Dark Room

*22*

WEDNESDAY, 29TH JUNE, ROMSEY ROAD POLICE STATION, WINCHESTER-10:00 P.M.

Superintendent Cheever gave a small shake of his head as he replaced the receiver. "They've tailed Fergus's Porsche, containing Fergus, Mrs. Kingsley, and Miles, from the Nightingale Clinic to Jane's house in Richmond," he told Maddocks and Fraser. The old boy next door has just let them in, switched on the lights, and left. They've got several suitcases between them, and as many boxes stuffed with bits and pieces as they could cram into the Porsche. According to the tail, they look like staying for the duration." He tapped his pen thoughtfully against his teeth.

"That's interesting, don't you think?" Maddocks prowled irritably towards the window. "It's all over the news that Kingsley senior's about to lose Hellingdon Hall, so I guess he's told the three of them to bugger off. She's given them a roof over their heads. What's so odd about that? She's their sister."

"I said interesting, not odd," snapped Frank, pulling off his bow tie and slapping it on the desk. He unbuttoned his shirt collar and ran his finger round the inside. "Obviously Jane's family doesn't share your low opinion of her. Would you move into her house, believing what you do about her?''

"Miles and Fergus lived under their father's roof long enough, believing he was a killer. Same difference, wouldn't you say?"

"No." Frank jabbed his finger angrily at the air. "There's no comparison. If Kingsley's responsible, then he's kept a healthy distance between himself and the killings. If the daughter's responsible, then she's done them herself and she's bordering on the insane. So I repeat, would you move into her house if you had doubts about her?"

Fraser cleared his throat. "Look, sir, with the best will in the world this isn't getting us anywhere. The truth is, we need more evidence or it'll be a rerun of the Rachel Nickell murder inquiry, or the Russell Landy one, if it comes to that."

"Jesus, Fraser," said Maddocks, rounding on him furiously. "How the hell did you pass your sodding sergeant's exams?" He raised his hands to heaven. "More evidence, he says. Where do you expect us to find it, for Christ's sake? We've put everything under the microscope-Ardingly Woods, Leo's possessions. Leo's house, his cars, his garage, Meg's possessions, her flat, her car, Jane Kingsley's car. Zilch. Zero. Nothing. We've got a heel mark on a bank which may or may not have been made by a woman's shoe, and we might be able to argue that because Miss Kingsley's clothes were disposed of by the hospital after the accident, some of the blood on them might have been Leo's and Meg's." He paused to draw breath. "It's not much, I agree, but what we have in abundance is circumstantial evidence pointing in one direction, and one direction only. Towards the woman who had both motive and opportunity. I say we go with that and persuade her to talk."

"Explain why the blood on her clothes failed to get into her car," said Frank. "Bob Clarke's team have taken it apart and there's not a spot in there, not even her own."

"She was wearing a jacket when she was found. She put that on over her bloodstained clothes when she got into the car."

"That's fantasy, not evidence. Explain how the sledgehammer got to the Nightingale Clinic on Monday night."

"It was a setup, courtesy of her father. 'Get me off the hook, Daddy'-and Daddy obliges. Fake attack on Dr. Protheroe with pristine sledgehammer, and finger points to an outsider being involved."

Frank jerked his chin at Fraser. "Your turn," he said curtly.

They'd been round this circle a hundred times already, and with a sigh, Fraser set out on it again. "Okay, the DI reckons she's manipulating events because she's guilty. I think she's manipulating them because she's innocent and scared. I'm guessing Leo left her on the night of Monday, May the thirtieth, to move in with Meg and I'm also guessing that she didn't give a shit about losing him. What concerned her was how her father was going so react. I think she was terrified of him because she shared her brothers' view that he'd had Russell murdered. But no one could prove it, so she did her best to keep her distance from him and cut him out of her life. All she achieved in the process was to ratchet up his rather peculiar obsession with her. Dean Jarrett describes Adam as sitting staring at her as though he couldn't believe she was really his. My guess is, she became so paranoid about it that she persuaded Leo and Meg to leave for an indefinite stay in France in case her father reacted badly to the news of Leo's desertion."

Frank drew a cupid on the pad in front of him and stabbed an arrow through its heart. "Except that the ideal time for them to go was June the fourth, the day she went down to stay at the Hall. Why wait till the following weekend?"

