"Anything else?" asked Cheever.
Clarke chuckled. "Isn't that enough to be getting on with? Good God, man, we've had them less than twenty-four hours. What else are you expecting?"
"Some reasonable fingerprint impressions," Cheever said. "You were doubtful yesterday, but perhaps you've had new thoughts today? If either of them have previous records, that's got to be the quickest route to identification."
"Yes, well, I'll be in a better position to judge that when we've got them out of the bags."
"What about the green nylon twine that was used to tie their hands and feet? Anything useful to say about that?''
"Not really. It's available in most garden centers, DIY stores, and supermarkets. Impossible to break and takes years and years to wear through. The knots were standard grannies, repeated several times to stop them slipping, and they were very tight, so presumably the victims struggled to get out of them. That's an avenue worth exploring. How does one man tie up two healthy adults? And when did he do it? Before he transported them to Ardingly, or after he got them there? If it was before, how did he get them to the middle of the forest? If it was after, why didn't one of them run away while the other was being trussed? I really think the most likely scenario is that you should be looking for two or more suspects."
DI Maddocks rubbed his jaw in thought. "Are you sure it was a hammer and not a heavy branch? If it was a branch, we could be looking at a rather more spontaneous attack. Our maniac, and I use the word advisedly, stumbles on a sleeping couple in the wood, renders them unconscious, ties them up, and then bludgeons them to death before absconding with their money. Could it have happened like that?"
"Not with a branch," said Dr. Clarke amiably. "Whatever made that neat hole in the woman's skull was cleanly and symmetrically shaped, very hard and heavy, and was probably at right angles to its shaft to penetrate so deeply. I wouldn't put my life on a sledgehammer, but I'd certainly put my savings on it."
The third policeman, Detective Sergeant Sean Fraser, who was leaning against the wall by the open window, stirred into life. "With respect, Governor," he said to Maddocks, "if it had been a spontaneous killing, we'd have found a car somewhere. A guy who buys his clothes at Harrods isn't going to hitch a lift to Ardingly Woods for a snooze with his bird." He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers against his leather jacket sleeve. "It's interesting listening to the doctor's description of how it happened. Pick any war you like, and you'll have seen film footage of victims kneeling in front of open graves before they're dispatched with a shot in the back of the head to topple forward into the pit. I'd say it's a fair bet these two were executed."
The others digested this in silence for a moment.
"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. God, he was unattractive.
"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, "b
ut 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 as you seem to be, then I'd go and mug some poor old woman for the money. I can't see what's stopping you."
"You're just like everybody else," he said angrily. "Go and knock down old ladies, beat the shit out of a bank manager, steal some kid's piggy bank. Jesus, I'm not a criminal. All I want is one bloody hit. You should listen to the doc sometime. 'What's keeping you here, Matthew? You're over twenty-one, you know what you're doing, so go phone your supplier, get him to bring you something.' I bloody rang my old man and told him, 'The doc's not trying to cure me, he's trying to encourage me, and this is what you're paying for.' "
"What did your father say?"
"He said: 'No one's stopping you, Matthew, so go ahead and do it.' I don't know what the hell's wrong with everyone. How about that walk then? Do you fancy a walk?"
"I can't," she said rather curtly. "My legs aren't strong enough yet."
"Yeah, I forgot. You tried to top yourself. Okay, I'll get a wheelchair then."
"I suppose Dr. Protheroe told you I was suicidal," she said bitterly.
"Shit, no. Like I said, he doesn't do a damn thing. Everyone knows about you. You've been in the papers. Millionaire's daughter who tried to kill herself."
"I didn't try to kill myself."
"How would you know? The word is you can't remember a thing."
She turned on him. "You bloody little shit," she said. "What the fuck would you know about anything?"
He touched a surprisingly soft finger to the tears on her cheek. "I've been there," he said.
She was still standing in front of the window twenty minutes later, propped against the chair, when Alan Protheroe came in. "I have a message for you from Matthew," he told her. "It goes something like this: 'Tell the bird in number twelve that I've found a wheelchair but it's so filthy that I'm having to clean it. She probably wouldn't say no to some sodding lunch in the garden, so I've laid it out for her under the beech tree.' " His amiable face broke into a grin. "Does that charming invitation appeal at all, Jinx, or should I tell him I've ordered you back to bed? As before, he totally ignored the Do Not Disturb sign outside your door, so in my view he hasn't earned your company for lunch, and the chances are he'll bore you solid with constant reiterations of his urge to shoot smack. However, it's an entirely free choice."
She smiled rather cynically back at him. "I'm beginning to understand how you operate, Dr. Protheroe."
"Are you?"
"Yes. You work on the principle that people always do the opposite of what the figure in authority is telling them to do."
"Not necessarily," he said. "I'm interested in encouraging each individual to establish his own set of values, and it's remarkably unimportant what triggers that process off."
"Then you force us to make choices all the time."
"I don't force anyone to do anything, Jinx."
She frowned. "Well, what am I supposed to do? Have lunch with Matthew or tell him to shove his head in a bucket. I mean, he's a patient too. I wouldn't want to do the wrong thing."
He shrugged. "It's nothing to do with me. He'll clean the wheelchair till it shines, because he's made up his mind you're worth it. His brain's a bit one-tracked at the moment, because he's been doing drugs for years, but his father's a barrister and his mother's in advertising, and ten years ago he got three A levels, so he can't be entirely stupid. It's a free choice, Jinx."
