Dark Room

by Minette Walters

  "That's all right, sir," said Frank. "Would it be easier if we asked you questions?"

  Simon nodded.

  "Your father says you worked in London for several years and saw more of Meg than they did. Perhaps you could tell us something about her lifestyle. Did she have many friends, for example? Did she go out a lot? Did she enjoy discos, pubs, things of that sort?"

  "Yes," said Simon, "all of those. She loved life, Superintendent." He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, then put his glasses back on. "She had a very happy personality, people always enjoyed being with her."

  Frank twisted his chair against the sunlight. "That's how your mother described her," he said, "but your father seemed to have reservations. Why is that, do you think? Did he and Meg not get on?"

  Simon's expression was unreadable because the sun was reflecting off his lenses, and Frank wished he'd had the sense to position him better at the beginning. "No, Dad and Meg got on fine," he said, but his tone was too flat and lacked conviction. He was silent for a moment. "Look, perhaps it would be simpler after all if I just told you what Dad's asked me to say. He's worried you've fixed on Jinx Kingsley as a suspect because of what happened to Russell." He took off his glasses again and laid them on the table, fishing in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief to blow his nose. "It's not much fun, this," he said by way of apology. "I've been so angry with Meg for the last two weeks, and now-well, you never expect anyone to die." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "The irony is, it's my job to comfort people in this position, tell them it's the whole history of their love that matters, not the two small weeks of anger''- he blew his nose-"but it's only when you experience it yourself that you realize how patronizing that is."

  "We can only do our best, sir," said Frank, giving the man's shoulder an awkward pat. "In this job, we run up against it all the time. Such sadness everywhere and no easy answers."

  Oddly enough, Simon seemed to find this trite response rather comforting, perhaps because it proved to him that he wasn't alone in offering banalities by way of consolation. He rested his hands on the table and toyed with his glasses. "The reason Dad didn't want Mum listening to this," he said, "is that she never really knew what Meg was like. She knew Meg had a lot of boyfriends but she assumed the relationships were fairly casual." He corrected himself immediately. "Well, of course, they were casual, but casual in Meg's terms, not in my mother's. I suppose you'd describe her as promiscuous, except that that gives a false impression of her because we tend to use it pejoratively only where women are concerned." He gave an uncertain smile. "I don't really know how to explain this to you without setting up prejudices in your minds. You had to know Meg. She was very innocent in an odd sort of way. She loved having fun."

  Fraser raised his head. "It sounds to me as though you're saying she enjoyed sex, sir, but didn't want the commitment of a relationship. Is that so unusual these days?''

  "No," said Simon with relief, "but I'm sure you can appreciate what my mother would think if she ever found out. She's very straitlaced." He fell silent.

  Fraser waited a moment. "In fact, sir," he said when Simon didn't continue and the Superintendent gave him the nod, "your mother gives the impression that it's your father who's straitlaced. She refers to his preaching and the fact that Meg couldn't leave home fast enough to get away from him. She talks about the fact that they had arguments and that he was always lecturing her over the phone. She also knew about Meg's abortion, which your father clearly didn't. Are you sure she's as ignorant as you suggest?"

  Simon nodded unhappily. "Yes, but I'm afraid you'll have to take my word for it. Mum likes to think she knew what sort of life Meg led, but it's not true. In fact, Meg only ever lied to her because she didn't want to upset her."

  "So was the abortion a lie?"

  "No, that did happen. But she didn't tell Mum about it until they had their row over Leo. It's one of the reasons I was so angry with her. If she'd only come down and talked to them in person, instead of giving them ultimatums over the phone about the fact that it was her life and she could do what she liked with it, then they might not have taken it quite so badly." He raised his glasses off the table and swung them from side to side, watching the pendulum motion with absorbed fascination. "She said a lot of things that I'm sure she regretted afterwards."

  Fraser glanced at the Superintendent before asking his next question. "Are you saying her announcement about her relationship with Leo caused friction between your parents?"