"Because they didn't share her paranoia. Look, as far as they were concerned, Russell was killed by a burglar." Fraser glanced at Maddocks, saw his sardonic smile. "We're talking about two very egocentric personalities here, and that's on the word of their own families. Self, self, self, in other words. Leo thought principally in terms of money and possessions; Meg thought principally in terms of money and sexual gratification. Do you seriously believe either of them would dwell on the death of Miss Kingsley's husband? Meg was probably upset for a while, but as I recollect, her diary recorded her going to bed with a complete stranger less than a month later, and there's no evidence Leo even knew Russell. Frankly, if they ever thought about him at all, it was almost certainly in terms of a burglary gone wrong."

He went on. "The only one haunted by the wretched man's death was his widow, but even she got over it eventually. Sure, she's kept herself to herself rather more than most, but she's made an independent life, refused any help from her father, who she suspects is a murderer, and she's come out on top at the end of it. Then the nightmare starts all over again. She embarks on another attempt at marriage, only to find that Leo's no different from Russell and that she's making another mistake." It was his turn to smile maliciously at thrice-married Maddocks. "Which isn't so unusual in all conscience. People tend to be attracted by the same type every time. What is unusual is that her first marriage ended in murder instead of divorce, and Meg was involved with both men."

"So she goes apeshit and kills for a second time." said Maddocks.

"You still haven't explained why they didn't leave on the fourth," Cheever reminded him wearily.

"Because they couldn't go until the eleventh, sir. Meg had a business to keep afloat and Leo had investments to look after. The eleventh was the earliest day they could leave."

"You're guessing again."

"Yes, but it makes sense. Look, Jane is privately convinced her father had her husband killed, probably because the police profile persuaded her. She may even suspect he knew about the affair with Meg, which would have given him a motive. But when she tries to convince Meg and Leo, they're highly skeptical. However, they feel guilty enough about their own affair to humor her. They agree to keep the whole thing under wraps until they can leave for France-and that probably suits them anyway, because they know they'll be castigated when the news leaks out. Meanwhile Jane has to face the week in Hampshire with her family. If she doesn't go, questions will be asked. If she does, she has to pretend the wedding's still on. So she pretends. She returns to London on the Friday for the mythical row when Leo tells her he's going to marry Meg, all three make their phone calls on the Saturday morning, and Meg and Leo scarper." He paused. "That was the plan anyway."

"Then Josh Hennessey persuades Meg she's being a first-class bitch and they delay their departure till the Monday," Frank said, driving another arrow through his cupid's heart. "Which brings Jane scurrying round on the Saturday night, asking them why the hell they're still there."

"It's as plausible as the Gov's scenario, sir."

"What about the business in her garage on Sunday?" demanded Maddocks. "How does that fit in?"

"How does it fit in with your scenario?" countered Fraser.

"It was a fake, like the second one. The more attempts she made, the more protective her father would become."

"With respect, Gov, that's bullshit," snapped Fraser. "Like Colonel Clancey said, if she wanted people to believe it was suicide, then she'd have wept all over him and his wife. Plus, she's done her damnedest to persuade us since that she's not the suicidal type. It doesn't add up. And another thing. You keep harping on about this protection her father's supposed to be giving her. Well, where the hell is it? He's not been near her. He's far more interested in salvaging his precious business."

''He's paying four hundred quid a day to a corrupt quack to let her pretend she's an amnesiac. I tell you, if we could get her in here for questioning, she'd spew the lot before you could say Jack Robinson."

Frank listened to this heated exchange with ill temper. "I'm going home," he said abruptly. "We'll pack it in and sleep on it." He started to lift his jacket off the back of his chair, then paused. "Why did she tell Fordingbridge that the last thing she remembered was saying good-bye to Leo on the fourth of June if he wasn't even in her house?" he demanded of Fraser. "And don't tell me she was manipulating events when she was semiconscious, because I'll hit you from here to Salisbury and back if you even try."

