"Jinx," he called, fumbling open the door and hauling himself out and upright with a hand on the car roof. "Are you all right?"
Silence.
"Look, I saw you." God help him if he'd hit her. He used the red light thrown by his rear lamps to scan the grass verge behind the car, but there was no huddled body there. "I know you can hear me," he went on, staring into the trees, searching for her. He walked round to lean against the passenger door. Sooner or later she would have to move and he d see the flash of the white face again. "I think you're a fraud, Jinx. The amnesia's crap and I don't believe for one second that you tried to kill yourself. It was a setup, pure and simple, designed to get your father on your side, and it sure as hell worked, even if you probably did yourself rather more damage than you intended. So are you going to tell me what it's all about?" He waited. "I should warn you I'm feeling pretty bloody ratty at the moment, and my mood isn't improved by hanging around in my own sodding drive because one of my patients wants to play silly buggers. But don't expect me to give up tamely and leave you here. You move one muscle, girl, and I'll catch you. So are you going to show yourself, or are we going to wait this out till daylight? Your choice."
There was a blur of movement, so quick and so close that he was completely overwhelmed by it. He lurched to one side but pain exploded in his shoulder as the solid metal head of a sledgehammer tore his arm from its socket. He ducked away from another arcing blow and scrambled round the hood of the car towards the open door of the driver's seat. With an instinct born of desperation, he threw himself behind the wheel and slammed the door. But as he reached across his chest to force the gear clumsily into reverse, the sledgehammer burst through the windshield towards his face.
Amy Staunton looked at her watch. "What's Dr. Protheroe want half-hourly checks for anyway?" she grumbled. "The girl's been fast asleep since ten o'clock."
"Ours not to question why," said Veronica Gordon. "Ours just to do or die. Finish your tea. I can't see five minutes making much difference here or there."
He didn't know if it was sweat or blood that was pouring down his face. As the car accelerated backwards, he only knew that he was in agony. With a sense of unreality he watched the figure-a man-vanish into the darkness before the Wolseley's back end piled into a solid oak tree. What the hell was going on?
The door handle of number 12 rattled and the door was pushed half open as the black nurse looked into the pitch-darkness inside. She heard something, and with a start of fear, she felt about for the light switch. "Are you all right, love?" She flooded the room with light, glanced at the bed, where Jinx was threshing her sheets into a tumbled mess, then looked towards the French windows, where the curtains flapped in the breeze. Tut-tutting impatiently, she crossed the room to close and lock the window; then she went to the bed and placed a gentle hand on the woman's forehead.
As though galvanized by an electric shock, Jinx sat bolt upright in the bed, mouth sucking frenziedly for air. She couldn't breathe ... dear God, she couldn't breathe ... She clutched at her throat in a vain attempt to dislodge whatever was blocking her airway. But it was earth, filthy acrid earth ... and it was killing her ... NO-O-O! She flung herself off the bed and burst through the bathroom door, wrenching at the cold-water tap in the basin and ducking her head under the icy water. She drew in breath on a gasp of shock and let the sweet, sweet water wash the taste of death away.
"Oh good God, girl," screeched the nurse, "what's got into you? You being sick? What you been taking? What you doing with your clothes on? You was fast asleep last time I checked."
Jinx slumped to the floor and stared at her from red-rimmed eyes. "It was a dream, Amy," she whispered. "Only a dream."
"Ooh, you're a wicked girl. I've never had such a fright in my life. You just wait till I tell Dr. Protheroe. I thought you'd done for yourself good and proper.'' She beat her chest. "I could have had a heart attack. And why did you open your windows? Top panes only after nine o'clock, that's the rule. What you been up to?"
Jinx curled into a ball on the tiled floor. "Nothing," she said.
Bodies in Wood Identified
It was confirmed last night by Hampshire police that the two bodies discovered in Ardingly Woods near Winchester on Thursday have been identified as Leo Wallader, 35, of Downton Court, Ashwell, Guildford, and Meg Harris, 34, of Shoebury Terrace, Hammersmith, London. Police are treating their deaths as murder.
