Dark Room

by Minette Walters

  Maddocks was an older and warier hand. "Let's wait to hear from Halliwell," he said.

  Half an hour later they transferred to the Superintendent's office and brought him up to date on what they knew. "I accept there's a remote chance that Wallader and Harris are sunning themselves on the Riviera," finished Maddocks, "either because Franklyn's lying to us or because our two bodies nicked the credit cards only to have them nicked again by Franklyn, but it's so damned unlikely that it's not worth considering. It explains why no one's reported them missing. According to Halliwell, Leo's family said they ran away to France to avoid the embarrassment of the canceled wedding. So what do we do? Tell Sir Anthony Wallader we think his son's in the bath at the lab and ask him to make an identification? Or wait till we're sure the ID's accurate before we tell the families? We can probably lift some fingerprints from Harris's flat in Hammersmith, but Richmond say there's no way they can go back into Glenavon Gardens without alerting Jane Kingsley to the fact that something's up. Which could be a bad move if she's involved."

  Frank Cheever steepled his fingers on his desk and gazed thoughtfully out of the window. "Did I ever tell you," he said at last, "that I began my career as a beat bobby in London's Mile End?"

  Maddocks and Fraser stared straight ahead. If he'd told them once, he'd told them a hundred times. Maddocks prepared to be bored. There was no merit in the old fool's reminiscences, beyond the one undeniably interesting fact that Cheever had been born a bastard to an East London prostitute. Even Maddocks had to admit that to work his way up through various police forces, while remaining married to the same woman for thirty-eight years, was an achievement for a boy who began life in the gutter.

  "I was barely out of school," he mused, "and one of the first bodies I picked off the street was a black fellow who'd been bludgeoned within an inch of his life." He thought about that for a moment. "It turned out the poor wretch was engaged to the sister of an East End gangland boss and there was circumstantial evidence to show the future brother-in-law had done his dirty work himself. All my guv'nor needed was confirmation of identity, but when the victim came round he refused to cooperate and we had to drop it. I've never seen anyone look so scared. He was black as the ace of spades but he went white to the gills every time we mentioned a prosecution." He looked from one to the other. "The bastard who bludgeoned him was called Adam Kingsley. He wasn't prepared to have black blood in his family." He fixed his pale eyes on Maddocks. "But he got it anyway. The black fellow had more guts than Kingsley credited him with. He married the sister a week later, and went up the aisle on crutches to do it."

  Maddocks whistled. "The same guy? This girl's father?"

  Cheever nodded. "He made a fortune out of buying up cheap properties with sitting tenants, then sending in his heavies to evict the wretched people in order to flog off the properties with vacant possession. He turned respectable in the sixties, probably about the time his daughter was born." He stared out of his window into the darkness. "All right," he said, "I suggest we tread carefully on this one. You and I, Fraser, are going to visit Sir Anthony Wallader tomorrow morning. We'll leave at eight sharp to be with him between nine and nine-thirty, and I want you to warn Dr. Clarke that we may be bringing him back with us." He turned to Maddocks. "Meanwhile, Gareth, I suggest you split your team in two, half to concentrate on Meg Harris, the other half on Jane Kingsley. I want to know where they met, how long they've known each other, what sort of personalities they are. In particular I want to know about the relationship between Jane Kingsley and her father. Okay? See what you can come up with by the time we get back."

  "But we don't approach Kingsley himself, presumably?"

  "No."

  "What about the daughter? Halliwell says she's in the Nightingale Clinic in Salisbury suffering from the effects of concussion. Do we leave her alone as well? She has a drunk-driving charge hanging over her head, so we could get away with interviewing her on that without too much difficulty."

  "You think so, do you?" said Cheever dryly. "Listen, my friend, this isn't the Samaritans we're dealing with, and you make damn sure Kingsley doesn't get a sniff at the questions you're asking. Understood? No one makes a move on that family until we know exactly where we are and what we're doing. If Jane is anything like her father, you handle her as delicately as you'd handle a snake. Of course you leave her alone. You leave them all alone.

