Dark Room

*19*

WEDNESDAY, 29TH JUNE, 53 LANSING ROAD, SALISBURY - 12:00 P.M.

Flossie Hale examined the newspaper clipping with the Franchise Holdings emblem. "Oh, yes," she said, "no question, that's the key ring all right." Next she turned her attention to the grainy faxed photograph of Miles and Fergus Kingsley in the members' enclosure at Ascot, and after a brief hesitation, planted her finger on a face. "That looks like him, but it's not a very good picture, is it love? I don't recall his hair being as dark as that. The jacket's similar."

"What about the man next to him?' '

She held the page away from her, half closing her eyes, as if looking at an impressionist painting. "The trouble is, you don't look at their faces much, not when they're punching you. You're too scared. Yes," she said with sudden decision, stabbing at Miles again, "that's him all right. Little bastard. I said butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Who is he then?"

"His name's Miles Kingsley." WPC Blake retrieved the photograph and tucked it into her bag. Samantha Garrison had also picked out Miles, and if neither woman had been quite as decisive as Blake would have liked, she put it down to the poor quality of the photocopy and postponed her niggling concerns over whether or not this could ever result in a successful prosecution. If Flossie had been more cooperative at the start, allowed them in to dust for fingerprints or let them take swabs, they would have something more concrete to work on.

"Well, I don't understand it," the older woman was saying. "How'd you turn what I told you into a blooming photograph of someone with the initials M.K.?"

"Just luck, Flossie. He's a bit of a playboy, this creep. If you're interested, the photograph was faxed through to us from The Tattler. You got done over by one of society's best. His dad's a multimillionaire."

Flossie shook her head. "It makes you wonder what the world's coming to. What's he doing trawling Salisbury for cheap old tarts like me if he can afford the high-class ones in London?"

Blake couldn't answer that.

THE STUDIO, PIMLICO, LONDON-1:00 P.M.

Dean Jarrett was effusively helpful. "Well, of course, dear," he told Fraser, ladling out the charm while sussing him coolly from the corner of his eye. He thought this policeman looked less of a homophobe than most; might even, if the friendly smile was anything to go by, be tolerably sympathetic towards Jinx and her bizarre entourage at the studio. Certainly, he had taken Angelica's pink hair in his stride and appeared unfazed by Dean's flirting. "I can give you a blow-by-blow account of everything Jinx did from Tuesday the thirty-first until Friday the third. But after that, it's a complete no-no, I'm afraid. She was at Hell Hall the next week, and we didn't hear a dicky bird out of her-didn't expect to, of course, because she was on her hols-and then she did a vanishing trick on us. Angelica phoned and phoned on the Monday, when she was supposed to be here, and all she got was Jinx's answering machine."

"That would be the thirteenth of June?"

"It would. And then, on the Tuesday, we heard the awful news that the poor mite was unconscious in hospital somewhere. I suppose you've seen her. Is she all right?"

His face contorted itself into a moue of concern, and Fraser nodded reassuringly, even if he did find the moue less than sincere. "She seems fine, a bit hazy about what happened, but otherwise very alert and very composed."

"Isn't she amazing!" said Dean. "Quite my most favorite lady."

"Yet you haven't been to see her," said Fraser dispassionately, "or not as far as we know. Is there some reason for that?"

The moue vanished abruptly. "Yes, well, unlike the Josh Hennesseys and Simon Harrises of this world, who both tell me they've inflicted themselves on her, I prefer to wait for an invitation. Imagine the awfulness of feeling like death and having well-meaning friends impose themselves on you. Jinx is a very private person. Half the time I think she's completely ignorant of how much we all adore her; the other half I retreat into my little shell because I'm afraid the truth is we bore her rigid." He sighed. "In any case I didn't know where she was for ages. Her brute of a father wouldn't tell me."

"Still, I'm surprised she wasn't worried about the studio."

Dean gave a squeak of distress. "How crushing you are, Sergeant. Don't you feel the poor darling has rather more pressing concerns at the moment than leaving her business in the hands of the second-best photographer in London?"

Fraser's lips twitched. "What did you think of Leo?"

