Dark Room

by Minette Walters

  43A SHOEBURY TERRACE, HAMMERSMITH, LONDON-3:30 P.M.

  Later that afternoon, Maddocks and Fraser entered Meg Harris's flat in Hammersmith. They were met at the door by two Metropolitan policemen and a locksmith, but dispensed with the services of the latter in favor of the spare key which a stout, middle-aged neighbor produced when she saw the congregation through her window and issued forth to quiz them about what they were doing. "But Meg's in France," she said, countering their sympathetic assertion that they had reason to believe Miss Harris was dead. "I saw her off." She wrung her hands in distress. "I've been looking after her cat."

  The men nodded gravely. "Can you remember when she left?" asked Maddocks.

  "Oh, Lord, now you're asking me. Two weeks ago or thereabouts. The Monday, maybe."

  Fraser consulted his diary. "Monday, June the thirteenth?" he asked her.

  "That sounds about right, but I couldn't say for certain."

  "Have you heard from her since?"

  "No," she admitted, "but I wouldn't expect to." She looked put out. "I can't believe she's dead. Was it a car accident?"

  DI Maddocks avoided a direct answer. "We've very few details at the moment, Mrs ... er..."

  "Helms," said the woman helpfully.

  "Mrs. Helms. Do you know anything about Miss Harris's boyfriend?"

  "You mean Leo. He's hardly a boyfriend, too old to be a boyfriend, Meg said. She always called him her partner."

  "Did he live here?"

  "On and off. I think he's married and only comes to Meg when his wife's away." She caught up with Maddocks's use of the past tense. "Did?" she asked him. "Is Leo dead too?"

  He nodded. "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Helms. Would you have a contact address or telephone number for Miss Harris's parents by any chance? We'd very much like to talk to them."

  She shook her head. "She gave me the vet's number last year in case the cat fell ill, but that's all. As far as I remember, her family lives in Wiltshire somewhere. She used to go down there two or three times a year for a long weekend. But how awful!" She looked shocked. "You mean she's dead and her parents don't even know?"

  "I'm sure we'll find something in the flat to help us." Maddocks thanked her for the key and led the way down the stone steps to the basement flat, which was marked 43A and had terracotta pots, alive with Busy Lizzies, cluttered about the doorway. He inserted the key into the lock and pondered the elusive nature of Meg's family. Even Sir Anthony Wallader, who claimed to know something about the Harrises, had no idea which part of Wiltshire they came from or what Meg's father did by way of a job. "You'll have to ask Jinx Kingsley," he told them. "She's the only one left who knows."

  But, in the circumstances, the Hampshire police preferred the more tortuous route of arriving at Wiltshire via Hammersmith.

  A tortoiseshell cat greeted them with undisguised pleasure as they let themselves into the narrow hallway, rubbing its sleek head and ears against their legs, purring ecstatically at the thought of food. Fraser nudged it gently with the toe of his shoe. "I hate to be the one to tell you, old son, but you're an orphan now. Mummy's dead."

  "Jesus, Fraser," said Maddocks crossly, "it's a cat, for Christ's sake." He opened the door into what was obviously the living room and took stock of the off-white Chinese rug, with its embroidered floral pattern of pale blues and pinks, which covered the varnished floorboards in front of the fireplace. "A cat and an off-white rug," he murmured. "The boffins will be even more unbearable after this." He went inside, took a pen from his jacket pocket, and manipulated the buttons on the answering machine.

  Hello, darling, said a light female voice. I presume you're going to phone in for your messages, so ring me as soon as you can. I read in the newspaper today that Jinx was in a car accident. I'm very worried about what to do. Should I try and phone her? I'd like to. You were such friends after all, and it seems churlish to ignore her just because ... well ... well, enough said ... no more rows, we promised. Ring me the minute you get this message and we 'II talk about it. Good-bye, darling.

  Hi, Meg, where the hell are you? A man's belligerent voice. You swore on your honor you'd come into the office before you left. Damn it, it's Wednesday, there's a mound of sodding messages here and I can't make head or tail of them. Who the fuck's Bill Riley? Most of them are from him. Ring me before you ring anyone else. This is urgent.

