The Dark Room

by Minette Walters

  ‘Just luck, Flossie. He’s a bit of a playboy, this creep. If you’re interested, the photograph was faxed through to us from The Tatler. You got done over by one of society’s best. His dad’s a multi-millionaire.’

  Flossie shook her head. ‘It makes you wonder what the world’s coming to. What’s he doing trawling Salisbury for cheap old tarts like me if he can afford the high-class ones in London?’

  Blake couldn’t answer that.

  The Studio, Pimlico, London – 1.00 p.m.

  Dean Jarrett was effusively helpful. ‘Well, of course, dear,’ he told Fraser, ladling out the charm while sussing him coolly from the corner of his eye. He thought this policeman looked less of a homophobe than most, might even, if the friendly smile was anything to go by, be tolerably sympathetic towards Jinx and her bizarre entourage at the studio. Certainly, he had taken Angelica’s pink hair in his stride and appeared unfazed by Dean’s flirting. ‘I can give you a blow-by-blow account of everything Jinx did from Tuesday the thirty-first until Friday the third. But after that it’s a complete no-no, I’m afraid. She was at Hell Hall the next week, and we didn’t hear a dicky bird out of her – didn’t expect to, of course, because she was on her hols – and then she did a vanishing trick on us. Angelica phoned and phoned on the Monday, when she was supposed to be here, and all she got was Jinx’s answerphone.’

  ‘That would be the thirteenth of June?’

  ‘It would. And then, on the Tuesday, we heard the awful news that the poor mite was unconscious in hospital somewhere. I suppose you’ve seen her. Is she all right?’

  His face contorted itself into a moue of concern, and Fraser nodded reassuringly, even if he did find the expression less than sincere. ‘She seems fine. A bit hazy about what happened, but otherwise very alert and very composed.’

  ‘Isn’t she amazing?’ said Dean. ‘Quite my most favourite lady.’

  ‘Yet you haven’t been to see her,’ said Fraser dispassionately, ‘or not as far as we know. Is there some reason for that?’

  The moue vanished abruptly. ‘Yes, well, unlike the Josh Hennesseys and Simon Harrises of this world, who both tell me they’ve inflicted themselves on her, I prefer to wait for an invitation. Imagine the awfulness of feeling like death and having well-meaning friends impose themselves on you. Jinx is a very private person. Half the time I think she’s completely ignorant of how much we all adore her, the other half I retreat into my little shell because I’m afraid the truth is we bore her rigid.’ He sighed. ‘In any case I didn’t know where she was for ages. Her brute of a father wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Still, I’m surprised she wasn’t worried about the studio.’

  Dean gave a squeak of distress. ‘How crushing you are, Sergeant. Don’t you feel the poor darling has rather more pressing concerns at the moment than leaving her business in the hands of the second best photographer in London?’

  Fraser’s lips twitched. ‘What did you think of Leo?’

  ‘He was absolutely dire. A real leech, but could Jinx see it? Well, you know what the trouble is, she’s blinkered when it comes to a pretty face. Falls for the outside, and forgets that what’s underneath is more important. It’s her father’s fault. He looks like an old vulture and he’s always been so damn distant with her that she assumes a pretty face means a pretty personality.’ He rolled his eyes to Heaven. ‘I hate to say it, because he’s a very rude man, but I actually think Adam Kingsley is probably worth ten Leo Walladers. If the number of phone calls he’s made, checking up on me and Angelica, is anything to go by, he cares about Jinx a great deal more than she’s ever given him credit for. My God, if we’d thought about letting things slide – which we haven’t – he’d have been round here tearing our innards out.’

  Fraser grinned. ‘You’ve met him then?’

  ‘I was introduced the first time he paid one of his terrifying visits,’ said Dean with a shudder, ‘as was Angie. But as I’m gay and she’s black, it was hardly the social event of the century. He washed his hands afterwards in case he’d caught something. On all subsequent visits, he has grunted rudely in our direction and swept through to talk to Jinxy in private.’

  ‘Why are his visits terrifying?’

  ‘Because he insists on bringing his tame gorilla with him.’ Dean rolled his eyes again. ‘Says he’s the chauffeur but since when did chauffeurs need fifty-four-inch chests? The man is there to make mincemeat of anyone who dares say boo to the boss.’

  ‘That’s not so unusual these days, you know. A bodyguard-cum-chauffeur. Most millionaires have them. You said Mr Kingsley’s distant, but would you also say he’s fond of Jinx?’

  ‘Yes, in a brooding sort of way. He never touches her, just sits and stares at her as though she were a piece of Dresden china. I get the feeling he can’t really believe she’s his. I mean he’s common as muck, after all, and she’s such a lady, and the only other two children he had are A-one arseholes.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Fond isn’t the right word. I think he idolizes her.’

  ‘How does she feel about that?’

  ‘Loathes it, but then you have to understand that he’s not idolizing Jinx, he’s idolizing the person he thinks she is. I mean, you’d have to be mentally deficient to see Jinx as Dresden china. A piece of good solid Staffordshire pottery that bounces when you drop it and retains its integrity through a thousand washes, that’s a better analogy.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Jinx put him straight?’

  ‘She’s tried, dear, but there’s none so blind as those who will not see. She was going to marry Leo Wallader, for God’s sake. What better demonstration could there be of flawed judgement and appalling taste? Not that her father could see it, of course. Leo had blue blood in his veins, so he must have been a cut above the rest of us.’

  Fraser smiled. ‘Tell me about Tuesday, May the thirty-first,’ he invited.

  ‘That was a very busy day. We had a teenage band here all morning who thought they were the bee’s knees. Their record company wanted some publicity shots and it was like drawing blood from a stone to get them to do anything other than simper into the lens.’ He thought for a moment. ‘OK, in the afternoon we did some location work round Charing Cross station for a television company. Atmospheric stills for a documentary on homelessness. We clocked off about six, because Jinx wanted to get home in reasonably good time.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  He shook his silver head. ‘But she was in a brilliant mood all day and, when I asked her if we could thank Leo for it, she said: “In one respect, I suppose you can.” So I said: “Don’t tell me, darling, he’s finally come up trumps in the rogering department.” And she said: “Don’t be absurd, Dean, Leo would need to be face down on a mirror to do that.” And I thought, thank God, she’s finally seen the light, but, for once, I was far too tactful to say it.’

  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 night-time shots as well, so we didn’t clock 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 egg shells 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 tha
t 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 any more, 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 favour, 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’d have bopped him on the nose several times. He was a complete slime-ball.’

  ‘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 cancelled 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.’

  ‘OK, 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 favourite 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. 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 show 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. OK, OK. 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 on to 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 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 should Miles Kingsley have murdered his sister’s husband, fiancé 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 favour 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 say 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 other.’

  The announcement that Adam Kingsley had resigned in favour of his number two, John Normans, was released through Franchise Holdings’ London headquarters at twelve o’clock. At one o’clock on 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 of 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.’

  Incident Room, Romse
y Road Police Station, Winchester – 1.45 p.m.

  The message over the radio crackled with excitement. ‘Listen, sir, a Porsche, registration number MIL 1, has just left Hellingdon Hall by the tradesman’s 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 back-up?’

  ‘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 on to the A338, Guv’nor. 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 neighbour 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 on to 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.’