"No sir, I'm not." He glared at Maddocks, who was smirking. "Look, there's no question she was concussed and there's no question, either, that she thought the accident happened on the fourth. I'm sure, to that extent, her amnesia was genuine. It may still be, for all I know. But I've done a bit of reading, and I'm guessing that story's what's called confabulation. In other words, she made it up. It was the story she was going to tell her father when she saw him on the fourth, the one she probably rehearsed all the way down in the car and then delivered convincingly. Leo's fine. I kissed him good-bye over breakfast. He sends his regards. The fact that it wasn't true is neither here nor there. It remained in her memory as something that happened, because she knew that's what she had to say to her father when she saw him."

"So her father's our murderer?"

"I'd say it's a probability, sir."

Frank stood up, thrusting his arms into his jacket sleeves. "You're right about one thing, Sergeant," he said acidly. "This is a carbon-copy of the Landy case. We have the same two suspects, and no likelihood of bringing a prosecution against either of them unless someone finds me some evidence."

THURSDAY, 30TH JUNE, THE HAWTREE ESTATE, WINCHESTER-3:30 A.M.

The child's screams rent the air as they had done every night for the last two weeks. In the kitchen, Rex started barking. "CINDY!" yelled her mother, thrusting her arms into her dressing gown and storming across the landing to throw open her daughter's bedroom door. "I've had enough." She seized the child and shook her furiously. "Either you tell me what this is all about or I'm taking you to the doctor. Do you hear me? DO- YOU-HEAR-ME? I can't stand it any longer."

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

Alan Protheroe slept badly that night. At six o'clock he finally gave up the struggle, rolled out of bed with a groan, dressed, and went for a jog in the grounds of the clinic. It had rained during the night and the grass was sodden under his feet. Water oozed through the fabric of his running shoes, his cheek hurt where the shards of glass had cut the skin, and his shoulder ached with every step he took. What the hell was he doing? Jogging was for masochists, not for cynical middle-aged doctors who knew that death was as random and unfair as government health policies.

With a sense of relief at a decision made, he hobbled to a bench on the terrace and sat down to view the misty landscape. Far away beyond the clinic boundaries, low hills rose purple against a pale summer sky. Closer in, the majestic spire of Salisbury's beautiful cathedral showed above the myriad greens of the treetops. He viewed it, as ever, with weary pessimism. Perhaps it could survive the terrible encroachment of man and man's devices, but he doubted it.

"You look very thoughtful," said Jinx, slipping onto the seat beside him.

She was dressed in black with a dark woolen hat pulled low over her forehead. He studied her wet shoes for a moment before nodding towards the spire. "I was pondering man's destruction," he said, "and whether when it comes to it, as it surely will, he will destroy himself or his artifacts first."

"I don't suppose it matters much," she said, following his gaze. "Nature will overrun whatever we leave behind, so our artifacts will cease to exist whether we destroy them or not."

"It's rather depressing, isn't it?"

She laughed. "It won't happen if man learns to live within his means, and if he can't learn, then he doesn't deserve his place on the planet. I have no sentimental attachment to mankind as a species. On the whole, I'd say we're one of the nastier byproducts of natural selection." She pointed to the trees around the boundaries. "They do nothing but good. We do nothing but harm."

"They have no choice," said Alan.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Free will is a bugger, isn't it?"

They sat in silence for a while.

"Nice hat," said Protheroe finally.

"Matthew lent it to me to keep my head warm."

He decided not to ask her if she had had it on Monday night. "Where have you been?" he said instead.

"Walking."

"You're very brave. According to Matthew, the place is crawling with would-be killers. I can't believe he hasn't alerted you to that threat when he took so much trouble to alert me."

She nodded. "Has he also told you about the fox in the trap, the one that was biting its own leg off to try and escape?"

"No."

"It died of fright. I don't want to die of fright."

"So you went for a walk to prove you're not afraid."

"Yes." She flicked him a quick glance, then resumed her study of the cathedral spire. "But I couldn't sleep anyway. Matthew's bath wasn't very comfortable."

"They rarely are," he murmured. "Is there a particular reason why you were trying to sleep in Matthew's bath?"

"Of course there was. I'm not in the habit of doing anything without a reason."

"Are you going to tell me what it was?"

"His bathroom door has a lock on it."

"I see."

Another silence.

"So where was Matthew?"

"Probably in my bathroom, unless he was brave enough to sleep in my bed."

He waited. "Are you going to explain," he said at last, "or am I expected to go on racking my overtired and rather addled brains?"