Information about the identity of the two victims came from Leo's father. Sir Anthony Wallader, 69, who is angry about what he calls police apathy over the affair. "I identified my son's body on Saturday morning," he claims, "but have had no contact with the Hampshire police since. They tell me my son and his girlfriend were murdered some two weeks ago, yet there is no urgency to the inquiries. I have been contacted by Meg's mother, who lives in Wiltshire, and she is as upset by the police lethargy as I am. We feel it may have something to do with the fact that both sets of parents live outside the County. If this was a Surrey police investigation I would have more confidence."
It is no secret that Leo Wallader was engaged to Jane Kingsley, daughter of Adam Kingsley of Hellingdon Hall, Hampshire, Chairman of FranchiseHoldings, but the wedding was canceled when Leo announced he wanted to marry Jane's friend Meg Harris.
Subsequently, Miss Kingsley was involved in a mysterious car crash on a disused airfield. Police believe this to have been a failed suicide attempt. Despite her testing positive for alcohol when she was rescued from her car, Hampshire police have still failed to charge Miss Kingsley with any offense.
Jane Kingsley's first husband, Russell Landy, was clubbed to death ten years ago with a sledgehammer but his murderer was never found. Hampshire police refused to comment on how Leo Wallader and Meg Harris died, but Sir Anthony said both victims had been brutally bludgeoned. "It was terrible to see," he said. "I dread to think how Mrs. Harris feels."
"We have very little to go on at this stage," said Det. Supt. Cheever of Hampshire police, "but we are pursuing every lead we have. I am sorry Sir Anthony feels as he does but I can assure him we are leaving no stone unturned to discover his son's killer."
Supt. Cheever said he could not confirm that a sledgehammer had been used to murder the couple. "The bodies lay undiscovered for some ten days," he said, "and it is always difficult in those circumstances to be precise about how and when the victims died."
The Times-28th June
*14*
TUESDAY, 28TH JUNE, THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-1:00 A.M.
The two constables surveyed the shattered windshield and the crushed Wolseley trunk with unfeigned disgust. It was parked forlornly by the front door, where Alan had driven it when he realized that without some very prompt action, his dislocated shoulder would require reduction under general anesthetic at the nearest emergency room. He had blared the horn with all the vigor of the angels and archangels sounding the last trump, and sobbed with relief when the night security officer emerged to rescue him, and Veronica Gordon, using strong hands and a steady nerve, guided the bones back into place. Even so, it had been a close call. After fifteen minutes, the joint had been so swollen that the pain was unbearable.
"That's criminal," said one policeman, lighting the damage with his torch. "How many times did you say he hit it, sir?"
"Only once," said Alan, cradling his left elbow in the palm of his right hand, unconvinced that the sling he was wearing was reliable. "I smashed the back in when I was reversing away from him. I'm rather more interested in the fact that he had at least two swipes at me."
"Still, sir," said the other ponderously, "he seems to have done more damage to your car."
"Remind me to show you some pictures of dislocated joints thirty minutes after the event," he said dryly. "Then tell me he did more damage to my car." He led the way into his office, padding wearily to his desk and hitching a buttock onto the edge. "I suppose it's occurred to you he might still be out there."
"Highly unlikely, sir-not with all the act
ivity that's been going on."
The police car had arrived within ten minutes of the 999 call, and, following Dr. Protheroe's description of events-namely, that he had glimpsed a face in his headlights and stopped to investigate-the policemen worked on the logical assumption that an intruder had come with the intention of burglary and the doctor had had the misfortune to get in his way. A thorough check of all the doors and windows, however, had failed to discover any signs of a break-in.
"We can't fault your security, sir," said the larger of the two constables, with a perplexed frown, "which makes me doubt this fellow had cased the clinic very thoroughly. If he was planning a burglary, he can't have known how difficult it was going to be to break in. So are you sure you didn't recognize him? Otherwise, I don't understand why he bothered to attack you. He clearly hadn't committed a crime at that point, not unless he entered and left by the front door, which your security officer says is impossible because he's been at the reception desk since ten o'clock."