  Meg. The same man's voice. Ring me. Immediately. Damn it, I'm so angry I feel like belting you one. Do you realize Jinx has tried to kill herself? I've had your wretched parents on the phone every day asking for news. They feel bloody about this and so do I. Phone, for Christ's sake. It's Friday, seventeenth June, eight-sodding-thirty, no breakfast and I haven't slept a wink. I knew Wallader would be nothing but trouble.

  It's Simon. A different, cooler man's voice. Look, Mum and Dad are going spare. You can't just bury your head in the sand and pretend nothing's wrong. I'm sure you know Jinx has tried to kill herself. It's been in all the newspapers. Mum says you're refusing to answer your messages, but at least ring me if you won't ring her. I'm going to visit Jinx, see how she's coping. One of us ought to show some interest.

  Darling, it's Mummy again. Please, please ring. I really am awfully concerned about Jinx. They say she tried to commit suicide. I can't bear to think of her being so unhappy because of you and Leo. Someone should talk to her. Don't forget how ill she was after Russell was killed. Please ring. I'm so worried. I do hope you're all right. You 're usually so good about phoning.

  For your information, Bill Riley is now planning to sue us. He claims we're in breach of contract. Why the hell did you agree to work with him if you weren't prepared to see it through. Message timed at nine-thirty p.m., Thursday, June twenty-third. If I don't hear from you in the next twenty-four hours, consider our partnership terminated. I'm pissed off with this, Meg, I really am.

  Hello, Meg. A deeper woman's voice. It's Jinx. Look, I know this is probably politically incorrect-a low laugh-I ought to be ripping your first editions to pieces or something. But I really would like to talk to you. Things are a bit complicated this end-well, you've probably heard about it ... A pause. They say I drove my car at a concrete post-deliberately. Can you believe that? The bugger is, I've lost my memory, can't remember anything since Saturday the fourth, so everyone's jumping to the conclusion that I was upset about you and Leo. Another laugh, rather more forced this time. It's the pits, old thing, which is why I need to talk to you both. You may not believe me, but I swear to God I am not harboring grudges, so if you can bear the embarrassment, ring me on Salisbury two-two-one-four-two-zero. It's a nutters' hospital and I'm shit-scared of going round the bend here. Please ring.

  The rest of the tape was blank.

  Maddocks raised an eyebrow at Fraser. "Genuine?'' he asked. "Or planted for the police to hear after they found the bodies?"

  "You mean hers?" Fraser shrugged. "I'd guess genuine. The pissed-off partner made his last call two days ago, so hers must have been pretty recent."

  "How does that make it genuine?"

  "Because she couldn't know when the bodies would be found. If it was a bluff, she'd have phoned sooner to make sure we got the message."

  Maddocks was more skeptical. "Unless she's been following the newspapers." He turned to a bookcase along the wall and plucked a book at random from the shelves. "The reference to first editions was genuine. Look at this. A signed Graham Greene." He ran his finger along the spines. "Daphne du Maurier, Dorothy L. Sayers, Ruth Rendell, Colin Dexter, P. D. James, John le Carre. She's even got an Ian Fleming. I wonder who she's left them to."

  "Probably her friend Jane Kingsley," said Fraser, opening a door to the right of the fireplace and disclosing a neat white kitchen with slate-gray worktops and pale gray units. He turned to the two London policemen. "Do you fancy tackling this? Chances are there'll be papers in some of these drawers. I'll take her bedroom."

  He moved across the hallway to a door on the other side, clicked it open and surveyed the room. Like the
rest of the flat, it was clean and meticulously tidy-so tidy, in fact, that he decided it was a spare bedroom and went to the only door he hadn't yet opened and found the bathroom. Apart from a pair of fluffy white towels that were folded with measured precision over the rail, there was nothing to indicate that the room had ever been used-no sponge, no soap, no toothpaste. He lifted the latch on the cabinet above the basin and stared thoughtfully at the meager contents. A bottle of disinfectant, a packet of Disprin, and a clean toothmug. Meg Harris was unreal, he thought. No one was this tidy, not even when they went away on holiday. And where was Leo's presence? Surely something should remain to show a man had lived there on and off. He lifted the lid of the laundry basket, but it was empty. He retreated into the hall again, where he noticed the cat's bed beneath a small radiator and wondered why Meg had bothered to keep a companion when she was clearly so house-proud that its movements had to be thoroughly restricted whenever she was absent. Tidiness appeared to be an obsession with her. Back in the bedroom, he opened the wardrobe and sorted through the few clothes hanging there. Only women's, he noted, no men's. The same was true of all the drawers. He searched for anything that might give a clue to the woman's personality, but it was like searching a hotel bedroom where a guest was staying one night. Her clothes were neatly folded away, some odds and ends of costume jewelry and makeup lay in ordered rows in her dressing table drawer, a small bowl of potpourri on the bedside table gave off a faint scent. But if there had ever been anything of a personal nature in that room, she had taken it with her.

