Dark Room

*20*

WEDNESDAY, 29TH JUNE, THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-2:45 P.M.

Little Lord Fauntleroy, Blake thought, was a good description of Miles Kingsley, with his clean-cut face and his wide-spaced blue eyes. They weren't the sort of looks that attracted her-she preferred her men rougher and tougher-but she could imagine Flossie finding them appealing. "She's a prostitute, Mr. Kingsley. She was brutally attacked on the evening of the twenty-second. She has identified you as her assailant, as has Mrs. Samantha Garrison, another prostitute, who suffered a similar assault on March the twenty-third."

He frowned angrily. "They're lying. I've never been to a prostitute in my life." He rounded on Jinx. "What the hell's going on? Is this something Dad's set up?"

"Don't be an oaf," she snapped. She looked at the policewoman. "How could they identify him? Did the assailant give a name?"

Blake ignored her. "I think it would be better if we discussed the whole matter at the police station. Mr. Kingsley, I am requesting you to accompany me-"

"Look, you sour-faced cow," said Miles, surging aggressively to his feet, "I don't know what your game is-"

"Sit down, Miles," hissed Jinx through gritted teeth, grabbing his arm and forcing him into his chair again, "and keep your mouth shut." She took a deep breath. "You say you have reason to believe my brother can assist you, so please will you explain what those reasons are, in particular how both women came to identify their attacker as my brother."

Blake frowned. "I'm not obliged to explain anything, other than to say we have a positive identification of the man two women say attacked them. We would like him to answer some questions on the matter and to that end we are asking him to accompany us to the police station. Do you have a problem with that, Miss Kingsley, bearing in mind the assaults were serious enough to put both women into hospital?"

"Yes," she said curtly, "I think Miles should refuse to go with you. You obviously have nothing more concrete than this inexplicable identification or you'd have come with an arrest warrant." She glanced at Maddocks. "My guess is, you're trying to pick us off one by one to answer questions on Meg's and Leo's murders. I'm even doubtful if these prostitutes exist."

Miles sneered. "That's the stuff, Jinxy. Give 'em hell."

The young policewoman eyed him curiously for a moment, then addressed herself to his sister. "I'm Wiltshire police, Miss Kingsley, and I've spent the last week investigating the attack on Flossie Hale. She's forty-six years old. She sustained severe injuries to her head, face, and arms, and, but for her own courage in getting herself to hospital, would have died in her bed. She has identified your brother as the man who injured her. I will admit that the publicity surrounding the death of your fiance and your best friend led indirectly to her identification of him, but that's as far as the connection goes. I am not interested in you or your relationship with the Hampshire police. I am merely interested in preventing any more women suffering as Flossie did."

"Okay," said Miles cockily, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs in front of him, "then arrest me. You won't get me any other way. Have you any idea what sort of fuss my father's likely to kick up about this? Sacking will be the least of your worries once his solicitor gets onto it."

Jinx pressed fingers to her throbbing head. "Shut up, Miles."

"No, I bloody well won't," he snapped, whipping round to look at her. "You bug me, Jinx, you really do. You can say anything you like because you're so fucking clever, but not stupid Miles. He's got to sit here with his mouth shut." He slammed his fist into his palm. "Jesus, I wasn't even in Salisbury on the twenty-second and I can prove it."

"You visited your sister here at nine o'clock last Wednesday night, Mr. Kingsley," said Maddocks bluntly, "last Wednesday being the twenty-second of June, and the Nightingale Clinic being in Salisbury. Both your sister and the staff on duty will testify to that. Mrs. Hale was attacked at eight-fifteen, which would have given you plenty of time to sort yourself out before you presented yourself here."

His face took on a pinched look. "Okay, so I forgot. It's no big deal. I drove straight here from Fordingbridge. My mother and brother will swear I was at Hellingdon Hall till eight-thirty."

Blake looked at Jinx. "Is that what he told you when he got here?"

She didn't answer.

Miles darted her a frightened glance. "Tell them I told you."

"How can I? I don't remember you saying it."

"The black nurse said it when she brought me in. 'Here's your brother from Fordingbridge.' You must remember that."

"I don't." She could only remember him saying he'd been gambling that night. But had he?

"Oh, shit, Jinxy," he begged, "you've got to help me. I swear to God I never hurt anyone." He reached out a hand and clutched at her arm. "Please, Jinx, help me."