"He was absolutely dire. A real leech, but could Jinx see it? You know what the trouble is, she's blinkered when it comes to a pretty face. Falls for the outside, and forgets that what's underneath is more important. It's her father's fault. He looks like an old vulture and he's always been so damn distant with her that she assumes a pretty face means a pretty personality." He rolled his eyes to heaven. "I hate to say it, because he's a very rude man, but I actually think Adam Kingsley is probably worth ten Leo Walladers. If the number of phone calls he's made checking up on me and Angelica is anything to go by, he cares about Jinx a great deal more than she's ever given him credit for. My God, if we'd thought about letting things slide, which we haven't, he'd have been round here tearing our innards out."

Fraser grinned. "You've met him then?"

"I was introduced the first time he paid one of his terrifying visits," said Dean with a shudder, "as was Angie. But as I'm gay and she's black, it was hardly the social event of the century, washed his hands afterwards in case he'd caught something. On all subsequent visits, he has grunted rudely in our direction and swept through to talk to Jinxy in private."

"Why are his visits terrifying?"

"Because he insists on bringing his tame gorilla with him." Dean rolled his eyes again. "Says he's the chauffeur, but since when did chauffeurs need fifty-four-inch chests? The man is there to make mincemeat of anyone who dares say boo to the boss."

"That's not so unusual these days, you know. A bodyguard-cum-chauffeur. Most millionaires have them. You said Mr. Kingsley's distant, but would you also say he's fond of Jinx?"

"Yes, in a brooding sort of way. He never touches her, just sits and stares at her as though she were a piece of Dresden china. I get the feeling he can't really believe she's his. I mean he's common as muck, after all, and she's such a lady, and the only other two children he had are A-one arseholes." He thought for a moment. " 'Fond' isn't the right word. I think he idolizes her."

"How does she feel about that?"

"Loathes it, but then you have to understand that he's not idolizing Jinx, he's idolizing the person he thinks she is. I mean, you'd have to be mentally deficient to see Jinx as Dresden china. A piece of good solid Staffordshire pottery that bounces when you drop it and retains its integrity through a thousand washes, that's a better analogy."

"Why doesn't Jinx put him straight?"

"She's tried, dear, but there's none so blind as those who will not see. She was going to marry Leo Wallader, for God's sake. What better demonstration could there be of flawed judgment and appalling taste? Not that her father could see it, of course. Leo had blue blood in his veins, so he must have been a cut above the rest of us."

Fraser smiled. "Tell me about Tuesday, May the thirty-first," he invited.

"That was a very busy day. We had a teenage band here all morning who thought they were the bee's-knees. Their record company wanted some publicity shots, and it was like drawing blood from a stone to get them to do anything other than simper into the lens." He thought for a moment. "Okay, in the afternoon we did some location work round Charing Cross station for a television company. Atmospheric stills for a documentary' on homelessness. We clocked off about six, because Jinx wanted to get home in reasonably good time."

"Did she say why?"

He shook his silver head. "But she was in a brilliant mood all day, and when I asked her if we could thank Leo for it, she said: 'In one respect, I suppose you can.' So I said: 'Don't tell me, darling, he's finally come up trumps in the rogering department.' And she said: 'Don't be absurd, Dean, Leo would need to be facedown on a mirror to do that.' And I thought, thank God, she's finally seen the light-but for once I was far too tactful to say it."

Fraser grinned again. "Wednesday, June the first," he prompted.

"Let me think now. All right. I spent the morning developing and printing contact sheets. There was some undeveloped film, left over from the previous week, and the two projects from the previous day. Jinx caught up on a mound of paperwork in order to clear it before she went on holiday. Wednesday afternoons are always reserved for portrait work, and I think we had five or six families that day. Then we grabbed supper at about half-six, before going back to Charing Cross to finish the location work there. They wanted twilight and nighttime shots as well, so we didn't knock off that day until about ten-thirty."

"And how was her mood on Wednesday?"

"The same. Happy, sunny, brilliant. Angie and I were quite persuaded she'd given Leo the boot, but she didn't say she had, so we guessed she was hanging fire till she could tell her old man during her holiday. You've got to realize we'd been walking on eggshells for God knows how long. The mere mention of Leo's name brought glowering looks and an abrupt change of conversation. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, she's her old sweet self again."

"And you put that down to the fact that she'd decided not to marry him after all?"