"I'm his surrogate fox. He's become very bossy in the last couple of days, and I blame existentialism for it. He thinks assuming responsibility means taking control." She turned to look at him and her quiet laugh fanned the hairs on his cheek.

Oh God, he thought. Think of ice packs, Protheroe. She's a patient, for Christ's sake.

STONEY BASSETT AIRFIELD, NEW FOREST-7:30 A.M.

There was a roar of sound as the car, which had been parked in the same place since dawn, sped across the tarmac and smashed on full throttle into the scarred concrete pillar. There was no survivor. Nor was there a convenient courting couple to effect a rescue. The car burst into flames almost on impact, probably because it was packed with open petrol cans, and by the time a passing motorist saw the smoke and called the fire brigade, the only occupant-the driver-was dead.

ROMSEY ROAD POLICE STATION, WINCHESTER-9:00 A.M.

"You'd better read this," said Frank, poking a statement across his desk with the tip of his pen. "A Mrs. Hanscombe and her daughter, Cindy, came in at four o'clock this morning to get Cindy's worries off her chest. Apparently, she's been having nightmares for two weeks and her mother felt the sooner she came clean, the sooner the family would get a decent night's sleep."

It was Tuesday, June 14th. Me and Bobby Franklyn found the bodies after we'd done it in the woods. I ran away from Bobby and slid down this bank. I was that scared. Rex, my dog, had dug in the ditch and I saw this dead person. I think it was a man. Bobby said he'd stick me in there with him if I ever said a word, but I can't stand it no more. I keep dreaming the man's going to get me. No, I didn't know the ditch was there. I dug my heel in to stop myself sliding. I was afraid Bobby would catch me at the bottom.

I hate Bobby Franklyn. He's no good at anything. I'm twelve years old. Yes, he knows that.

Signed: CindyHanscombe

Parent's signature: P. Hanscombe

Maddocks read it slowly. "So where do we go from here?" he asked.

"We go back to the beginning," said the Superintendent. "I want a second search made of Ardingly Woods, and I want all the water dragged within a mile radius. I also want the statements of every sighting on June the thirteenth in that area reexamined, and if necessary, we go door to door again to jog memories. There's a sledgehammer and some bloodstained clothing out there somewhere, and I want them found."

"What about the Kingsleys, sir?"

Frank nodded towards the door. "You heard me, Inspector. We start again, and this time, we do it the hard way."

CANNING ROAD POLICE STATION, SALISBURY- 10:30 A.M.

Flossie is adamant the key ring had the Franchise Holdings emblem on it," protested Blake. "She says it was identical to the one Miles was carrying."

"She also said Miles was the man who assaulted her," the Sergeant reminded her. "She's hardly the most reliable witness, is she?"

"I accept that, but she insists the two men were not dissimilar, and there must be something in that or she and Samantha would have blown me away when I showed them the photograph."

"What's your point, Blake?"

"There's got to be a Franchise Holdings connection, or why would he have a key ring?"

"Come on! The bastard's married to someone who works there. He was given it during a promotion. He found it in the street. It's a big organization, Blake. You'll be interviewing people into the twenty-first century."

"Not necessarily. I thought I'd give it one shot and if that doesn't work I'll abandon it."

He looked at her suspiciously. "Jane Kingsley, I suppose."

"She's on our doorstep, Sarge. We'd be mad to miss out."

THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC-11:30 A.M.

Jinx was standing by her window when Blake tapped on her open door and pushed it wide. "I saw you arrive," she said, without turning round. "I thought Miles was in the clear."

"He is, as far as I'm concerned. I can't speak for my colleagues, though," Blake said honestly. "I'm afraid he's quite likely to face gambling and narcotics charges as a result of the information your father's supplied."

Jinx turned round. "I suppose that means you've been given the names and addresses of everyone Miles has been in contact with in the last four weeks?"

Blake nodded. "I'm afraid so. A Mr. Paul Deacon came in this morning at our request and supplied us with copies of everything he had, including photographs."

"So Fergus is implicated as well?"

Blake nodded.

Jinx smiled rather bleakly. "I should have expected it, really. My father wouldn't miss an opportunity like that to get the bloodsuckers off his back." She flopped into an armchair and lit a cigarette, proffering the pack to the policewoman. "Do you smoke?"

