like that."

"What an excellent idea. Why don't we phone Mr. Kingsley now? I'm sure he'll be delighted to hear that his wife has engaged in a drunken brawl with a nurse at the Nightingale Clinic."

Tears coursed down the grotesque face. "I need to see Jinx," she wept. "Please let me see my daughter." But she seemed to realize that tears weren't going to win her any sympathy, so she took a deep breath, patted her hair, and pulled her coat straight. "There you are. That's better, isn't it? I won't cause no trouble, not if you let me see her." She dabbed at her eyes and fixed a pathetically roguish smile to her lips. "Cheerful as anything. Don't take no mind of what I said earlier." She patted Amy's arm. "I didn't mean anything by it, dear. I've got a cruel mouth sometimes. Are you going to let me see Jinx? Please, it's that important."

Veronica mellowed a little. "What is so important that it can't wait till tomorrow, Mrs. Kingsley?"

"Meg and Leo," she said. "Me and the boys read they'd been murdered, but her Daddy's refusing to do anything about it. Seems to me someone should give the poor kid a cuddle, even if it is only me."

Veronica agreed with her, and if she thought it a little odd that Betty had waited twelve hours and got herself drunk before she put the idea into practice, she didn't say anything. Instead she sent Amy down to find out if Jinx was still awake, before escorting Betty to number 12 and leaving the two women together with the door wide open. "I'll be just along the corridor," she informed them. ' 'You have fifteen minutes, Mrs. Kingsley, and I do not expect to hear any raised voices. Is that understood?''

Betty waited till she'd gone, then gave a disparaging sniff. "She's a right bitch, that one." She staggered to a chair and collapsed into it, staring morosely at her stepdaughter, who was already in bed. "I suppose someone's told you Meg and Leo are dead."

Jinx hid her dismay. "Who brought you, Betty?"

"I made Jenkins do it." She waved a meaty hand towards the door. "He's waiting outside."

"Does Adam know you've come?"

"Course not." She shook her head. "He's in London. The shares have been sliding all day. He's trying to repair the damage."

"I saw it on the news."

"Oh my, my. You're a cool one. Always were." She blew her nose. "D'you know why they're sliding? Because Leo's dead and Russell's dead, and fingers are pointing."

Jinx watched her for a moment. "It won't affect you or the boys," she said calmly. "The company's sound and Adam won't let the slide continue indefinitely. Your shares will go back up again, so you won't lose out."

"And how's your precious Adam going to stop the slide?" she hissed, her little eyes like flints. "You tell me that. There's me and the boys worrying ourselves sick, while you and your daddy behave as if nothing's happened."

"If necessary, he'll resign." A small frown creased her forehead. "You know that as well as I do. It's what he's always said he would do in a crisis."

"And where will that leave us?"

"With all the shares Adam gave you ten years ago."

Betty took out a compact and floured her ravaged face. "No," she said tightly, "it'll leave me with no home to call my own. It's not ours, remember, belongs to the company. An asset-that's what they call it, isn't it? Did you think of that when you brought this crisis on our heads? If your daddy resigns we lose the Hall. The boys'll be out of a job, and none of us'll have a roof over our heads. What've you got to say to that?"

"I'd say it means you've sold your shares and you're afraid Adam's going to wash his hands of you." Jinx rested her head against her pillows. "And about time, too. He deserves better than three dead weights who know only how to drag him down. You should all be standing by him, instead of crying about what's going to happen to you." She smiled to herself. "Do you know what? When you came in, I thought, my God, one of them has come to hold my hand. One of them has come to say, 'We believe in you, Jinxy. We know you must be going through hell, but we're here for you.' What a mug, eh? Why on earth should I have imagined for one minute that you or your good-for-nothing bastards could change the habits of a lifetime?"

"Don't you call my sons bastards."

"Why not?" said Jinx, pressing the bell beside her bed. "It's what they are. You've never been a wife to my father."

Betty's eyes filled with tears again. "I hated you the first time I saw you."

"I know. You always made that very clear."

"You hated me, too."

"Because you were so stupid." She turned to Veronica Gordon, who had appeared in the doorway. "My stepmother's leaving," she said.

"I did my best," said Betty. "I wanted to love you."

"No, you didn't. You wanted to displace me. Jealousy is a disease with you. You knew damned well that Adam loved me far more than he would ever love you."

She smiled coldly, and Veronica found herself reassessing every opinion she'd ever had of the young woman. This was no dewy-eyed victim, she thought.