Dark Room

by Minette Walters

  Fraser grinned again. "Wednesday, June the first," he prompted.

  "Let me think now. All right. I spent the morning developing and printing contact sheets. There was some undeveloped film, left over from the previous week, and the two projects from the previous day. Jinx caught up on a mound of paperwork in order to clear it before she went on holiday. Wednesday afternoons are always reserved for portrait work, and I think we had five or six families that day. Then we grabbed supper at about half-six, before going back to Charing Cross to finish the location work there. They wanted twilight and nighttime shots as well, so we didn't knock off that day until about ten-thirty."

  "And how was her mood on Wednesday?"

  "The same. Happy, sunny, brilliant. Angie and I were quite persuaded she'd given Leo the boot, but she didn't say she had, so we guessed she was hanging fire till she could tell her old man during her holiday. You've got to realize we'd been walking on eggshells for God knows how long. The mere mention of Leo's name brought glowering looks and an abrupt change of conversation. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, she's her old sweet self again."

  "And you put that down to the fact that she'd decided not to marry him after all?"

  Dean nodded. "More than that, sweetheart, I put it down to the fact that he wasn't there anymore, and certainly not in her bed. For the first time in weeks, she actually wanted to go home. Take the Thursday. She had me working like a slave all morning, and come the afternoon, she suddenly looks at her watch and says: 'Do me a favor, Dean, and mind the shop. There's a few things I need to do at home, and tomorrow we're out all day.' You could have knocked me over with a feather. She'd been avoiding the place like the plague ever since Leo got his knees under her table."

  "Why?"

  Dean tut-tutted impatiently. "Because she realized she couldn't stand him, of course, but she didn't know how to admit it. Her father's fault again. He'd really gone to town on the wedding preparations, invited half of Surrey and Hampshire, and Jinx was too embarrassed to say anything. I mean, there were a couple of Cabinet ministers coming, and you don't tell them to bog off without a few qualms, do you?"

  Fraser chuckled. "I've never had the chance. Could be fun, though." He paused. "It makes sense if he wasn't there. She and he had a blazing row on the Bank Holiday Monday, and the logical thing would have been for him to move out immediately." Pensively, he pulled at his lip. "But she claims he was there on the following Saturday morning, June the fourth, when she left for Hellingdon Hall, remembers their farewells as fond ones."

  Dean shrugged. "Then Leo must have undergone a character transplant in the meantime. I swear to God, if the sight of blood were a little less sickening, I could have bopped him on the nose several times. He was a complete slimeball."

  "So what are you saying?"

  "That Jinx is telling fibs about the fond farewell."

  "You think they had a row?"

  "No. I'm guessing she didn't want anyone to know he'd gone, so pretended fond farewells that never happened. I mean, if we always had to tell the truth about our relationships, we'd be wobbling jellies with no self-esteem. I lie all the time about mine, keep some lovers going long after they've deserted me."

  "It's a pity you didn't tell the police all this at the time of her accident," said Fraser in mild reproof.

  "Well, I would have done, if they'd been remotely interested in anything prior to Friday, June the tenth, but all they wanted to know was, had we seen or heard from her since her return from Hampshire. I did say that we were a teensy-weensy bit surprised to hear she'd only canceled the wedding on the Saturday after she got back from Hell Hall, when we were sure she'd made up her mind two weeks earlier, but they said it was Leo who had jilted her, and as I couldn't prove any different, there wasn't much more to be said."

  "Okay, then there's just Friday the third left to cover. Anything unusual happen that day?"

  "Just a wall-to-wall fashion shoot in London's docklands. We began at eight-thirty and went right through to seven o'clock in the evening without a break. Jinx dropped me off with all the cameras and equipment at the studio around seven-thirty, blew me a kiss, and said: 'It's all yours for a week, so be good.' And I haven't seen her since."

  "Have you spoken to her?" asked Fraser idly.

  "Just once, on the telephone."

  "When was that?"

  'Sunday night."

  "Who called who?"

  "She called me."

  "At home?"

  Dean nodded.

  "It must have been important then," said Fraser.