Meg is a whore ... Please ... please ... please ... help me, Jinx ... such fear ... oh, God, such terrible fear ... "I'll talk to Adam and ask him to send Kennedy out," she said shakily. "Just don't say anything else till he gets there. Can you do that, Miles?"

He nodded and stood up. "As long as you don't let me down."

Blake put a firm hand on his arm and steered him towards the windows. "This way, Mr. Kingsley. We've a car waiting outside."

"What about my Porsche?"

She held out her hand. "If you'll give me your keys, I'll have one of these officers drive it for you." She nodded towards the two Salisbury policemen. "He can follow along behind us."

Miles fished them out of his pocket and thrust them into her palm with bad grace. She looked at the fob, a black disc with gold lettering, then led him away.

With shaking hands, Jinx reached for her cigarette packet off the arm of her chair, then retreated to the dressing table and its firm, supportive edge. She looked briefly towards Alan Protheroe, who was leaning against the wall by the door, then turned her attention to Frank Cheever. "I recognize you from the television," she told him, lighting a cigarette with difficulty. "You gave a press conference the other day, but I'm afraid I can't remember your name."

"Detective Superintendent Cheever," he told her.

She glanced at Maddocks. "Then you're here to talk about Leo and Meg?" Frank nodded.

"And you think Miles might have done it, because of what happened to these wretched women?"

"It's a possibility."

She nodded. "In your shoes, I'd probably say the same."

"And if the roles were reversed and I were in your shoes, what would I say then?"

She stared at him rather strangely for a moment. "I think you'd be too busy stifling the screams inside your head to say anything at all."

Frank watched her. "Are you well enough to talk to us, Miss Kingsley?"

"Yes."

"You don't have to," said Alan sharply. "I'm sure the Superintendent will give you time to recover."

That amused her. "They kept telling me that when Russell died. It meant I could have ten minutes to compose myself before they started in again." She took a pull on her cigarette. "The trouble is, you never recover from something like that, so ten minutes is just time wasted, and as I need to phone my father, I'd rather get this over and done with as quickly as possible."

"Please," said Frank, gesturing towards the telephone. "We'll go outside while you do it."

She shook her head. "I'd rather wait till you've gone."

"Why?" asked Maddocks. "The sooner your brother has a solicitor with him the better, wouldn't you say?"

"Oddly enough, Inspector, I'd like to work out what I'm going to say first. My father will be devastated to hear his son's been accused of a brutal sex attack. Wouldn't yours? Or is that something he's come to expect from you?" She turned abruptly to the Superintendent again. "Miles didn't kill Russell, so if the same person went on to kill Leo and Meg, then it wasn't Miles."

"Do you mind if we sit down?" he asked.

"Be my guest."

The two policemen moved across to the chairs, but Alan remained where he was. "Why are you so sure he didn't kill Russell?"

She thought deeply for several seconds before she answered, and then she did so elliptically. "It's rather ironic, really, considering I've just told him to keep quiet until he has a solicitor present. You see, I'm not convinced solicitors always give good advice. I consulted one after Russell was murdered," she told them, "because it became clear to me that I was at the top of the list of suspects. He persuaded me to be very circumspect in how I answered police questions. Do not volunteer information, keep all your answers to the minimum, avoid speculation, and tell them only what you know to be true." She sighed. "But I think now I'd have done better to say everything that was in my mind, because all I achieved was to raise the level of suspicion against my father." She fell silent.

"That's hardly an answer to my question, Miss Kingsley."

She stared at the floor, taking quick, nervous drags at the cigarette. "We were talking about Russell's death before you came in," she said suddenly. "Miles told me he's always believed my father was responsible, which means he and Fergus could indulge in petty deceit after petty deceit without a second thought. Nicking twenty quid off the gardener or forging their mother's checks counts for nothing against the enormity of murder." She looked up. "But what Miles believes-indeed, what anyone believes- is confined by his own prejudices, and in this instance it is very important that you understand how desperate my brother has always been to feel superior to his father."

"Does he have proof of your father's complicity in your husband's murder?"

"No, of course he doesn't, because Adam wasn't involved."

"But presumably you can't prove that any more than your brother can prove he was." He smiled without hostility. "Truth is a disturbingly elusive phenomenon. All I, as a policeman, can do is accumulate the available facts and weigh them in the balance. In the end, I hope, truth carries weight."

"Then why do so many policemen only hear what they want to hear?"

"Because we're human and, as you said yourself, belief is confined by prejudice." He gestured towards Maddocks. "But I think we're both professional enough to stay objective about what you tell us, so I hope that gives you the confidence to speak out."