  Simon squeezed the bridge of his nose again. "It's been a nightmare," he said after a moment. "I think the trouble was that Meg knew she was behaving badly, so she set out to defend her position right from the word go. Dad, of course, homed straight in on her betrayal of Jinx, and Mum homed in on the fact that she must have been sleeping with Leo. If only she'd just apologized and left it at that." He looked bleakly at the Sergeant. "We never do, though, do we? It's human nature to justify ourselves."

  "What did she say?"

  "I only know what she told me afterwards. She phoned me about lunchtime, but by then I'd had Mum on the phone in floods, so I was pretty angry as well." He held the handkerchief to his eyes. "We all said things we wish we hadn't, and now it's too late." He breathed deeply again, to calm himself. "As I understand it, she said Dad was a sanctimonious hypocrite who lusted after anything in a skirt, including her and Jinx, but hadn't got the balls to do anything about it, and Mum was a frigid prude who couldn't bear the thought of anyone enjoying sex. Meg said she'd told her about the abortion to prove there was at least one woman who didn't see babies as the only reason for having intercourse." He caught the look of interest that flashed in Fraser's eyes.

  "I'm telling you what she said, Sergeant," he murmured tiredly, "I'm not saying it's true. She was defending herself, so she went for their weaknesses. My mother is a prude, in so far as she deplores modern sexual practices, but she's not frigid. My father is extremely fond of Jinx because she shares his interest in the classics, but he doesn't lust after her. If Meg had telephoned from France, or if Jinx hadn't driven her car into a wall, the storm would have blown over in a day or two. As it was, my parents were left blaming each other for what they see as their fault, namely Meg's cavalier theft of her friend's fiance, and Jinx's resulting suicide attempt. You really must understand what an impossible situation they found themselves in. Jinx's family wanted scapegoats-not unreasonably in the circumstances-but the only scapegoats available were my wretched parents. They've had to put up with some fairly strong abuse, so it's hardly surprising they feel responsible."

  Fraser nodded as he turned back through the pages of his notebook. "Did you know about your sister's abortion before your mother did?"

  "Yes."

  "When did she have it?"

  "A long time ago. After she came down from Oxford, I think. She was much more careful after that."

  "Do you know who the father was?"

  "No. I don't think she did either."

  "Did she tell you about it at the time?"

  He nodded. "I drove her to the hospital to have it done."

  "Did you approve?"

  For the first time Simon smiled. "It doesn't matter whether I did or didn't."

  "But you must have had an opinion, sir."

  "Funnily enough, no. Where Meg was concerned, I never gave opinions. She wouldn't have listened to them."

  Fraser found the page he was looking for. "You said: 'It would be simpler if I just told you what my father wants me to say. He's worried that you've fixed on Jinx Kingsley as a suspect.' Could you expand those remarks, sir?"

  Simon nodded. "Apparently my mother keeps accusing Jinx of murdering Meg and Leo, and he's afraid you'll believe her." He looked inquiringly at the other man, but got no reaction. "But Jinx wouldn't have done it," he said. "She and Meg were more like sisters than friends."

  "Even more reason to be angry then when Meg stole her fiance," suggested Fraser. "Are you saying that wouldn't have upset Miss Kingsl
ey?"

  "She says not. I went to see her on Wednesday and she was very bullish about it, asked me to tell Meg she bore them no resentment and said she wished everyone would stop worrying about it."

  "Miss Kingsley's suffering from amnesia, sir. How can she know what she felt at the time?''

  "I don't know, Sergeant, but I believe her and so does my father." He leaned forward to emphasize his point. "We've known her for years, and we can't accept she's a murderer. She certainly didn't murder Russell. She was with Meg that afternoon. Meg was her alibi."

  The Superintendent nodded thoughtfully. "You said your father took Meg to task for her betrayal of Jinx. Am I right in thinking that's why you were angry with her as well?"

  "Yes. Jinx didn't deserve to be treated so shabbily. She's been through hell one way and another, but she's never allowed it to sour her. She's very generous." He jerked his head towards the parish church across the road. "Helped Dad out with his steeple fund five years ago, persuaded her father to stump up for a Romanian orphans' charity I'm involved with. She's a very fine person."