  "Oh, it was," said Dean. "It was my thirtieth birthday and she knew I'd have died a thousand deaths if I hadn't spoken to her, never mind she's flat on her back in hospital and suffering galloping amnesia." He beamed engagingly. "As I said, she's quite my most favorite lady."

  Fraser flicked over a page or two of his notebook. "Odd," he said. "According to her, she asked you to phone the Walladers to find out whether Leo and Meg were dead or not. She never mentioned your birthday. Can anything you've said be relied upon, sir?"

  ROMSEY ROAD POLICE STATION, WINCHESTER-1:00 P.M.

  The call from Salisbury came through to the incident room as Detective Superintendent Cheever was briefing the team he'd picked to conduct interviews at Hellingdon Hall that afternoon. He listened for five minutes, with only the odd interjection to know he was interested; then he said: "And the prostitute is certain of her identification?" A longish pause. "You've got two of them who swear it's him? ... Yes, we're planning to interview the whole family this afternoon ... No, he's never entered the frame at all." Another long pause. "Because he was sixteen when Landy got done, that's why ... Okay, okay. We all know ten-year-olds do it now." He compressed his lips into a thin, frustrated line. "Well, how quickly can she get here? ... Half an hour. Yes, all right, we'll hold on ... Yes, yes, yes. We've had cars stationed outside since yesterday afternoon. The whole family's there, including Kingsley. He drove back from London this morning." He listened again. "No, we won't steal her blasted thunder." He slammed the phone onto the rest and glared at the assembled detectives. "Damn!" he growled.

  "What's up?" asked Maddocks.

  "Miles Kingsley has been beating up on prostitutes in Salisbury. The DCI there says he has all the hallmarks of a classic psychopath."

  "Where does that leave us?"

  Testily, Cheever fingered his bow tie. "High and dry for the moment. They're sending a WPC over with what she's managed to get on him. I suggest we put everything on hold till she gets I here." He steepled his hands in front of his face. "This is what's known as a spanner in the works, gentlemen. Why in God's name I should Miles Kingsley have murdered his sister's husband, fiance, and friend? Can any of you make sense of that?"

  "You're jumping the gun, sir," protested Maddocks. "So the bastard beats up on prostitutes, that doesn't make him a killer."

  "You still favor Jane for the murders then?"

  "Of course. She's the only one with a motive for all three."

  "And her father, knowing what she's done, protects her?"

  "That's about the size of it. After Landy's death, she's bundled off to a psychiatric unit while Dad takes the flak himself because he knows the Met will never be able to prosecute him. This time, she's shoved into the Nightingale, following a fake suicide, and we're told hands off because she's got amnesia. Meanwhile Dad's solicitor is busy on a crisis-limitation exercise with the clinic's administrator. She's guilty as sin. Her father knows it and so does Dr. Protheroe."

  "That's a hell of a conspiracy theory, and it's full of holes anyway. If the doctor's protecting her, why did she go for him on Monday night?"

  "Because she's off her bloody rocker, sir."

  "She's a psychopath, in other words."

  "Sure she is."

  Frank lowered his hands and smiled sarcastically. "The Met said her father was a psychopath. Salisbury says her brother's a psychopath. You say she's a psychopath. It's beginning to look like an epidemic, and I don'
t buy that, Gareth." Maddocks shrugged. "What would you buy, sir?" "One psychopath, maybe, but not three. I suggest two of them have been tarred with the brush of the the other."

  The announcement that Adam Kingsley had resigned in favor of number two, John Normans, was released through Franchise Holdings' London headquarters at twelve o'clock. At one o'clock the BBC television news, video footage of the gates of Hellingdon Hall formed a backdrop to the news story: "Adam Kingsley reached his decision this morning amidst the peace and quiet this palatial eighteenth-century house on the edge of the New Forest, although it is unlikely he will be here for very much longer. Hellingdon Hall is a registered asset of Franchise Holdings, and sources say it will be sold off to recoup some of the losses of the last few days..."

  WINCHESTER-1:45 P.M.

  "The message over the radio in the incident room crackled with excitement. "Listen, sir, a Porsche, registration number MIL-one, has just left Hellingdon Hall by the service entrance, and it's piling off up the road at about a hundred miles an hour. We're following but it's definitely not old man Kingsley. Do we go back to the Hall or do we continue?"