She drew on her cigarette and gazed steadily at Maddocks. "Would you agree with that, Inspector?"

"Certainly," he said, "but you're asking for miracles if you expect us to take everything you say on trust. For example, explain this to me. How come you never resorted to petty theft as a way of getting back at your father? Surely I'm right in thinking you, too, have always believed he was guilty of Landy's murder? What was your revenge, Miss Kingsley?''

"Rather too subtle for you to understand," she said curtly before returning to her previous point. "If you're willing to be objective, then why were you so dismissive of everything I told you yesterday?"

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "I don't recall being dismissive. I do recall challenging some of the statements you made. But then you're a suspect in this case, too," he pointed out, "which means that anything you say will be subject to scrutiny. Is that unreasonable, do you think?"

"No, but I'd be interested to know if you've pursued any of the suggestions I made to you. For example, have you looked for another link between the three murders? Have you examined the possibility that someone was trying to kill me on the day of my accident?"

"These things take time," he said. "We can't work miracles, Miss Kingsley."

"But are you even trying, Inspector?" She turned to Cheever. "Is anyone?"

The Superintendent, who was ignorant of both suggestions because they had not been relayed to him, answered honestly. "Not to my knowledge, no, but if you can persuade me they are worth pursuing, then I shall certainly do so. Why do you think someone was trying to kill you?"

She glanced towards Protheroe, seeking support, but he was staring at the floor. "Because of a series of negatives," she said flatly. "I'm not the type to kill myself. I didn't want to marry Leo. I never get drunk. I didn't kill Russell, so I can't imagine I'd have killed Leo or Meg either. And the car crash clearly wasn't an accident. I can't think of another explanation for what happened to me bar attempted murder. And I keep thinking, what if I had died? Would you have looked for anyone else in connection with Leo's and Meg's deaths? Wouldn't you all just have said to yourselves: 'That explains everything, she must have killed Russell as well'?"

"Do you remember anything at all about the crash, Miss Kingsley?"

She looked away. "No," she said, her face devoid of expression.

He studied her for a moment, unsure if he believed her. "Well, I'm quite happy to go through all the documents relating to it to see if there's anything we've missed, but I should warn you I'm not very optimistic. Even if you're right, I don't see how we'll ever be able to prove it."

"I realize that, but the important thing is that you don't dismiss it as a possibility. You must see what a different light it sheds on the whole thing. I keep coming back and back to it in my mind. If someone tried to kill me, then that means I"-she pressed her hands to her chest-"must know who murdered Leo and Meg, even though I can't remember it. And it also means that that someone is the missing link, because whoever the person is probably murdered all three." She regarded him anxiously. "Do you follow?"

"Oh, yes," he said, "I follow very well. It's an interesting hypothesis, but it doesn't help us very much unless you can suggest a name."

And if I suggest a name. What then?-Do you have any proof, Miss Kingsley? "What good is a name if I can't give you any evidence?''

The Superintendent shrugged. "It would give us a starting point."

But she was only interested in the endgame and she doubted whether the police could ever deliver a result. Truth is a disturbingly elusive phenomenon ... Presumably you can't prove that ... Policemen accumulate the available facts and weigh them in the balance ... What was your revenge, Miss Kingsley?

"Yesterday," Maddocks reminded her, "you argued that it was Meg who linked the three murders."

"And I still believe that's right," she said, turning back from long corridors that led nowhere. "Look, I spent all last night thinking about it." She drew on her cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. "I haven't been sleeping too well," she explained. "I don't blame you for seeing my relationship with Russell and Leo as the focus for what's happened, but Meg's relationship with them was just as strong. Last night, I kept coming back to the thinking at the time of Russell's murder, which was that my father killed him because he didn't like him. I remember one of the policemen saying to me that whoever killed him hated him, because it was done with such rage. And that set me wondering if the rage was jealous rage." She gave her troubled smile. "But not jealousy over me," she said. "Jealousy over Meg."

There was a short silence.

"We've read her diaries," said Frank Cheever. "At a rough estimate, she slept with fifty different men in the last ten years. Even by today's standards, she would be described as promiscuous."

"Only because she had a very hedonistic view of sex. Why say no, if you both want to do it? In some ways she had a very masculine approach to life. She could love them and leave them and never turn a hair while she did it."

"But surely you must see the flaw in your argument? If someone was so jealous that they were prepared to kill her lovers, then we should have fifty corpses on our hands instead of two."

