The Dark Room (46 page)

‘Thank you, Jinx, you’re a sodding brick. We owe you one.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘We’ll still need a key.’

‘The Clanceys have one. I’ll phone them and ask them to give it to you when you arrive. There’s probably enough food in the freezer to keep you going till I get
back.’ She glared at him. ‘And you’re not to run up phone bills. And you’re not to tell Adam where you are. I won’t have my house turned into a war-zone. Got
that?’

‘Sure.’ He rose. ‘I knew you’d be OK about it.’

‘It won’t be for ever, Fergus.’

‘I know. Hey, we’ll take care of the house, I promise. I’ll make sure Miles and Mum behave. And no phone calls. We’ll lie low till you get back.’

She nodded.

He paused by the door. ‘To be honest with you, I wasn’t really sure you’d say yes. You’re not so different from Dad, you know. I guess you were right the
other day. You got the good genes and we got the bad ones.’ He checked himself in case she changed her mind. ‘But, look, I’m grateful. You won’t regret this,
honestly.’

She smiled suddenly. ‘I know I won’t. I’d have had far more to regret if you hadn’t asked me, Fergus. I was really afraid this afternoon that I was never
going to see any of you again.’

He looked surprised. ‘Why?’

‘I didn’t think you’d bother with me if Adam chucked you out.’

‘That’s what we thought about you,’ he said. ‘I guess we never learnt to trust each other. That’s pretty sad, really. I mean, if you can’t trust
family, who the hell can you trust, Jinx?’

Chapter Twenty-two

Wednesday, 29 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 re-run 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 set-up, 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. ‘OK, 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 to react. I think she was terrified of him because she shared her
brother’s 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.’ He 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 ape-shit 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 sceptical. However, they feel guilty enough about their own affair
to humour 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 Guv’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, Guv, 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 goodbye 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 semi-conscious, 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 goodbye 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, 30 June, 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.’

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 trainers, 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 the pale summer sky. Closer in, the majestic spire of Salisbury’s beautiful cathedral showed above the myriad greens of the tree-tops. 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 on to the seat beside him.

She was dressed in black with a dark woollen 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 artefacts first.’