Dean nodded. "More than that, sweetheart, I put it down to the fact that he wasn't there anymore, and certainly not in her bed. For the first time in weeks, she actually wanted to go home. Take the Thursday. She had me working like a slave all morning, and come the afternoon, she suddenly looks at her watch and says: 'Do me a favor, Dean, and mind the shop. There's a few things I need to do at home, and tomorrow we're out all day.' You could have knocked me over with a feather. She'd been avoiding the place like the plague ever since Leo got his knees under her table."

"Why?"

Dean tut-tutted impatiently. "Because she realized she couldn't stand him, of course, but she didn't know how to admit it. Her father's fault again. He'd really gone to town on the wedding preparations, invited half of Surrey and Hampshire, and Jinx was too embarrassed to say anything. I mean, there were a couple of Cabinet ministers coming, and you don't tell them to bog off without a few qualms, do you?"

Fraser chuckled. "I've never had the chance. Could be fun, though." He paused. "It makes sense if he wasn't there. She and he had a blazing row on the Bank Holiday Monday, and the logical thing would have been for him to move out immediately." Pensively, he pulled at his lip. "But she claims he was there on the following Saturday morning, June the fourth, when she left for Hellingdon Hall, remembers their farewells as fond ones."

Dean shrugged. "Then Leo must have undergone a character transplant in the meantime. I swear to God, if the sight of blood were a little less sickening, I could have bopped him on the nose several times. He was a complete slimeball."

"So what are you saying?"

"That Jinx is telling fibs about the fond farewell."

"You think they had a row?"

"No. I'm guessing she didn't want anyone to know he'd gone, so pretended fond farewells that never happened. I mean, if we always had to tell the truth about our relationships, we'd be wobbling jellies with no self-esteem. I lie all the time about mine, keep some lovers going long after they've deserted me."

"It's a pity you didn't tell the police all this at the time of her accident," said Fraser in mild reproof.

"Well, I would have done, if they'd been remotely interested in anything prior to Friday, June the tenth, but all they wanted to know was, had we seen or heard from her since her return from Hampshire. I did say that we were a teensy-weensy bit surprised to hear she'd only canceled the wedding on the Saturday after she got back from Hell Hall, when we were sure she'd made up her mind two weeks earlier, but they said it was Leo who had jilted her, and as I couldn't prove any different, there wasn't much more to be said."

"Okay, then there's just Friday the third left to cover. Anything unusual happen that day?"

"Just a wall-to-wall fashion shoot in London's docklands. We began at eight-thirty and went right through to seven o'clock in the evening without a break. Jinx dropped me off with all the cameras and equipment at the studio around seven-thirty, blew me a kiss, and said: 'It's all yours for a week, so be good.' And I haven't seen her since."

"Have you spoken to her?" asked Fraser idly.

"Just once, on the telephone."

"When was that?"

'Sunday night."

"Who called who?"

"She called me."

"At home?"

Dean nodded.

"It must have been important then," said Fraser.

"Oh, it was," said Dean. "It was my thirtieth birthday and she knew I'd have died a thousand deaths if I hadn't spoken to her, never mind she's flat on her back in hospital and suffering galloping amnesia." He beamed engagingly. "As I said, she's quite my most favorite lady."

Fraser flicked over a page or two of his notebook. "Odd," he said. "According to her, she asked you to phone the Walladers to find out whether Leo and Meg were dead or not. She never mentioned your birthday. Can anything you've said be relied upon, sir?"

ROMSEY ROAD POLICE STATION, WINCHESTER-1:00 P.M.

The call from Salisbury came through to the incident room as Detective Superintendent Cheever was briefing the team he'd picked to conduct interviews at Hellingdon Hall that afternoon. He listened for five minutes, with only the odd interjection to know he was interested; then he said: "And the prostitute is certain of her identification?" A longish pause. "You've got two of them who swear it's him? ... Yes, we're planning to interview the whole family this afternoon ... No, he's never entered the frame at all." Another long pause. "Because he was sixteen when Landy got done, that's why ... Okay, okay. We all know ten-year-olds do it now." He compressed his lips into a thin, frustrated line. "Well, how quickly can she get here? ... Half an hour. Yes, all right, we'll hold on ... Yes, yes, yes. We've had cars stationed outside since yesterday afternoon. The whole family's there, including Kingsley. He drove back from London this morning." He listened again. "No, we won't steal her blasted thunder." He slammed the phone onto the rest and glared at the assembled detectives. "Damn!" he growled.

"What's up?" asked Maddocks.