  "Who's your backup?"

  "Fredericks at the trade entrance, and half a dozen uniformed local chaps at the front gate, keeping the paparazzi in order. But the place has been dead as a dodo all morning, sir. This is the first action we've seen."

  "All right, continue," said Frank Cheever, "but don't lose him. It's probably Miles Kingsley, and I want to know where he's going. Fredericks, are you hearing me? Stay alert, and if anyone else comes out, notify me immediately. Understood?"

  "Will do, sir."

  The first radio burst back into life. "He's turning onto the A three thirty-eight, Governor. Looks like he's heading for Salisbury."

  43 SHOEBURY TERRACE, HAMMERSMITH, LONDON-2:00 P.M.

  Fraser's last port of call was Meg's neighbor in Hammersmith, Mrs. Helms. She greeted him with surprising warmth, rather as she might an old friend, and took him into the front room. "My husband," she said, waving her hand towards a pathetic husk of a man who was sitting with a blanket across his knees and gazing forlornly onto the quiet street. "Multiple sclerosis," she mouthed. She raised her voice. "This is Detective Sergeant Fraser, Henry, come to talk to us about poor Meg." She went back to her whisper. "Just ignore him. He won't say anything. Hardly ever does these days. It's a shame, it really is. He used to be such a busy little soul."

  Fraser took the armchair that Mrs. Helms indicated and, for the fourth time that day, explained the purpose behind his questions. "So, have you any idea what Meg did over the bank holiday weekend?" he asked.

  She greeted this with a girlish squeal. "I couldn't begin to say," she declared. "Goodness me, I can't even remember what we were doing that weekend."

  Fraser glanced towards her husband, thinking that if his mobility was as poor as it appeared to be, then the chances of them not being there were fairly remote. "Perhaps you had family come to visit," he suggested. "Does that jog any memories? Meg wouldn't have been at work on the Monday."

  She shook her head. "Every day's the same. Weekdays, weekends, holidays. Nothing varies very much. Now, if you could tell me what was on the television, that would help me."

  Fraser tried a different tack. "It's a fair bet that Leo was here during the nights of Friday, May the twenty-seventh, possibly Monday the thirtieth, and very probably Tuesday the thirty-first. In fact, he may well have been in residence for the rest of that week and the week after. Does that help at all? In other words, did you notice him around more than usual? The last time I spoke to you, you said there was a lot of coming and going shortly before they left for France."

  "Well, I certainly noticed he was in and out rather more often than normal, but as to whether he was living with her"-she shook her head-"dates don't mean anything to me, Sergeant. And how on earth would I know if Leo stayed on a particular night? Frankly, Meg's love life was of no interest to either of us, and why would it be? We've enough troubles of our own."

  Fraser nodded sympathetically. "Leo had two very distinctive Mercedes convertibles, one black with beige leather upholstery, and the other white with burgundy seats. We think one or the other would have been parked outside whenever he was there. Do you remember seeing either of them at any point in the two weeks before they left for the holiday in France?"

  She gave her girlish squeal again. "I wouldn't know a Mercedes from a Jaguar," she said, "and I never notice cars, full stop, unless they're blocking my way. Dreadful invention."

  Fraser gave a quiet sigh of frustration. Mrs. Helms's epitaph of a few days previously-She never gave us any trouble-came rack to haunt him afresh. What a pity, he was thinking, because if she had, then Mrs. Helms might have taken a little more notice of her. He looked disconsolately towards her husband. "Perhaps Mr. Helms saw something?" he suggested.

  She shook her head vigorously. "Wouldn't notice a double-decker bus if it was parked in his lap," she said sotto voce. "Best not to bother him, really. It makes him anxious if he's bothered."

  But Fraser persisted, if only to reassure himself that he had left no stone unturned. "Can you help me, Mr. Helms? It is important or I wouldn't press the point. We have two unsolved murders, ind we need to establish why and when they happened."

  The thin face turned towards him and regarded him without expression for several seconds. "Which day was the second?"

  "Of June?"

  The other nodded.

  Fraser consulted his diary. "It was a Thursday."

