The Dark Room (12 page)

‘But we don’t approach Kingsley himself, presumably?’

‘No.’

‘What about the daughter? Halliwell says she’s in the Nightingale Clinic in Salisbury suffering from the effects of concussion. Do we leave her alone as well? She has a
drink-driving charge hanging over her head so we could get away with interviewing her on that without too much difficulty.’

‘You think so, do you?’ said Cheever dryly. ‘Listen, my friend, this isn’t the Samaritans we’re dealing with, and you make damn sure Kingsley
doesn’t get a sniff of the questions you’re asking. Understood? No one makes a move on that family until we know exactly where we are and what we’re doing. If Jane is anything
like her father, you handle her as delicately as you’d handle a snake. Of course you leave her alone. You leave them
all
alone.’

Saturday, 25 June, Downton Court, Near Guildford, Surrey – 9.30 a.m.

Sir Anthony Wallader ushered the two sombre-looking policemen into the drawing room of his house and waved them towards empty chairs with a perplexed frown creasing his forehead.
‘To tell you the truth, gentlemen, I’ve had it up to here’ – he raised his hand to the side of his neck – ‘with that wretched girl and her suicide attempts. I
don’t say I applaud my son in what he’s done, but I do object to the way Philippa and I keep being dragged into something that is, frankly, none of our business. You do realize how long
I’ve spent on the telephone to your colleagues round the country, not to mention the appalling conversation poor Philippa had with Jinx’s stepmother. Philippa would insist on doing the
right thing and sending her best wishes for Jinx’s recovery, but Betty was as rude and offensive as one would expect from someone of her class and background.’ He gave a shudder of
distaste. ‘She’s the most objectionable creature, little better than the lowest East End tart, if I’m honest. God knows, we’re well out of that family
entanglement.’

Fraser, who knew Cheever’s background, writhed quietly on behalf of his boss. The Superintendent merely nodded. ‘It’s not an easy situation, sir.’

‘You’re right, of course. And why should we be made to feel responsible for a grown woman’s inability to deal with her emotions? Is this really so important that
you can’t wait for Leo to get back?’ He sank on to the sofa and crossed one neat leg over the other, every inch the aristocrat. In different circumstances, Fraser might have been
tempted to kick his arse. There was no sincerity, he felt, in Sir Anthony Wallader. ‘Philippa and I barely know Jinx. Leo brought her down for the odd weekend but not enough for us to feel
comfortable with her. She’s a very clever girl, of course, but rather too modern for our taste.’

‘In fact, we’d very much like to talk to your son,’ said Frank Cheever evenly. ‘Do you have an address or telephone number where we can contact
him?’

Sir Anthony shook his head. ‘We haven’t heard a word since they left. Not surprising really. They’re embarrassed.’ He clasped his hands over his knee.
‘Us, too. We’ve been keeping our heads well down, as you can probably imagine. Not the done thing, jilting the bride four weeks before the wedding, but the trouble is we can’t
criticize him for doing it. Embarrassment tempered with relief is probably the best description of how we feel at the moment. She was quite wrong for him, took everything far too seriously, as
amply demonstrated by these suicide attempts.’

Fraser was examining some family photographs on the table beside him. ‘Is this your son, sir?’ he asked, pointing to one of a tall, fair-haired man leaning against a
Mercedes convertible with his arms crossed and a broad smile on his face. The family resemblance was strong. He had the same wide forehead as Sir Anthony, the same thick hair, the same elegant tilt
to his patrician head.

‘Yes, that’s Leo.’

‘Where exactly did he and Miss Harris say they were going, Sir Anthony?’

‘They didn’t. They just said they were taking the car across the Channel until the flak stopped flying.’

‘You spoke to them in person?’

‘Not face to face. Leo phoned on the Saturday morning to say the wedding was off, and that the best thing he and Meg could do was make themselves scarce.’

‘Saturday being the eleventh of June?’

‘That’s right. Two weeks ago today.’

‘And you haven’t heard from him or Meg since?’

‘No.’ He swept his trousers with the palm of his hand. ‘But I have to say that I can’t see why any of this is important. It’s hardly a hanging offence
if your erstwhile fiancée makes an attempt on her life. Or is it now? I’m afraid the law makes less and less sense to me as I get older.’

Frank Cheever removed a folded piece of paper from his inside breast pocket and spread it out on his knees before passing it across to Sir Anthony. It was a photocopied montage of
the credit cards that had been in Bobby Franklyn’s possession. ‘Do you recognize either of the signatures on this page, sir?’

Sir Anthony held it at arm’s length. ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment, ‘the top four are Leo’s.’ He half-closed his eyes. ‘The bottom two are
M. S. Harris, so presumably Meg’s.’ He shifted his gaze to the Superintendent. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I regret this very much, Sir Anthony, but we have reason to be very concerned for your son and Miss Harris. We came here because we hoped you could give us some idea of where
they were and so assure us they were still alive.’ He nodded towards the piece of paper. ‘A seventeen-year-old boy was charged yesterday in Winchester with credit card fraud, and those
six cards were in his possession. He informs us that he stole them a week ago from two bodies he found in Ardingly Woods, some two miles to the west of Winchester. It is my very sad duty to tell
you that it is our belief the bodies are those of your son, Leo Wallader, and his friend, Meg Harris.’