"Miles Kingsley has been beating up on prostitutes in Salisbury. The DCI there says he has all the hallmarks of a classic psychopath."

"Where does that leave us?"

Testily, Cheever fingered his bow tie. "High and dry for the moment. They're sending a WPC over with what she's managed to get on him. I suggest we put everything on hold till she gets I here." He steepled his hands in front of his face. "This is what's known as a spanner in the works, gentlemen. Why in God's name I should Miles Kingsley have murdered his sister's husband, fiance, and friend? Can any of you make sense of that?"

"You're jumping the gun, sir," protested Maddocks. "So the bastard beats up on prostitutes, that doesn't make him a killer."

"You still favor Jane for the murders then?"

"Of course. She's the only one with a motive for all three."

"And her father, knowing what she's done, protects her?"

"That's about the size of it. After Landy's death, she's bundled off to a psychiatric unit while Dad takes the flak himself because he knows the Met will never be able to prosecute him. This time, she's shoved into the Nightingale, following a fake suicide, and we're told hands off because she's got amnesia. Meanwhile Dad's solicitor is busy on a crisis-limitation exercise with the clinic's administrator. She's guilty as sin. Her father knows it and so does Dr. Protheroe."

"That's a hell of a conspiracy theory, and it's full of holes anyway. If the doctor's protecting her, why did she go for him on Monday night?"

"Because she's off her bloody rocker, sir."

"She's a psychopath, in other words."

"Sure she is."

Frank lowered his hands and smiled sarcastically. "The Met said her father was a psychopath. Salisbury says her brother's a psychopath. You say she's a psychopath. It's beginning to look like an epidemic, and I don't buy that, Gareth." Maddocks shrugged. "What would you buy, sir?" "One psychopath, maybe, but not three. I suggest two of them have been tarred with the brush of the the other."

The announcement that Adam Kingsley had resigned in favor of number two, John Normans, was released through Franchise Holdings' London headquarters at twelve o'clock. At one o'clock the BBC television news, video footage of the gates of Hellingdon Hall formed a backdrop to the news story: "Adam Kingsley reached his decision this morning amidst the peace and quiet this palatial eighteenth-century house on the edge of the New Forest, although it is unlikely he will be here for very much longer. Hellingdon Hall is a registered asset of Franchise Holdings, and sources say it will be sold off to recoup some of the losses of the last few days..."

WINCHESTER-1:45 P.M.

"The message over the radio in the incident room crackled with excitement. "Listen, sir, a Porsche, registration number MIL-one, has just left Hellingdon Hall by the service entrance, and it's piling off up the road at about a hundred miles an hour. We're following but it's definitely not old man Kingsley. Do we go back to the Hall or do we continue?"

"Who's your backup?"

"Fredericks at the trade entrance, and half a dozen uniformed local chaps at the front gate, keeping the paparazzi in order. But the place has been dead as a dodo all morning, sir. This is the first action we've seen."

"All right, continue," said Frank Cheever, "but don't lose him. It's probably Miles Kingsley, and I want to know where he's going. Fredericks, are you hearing me? Stay alert, and if anyone else comes out, notify me immediately. Understood?"

"Will do, sir."

The first radio burst back into life. "He's turning onto the A three thirty-eight, Governor. Looks like he's heading for Salisbury."

43 SHOEBURY TERRACE, HAMMERSMITH, LONDON-2:00 P.M.

Fraser's last port of call was Meg's neighbor in Hammersmith, Mrs. Helms. She greeted him with surprising warmth, rather as she might an old friend, and took him into the front room. "My husband," she said, waving her hand towards a pathetic husk of a man who was sitting with a blanket across his knees and gazing forlornly onto the quiet street. "Multiple sclerosis," she mouthed. She raised her voice. "This is Detective Sergeant Fraser, Henry, come to talk to us about poor Meg." She went back to her whisper. "Just ignore him. He won't say anything. Hardly ever does these days. It's a shame, it really is. He used to be such a busy little soul."

Fraser took the armchair that Mrs. Helms indicated and, for the fourth time that day, explained the purpose behind his questions. "So, have you any idea what Meg did over the bank holiday weekend?" he asked.

She greeted this with a girlish squeal. "I couldn't begin to say," she declared. "Goodness me, I can't even remember what we were doing that weekend."