It was Alan Protheroe who answered. He had stood with bowed head, listening intently to Jinx's reasoning, but now he looked up. ' 'Because Russell and Leo were the only two lovers she really cared for," he pointed out. "By the sound of it, the rest meant nothing at all. Jinx told me the letters Meg wrote to Russell were very moving, and the newspapers talk about an eleven-year relationship between her and Leo. If someone else was in love with her, then it's those two men who represented the threat, not the fifty or so others who came and went as regularly as clockwork."

"Why kill Meg as well?"

"For the same reason jealous husbands kill their wives when they find them in flagrante delicto with other men. On the face of it, it's illogical. If you love a woman enough to be jealous, then how can you summon the hate required to kill her? But emotions are never logical."

"Then why wasn't she killed when Russell was killed? Why only kill her over Leo?''

Alan shrugged. "For any one of twenty reasons, I should think. A desire to give her a second chance. A belief that Russell was a sort of Svengali who'd influenced her against her will. Simple logistics-she wasn't with him the day of the murder. Myself, I'd probably pick the Svengali option because that would explain why she had to die this time. If she'd known Leo for eleven years, then it must have been clear to anyone who knew them both that she was an equal party to all decisions made. You need to find out who else knew about the affair with Russell. Isn't that the key?"

DI Maddocks cleared his throat. "I could almost buy this theory if it wasn't for one small snag. Like Superintendent Cheever says, we've read her diaries, or what there is of them, and nowhere is there a mention of another man who lasted longer than three or four months. So who is this mysterious lover? You knew her better than anyone else, Miss Kingsley. Do you know who it is?"

"No," she said, "I don't."

Maddocks was watching her carefully. ' 'So give us a handful of likely candidates, and leave us to ferret out what we can."

"Ask Josh," she said, evading the question. "He knew her men friends far better than I did."

"We'll do that. Did he also know her women friends better?"

"Probably."

"Did she have many?"

Jinx frowned, unsure where he was leading. "A few close ones, like me."

"That's what I thought."

She flicked him a puzzled glance. "Why is it important?"

He quoted her own words back at her. " 'Why say no, if you both want to do it? Meg had a masculine approach to life.' " He held her gaze. "I wonder if this jealous lover was a woman, Miss Kingsley."

CANNING ROAD POLICE STATION, SALISBURY-3:30 P.M.

Blake showed Miles into an interview room. "You can wait here till the solicitor comes, although I may have to move you if the room's needed by someone else."

"How long are you planning to keep me here?"

"As long as it takes. First we wait for the solicitor, then we ask you questions. It could be several hours."

"I don't have several hours," he muttered, glancing at his watch. "I need to be out of here by five at the latest."

"Are you saying you don't want to wait for the solicitor, Mr. Kingsley?"

He thought rapidly. "Yes, that's what I'm saying. Let's get on with it."

THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC-3:30 P.M.

"Which way?" asked Maddocks as he turned out of the clinic gates. "Salisbury CID or back to Winchester?"

"Stoney Bassett airfield," grunted the Superintendent. "Young Blake will keep Miles on ice till we get there. Let's face it, he's not going anywhere in a hurry."

HELLINGDON HALL, NEAR FORDINGBRIDGE-3:30 P.M.

Betty put down the extension in her bedroom and dragged herself to her dressing table stool, pools of sweat gathering under her arms and drenching her corset at the back. She thrust her fat face at the mirror and desperately applied powder in an attempt to repair the ravages of time and her husband's neglect. She listened for his footsteps on the stairs, knowing that it was over. This time there would be no reprieve for her or the boys. As usual, she turned her resentment on the first Mrs. Kingsley whose ghost had defied every attempt she had ever made to lay it. It wasn't fair, she told herself. Okay, so no one had ever promised her a rose garden, but no one had warned her that marriage to Adam would be a bed of thorns, either. "Hello, Daddy," she said with desperate gaiety as the door was flung open, "it's been a bugger of a day one way and another, hasn't it?"

STONEY BASSETT AIRFIELD, NEW FOREST, HAMPSHIRE-4:15 P.M.

They stood on the bleak, heather-strewn plain where broken tarmac runways, covered in weeds, were all that remained of the wartime airfield. "What are we looking for?" asked Maddocks, careful to keep his tone neutral. He could happily have kicked his boss from here to eternity. Like Fraser yesterday, a few clever words and a troubled smile had made him doubt the girl's guilt, and for the life of him, Maddocks couldn't see how she did it.