"I wish you wouldn't keep saying that. In my philosophy, there's no such thing as a free choice any more than there are free lunches. You always pay in the end." She allowed him to see her dislike. "And, as a matter of interest, if you're prepared to tell me so much about Matthew, then what have you told him about me?"
He arched an amused eyebrow. "I said the bird in number twelve is streets brighter than you, went to Oxford to read classics, and probably thinks you're a greasy-haired git who hasn't got the balls to go out and knock down an old lady for the sake of a hit. Which is pretty close to the truth, isn't it? He related most of the conversation you had with him."
"Spot on," she said tightly. "I couldn't have put it better myself."
"So, what do I tell him? That you'd like to have lunch with him in a wheelchair, or that you wouldn't?"
"You know I wouldn't."
He tipped a finger at her. "Then that's what I'll tell him." With the briefest of waves he disappeared through the door.
"NO!" she shouted. "COME BACK!" But he didn't come back and, more angry than she could ever remember, she set off across the floor and thrust herself out of her own doorway. "DR. PROTHEROE!" she screamed at his retreating figure. "DON'T YOU DARE SAY A WORD, YOU BLOODY, SODDING BASTARD!"
He turned round and started to walk back. "You do want to have lunch with Matthew?"
She waited until he had reached her. "Not particularly," she said quietly, "but I will."
"Why?" he asked curiously. "Why do something you don't want to do?"
"Because you won't tell him no kindly. You'll tell him exactly what I told you, and I don't want you to do that. He's been nicer to me than anyone else and I think you might hurt him."
"You're right on every count, Jinx."
She gave a bored sigh. "Oh for God's sake. Look, I know why you're doing it. You're no different from Stephanie Fellowes. You want me to get out of this room, you want me to stop feeling sorry for myself, and you want me to start mixing again. But why can't you just say, 'Do it, please, Jinx, because it's good for you?' Why involve that wretched boy in your silly games? He's not responsible for what's happened to me."
Why couldn't she see that the room he wanted her to leave was the one in her mind? What was keeping her there? "I agree, but I didn't involve him, he involved himself." He tapped the Do Not Disturb notice taped to the wall beside her door. "Don't you think it's a little patronizing to refer to him as a 'wretched boy,' Jinx? He's twenty-eight and doesn't require protection from me or from you." He grinned broadly. "And one last point: as a matter of policy, I never instruct anyone to do anything. You either do things willingly, or you don't do them at all. My credibility's at stake here. I can't have people refusing. It would undermine everything I stand for."
"Then please tell Matthew thank you very much and yes, I'd love to have lunch with him." She reached up and tore off the notice, crumpled it into a ball and threw it at him. "As a good existentialist, Dr. Protheroe, I'm sure you know why I did that."
His thundering laugh boomed along the corridor as he walked away, tossing the ball into the air and catching it again. "Because you enjoyed it,'' he said over his shoulder.
She was wheeled around the gardens like a highly prized pig in a wheelbarrow, with her lanky escort showing her off with pride to anyone who was interested. She loathed every minute of it, spent the entire time chain-smoking, and ground her teeth at what she regarded as a Protheroe-inspired hijack. She perked up when, at the end of a tour of the boundary wall, they came to the main gate and paused by the gatekeeper's box. He glanced at them briefly through the window, then resumed his reading of the newspaper. Jinx gestured towards the unrestricted exit. "Why don't we just keep going?" she suggested. "You can get some smack and I can take a taxi home."
"Sure," said Matthew. "You take it over then."
She squinted up at him. "Take over what?"
He made pushing motions with his hands. "The wheels. It's no skin off my nose if you want to scarper. You're not my responsibility." He squatted down beside her. "But if you want out, why don't you just tell the doc and phone for a taxi from your room?''
She shrugged. "Probably for the same reason you don't."
"Yeah," he said. "Reckon the guy fr
om the band's got it about right. What he says is, when you've flung yourself into the ultimate abyss and you're still alive when you reach the bottom, it's probably worth asking yourself what the hell you're doing down there. So, do you want lunch? Or do you want out?"
"Both," said Jinx, "but I'll settle for lunch. You're not a rebel at all, are you?"
Matthew grinned. "That depends," he said.
"On what?"
"Cui bono? If it's me who gains, then I might be interested. What's the deal?"
"I don't know yet," she said thoughtfully, "but I'll tell you this for free. If you ever manage to kick the habit, you could make millions. You're even more manipulative than my father."
"It takes one to recognize one," he said, spinning her round. "You're not exactly backward in that direction yourself. Hold tight now. Let's see how fast this contraption will go." He bent down to press her back into the seat, and as he did so, she turned her head to smile at him.
The shock of deja vu was so extreme that she flung her hand out instinctively and caught him a glancing blow across the face. Meg and Russell ... Meg and Leo ... BLOOD ... Whore ... whore ... WHORE.
*7*
At the outset Bobby Franklyn had been careful with the four stolen credit cards, all of which carried the flamboyant signature that was so easy to copy. He had started in a modest way with purchases under thirty pounds to avoid incurring the inevitable telephone checks, but after two days he was seduced by a leather jacket at one hundred and fifty pounds and caution gave way to greed. He sweated under the beady eye of the shop manager while the call for authorization was made, only to hit an adrenaline high when the jacket was handed to him and he knew that the cards had still not been reported missing. In the next five days, using each in turn, he bought goods to the value of six thousand pounds without, apparently, ever reaching any of the credit ceilings. He had yet to touch the woman's cards.
Dark Room Page 7