Fraser glanced towards her husband, thinking that if his mobility was as poor as it appeared to be, then the chances of them not being there were fairly remote. "Perhaps you had family come to visit," he suggested. "Does that jog any memories? Meg wouldn't have been at work on the Monday."

She shook her head. "Every day's the same. Weekdays, weekends, holidays. Nothing varies very much. Now, if you could tell me what was on the television, that would help me."

Fraser tried a different tack. "It's a fair bet that Leo was here during the nights of Friday, May the twenty-seventh, possibly Monday the thirtieth, and very probably Tuesday the thirty-first. In fact, he may well have been in residence for the rest of that week and the week after. Does that help at all? In other words, did you notice him around more than usual? The last time I spoke to you, you said there was a lot of coming and going shortly before they left for France."

"Well, I certainly noticed he was in and out rather more often than normal, but as to whether he was living with her"-she shook her head-"dates don't mean anything to me, Sergeant. And how on earth would I know if Leo stayed on a particular night? Frankly, Meg's love life was of no interest to either of us, and why would it be? We've enough troubles of our own."

Fraser nodded sympathetically. "Leo had two very distinctive Mercedes convertibles, one black with beige leather upholstery, and the other white with burgundy seats. We think one or the other would have been parked outside whenever he was there. Do you remember seeing either of them at any point in the two weeks before they left for the holiday in France?"

She gave her girlish squeal again. "I wouldn't know a Mercedes from a Jaguar," she said, "and I never notice cars, full stop, unless they're blocking my way. Dreadful invention."

Fraser gave a quiet sigh of frustration. Mrs. Helms's epitaph of a few days previously-She never gave us any trouble-came rack to haunt him afresh. What a pity, he was thinking, because if she had, then Mrs. Helms might have taken a little more notice of her. He looked disconsolately towards her husband. "Perhaps Mr. Helms saw something?" he suggested.

She shook her head vigorously. "Wouldn't notice a double-decker bus if it was parked in his lap," she said sotto voce. "Best not to bother him, really. It makes him anxious if he's bothered."

But Fraser persisted, if only to reassure himself that he had left no stone unturned. "Can you help me, Mr. Helms? It is important or I wouldn't press the point. We have two unsolved murders, ind we need to establish why and when they happened."

The thin face turned towards him and regarded him without expression for several seconds. "Which day was the second?"

"Of June?"

The other nodded.

Fraser consulted his diary. "It was a Thursday."

"I had a hospital appointment on the second. I came home by ambulance and the driver noticed the Mercedes. He said: "That's a new one, not seen that here before,' and I told him it belonged to downstairs and had been there two or three days."

Fraser leaned forward. "On and off, or permanently?"

"It was there each night," he managed with difficulty, "but not always during the day."

"Can you remember when it left for good?"

It was clear he had difficulty articulating words, and Fraser waited patiently for him to resume. "Not sure. Probably when they went to France."

Fraser smiled encouragingly. "And would you be able to say which day that was, Mr. Helms?"

The man nodded. "Clean-sheets day. Monday."

"Goodness me," said Mrs. Helms, "do you know he's right. I'd just stripped the beds when Meg came with the cat food. Dumped the sheets in Henry's lap while I went out to talk to her. There now, and I'd quite forgotten."

"That's grand," said Fraser. "We're making real progress. Did they leave together in the Mercedes?"

Mr. Helms shook his head. "I didn't see. Anthea pushed me and the sheets into the kitchen." There was a look of irritation in his eyes and Fraser thought, You poor bloody sod, I bet she sorted the sheets on your lap as if you were a mobile laundry basket.

"Did you happen to notice when Meg's car went? It's a dark green Ford Sierra. We've found it since in a street in Chelsea."

"The Friday evening. Both cars went. Only the sports car came back."

"With both Meg and Leo in it?"

"Yes."

"Which makes sense. They were clearing the decks before they left on holiday." He drummed his fingers on his knee and addressed his next question to Mrs. Helms. "Did Meg give any indication on the Monday that they had postponed their departure for any reason?''

She pulled a face. "Not really. She just rang the doorbell, thrust the key and the food at me, and said they were off to France. Very odd, I thought."

"Did anything else strike you as odd?"

"Not really," she said again. "She hadn't done her hair, and her eyes were rather red, so I thought she might have been crying, but I put it down to a lovers' tiff."

"Anything else?"

