The Dark Room (40 page)

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, Romsey 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.’

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. Week days, 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? Before when 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 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 back 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, and 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
lover’s tiff.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Well, saying Marmaduke had to be kept a 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 we spoke,’ he murmured, isolating 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 realized 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 were honest, would anyone have understood so cryptic a message?

‘OK.’ 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 on to 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 1X.’

‘When did she leave?’

But Mr Helms shook his head. ‘Anthea likes television. I’m not allowed to sit here all the time.’

‘I should think not,’ said his wife sharply. ‘The neighbours would get quite the wrong idea if you did. They’d say I was neglecting you.’

Fraser flicked the man a sympathetic glance. ‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘Did you happen to notice any other visitors?’