Perhaps the information was too shocking to take in, perhaps, quite simply, it didn’t make sense. Sir Anthony gave a surprised laugh. ‘Don’t be absurd, man.
I’ve already told you. They’re on the continent somewhere. What is this? Some sort of practical joke?’ His brows snapped together angrily. ‘That wretched man
Kingsley’s doing, I suppose.’

‘No, sir,’ said Cheever gently, ‘not a practical joke, although for your sake I wish it were. We do have two unidentified bodies’ – he glanced towards
the smiling photograph – ‘one male, aged between thirty and forty, six feet one inch in height with blond hair, and one female, aged between thirty and forty, five feet four inches in
height, with short dark hair. While there is still a chance that the boy lied to us about how he came by the credit cards, I must warn you that it’s very remote. Certainly the description of
the male seems to fit your son, although we have still to compare the female with Miss Harris. As yet we have no description of her.’

Sir Anthony shook his head in denial. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said firmly. ‘Leo’s in France.’

‘Perhaps you can give us a description of Meg,’ suggested Fraser.

‘She came here once,’ said the older man slowly, ‘dropped in for lunch on her way back to London when Leo and Jinx were down for the weekend. Philippa took to her
immediately. She was a nice girl, clearly besotted with Leo, a far better prospect in every way than Jinx. Good family, decent background. Philippa and I were pleased as punch when the boy phoned
to say he was planning to marry Meg instead. The family comes from Wiltshire, I believe. A pretty girl, dark hair, slim, always smiling.’ He lapsed into silence.

‘What sort of age—’ began Fraser, but Cheever glanced across at him and made a damping motion with his hand.

Despair settled on Sir Anthony’s face. ‘This will destroy my poor wife, you know. Leo was the only one. We tried for more, but it wasn’t to be.’ He pressed a
thumb and forefinger to his eyelids to hold back the tears. ‘What was it? Some sort of accident?’

Cheever cleared his throat. ‘We don’t think so, no. The pathologist’s view is that they were murdered.’ He clamped his hands between his knees.
‘I’m so sorry, Sir Anthony.’

He shook his head again angrily. ‘No, no, this is outrageous.’

There was another long silence.

He raised a trembling hand to his forehead. ‘Who would want to murder them?’

‘We don’t know, sir,’ said Cheever quietly. ‘They’ve been dead some time, perhaps as long as two weeks. At the moment we’re looking at the
thirteenth of June as the most likely date for when it happened.’

‘That would be the day Jinx tried to kill herself,’ he said flatly.

‘So we understand.’

Sir Anthony’s mouth worked. ‘I suppose you know her husband was murdered?’ he said harshly.

Frank Cheever leaned forward with a frown. ‘You mean Miss Kingsley’s husband?’ This was news to him.

The other man nodded. ‘She was Mrs Landy then. It was nine or ten years ago. Her husband’s name was Russell Landy. He was an art dealer in Chelsea.’ He fixed Frank
with a penetrating stare. ‘He was clubbed to death with a hammer but his murderer was never found. Landy was so badly beaten that his face was unrecognizable. The newspapers described it as
one of the most brutal killings anyone could remember. How was my son murdered, Superintendent? Will I be able to recognize him?’ He saw the brief hesitation in the policeman’s eyes, a
shutter close on something horrific. ‘Was he clubbed to death like Landy?’

Frank wiped a weary hand across his face. Good God, he was thinking. Could it be this easy? ‘Death is never pretty, Sir Anthony, less so when several days have
elapsed.’

‘But was he clubbed to death like Landy?’ There was anger in Wallader’s voice.

‘At this stage,’ said Frank carefully, ‘nothing has been ruled in or out. The pathologist hasn’t had time to finish his examination and, until he does, it
would be wrong to speculate, but I give you my personal assurance that I will pass on his conclusions to you as soon as possible after they have been reported to us.’

Whatever spark had fired Sir Anthony’s anger extinguished itself as rapidly as it had ignited. He looked lost suddenly, as if the fact of his son’s death had only just
dawned upon him. ‘I suppose you need me to identify the body.’ He started to get up.

‘There’s no hurry, sir. I’d like you to take as much time as you need to talk it through with your wife. Please don’t feel this is something you have to do
immediately.’

‘But it is,’ he said abruptly, pushing himself from his chair. ‘Philippa’s out for the day doing her voluntary stint in the hospital so she won’t even
know I’ve gone. You talked about a remote chance,’ he reminded the policeman with tears in his eyes. ‘For my poor girl’s sake, I’m praying for that.’

HO Forensic Lab, Hampshire – 11.45 a.m.

He stood, dry-eyed, over what was left of his son, now transferred to a clinically clean table, his torso discreetly veiled by white cotton sheeting. The hair, as thick and blond
as it had been in life, was unmistakably Leo’s and, dreadful though it was, there was still enough of the facial structure left for recognition.

His eyes sought out Dr Clarke. ‘What should I tell my wife?’ he asked him. ‘I don’t even know how to begin.’

Clarke looked down at the poor dead body. ‘She’ll need comfort, Sir Anthony, not truth. Tell her how peaceful he looked.’