"Well, saying Marmaduke had to be kept prisoner in the hall was a bit odd. She'd never done that before. Poor little fellow, it's no way to keep a cat."

Fraser frowned and flicked through his papers. "Last time I spoke to you," he murmured, isolating a page, "you said Meg was insistent that Marmaduke shouldn't go into any of the rooms."

"That's right."

"But just now you said she wanted him kept prisoner in the hall."

"Well, yes. Same difference."

"Can you remember her actual words, Mrs. Helms?"

"Oh Lord. It's nearly three weeks ago." She screwed her face in concentration. "Let me see now. It was all over in half a second. 'You remember I said we were going to France, Mrs. Helms?' That's how she began. Well, of course, she'd never said anything of the sort but I was too polite to say so. 'And you promised you'd look after the cat?' she said next. Which annoyed me because I hadn't. I'd have said so, too, except she shoved the key and tin at me, and never gave me a chance to answer. 'The cat's imprisoned and will want to get out. Please be careful how you open the doors. I don't want any more damage done.' And that was all she said. And that's what I've done, though for the life of me I can't imagine why it was necessary. Damage never worried her before."

"She said 'the cat' and not 'Marmaduke'?" The woman nodded. "And you were outside on the doorstep?"

"That's right. She wouldn't come in."

He pictured the little porch under the basement steps, and reali:zed then what had happened. Someone had been down there, listening, he thought. He tapped his pencil against his teeth. For Leo, read lion, read cat. 'Leo is imprisoned. Please be careful. I don't want any more damage done.' Jesus! What despair Meg must have felt, knowing her only chance resided in this irritatingly stupid woman. But if he was honest, would anyone have understood so cryptic a message?

"Okay." He turned back to Mr. Helms. "What did they do on the Saturday and Sunday. Do you know? Did you notice anyone coming to the door?"

His mouth worked. "Her friend came," he blurted. "The tall one. Saturday night." He raised a weak hand and dropped it onto his thigh. "Banged on the door. Said: 'You must be mad. What the hell are you doing?' "

"Was it a woman?"

"Yes."

"Jinx Kingsley?"

"Tall, dark. Drives a Rover Cabriolet. JIN 1-X."

"When did she leave?"

But Mr. Helms shook his head. "Anthea likes television. I'm not allowed to sit here all the time."

"I should think not," said his wife sharply. "The neighbors would get quite the wrong idea if you did. They'd say I was neglecting you."

Fraser flicked the man a sympathetic glance. "Not to worry," he said. "Did you happen to notice any other visitors?" But Mr. Helms had told him all he could.

"We're on our way now," said Detective Superintendent Cheever on a mobile link to his colleague in the Wiltshire police. "It looks as if he's heading for the Nightingale. Got that? You'll send backup to the clinic. Agreed? We'll only talk to him about the murders after you've charged him on the assaults ... No, Adam Kingsley's on hold at the moment. I'm more interested in hearing what Miles has to say."

THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-2:30 P.M.

Miles stormed through Jinx's open French windows and flung himself into the vacant armchair with the sullen expression of a thwarted five-year-old. "I suppose you've heard what he's done."

"You mean his resignation?"

"Of course I mean his resignation," he said in a mimicking falsetto. "What the hell else would I mean?" He drummed his feet on the ground. "God, I'm so angry. I don't know which of you I'd rather strangle at the moment. You realize you've buggered everything between you."

"No," she said calmly, lighting a cigarette. "I can't say I do realize that. What exactly is buggered, Miles?"

"FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!" he yelled, his eyes narrowing to unattractive slits. "We've lost everything, the house, everything."

She gazed at him through the drifting smoke. "Who's we?" she murmured. "I haven't lost anything. The shares have risen ten points since Adam resigned, which means I've already made a tidy paper profit on my morning's investment alone. I hope you're not going to tell me you sold your shares, Miles. When Adam gave them to us, he said, sell everything else but don't sell these. You should have had more faith in him."

"I had to," he said through gritted teeth. "Fergus, too. We borrowed money on the back of the damn things and the bastard we were in hock to made us sell out to cover the debts."

She shrugged. "More fool you."

He was as tightly strung as a new bow. "Oh Jesus-if you knew how much I hated you. It's all your fault this has happened-'' His voice carried a tremor of despair.

She arched a sardonic eyebrow. "How do you make that out?"