  SATURDAY, 25TH JUNE, DOWNTON COURT, NEAR GUILDFORD, SURREY-9:30 A.M.

  Sir Anthony Wallader ushered the two somber-looking policemen into the drawing room of his house and waved them towards empty chairs with a perplexed frown creasing his forehead. "To tell you the truth, gentlemen, I've had it up to here"-he raised his hand to the side of his neck-"with that wretched girl and her suicide attempts. I don't say I applaud my son in what he's done, but I do object to the way Philippa and I keep being dragged into something that is, frankly, none of our business. You do realize how long I've spent on the telephone to your colleagues round the country, not to mention the appalling conversation poor Philippa had with Jinx's stepmother. Philippa would insist on doing the right thing and sending her best wishes for Jinx's recovery, but Betty was as rude and offensive as one would expect from someone of her class and background." He gave a shudder of distaste. "She's the most objectionable creature, little better than the lowest East End tart, if I'm honest. God knows, we're well out of that family entanglement."

  Fraser, who knew Cheever's background, writhed quietly on behalf of his boss. The Superintendent merely nodded. "It's not an easy situation, sir."

  "You're right, of course. And why should we be made to feel responsible for a grown woman's inability to deal with her emotions? Is this really so important that you can't wait for Leo to get back?" He sank onto the sofa and crossed one neat leg over the other, every inch the aristocrat. In different circumstances, Fraser might have been tempted to kick his arse. There was no sincerity, he felt, in Sir Anthony Wallader. "Philippa and I barely know Jinx. Leo brought her down for the odd weekend but not enough for us to feel comfortable with her. She's a very clever girl, of course, but rather too modern for our taste."

  "In fact, we'd very much like to talk to your son," said Frank Cheever evenly. "Do you have an address or telephone number where we can contact him?''

  Sir Anthony shook his head. "We haven't heard a word since they left. Not surprising really. They're embarrassed." He clasped his hands over his knee. "We are too. We've been keeping our heads well down, as you can probably imagine. Not the done thing, jilting the bride four weeks before the wedding, but the trouble is, we can't criticize him for doing it. Embarrassment tempered with relief is probably the best description of how we feel at the moment. She was quite wrong for him, took everything far too seriously, as amply demonstrated by these suicide attempts."

  Fraser was examining some family photographs on the table beside him. "Is this your son, sir?" he asked, pointing to one of a tall, fair-haired man leaning against a Mercedes convertible with his arms crossed and a broad smile on his face. The family resemblance was strong. He had the same wide forehead as Sir Anthony, the same thick hair, the same elegant tilt to his patrician head.

  "Yes, that's Leo."

  "Where exactly did he and Miss Harris say they were going, Sir Anthony?"

  "They didn't. They just said they were taking the car across the Channel until the flak stopped flying."

  "You spoke to them in person."

  "Not face-to-face. Leo phoned on the Saturday morning to say the wedding was off, and that the best thing he and Meg could do was make themselves scarce."

  "Saturday being the eleventh of June?"

  "That's right. Two weeks ago today."

  "And you haven't heard from him or Meg since?"

  "No." He swept his trousers with the palm of his hand. "But I have to say that I can't see why any of this is important. It's hardly a hanging offense if your erstwhile fiancee makes an attempt on her life. Or is it now? I'm afraid the law makes less and
less sense to me as I get older."

  Frank Cheever removed a folded piece of paper from his inside breast pocket and spread it out on his knees before passing it across to Sir Anthony. It was a photocopied montage of the credit cards that had been in Bobby Franklyn's possession. "Do you recognize either of the signatures on this page, sir?"

  Sir Anthony held it at arm's length. "Yes," he said after a moment, "the top four are Leo's." He half closed his eyes. "The bottom two are M. S. Harris, so presumably Meg's." He shifted his gaze to the Superintendent. "I don't understand."