"No thanks." Blake took the other chair. "I could be speaking out of turn, Miss Kingsley, but a prosecution isn't always a bad thing. It depends on your brothers. It might just be the sort of shock they need to pull themselves together."

Jinx sighed. "You're wasting your time if you've come to talk to me about Miles and Fergus. I truly do not know anything about what they've been doing and I don't want to know. As far as I'm concerned, it's a closed book." You're not so different from Dad ... As far as Adam's concerned, Russell never existed ... it's a closed book...

"I haven't. That's a different case now, and I'm not involved with it." She took a photograph of a Franchise Holdings key ring out of her handbag and showed it to Jinx. "Do you recognize this?"

"Yes."

"Could you tell me what it is?"

''You know exactly what it is. It's Miles's key ring. You took it off him yesterday."

"How do you know it's Miles's?"

Jinx touched a spot on the black embossed disc in the photograph. "The diamonds are in different places. It's how we tell em apart. It was my stepmother's idea. Think of the disc as a watch face with the Franchise Holdings logo the right way up. Adam's diamond's at two o'clock, mine's at four o'clock, Betty's is at six o'clock, Miles's at eight o'clock, and Fergus's at ten clock. That's the one you took off Miles yesterday."

Blake couldn't hide her surprise. "We thought it was a bit of glass. It must be pretty valuable then."

Jinx smiled. "I think each one cost about three thousand pounds. The disc is jet and the letters and rim are gold. Betty commissioned them two years ago from a jeweler in London for her and Adam's twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She said it was something we should all celebrate." The smile became rueful. "It was a nice idea until Adam saw the bill. After that all hell broke loose."

"Presumably there's a cheaper version in plastic which your father's employees use."

"I suppose there may be. I've never seen one, though. Betty always told me she thought this up for herself. She wanted something unique to the five of us." She frowned suddenly. "Why do you want to know?"

Blake debated with herself. "Oh, what the hell!" she said suddenly. "I guess Flossie got it wrong again." She sighed as heavily as Jinx had done. "One of the reasons we thought your brother was involved in the assault on Flossie Hale was because she said her attacker had a key ring just like this. She remembered it because the initials were the same as hers, and when we showed her the Franchise Holdings logo, she identified it immediately. So we then showed her a photograph of your two brothers, and she picked out Miles. I accept she made a mistake over that, but she is adamant this morning that this, or one exactly like it, is the key ring the man was carrying." She shrugged. "I'm sorry. It looks like I've wasted your time."

"Have you made that public?" asked Jinx, in a detached tone of voice, as though she didn't care what the answer was.

"About the key ring? No. It's been a low-priority investigation because the prostitutes didn't want to talk."

"What are the chances of this man still having the key ring on him?"

"Pretty good, I would think."

Jinx closed her eyes suddenly, and Blake thought she saw tears on the lashes. "I gave mine away," she said in an unsteady voice. "I didn't think there was much to celebrate, not after my father lost his temper. In any case, he paid for it, and I made a vow a long time ago never to accept anything from him again." She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids before lowering them to look at the young policewoman. "The irony is, when I gave it away I said 'I hope it brings you luck.' " She ran her tongue round dry lips. "But I think the luck must have stayed with me."

"Who did you give it to, Miss Kingsley?"

"A vicar. He's Anglo-Catholic and he said the F could stand for Father. Father Harris. He has a parish in a village called Frampton. He's better-looking than Miles," she said in a strained voice, "but they aren't unalike. Simon's thinner and not so dark. His sister confused them once, so you mustn't blame the prostitutes for getting it wrong."

Blake listened to the tremors in her voice. "Would the sister be Meg Harris? Your friend who was murdered?"

"Yes."

"Did this Simon have something to do with that?"

Jinx's eyes grew huge. "I think I'm going to be sick," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Blake moved her feet rapidly as vomit sprayed across the carpet.

THE VICARAGE, FRAMPTON, HAMPSHIRE-12:25 P.M.

Blake drew to a halt beside the other police car and switched off her engine. "What's going on?" she called to a uniformed copper by the front door. "Is the vicar in there?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Last I heard, he was stinking to high heaven of roast pork on Stoney Bassett airfield."