  Frank smiled agreement. "You have a high opinion of her."

  "Very."

  "Rather higher perhaps than you had of your sister? People who love having fun tend to be somewhat selfish and egocentric. Quite often, they're the black sheep of the family."

  Simon looked at him. "Yes," he said simply. "Meg was certainly that."

  *13*

  MONDAY, 27TH JUNE, THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-1:15 P.M.

  Alan sensed that Jinx felt she had revealed too much of herself. He wondered if this was his last chance to learn what he could about her. "You told me your father wants you to leave, but you didn't say what you intend to do about it."

  She propped her chin on her hand and gazed at him with a troubled expression, but there was something studied about the whole gesture. "I said I'd discharge myself back to Richmond and then take out an injunction to stop him ever interfering again unless he left well alone. Now I'm worried sick."

  He gave a surprised laugh. "Why? I couldn't have advised better myself. You must be allowed the freedom to make your own choices."

  "I wish you'd try to understand," she said helplessly. "It's not my freedom that's likely to be curtailed, it's yours. If Adam thinks you suggested the injunction-" She gave a small shrug and didn't finish the sentence.

  "You're worrying unnecessarily," he said. "What can he possibly do to me?"

  "He hasn't built his empire on charm, Dr. Protheroe. If he's going to do something, he'll do it quickly. He won't want you putting any more unpleasant ideas in my head."

  "I can only repeat," he said, eyeing her curiously, "what can he possibly do to me?"

  "That's what Russell said." She stood up abruptly. She might have added, And Leo and Meg, but she didn't.

  Alan put through a telephone call to Matthew Cornell's father. "No," he assured him, "Matthew's doing well. I wondered if I could pick your brains on an unrelated matter."

  "Go ahead."

  "What do you know about Adam Kingsley of Franchise Holdings?"

  "I'm a criminal barrister," Cornell reminded him. "Not a stockbroker."

  "Which is why I called you," said Alan. "I've been told he began life as an East End crook, and I wondered if there was any truth in it."

  "I see." There was a short pause. "All right, rumor has it that he was active alongside the Krays and the Richardsons in the fifties and sixties, but kept a much lower profile and turned legitimate as soon as he could. He was never charged with anything, because he adopted the Mafia cuscinetto system and erected buffers between himself and the violence his thugs meted out. But all that is hearsay, Protheroe, and not for public consumption. He's won damages in the past against two newspapers foolish enough to put that into print."

  Alan doodled on the pad in front of him, wondering how to frame his next question. "How does he conduct business now?"

  "Why? Are you thinking of investing in Franchise Holdings?"

  "Maybe," Protheroe lied.

  "There's the odd hint from time to time that he's used unorthodox methods to acquire property and land in the London Docks, but it's pure speculation. I'd say he runs as clean a ship as the next man. Matter of fact," he admitted, "I've a small sum invested in him myself."

  "What about social skills? He was described to me as someone to be wary of in personal dealings. Would you agree with that?"

  "What you'd expect from an East End boy made good." Cornell sounded intrigued. "I wouldn't want to get in too deep with him. Put it this way, he's not called the Great White Shark for nothing. If you work on the principle that he uses lawyers now as his buffers instead of hired muscle, then you'll probably have some idea of his modus operandi."

  "What does that mean exactly?"

  "Plus fa change, plus c 'est la meme chose."

  "Are you saying once a Mafia boss, always a Mafia boss?"

  An amused laugh floated down the line. "No, Protheroe, you're saying it. I can't afford a slander suit."

  THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC-3:00 P.M.

  "Josh? It's Jinx. Are you busy, or can you talk for a minute?"

  "What is it?" He sounded hostile, she thought.

  "Meg's dead."

  There was a silence. "I know," he said.

  She was shivering with cold, and her expression had a curiously vacant look, as if she were waiting for something. "Who told you?"

  "Simon rang," he answered guardedly. "They're both dead, Meg and Leo. How did you know, Jinx? Have you started to remember things?"

