'What sort of execution are we talking about?' asked Superintendent Cheever finally. 'If it was a professional contract killing, we'd be looking at X rays of bullet holes. You said yourself, a shot in the back of the head. I can't see a pro using a sledgehammer.'
'I've known gangs take each other apart with baseball bats, sir,' said Fraser, 'but looking at what we've got, a man and a woman, mid-thirties to forties, I'd say it's a jealous husband we should be after. An execution of passion, that's my guess.'
Cheever punted the idea about his head. 'I still don't understand why no one's reported them missing. Well- dressed people don't vanish for two weeks without anyone noticing.'
'Unless it's their families who've done away with them,' said Maddocks. 'Perhaps we've got a Menendez situation on our hands, wealthy parents slaughtered by teenage sons out of greed for money or revenge for prolonged sexual abuse, depending on who you believe. It happens far too often for comfort. There was Jeremy Bamber-remember him?-did away with his entire family for the house and money and then tried to blame it all on his dead sister. Makes you wonder why any of us bothers to lumber ourselves with the next generation.'
Dr. Clarke consulted his watch and stood up. 'Well, unlike you chaps, I don't earn enough to make it worth my children's while. A little kudos now and then for getting it right, that's my only real satisfaction for all the hours I put in on your behalf. Look for the bloodstains. Your individual, or more likely your duo or trio, will have had quantities of bright red hemoglobin splattered across their fronts. Someone, somewhere, will have seen it and said: 'Ah!' '
'Assuming Joe Public notices anything beyond his stomach and his prick,' said Maddocks sourly.
'All being well,' went on Clarke, opening the door, 'I should be able to pinpoint their ages a little better for you by the end of the day, probably get some usable fingerprints, and in addition, tell you if the woman has ever given birth.' He ushered them into the corridor. 'But first I'll have to unzip those charming bags. Care to lend a hand, any of you?' He was chortling to himself as he headed for the lab.
'He's a miserable old fraud,' said Superintendent Cheever to the others. 'He earns twice as much as I do and puts in half the hours.'
The smell of death issued from the lab as the pathologist opened the door and went inside.
'I suppose you noticed,' said Maddocks, grinning at his boss while nodding towards the young sergeant, whose face had taken on an unhealthy hue under its thatch of blond hair, 'that the good doctor ate his biscuits without washing his hands.'
THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-MIDDAY
Jinx was standing in her bay window, leaning against the back of a chair for support. She was aware of the ginger head poked around her door for a long time before she said anything. 'Why don't you come in?' she said finally to the pane of glass in front of her.
'You talking to me?'
'There's no one else here.'
Matthew eased his thin frame through the gap in the door and joined her in her study of the garden. He found it impossible to stand still for very long, and out of the corner of her eye, she watched his nervous twitching with amusement.
'Are you religious?' he asked bluntly.
'Why do you ask?'
'You had a vicar in here yesterday. Thought you might be one of the God squad.'
She flicked him a sideways glance, saw he was busy picking at the spots on his chin, and resumed her own scrutiny of the sunlit lawn and the people on it. 'He's the brother of a friend of mine. Came to see how I was. Nothing more sinister than that.'
He gestured towards a man on the right. 'See the guy in the checked shirt and blue trousers? Recognize him? Singer with Black Night. Used to shoot smack every two hours. Now look at him. And the guy next to him. Owns a freight company, but couldn't do the business unless he downed two bottles of whiskey a day. Now he's dry.'
'How do you know?'
'I've done group therapy with them.'
'Did Dr. Protheroe ask you to come and see me?' she asked cynically. 'Is this group therapy by the back door?'
'Do me a favor. The doc never asks anyone to do anything, just sits back and rakes in the loot.' He kicked his toe at the carpet. 'The way I see it, the less he does the longer we're here, and the better he's pleased. It's money for old rope, this lark.'
'He's obviously doing something right,' Jinx pointed out, 'or none of the patients would improve.'
Matthew ran a shaky hand around his stubble. 'Just keeps us away from temptation, that's all. There's no booze here, no drugs, but my guess is everyone looks for a hit the minute they leave. I'm sure as hell going to. Jesus, it's a bloody morgue, this place. No excitement, no bloody fun, death by boredom. I'd fix myself now if I could lay my hands on something.'
She was suddenly tired of him. 'Then why don't you?'
'I just said, there are no drugs on the premises.'
'There must be some. I was offered a sleeping pill last night. Why don't you dissolve a few and shoot them,' she said evenly. 'It'd be a hit of sorts, wouldn't it?'
'Not the sort I want, and where'd I get a syringe from?'
She glanced at him again. 'Then walk out. Go into town. Or are we prisoners here?'
'No,' he muttered, rubbing his arms as if he were cold, 'but someone would see. This place is crawling with security officers in case the proles get at the rich and famous. Anyway, what would I use for money? They take it off you when you first come in.'
Which presumably explained why she didn't have her handbag. There were a few clothes in her wardrobe, but no handbag. She had assumed it'd been lost in the crash. 'Well,' she said with idle sarcasm, 'if I was as desperate