"I'm sure. In any case I was beginning to think I'd made a mistake about seeing anyone at all until I felt the hammer brush my arm. I had no idea he was so close to me. I certainly didn't hear him, but as I'd left the car engine running, that wasn't really surprising."
"And you can't think of any reason why someone would want to attack you?"
Alan shook his head. "Unless he knew I was a doctor and thought I had drugs in the car. I've been racking my brains but I can't think of anything else." There would be time enough tomorrow, he thought, to decide whether it had been Jinx's face he saw in the headlamps, or whether his imagination had put her there because she had been on his mind.
"An ex-patient, perhaps, who would recognize your car?"
"I wouldn't have thought so. It's one of the first things I make clear when they arrive. We have a limited supply of drugs on the premises and they're always locked away in that safe over there."
He jerked his head towards the solid Chubb in the corner. "They certainly know I never carry anything in my car."
The constable lowered himself onto a chair and took a notebook from his pocket. "Well, let's get some details down. You say he ran away after smashing the windshield, so you must have had a pretty good look at him then."
Alan plucked a Kleenex from a box on his desk and dabbed at his face, which was still bleeding from where tiny shards of glass had embedded themselves in his skin. "Not really. I was having a hell of a job trying to find reverse with my right hand, so I was concentrating on that."
"Will you describe him for me, please?"
"He was a bit shorter than I am, say about five ten or eleven. I suppose you'd describe him as medium build-he certainly wasn't fat-and he was dressed in black."
The policeman waited for him to continue, pencil poised over notebook on knee. When he didn't, he looked up. "A slightly fuller description would be more helpful, sir. For example, what skin color was he?"
"I don't know. I think he was wearing a ski mask. All I saw was a man dressed in black from head to toe wielding a sledgehammer."
"Fair enough. Then perhaps you could give me some details of his dress. What was he wearing on his top?"
Alan shook his head. "I don't know." He saw impatience in the constable's eyes. "Look," he said with a flash of anger, "it's very dark. I get out of my car and the next thing I know, some bastard is trying to make mincemeat out of me. Frankly, taking in the minutiae of his dress is the last thing on my mind."
The policeman waited a moment. "Except that you must have taken in a few more details when you were back in the car and he was running away."
"It happened very fast. All I can tell you is that he was dressed in black."
"It's not much to go on, sir."
"I'm aware of that," said Alan testily.
There was a short silence. "Yet you're very sure it was a man. Why? Did he say something to you?"
"No."
"Could it have been a woman?"
"Maybe, but I don't believe it was. Everything about him-body shape, strength, aggression-told me it was a man."
"You wouldn't be so convinced if you saw some of the women we deal with, sir," said the constable with heavy humor. "There's no such thing as a weaker sex these days."
Alan took a deep breath. "Look, would it be a problem if we left all this till tomorrow? I'm pretty tired and my shoulder's giving me hell."
The constables exchanged glances. "I can't see why not," said the one who had remained standing. "The place seems secure enough, and without a good description, there's not much we can do tonight anyway. We'll have one of the plainclothes lads come and talk to you tomorrow. Meanwhile, sir, you might make a list of where you've been today and who you've spoken to." He gave a courteous nod. "For what it's worth, I think your theory about drugs is the most likely explanation. Some junkie after morphine who found the clinic was too well guarded and preferred the softer target of you and your car. It was a good bet that anyone coming back after midnight was more likely to be a doctor than a visitor or a patient."
Alan stopped at the nurses' room on his way to bed. "Everything all right?" he asked.
Veronica Gordon, the only occupant, looked at his bloodied face. "Are you trying to play the martyr?" she demanded. "Is that why you won't let me do something about those cuts?"
"You're too ham-fisted, woman," he growled. "I'd rather do them myself, quietly and gently, in my own time. Any problems?"