  "No," she said abruptly, "I guessed. The police came here asking questions about them. What else did Simon say?"

  "Nothing much, only that his mother's going out of her mind. She wants to know where Leo's parents live, so he called me."

  "Did you tell him?"

  "I said I didn't know, so he's trying Dean Jarrett."

  It was her turn to hold the silence. "You know quite well where they live," she said at last. "I remember telling you myself when Leo and I first got engaged. The wedding will be a nightmare, I said, Surrey gentry versus Hampshire parvenus, with each side trying to score points. And you laughed and asked which part of Surrey the Walladers came from. Downton Court, Ashwell, I told you."

  "I don't remember."

  He was lying, she thought. "Why didn't Simon ring me?"

  Another silence.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "What for?"

  "Meg's death. She was your friend as well as mine."

  "Is that what you called to tell me?"

  Her grip on the telephone was so brittle that her fingers hurt. "I wanted to know what people are saying, Josh. Do Meg's parents think I killed her? Does Simon?"

  "What makes you think they were murdered?" he asked.

  "I'm not a bloody fool, Josh."

  "No one's saying anything," he said, "not to me anyway."

  She didn't believe him. "Why are you afraid of me?" she asked, addressing the fear she heard in his voice. "Do you think I did it?"

  "No, of course I don't. Look, I have to go. The police are due here any minute, and I'm trying to find out how the business stands with one partner dead. I'll ring back later when things calm down.'' He cut the line and left her listening to empty silence. Someone else she couldn't trust? Or someone as scared as she was?

  She replaced the receiver carefully, doubts seething in her tired brain. Was anything he said true? And why was he afraid of her? Because he thought her memory was coming back? She went to lie on the bed and stared at the ceiling, knowing that safety lay in remembering nothing, but knowing too that she must eventually remember something. However much her father might want what was locked inside her head to remain there forever, she knew it was an impossibility. If Alan Protheroe didn't pry the truth out of her with his sympathetic existentialism, then somebody else would. And they wouldn't do it kindly, either.

  Tears stung her eyelids. Common sense told her it would be suicidal-she dwelled
on that thought for a moment-to relay memories that no one believed. For this time there was no Meg to give her an alibi.

  THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC-4:15 P.M.

  "There's a gentleman to see you, Dr. Protheroe," said his elderly secretary, popping her head round his office door. "A Mr. Kennedy. I told him you were busy but he says he's sure you can find time to talk to him. He's a solicitor, representing Mr. Adam Kingsley." She pulled a face. "He's very insistent."

  Alan finished the notes he was writing. "Then you'd better show him in, Hilda," he said.

  A small, thin man with spectacles and a pleasant smile entered the room a few seconds later and shook Protheroe firmly by the hand. "Good afternoon," he said, proffering his card and taking the chair on the other side of the desk. "Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Protheroe. Did your secretary explain that I'm here as Mr. Adam Kingsley's representative?"

  "She said something to that effect," agreed Alan, examining the little man, "but I can't imagine why Mr. Kingsley feels he needs to send a solicitor." Jesus Christ!

  Mr. Kennedy smiled. "I am instructed to remind you of the assurances you gave my client when you undertook the care of his daughter."

  Alan frowned. "Say again," he invited.

  The little man sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. "Mr. Kingsley is fond of his daughter, Dr. Protheroe, and very concerned for her welfare. He asked you to take her in as a convalescent patient because, following the prolonged inquiries he made earlier this year with a view to his wife becoming a patient at this clinic, he was satisfied that Jane would find the atmosphere here more congenial than the clinical surroundings of a hospital. In particular, he was keen to ensure that Jane would not feel pressured into taking part in any sort of psychiatric therapy that would remind her of her previous unfortunate experiences. To which end he asked you-as a doctor and not a psychiatrist-to take charge of her convalescence and leave her to recover at her own speed and in her own time." He smiled his pleasant smile again. "Would you agree that that is a fair summary of the faxed letter he sent you on the twentieth of this month?"