"Russell ... Leo-they were both shits."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"If you'd picked someone halfway decent-we wouldn't be in mess.

She watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the arms of the chair. After all, what did she really know about this brother of hers? "You were only sixteen when Russell was murdered," she said slowly. "Betty swore you and Fergus were at the Hall all day."

He stared at her with hot, angry eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I thought-never mind."

"You thought I did it?" he sneered. "Well, sometimes I wish I had. The old man would have bent over backwards for me after that. I'd have done it for free, too, because I'd have enjoyed doing it. I loathed Russell. He was almost as arrogant and patronizing as you are." He surged out of his chair in one violent movement and trapped her in hers by leaning over and gripping the arms. "It cost Dad a packet to get rid of him, you silly bitch, and another packet to do for Leo and Meg. And now Fergus and I are in the shit because of it. The police are parked all round the Hall, just waiting to arrest him, and the minute they do, Mum, me, and Fergus will be out in the sodding street. We're wiped out-don't you understand? Mum, too-she sold her shares months ago. There's nothing left."

"You've still got your jobs," she said, gazing steadily up at him so that he wouldn't guess how frightened she was.

He threw himself petulantly back into his chair, his anger spent. "God, you're so naive," he said. "John Normans won't keep us on. We're only there because of Dad. You know that. Everybody knows it. Christ, it's not as though either of us is even needed. All I have to do is make sure the site-security contracts are kept up to date. Any moron could do it." He banged his fist against the chair arm. "I get a moron's salary because of it. Do you know what I do? I engage night watchmen and put my signature to the standardized contract that comes off the sodding word processor.

"Then why aren't you doing it now?" she asked him. "Surely this is the time to prove that you're worth keeping."

His anger flared again. "You stupid, patronizing BITCH!" he screamed. "IT'S OVER! Dad's made sure you're okay, because you're his fucking darling, but he's dropped all the rest of us in it. Can't you get that into your thick skull?"

She blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling and watched the patterns it made in the draft from the open windows. "How do you know Adam had Russell killed?" she asked quietly.

"Who else could have done it?"

"Me," she suggested.

Miles looked amused. "Little Miss Perfect. Come off it, Jinxy, you haven't got the guts."

"And you think Adam has?''

He shrugged. "I know he has."

"How?"

"Because he's bloody vicious, that's how. Look at the way he treats me and Fergus."

She formed her lips into an approximation of a smile. "I want proof, Miles, not impressions. Can you prove Adam had Russell killed?"

"I can prove he wanted him killed. He said afterwards that Russell had got what was coming to him. Your precious husband was shafting your best friend. Dad hated him for it."

"What did he say when he heard about Leo and Meg?" Even to Jinx her voice sounded strangely remote.

Miles shrugged again. "That he hoped your memory loss was permanent; then he shut himself in his office and called his solicitor. He's paranoid about you starting to remember things, so we reckon you saw something you shouldn't have done."

She stared at the opposite wall. "You said it cost him a packet. How much exactly?"

"A lot."

"How much, Miles?"

"I don't know," he said sulkily. "All I know is it comes damned expensive."

She shifted her gaze lazily to look at him. "You don't know anything, do you? You're talking about what you wish Adam had done, not what he actually did. I suppose it makes you feel better to think of your father as a murderer." She laughed suddenly. "You know, I really feel quite sorry for you. Presumably you've spent the last ten years justifying all your shabby little deceits against Adam's guilt, so how the hell are you going to cope when it turns out he's whiter than white?" A movement at the windows caught her eye, and as she looked inquiringly towards the two uniformed policemen blocking the light, there was a peremptory knock on the door behind her. She frowned as WPC Blake walked in uninvited. "Can I help you?" Jinx said politely, looking beyond her to Superintendent Cheever, Maddocks, and Alan Protheroe, who were standing in the open doorway.

Blake glanced at her briefly before transferring her attention to the brother. "Miles Kingsley?" she asked.

He nodded.

She proffered her warrant card. "WPC Blake, Wiltshire police. Miles Kingsley, I have reason to believe you can assist us in our inquiries into the grievous bodily harm and indecent assault of Mrs. Flossie Hale on the evening of the twenty-second of June last at number fifty-three, Lansing Road, Salisbury-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" he broke in angrily. "Who the fuck's Mrs. Flossie Hale? I've never heard of the bitch."