  Maddocks looked up from a book as Fraser rejoined him. "Last year's diary," he said, "but there's not a single phone number or address in it. Any luck your end?"

  Fraser shook his head. "Nothing. Just a few clothes. It looks as if she took everything that mattered to her, which is odd if she was only going away for a couple of weeks. I couldn't find any suitcases."

  Maddocks abandoned the diary and stared about the living room with a frown. "I don't get it. It's so damn clinical. Have you noticed there aren't any photographs about? I've been looking for an album but I can't find one. You'd think there'd be at least one photograph of her family, wouldn't you?''

  "What about papers?" suggested Fraser. "House insurance, mortgage details, a will? Where are they?"

  Maddocks jerked his head towards a pine bureau in the corner. "In there for what it's worth, but there's no will, just one folder with 'House Insurance' written across the front. There aren't even any letters, no indication at all who her friends were or what the family address is. It's bizarre. Most people have a few letters littered about the place." He moved across to the kitchen door. "What about you two? Have you found anything?"

  The older of the two London policemen shook his head. "Tell you what, sir, it reminds me of those cottages you rent in the summer. There's cutlery and crockery here and it's all clean, but there's no food anywhere, the fridge is empty, dishwasher's empty, new plastic bag in the garbage can. Either she rented it and was about to move out or she was planning to move out and let it to somebody else." He gestured towards a pegboard on the wall. "Even her notice board's empty, but you don't do that when you're off on holiday. I'd say she's got another place somewhere."

  Fraser agreed with him. "That's got to be it, Gov. It doesn't make sense otherwise. Have you ever seen a flat as devoid of personality as this one is?"

  "Why did she leave her first editions behind?"

  "Because the insurance policy here probably specifies and covers the collection, which would make this the most sensible place to leave them unattended. What's the betting she moved all her personal stuff before the holiday, left the cat behind because she had a neighbor who would feed it, and was planning to come back for the books, the rest of her clothes, and the cat on her return? She was moving in with Leo-it's the only logical scenario."

  "Goddammit," said Maddocks ferociously, "everything points to him moving in with her. If he had a place of his own, why the hell was he shacked up in Glenavon Gardens with the Kingsley woman? Frank'll go mad over this. It's my guess the only person who knows anything is Jane Kingsley."

  THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-3:30 P.M.

  Minus her bandage and dressed in black sweater and trousers, Jinx sat on a bench in the shade of a weeping beech tree and studied the comings and goings on the gravel sweep in front of the clinic. She felt herself to be comfortably anonymous behind a pair of mirrored glasses, and for the first time in several days she allowed her tired body to relax.

  The memory that she had known about Leo and Meg's affair pierced her brain like a needle. My God! Leo himself had told her in the drawing room of his parents' house with Anthony and Philippa there as silent, horrified witnesses. She had screamed at them all-why had she been screaming?-and Leo had said: I'm going to marry Meg-and she had been so, so shocked. Meg and Leo ... Meg and Russell ... But when? When had Leo told her?

  She wrestled with the memory, desperate to hold on to it, but like a dream, it started to fragment and fade and, in confusion, she took the bunch of flowers that was being pressed onto her lap and heard Josh Hennessey saying, "Jinxy love, are you all right?"

  She had forgotten he was coming and stared up at his anxious face, smiling automatically while she knitted back the fabric of her subconscious and let the memory go. "I'm fine," she heard herself saying. "Sorry, I was miles away. How are you?" But, oh God, she'd been so angry ... she could remember her anger...