Frank pointed to the concrete stanchion which reared up like a single broken tooth some yards from where they were standing. "We'll start there," he said. "Presumably, that's what she drove at. How wide would you say it was?"

"Nine feet square," guessed Maddocks.

"Interesting, don't you think?" murmured Frank.

"Why?"

"I thought it was much narrower. You've seen the photographs. The car appeared to be wrapped around it like a metal fist." He cocked his head from side to side, studying different angles. "It must have impacted on one of the corners and the arc lights threw everything else into shadow." He moved forward to prowl around the structure.

"What difference does its size make?" asked Maddocks, following him.

The Superintendent squatted down to examine an area of gouged and heavily scarred concrete on both faces of one corner. "If you were driving at a nine-feet-wide wall with the intention of smashing into it, wouldn't you head straight for the middle? Why aim for one end?"

There was shattered glass from the windshield still littering the ground, and intermittent tire traces to a point fifty meters back where the car had obviously been sitting until, at maximum revs, she had released the brake to hurl it and herself at the concrete structure. Frank spent ten minutes walking back and forth across a broad expanse of area around the stanchion; then he returned to stand and gaze at the burnt-rubber marks where the tires had spun before biting into the tarmac. He crouched down and followed the line the car had taken. "She was absolutely square to the middle of that wall when she set off," he said, "so how come she ended up wrapped around the right-hand corner?''

"Hit a pothole and lost control," suggested Maddocks.

"Except there isn't anything big enough, not on this stretch. That's what I was checking for. She could have driven at any of the three sides that face onto the tarmac but she chose the one with the best approach. If she was intent on killing herself, then there was nothing to stop her driving in a dead straight line."

"She changed her mind at the last minute," said Maddocks. "Didn't fancy it so much when she saw the wall rushing towards her and tried to pull out of it."

"Yes, that's a possibility." He turned with his back to the wall and surveyed the area that would have been behind the car. "Why didn't she start farther off and use the greater distance to build up her speed? Why sit here and rev up the engine?''

"Because it was dark and she needed to see the wall."

"It was ten o'clock on one of the longest days in the year. She could have seen that thing two, three hundred yards away."

"All right, then she parked herself here, sat staring at the wall while she drank herself stupid, then suddenly made up her mind to do it. Look, sir, I know what you're getting at. You're saying that attempted murder isn't out of the question. Someone got her drunk-though I have to say that's a mystery in itself-picked the best piece of ground for the car to stay in a straight line, made it near enough to the stanchion to preclude too much divergence from the track, stuck her unconscious in the driving seat, put the car into drive, wedged the accelerator flat down with one of the empty bottles, and released the brake. At which point, brave Miss Kingsley comes out of her drunken stupor, sees what's happening, tries to steer clear, realizes she can't make it so throws herself out of the open door." He gave a sour smile. "Apart from the fact that you'd do yourself a hell of a lot of damage leaning in to release the hand brake of a car on full throttle, why on earth didn't he finish her off when she threw herself out?"

"You wouldn't use the hand brake," said Frank. "You'd use the foot brake with some sort of brace-a piece of two by four maybe, a sledgehammer, even"-he lifted a teasing eyebrow-"between the metal frame of the seat and the pedal, with a rope attached. Then you'd wedge your throttle and use the rope to yank the brace away. The other alternative would be to chock the tires and not use the brakes at all." He gestured towards the ground. "But I think it'd be obvious if chocks had been used."

"And the fact that he didn't bother to finish her off?" muttered Maddocks sarcastically.

"Perhaps he thought he had," said the Superintendent mildly, "or perhaps he didn't have time to check." He was silent for a moment. "Would you care to explain to me why this little exercise is making you so angry?"

"Because she's guilty as hell, sir. The whole thing was a setup to get her old man's sympathy. I can't see it makes a blind bit of difference which approach she chose, how far away she was when she started, whether chocks were used, or when she was found. She was in control of the car from the moment she set off."

Frank scuffed his foot over the broken surface of the tarmac. "She could have torn the skin off her face throwing herself out of a speeding car onto this. Why not choose something less painful?"

"Because she likes drama," said Maddocks dismissively. "Anyway, she didn't tear the skin off her face. She's not going to be permanently disfigured once her hair grows and the bruises fade. All things considered, she came off very lightly. Too lightly for attempted murder or genuine suicide, wouldn't you say?"

CANNING ROAD POLICE STATION-4:45 P.M.