  "I regret this very much, Sir Anthony, but we have reason to be very concerned for your son and Miss Harris. We came here because we hoped you could give us some idea of where they were and so assure us they were still alive." He nodded towards the piece of paper. "A seventeen-year-old boy was charged yesterday in Winchester with credit card fraud and those six cards were in his possession. He informs us that he stole them a week ago from two bodies that he found in Ardingly Woods, some two miles to the west of Winchester. It is my very sad duty to tell you that it is our belief the bodies are those of your son, Leo Wallader, and his friend, Meg Harris."

  Perhaps the information was too shocking to take in; perhaps, quite simply, it didn't make sense. Sir Anthony gave a surprised laugh. "Don't be absurd, man. I've already told you. They're on the Continent somewhere. What is this? Some sort of practical joke?" His brows snapped together angrily. "That wretched man Kingsley's doing, I suppose."

  "No sir," said Cheever gently, "not a practical joke, although, for your sake, I wish it were. We do have two unidentified bodies"-he glanced towards the smiling photograph-"one male, aged between thirty and forty, six feet one inch in height with blond hair, and one female, aged between thirty and forty, five feet four inches in height, with short dark hair. While there is still a chance that the boy lied to us about how he came by the credit cards, I must warn you that it's very remote. Certainly the description of the male seems to fit your son, although we have still to compare the female with Miss Harris. As yet we have no description of her."

  Sir Anthony shook his head in denial. "There must be some mistake," he said firmly. "Leo's in France."

  "Perhaps you can give us a description of Meg," suggested Fraser.

  "She came here once," said the older man slowly. "Dropped in for lunch on her way back to London when Leo and Jinx were down for the weekend. Philippa took to her immediately. She was a nice girl, clearly besotted with Leo, a far better prospect in every way than Jinx. Good family, decent background. Philippa and I were pleased as punch when the boy phoned to say he was planning to marry Meg instead. The family comes from Wiltshire, I believe. A pretty girl, dark hair, slim, always smiling." He lapsed into silence.

  "What sort of age-" began Fraser, but Cheever glanced across at him and made a damping motion with his hand.

  Despair settled on Sir Anthony's face. "This will destroy my poor wife, you know. Leo was the only one. We tried for more, but it wasn't to be." He pressed a thumb and forefinger to his eyelids to hold back the tears. "What was it? Some sort of accident?"

  Cheever cleared his throat. "We don't think so, no. The pathologist's view is that they were murdered." He clamped his hands between his knees. "I'm so sorry, Sir Anthony."

  He shook his head again angrily. "No, no, this is outrageous."

  There was another long silence.

  Sir Anthony raised a trembling hand to his forehead. "Who would want to murder them?"

  "We don't know, sir," said Cheever quietly. "They've been dead some time, perhaps as long as two weeks. At the moment, we're looking at the thirteenth of June as the most likely date for when it happened."

  "That would be the day Jinx tried to kill herself," he said flatly.

  "So we understand."

  Sir Anthony's mouth worked. "I suppose you know her husband was murdered," he said harshly.

  Frank Cheever leaned forward with a little frown. "You mean Miss Kingsley's husband?" This was news to him.

  The other man nodded. "She was Mrs. Landy then. It was nine or ten years ago. Her husband's name was Russell Landy. He was an art dealer in Chelsea." He fixed Frank with a penetrating stare. "He was clubbed to death with a hammer but his murderer was never found. Landy was so badly beaten that his face was unrecognizable. The newspapers described it as one of the most brutal killings anyone could remember. How was my son murdered, Superintendent? Will I be able to recognize him?" He saw the brief hesitation in the policeman's eyes, a shutter close on something horrific. "Was he clubbed to death like Landy?"

  Frank wiped a weary hand across his face. Good God, he was thinking. Could it be this easy? "Death is never pretty, Sir Anthony, less so when several days have elapsed."

  "But was he clubbed to death like Landy?" There was anger in Wallader's voice.

  "At this stage," said Frank carefully, "nothing has been ruled in or out. The pathologist hasn't had time to finish his examination, and, until he does, it would be wrong to speculate, but I give you my personal assurance that I will pass on his conclusions to you as soon as possible after they have been reported to us."