  He squatted in front of her, his hands resting lightly on her knees, his eyes examining every inch of her face. "Pretty bloody depressed if I'm honest. How about you?" He seemed to be looking for a reaction and was disappointed-surprised?-when he didn't get it.

  She held a thin hand to her chest where her heart was beating frantically. Something else had happened. The knowledge weighed on her like a ton weight. Something else had happened ... something so terrible that she was too frightened to search her memory for it. "I'd describe myself as being in a state of suspended animation," she said, breathing in jerky, shallow breaths. "I exist, therefore I am, but as I can't think straight it's a fairly meaningless existence." She thought how unattractive he looked, with fear and worry pinching his nose and mouth. "I suppose if you're depressed, it means you haven't got hold of Meg."

  He shook his head, and she saw with dismay that there were tears in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry." She fingered the flowers on her lap, then laid them beside her. "It was kind of you to bring these."

  "I feel so awful about this." He lowered himself to the ground and withdrew his hands. "Couldn't you have phoned, told me you were in trouble? You know I'd have come."

  "You sound like Simon," she said lightly.

  He ruffled his hair and glanced away from her gaunt, bruised face and shaven head. "Simon's been on the phone almost every day. His parents are devastated, blaming each other, blaming Meg, wanting to do something to make up-well, I'm sure you can imagine how they feel. Simon tried phoning the Hall to find out where you were and got a mouthful of abuse. It's understandable, of course, but it didn't make things any easier."

  "I'm sorry," she said again, "but oddly enough, Josh, it doesn't make it any easier for me, either, to have everyone blaming themselves because I drove at a brick wall."

  He flicked her a quick glance but didn't say anything.

  "Not that I did it deliberately," she said through gritted teeth. "That car cost me a fortune, and I can think of a hundred better ways of killing myself than writing off a perfectly good Rover."

  He plucked at a blade of grass. "I spoke to Dean last night," he said uncomfortably. "The poor chap was in tears, said if I managed to get hold of you, I was to tell you business is fine but please call him the minute you feel up to it. I gave him the number here, but he's afraid to call himself in case you're too unhappy to talk to him."

  It was hopeless. "I'm not unhappy," she said with a forced smile. "I feel great. I'm looking forward to going home." Why was sympathy so unbearable? "Look, let's
put these flowers in my room and then go for a walk." Stupid woman! Fifty yards would see her on her knees.

  "Are you sure you're up to it?" he asked, pushing himself to his feet.

  "Oh, yes," she said briskly. "I keep telling you, I'm fine." She set off ahead of him so he wouldn't see her face. "Believe me, I don't intend to stay here very long. They've already said I'm mentally fit to go home, now all I need to do is prove I'm physically fit." Who the hell did she think she was kidding? "It's in here," she said, putting one groggy leg over the sill of the French windows and hauling herself towards a chair.

  The flowers slipped from her fingers onto the floor. She felt Josh's arms closing about her and saw murky images floating on the swollen river of her memory.

  43 SHOEBURY TERRACE-4:00 P.M.

  Fraser rang the doorbell of number 43 and asked Mrs. Helms if Meg had given any indication that she intended to vacate her flat after her holiday.

  "Not in so many words," said the stout woman thoughtfully, "but now you come to mention it, there was a lot of coming and going shortly before they left. I remember saying to my Henry, it wouldn't surprise me if there was a change in that direction. Then she asked me to feed Marmaduke and it rather went out of my mind, except that she was insistent the poor creature shouldn't go into any of the rooms. 'Keep him in the hall, Mrs. H,' she said, thrusting a tin of cat food at me. What's going to happen to him now? Henry won't have him anywhere near, but then he's not well, you know."

  "We'll do our best to sort something out," said Fraser, "but in the meantime perhaps you could go on feeding the cat."

  "I won't let him starve," she said grudgingly, "but something ought to be done before too long. That stuffy hallway's no place to keep an animal."

  He agreed with her. "You wouldn't happen to know what Miss Harris did for a job, would you, Mrs. Helms?"

  "Seems to me you know very little about her, Sergeant. Are you sure you've got the right person?"