'Hit a pothole and lost control,' suggested Maddocks.
'Except there isn't anything big enough, not on this stretch. That's what I was checking for. She could have driven at any of the three sides that face onto the tarmac but she chose the one with the best approach. If she was intent on killing herself, then there was nothing to stop her driving in a dead straight line.'
'She changed her mind at the last minute,' said Maddocks. 'Didn't fancy it so much when she saw the wall rushing towards her and tried to pull out of it.'
'Yes, that's a possibility.' He turned with his back to the wall and surveyed the area that would have been behind the car. 'Why didn't she start farther off and use the greater distance to build up her speed? Why sit here and rev up the engine?''
'Because it was dark and she needed to see the wall.'
'It was ten o'clock on one of the longest days in the year. She could have seen that thing two, three hundred yards away.'
'All right, then she parked herself here, sat staring at the wall while she drank herself stupid, then suddenly made up her mind to do it. Look, sir, I know what you're getting at. You're saying that attempted murder isn't out of the question. Someone got her drunk-though I have to say that's a mystery in itself-picked the best piece of ground for the car to stay in a straight line, made it near enough to the stanchion to preclude too much divergence from the track, stuck her unconscious in the driving seat, put the car into drive, wedged the accelerator flat down with one of the empty bottles, and released the brake. At which point, brave Miss Kingsley comes out of her drunken stupor, sees what's happening, tries to steer clear, realizes she can't make it so throws herself out of the open door.' He gave a sour smile. 'Apart from the fact that you'd do yourself a hell of a lot of damage leaning in to release the hand brake of a car on full throttle, why on earth didn't he finish her off when she threw herself out?'
'You wouldn't use the hand brake,' said Frank. 'You'd use the foot brake with some sort of brace-a piece of two by four maybe, a sledgehammer, even'-he lifted a teasing eyebrow-'between the metal frame of the seat and the pedal, with a rope attached. Then you'd wedge your throttle and use the rope to yank the brace away. The other alternative would be to chock the tires and not use the brakes at all.' He gestured towards the ground. 'But I think it'd be obvious if chocks had been used.'
'And the fact that he didn't bother to finish her off?' muttered Maddocks sarcastically.
'Perhaps he thought he had,' said the Superintendent mildly, 'or perhaps he didn't have time to check.' He was silent for a moment. 'Would you care to explain to me why this little exercise is making you so angry?'
'Because she's guilty as hell, sir. The whole thing was a setup to get her old man's sympathy. I can't see it makes a blind bit of difference which approach she chose, how far away she was when she started, whether chocks were used, or when she was found. She was in control of the car from the moment she set off.'
Frank scuffed his foot over the broken surface of the tarmac. 'She could have torn the skin off her face throwing herself out of a speeding car onto this. Why not choose something less painful?'
'Because she likes drama,' said Maddocks dismissively. 'Anyway, she didn't tear the skin off her face. She's not going to be permanently disfigured once her hair grows and the bruises fade. All things considered, she came off very lightly. Too lightly for attempted murder or genuine suicide, wouldn't you say?'
CANNING ROAD POLICE STATION-4:45 P.M.
'Look,' said Miles angrily to the two police officers sitting opposite him, 'how many times do I have to tell you? I've never been to a prostitute in my life. Why would I need to? Jesus, I had my first lay when I was fifteen.' He banged his fist on the table. 'I don't know any Flossie Hale and I don't know any Samantha Garrison, and if I wanted to shaft a forty-six-year-old, which I bloody well don't, I could shaft Dad's housekeeper for free. She'd probably pay me if I asked her. She's had the hots for me for years.'
'You have a very high opinion of yourself, Miles,' said the Sergeant.
'Why shouldn't I?'
'No reason except that men who talk big tend to be better in theory than they are in practice.'
'What do you expect me to do? Burst into tears and say I'm so fucking inadequate I need to pay some old slag to give me a good time? Do me a favor.'
'Is that what you'd do if you felt you were inadequate?' asked Blake.
Miles shrugged and lit a cigarette.
She turned to the tape recorder on the table. 'Mr. Kingsley's response was a shrug.'
'Like hell it was,' said Miles furiously. 'Mr. Kingsley's response is, I'm not fucking inadequate so I wouldn't fucking well know what I'd fucking do if I was.' He yelled into the microphone. 'HAVE YOU FUCKING WELL GOT THAT?'
'Calm down, Miles,' said the Sergeant wearily. 'You'll break the machine if you keep shouting at it. Why don't you just tell us where you were and what you were doing on the night of the twenty-second?'
'You've asked me that same sodding question a hundred times and I've given the same sodding answer a hundred times. I was at home till eight-thirty, when I left to visit Jinx.'
'And we don't believe you. Tell me, will the randy housekeeper lie for you, the way you claim your mother and brother will?'
'I never said they'd be lying.' He looked at his watch. 'Oh God! Look, I've got to get out of here. Are you going to charge me or not? Because if you're not, then I want out.'
'Why? What's happening at five o'clock that's so important?'
'I owe money, you moron,' said Miles through gritted teeth, 'and I need to buy a bit more time. That's what's happening at five o'clock. Why the hell do you think I went to see Jinxy. Okay, so we shout at each other a bit, but she's always come through in the past.'
There was a tap on the door and a second WPC looked in. 'I've got a Mr. Kennedy out here, Sarge. He says Mr. Kingsley's his client.'
'Okay, show him in. Tape stopped at four fifty-one p.m.'