  Whatever spark had fired Sir Anthony's anger extinguished itself as rapidly as it had ignited. He looked lost suddenly, as if the fact of his son's death had only just dawned upon him. "I suppose you need me to identify the body." He started to get up.

  "There's no hurry, sir. I'd like you to take as much time as you need to talk it through with your wife. Please don't feel this is something you have to do immediately."

  "But it is," he said abruptly, pushing himself from his chair. "Philippa's out for the day doing her voluntary stint in the hospital, so she won't even know I've gone. You talked about a remote chance," he reminded the policeman with tears in his eyes. "For my poor girl's sake, I'm praying for that."

  HO FORENSIC LAB, HAMPSHIRE-11:45 A.M

  He stood, dry-eyed, over what was left of his son, now transferred to a clinically clean table, his torso discreetly veiled by white cotton sheeting. The hair, as thick and blond as it had been in life, was unmistakably Leo's, and dreadful though it was, there was still enough of the facial structure left for recognition.

  His eyes sought out Dr. Clarke. "What should I tell my wife?" he asked him. "I don't even know how to begin."

  Clarke looked down at the poor dead body. "She'll need comfort, Sir Anthony, not truth. Tell her how peaceful he looked."

  Art Dealer Murdered

  The battered body of Russell Landy, 44, was found in the stockroom of his art gallery in Chelsea last night by his wife, Jane Landy, 24. He was still alive when the ambulance reached him but died on the way to the hospital. Mrs. Landy, who is three months pregnant, is said to be deeply shocked. She had waited for over an hour for him at Le Garrodie, where they were to have dinner together, but when he didn't arrive, took a taxi to the gallery to look for him. She was alone when she found him. Doctors say he probably had been attacked some 1-2 hours previously and might have survived had he been discovered sooner. The gallery was ransacked and several of the more valuable paintings stolen. Police believe Mr. Landy may have disturbed the robbers. A sledgehammer was recovered from the scene. Russell Landy was a relative newcomer to the art world. His gallery, Impressions, opened less than four years ago and specialized in the minimalist work of young painters such as Michael Paggia and Janet Hopkins.

  Daily Telegraph extract * 2 February, 1984

  Jane Landy Loses Baby

  Two weeks after the murder of her art dealer husband. Russell Landy, Jane Landy has suffered a second tragedy. It was announced yesterday that she has lost the baby she was expecting. She is said to be distraught. Police are no nearer finding the murderer of her husband.

  Daily Telegraph extract * 18 February, 1984

  Landy Murder Mystery

  Police admit to being puzzled about the murder of an dealer Russell Landy, 44. whose battered body was found two nights ago by his wife, Jane. "The premises were broken into," said a police
spokesman, "and some paintings stolen, but we cannot account for the frenzied attack on Mr. Landy. This sort of specialist robbery isn't normally associated with extreme violence. Art thieves pride themselves on their professionalism."

  The police are asking dealers and collectors to watch out for the stolen paintings. "If we can establish that robbery was the motive," said the spokesman, "it will assist us in our inquiries. At this stage, it is not clear whether the sledgehammer used to murder Mr. Landy was already on the premises or was brought there by the attacker. Clearly, we have to consider that murder may have been the intention all along."

  Jane Landy, 24, is the only daughter of Adam Kingslcy, millionaire chairman of Franchise Holdings Ltd. He is said to be deeply upset by his son-in-law's death, despite declaring publicly after the wedding that Russell Landy was little better than "a gold-digging cradle snatcher " He has two sons by his second marriage, Miles, and Fergus, aged 16 and 14.

  Friends of the Landys say Russell was a popular man with no enemies. "He was an intellectual with a wonderful sense of humor," said a close friend. "I cannot understand why anyone would want to kill him."

  The stolen paintings have been valued at Ł230,000 but police believe they will be difficult to sell. Michael Paggia's work is well known in minimalist art circles but his appeal has a narrow base. His mast famous work, "Brown and Yellow," two large brown canvases on either side of a smaller yellow canvas, is currently on display at the Tate. It caused a furor when it was bought. One critic described it as "S**T and P**S."