Dark Room

money and possessions; Meg thought principally in terms of money and sexual gratification. Do you seriously believe either of them would dwell on the death of Miss Kingsley's husband? Meg was probably upset for a while, but as I recollect, her diary recorded her going to bed with a complete stranger less than a month later, and there's no evidence Leo even knew Russell. Frankly, if they ever thought about him at all, it was almost certainly in terms of a burglary gone wrong.'

He went on. 'The only one haunted by the wretched man's death was his widow, but even she got over it eventually. Sure, she's kept herself to herself rather more than most, but she's made an independent life, refused any help from her father, who she suspects is a murderer, and she's come out on top at the end of it. Then the nightmare starts all over again. She embarks on another attempt at marriage, only to find that Leo's no different from Russell and that she's making another mistake.' It was his turn to smile maliciously at thrice-married Maddocks. 'Which isn't so unusual in all conscience. People tend to be attracted by the same type every time. What is unusual is that her first marriage ended in murder instead of divorce, and Meg was involved with both men.'

'So she goes apeshit and kills for a second time.' said Maddocks.

'You still haven't explained why they didn't leave on the fourth,' Cheever reminded him wearily.

'Because they couldn't go until the eleventh, sir. Meg had a business to keep afloat and Leo had investments to look after. The eleventh was the earliest day they could leave.'

'You're guessing again.'

'Yes, but it makes sense. Look, Jane is privately convinced her father had her husband killed, probably because the police profile persuaded her. She may even suspect he knew about the affair with Meg, which would have given him a motive. But when she tries to convince Meg and Leo, they're highly skeptical. However, they feel guilty enough about their own affair to humor her. They agree to keep the whole thing under wraps until they can leave for France-and that probably suits them anyway, because they know they'll be castigated when the news leaks out. Meanwhile Jane has to face the week in Hampshire with her family. If she doesn't go, questions will be asked. If she does, she has to pretend the wedding's still on. So she pretends. She returns to London on the Friday for the mythical row when Leo tells her he's going to marry Meg, all three make their phone calls on the Saturday morning, and Meg and Leo scarper.' He paused. 'That was the plan anyway.'

'Then Josh Hennessey persuades Meg she's being a first-class bitch and they delay their departure till the Monday,' Frank said, driving another arrow through his cupid's heart. 'Which brings Jane scurrying round on the Saturday night, asking them why the hell they're still there.'

'It's as plausible as the Gov's scenario, sir.'

'What about the business in her garage on Sunday?' demanded Maddocks. 'How does that fit in?'

'How does it fit in with your scenario?' countered Fraser.

'It was a fake, like the second one. The more attempts she made, the more protective her father would become.'

'With respect, Gov, that's bullshit,' snapped Fraser. 'Like Colonel Clancey said, if she wanted people to believe it was suicide, then she'd have wept all over him and his wife. Plus, she's done her damnedest to persuade us since that she's not the suicidal type. It doesn't add up. And another thing. You keep harping on about this protection her father's supposed to be giving her. Well, where the hell is it? He's not been near her. He's far more interested in salvaging his precious business.'

''He's paying four hundred quid a day to a corrupt quack to let her pretend she's an amnesiac. I tell you, if we could get her in here for questioning, she'd spew the lot before you could say Jack Robinson.'

Frank listened to this heated exchange with ill temper. 'I'm going home,' he said abruptly. 'We'll pack it in and sleep on it.' He started to lift his jacket off the back of his chair, then paused. 'Why did she tell Fordingbridge that the last thing she remembered was saying good-bye to Leo on the fourth of June if he wasn't even in her house?' he demanded of Fraser. 'And don't tell me she was manipulating events when she was semiconscious, because I'll hit you from here to Salisbury and back if you even try.'

'No sir, I'm not.' He glared at Maddocks, who was smirking. 'Look, there's no question she was concussed and there's no question, either, that she thought the accident happened on the fourth. I'm sure, to that extent, her amnesia was genuine. It may still be, for all I know. But I've done a bit of reading, and I'm guessing that story's what's called confabulation. In other words, she made it up. It was the story she was going to tell her father when she saw him on the fourth, the one she probably rehearsed all the way down in the car and then delivered convincingly. Leo's fine. I kissed him good-bye over breakfast. He sends his regards. The fact that it wasn't true is neither here nor there. It remained in her memory as something that happened, because she knew that's what she had to say to her father when she saw him.'

'So her father's our murderer?'

'I'd say it's a probability, sir.'

Frank stood up, thrusting his arms into his jacket sleeves. 'You're right about one thing, Sergeant,' he said acidly. 'This is a carbon-copy of the Landy case. We have the same two suspects, and no likelihood of bringing a prosecution against either of them unless someone finds me some evidence.'

THURSDAY, 30TH JUNE, THE HAWTREE ESTATE, WINCHESTER-3:30 A.M.

The child's screams rent the air as they had done every night for the last two weeks. In the kitchen, Rex started barking. 'CINDY!' yelled her mother, thrusting her arms into her dressing gown and storming across the landing to throw open her daughter's bedroom door. 'I've had enough.' She seized the child and shook her furiously. 'Either you tell me what this is all about or I'm taking you to the doctor. Do you hear me? DO- YOU-HEAR-ME? I can't stand it any longer.'

THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-6:30 A.M.

Alan Protheroe slept badly that night. At six o'clock he finally gave up the struggle, rolled out of bed with a groan, dressed, and went for a jog in the grounds of the clinic. It had rained during the night and the grass was sodden under his feet. Water oozed through the fabric of his running shoes, his cheek hurt where the shards of glass had cut the skin, and his shoulder ached with every step he took. What the hell was he doing? Jogging was for masochists, not for cynical middle-aged doctors who knew that death was as random and unfair as government health policies.

With a sense of relief at a decision made, he hobbled to a bench on the terrace and sat down to view the misty landscape. Far away beyond the clinic boundaries, low hills rose purple against a pale summer sky. Closer in, the majestic spire of Salisbury's beautiful cathedral showed above the myriad greens of the treetops. He viewed it, as ever, with weary pessimism. Perhaps it could survive the terrible encroachment of man and man's devices, but he doubted it.

'You look very thoughtful,' said Jinx, slipping onto the seat beside him.