  "I had a hospital appointment on the second. I came home by ambulance and the driver noticed the Mercedes. He said: "That's a new one, not seen that here before,' and I told him it belonged to downstairs and had been there two or three days."

  Fraser leaned forward. "On and off, or permanently?"

  "It was there each night," he managed with difficulty, "but not always during the day."

  "Can you remember when it left for good?"

  It was clear he had difficulty articulating words, and Fraser waited patiently for him to resume. "Not sure. Probably when they went to France."

  Fraser smiled encouragingly. "And would you be able to say which day that was, Mr. Helms?"

  The man nodded. "Clean-sheets day. Monday."

  "Goodness me," said Mrs. Helms, "do you know he's right. I'd just stripped the beds when Meg came with the cat food. Dumped the sheets in Henry's lap while I went out to talk to her. There now, and I'd quite forgotten."

  "That's grand," said Fraser. "We're making real progress. Did they leave together in the Mercedes?"

  Mr. Helms shook his head. "I didn't see. Anthea pushed me and the sheets into the kitchen." There was a look of irritation in his eyes and Fraser thought, You poor bloody sod, I bet she sorted the sheets on your lap as if you were a mobile laundry basket.

  "Did you happen to notice when Meg's car went? It's a dark green Ford Sierra. We've found it since in a street in Chelsea."

  "The Friday evening. Both cars went. Only the sports car came back."

  "With both Meg and Leo in it?"

  "Yes."

  "Which makes sense. They were clearing the decks before they left on holiday." He drummed his fingers on his knee and addressed his next question to Mrs. Helms. "Did Meg give any indication on the Monday that they had postponed their departure for any reason?''

  She pulled a face. "Not really. She just rang the doorbell, thrust the key and the food at me, and said they were off to France. Very odd, I thought."

  "Did anything else strike you as odd?"

  "Not really," she said again. "She hadn't done her hair, and her eyes were rather red, so I thought she might have been crying, but I put it down to a lovers' tiff."

  "Anything else?"

  "Well, saying Marmaduke had to be kept prisoner in the hall was a bit odd. She'd never done that before. Poor little fellow, it's no way to keep a cat."

  Fraser frowned and flicked through his papers. "Last time I spoke to you," he murmured, isolat
ing a page, "you said Meg was insistent that Marmaduke shouldn't go into any of the rooms."

  "That's right."

  "But just now you said she wanted him kept prisoner in the hall."

  "Well, yes. Same difference."

  "Can you remember her actual words, Mrs. Helms?"

  "Oh Lord. It's nearly three weeks ago." She screwed her face in concentration. "Let me see now. It was all over in half a second. 'You remember I said we were going to France, Mrs. Helms?' That's how she began. Well, of course, she'd never said anything of the sort but I was too polite to say so. 'And you promised you'd look after the cat?' she said next. Which annoyed me because I hadn't. I'd have said so, too, except she shoved the key and tin at me, and never gave me a chance to answer. 'The cat's imprisoned and will want to get out. Please be careful how you open the doors. I don't want any more damage done.' And that was all she said. And that's what I've done, though for the life of me I can't imagine why it was necessary. Damage never worried her before."

  "She said 'the cat' and not 'Marmaduke'?" The woman nodded. "And you were outside on the doorstep?"

  "That's right. She wouldn't come in."

  He pictured the little porch under the basement steps, and reali:zed then what had happened. Someone had been down there, listening, he thought. He tapped his pencil against his teeth. For Leo, read lion, read cat. 'Leo is imprisoned. Please be careful. I don't want any more damage done.' Jesus! What despair Meg must have felt, knowing her only chance resided in this irritatingly stupid woman. But if he was honest, would anyone have understood so cryptic a message?

  "Okay." He turned back to Mr. Helms. "What did they do on the Saturday and Sunday. Do you know? Did you notice anyone coming to the door?"

  His mouth worked. "Her friend came," he blurted. "The tall one. Saturday night." He raised a weak hand and dropped it onto his thigh. "Banged on the door. Said: 'You must be mad. What the hell are you doing?' "

  "Was it a woman?"

  "Yes."

  "Jinx Kingsley?"

  "Tall, dark. Drives a Rover Cabriolet. JIN 1-X."

  "When did she leave?"