"Look," said Miles angrily to the two police officers sitting opposite him, "how many times do I have to tell you? I've never been to a prostitute in my life. Why would I need to? Jesus, I had my first lay when I was fifteen." He banged his fist on the table. "I don't know any Flossie Hale and I don't know any Samantha Garrison, and if I wanted to shaft a forty-six-year-old, which I bloody well don't, I could shaft Dad's housekeeper for free. She'd probably pay me if I asked her. She's had the hots for me for years."

"You have a very high opinion of yourself, Miles," said the Sergeant.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"No reason except that men who talk big tend to be better in theory than they are in practice."

"What do you expect me to do? Burst into tears and say I'm so fucking inadequate I need to pay some old slag to give me a good time? Do me a favor."

"Is that what you'd do if you felt you were inadequate?" asked Blake.

Miles shrugged and lit a cigarette.

She turned to the tape recorder on the table. "Mr. Kingsley's response was a shrug."

"Like hell it was," said Miles furiously. "Mr. Kingsley's response is, I'm not fucking inadequate so I wouldn't fucking well know what I'd fucking do if I was." He yelled into the microphone. "HAVE YOU FUCKING WELL GOT THAT?"

"Calm down, Miles," said the Sergeant wearily. "You'll break the machine if you keep shouting at it. Why don't you just tell us where you were and what you were doing on the night of the twenty-second?"

"You've asked me that same sodding question a hundred times and I've given the same sodding answer a hundred times. I was at home till eight-thirty, when I left to visit Jinx."

"And we don't believe you. Tell me, will the randy housekeeper lie for you, the way you claim your mother and brother will?"

"I never said they'd be lying." He looked at his watch. "Oh God! Look, I've got to get out of here. Are you going to charge me or not? Because if you're not, then I want out."

"Why? What's happening at five o'clock that's so important?"

"I owe money, you moron," said Miles through gritted teeth, "and I need to buy a bit more time. That's what's happening at five o'clock. Why the hell do you think I went to see Jinxy. Okay, so we shout at each other a bit, but she's always come through in the past."

There was a tap on the door and a second WPC looked in. "I've got a Mr. Kennedy out here, Sarge. He says Mr. Kingsley's his client."

"Okay, show him in. Tape stopped at four fifty-one p.m."

Kennedy looked at Miles with dislike, refused the chair that was offered him, and instead placed two photographs on the table. The first showed Miles entering a hotel foyer, the second showed him getting into his Porsche. "My client's sister informs me that you are inquiring into an assault on a prostitute in Lansing Road, Salisbury, at around eight o'clock on Wednesday, June the twenty-second. Is that correct?"

"Yes," agreed Blake.

Kennedy tapped the photographs, indicating the printed times and date in the bottom right-hand corners. "My client, Miles Kingsley, entered the Regal Hotel, Salisbury, at five-thirty p.m. on Wednesday, June the twenty-second. He returned to his car at eight forty-five p.m. that same evening and drove to the Nightingale Clinic to visit his sister. While at the Regal he spent three and a quarter hours in room number four-three-one, leaving it only once to meet a man in the lobby." He placed another photograph on the table, of Miles, head down, talking to someone whose back was to the camera. "That was at seven o'clock. He remained with this man for three minutes before visiting the gentlemen's lavatory in the lobby. He returned to room four-three-one at seven-fifteen. He was followed, photographed, and watched from midday until midnight on June the twenty-second by one Paul Deacon, who can be contacted on this number and at this address." He placed a card beside the photographs. "I trust this clears my client of any suspicion in connection with the assault in Lansing Road."

Blake looked from the photographs to Miles's drained, white face. "It would certainly seem to," she agreed.

Kennedy smiled coldly at his client. "Your father's outside, Miles. I suggest we don't make him wait any longer than we need to."

Miles shrank into his seat. "I'm not going," he said. "He'll kill me."

"Your mother and Fergus are with him. I'm sure they'll both be very pleased to see you." He gestured towards the door. "Your father's most aggrieved by all of this, Miles, and he gets very angry when he's aggrieved, as you know. You wouldn't want your mother and brother to bear the brunt of his anger, would you?"

Miles looked terrified. "No," he said, lurching to his feet. "It was my idea. Mum and Fergus were just trying to help. I thought if we put the shares up as collateral, we could get out from under once and for all. So it's me he should blame, not them."

Blake watched the young man pull the remnants of his courage together and thought he was braver than she'd given him credit for. But what the hell sort of man was Adam Kingsley to inspire such fear in his twenty-six-year-old son?