"Good Lord, no," she said tartly. "Why would there be problems when a houseful of insecure drunks and drug addicts get woken in the middle of the night by security officers and policemen tramping about the gravel and shining torches through their windows? For your information, Amy and I are being run off our feet. She is currently responding to the three bells that rang just before you came in." A light began flashing on the board at her elbow. "There's another one. They're all too nosy for their own good. They want to know what's going on."
"What about Jinx Kingsley? Are you still running the half-hourly checks?"
She swung the night register round for him to look at. "Fast asleep, and has been since ten o'clock. Matter of fact, she's the only one who hasn't given us any trouble. Amy checked her just before you started blaring your horn, but it's not recorded because we haven't had time, not with all the hoo-ha going on. I've popped my head in once since then, but she's out like a light. Do you want us to go on with it?"
"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "Just in case. It makes me feel easier, knowing where she is."
It wasn't until after he'd gone that Veronica was struck by the inappropriateness of what he'd said. She intended to mention it to Amy Staunton, but it went out of her mind when the demands of another bell sent her off down the corridor. Had it not, and had Amy been encouraged to tell her that Jinx was fully dressed, she, like Sergeant Fraser, often wondered afterwards, how different might the end result have been?
Jinx's waxen cheeks lost their last vestiges of color when Alan Protheroe entered her room before breakfast the following morning, his left arm supported in a sling and his face scarred with tiny cuts and scratches. "Did Adam do that?"
He was visibly taken aback. Whatever reaction he'd expected from her, it certainly wasn't that. "Why would your father want to break my windshield?"
"He wouldn't," she said rapidly. "Forget I said it. It was silly. Is that what happened? Is that why the police were here last night?"
He smiled. "There now, and I was reliably informed you slept through the whole thing."
"I did."
"Then how do you know the police were here?"
"Matthew told me. He came in half an hour ago."
God damn bloody Matthew! He seemed to spend more time in this room than he did in his own. "Did he say what it was all about?"
Jinx shook her head. "He's on a trawl to see if anybody else knows."
She was a great liar because she understood the importance of being plausible. "I see." He perched on the end of the bed. "And you couldn't tell him becaus
e you don't know."
She held his gaze for a moment before looking away. "That's right."
"The police think it was an intruder after drugs." He examined her exhausted face. "For someone who slept through it all, you don't look very rested."
She forced a cheerful smile. "It's my skinhead look. It doesn't do me any more favors than it does your average convict. But it's not really designed to, is it? Hair is the original fashion accessory."
"Are you cold?" he asked her. "You're shivering."
"It's nerves."
"Why are you nervous of me, Jinx?"
"I'm not."
"Then what are you nervous of?"
"I don't know," she said. "I can't remember."
He grinned broadly. "I had a dream about you last night. I dreamed I was lying on my back on a cliff edge when a hand came up, grabbed my ankle, and started to pull me towards the brink. As I was sliding over, I looked down and saw your face staring up at me, and you were smiling."
She frowned. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
"Yes," he said, standing up. "It means you were pulling my leg."
It was a Detective Constable Hadden of the Wiltshire police who took up where the two uniformed policemen had left off the previous night. He was a bluff middle-aged man who was there to pay lip service to police procedure but without any obvious intention of pursuing the matter further. Rather to Alan's annoyance, he arrived with the newspaper, which put paid, for the moment anyway, to Alan's attempts to substantiate what Simon Harris had told him over the telephone.
"Frankly, sir," confided DC Hadden, pushing his ample bottom into the sculptured recesses of the leather sofa, "I'm inclined to go along with the junky theory unless you've remembered anything overnight that points to something more concrete. You see our dilemma. We'd have more success looking for a needle in a haystack than scouring the countryside for this man you've described. It would be different if you could give us a name or if he'd stolen something-there'd be a slim chance of tracing him through the goods-but as it is"-he shook his head-"needle-in-haystack stuff, sir. I'm sure you understand the problem."
Dark Room Page 20
