Frank Cheever steepled his fingers on his desk and gazed thoughtfully out of the window. "Did I ever tell you," he said at last, "that I began my career as a beat bobby in London's Mile End?"
Maddocks and Fraser stared straight ahead. If he'd told them once, he'd told them a hundred times. Maddocks prepared to be bored. There was no merit in the old fool's reminiscences, beyond the one undeniably interesting fact that Cheever had been born a bastard to an East London prostitute. Even Maddocks had to admit that to work his way up through various police forces, while remaining married to the same woman for thirty-eight years, was an achievement for a boy who began life in the gutter.
"I was barely out of school," he mused, "and one of the first bodies I picked off the street was a black fellow who'd been bludgeoned within an inch of his life." He thought about that for a moment. "It turned out the poor wretch was engaged to the sister of an East End gangland boss and there was circumstantial evidence to show the future brother-in-law had done his dirty work himself. All my guv'nor needed was confirmation of identity, but when the victim came round he refused to cooperate and we had to drop it. I've never seen anyone look so scared. He was black as the ace of spades but he went white to the gills every time we mentioned a prosecution." He looked from one to the other. "The bastard who bludgeoned him was called Adam Kingsley. He wasn't prepared to have black blood in his family." He fixed his pale eyes on Maddocks. "But he got it anyway. The black fellow had more guts than Kingsley credited him with. He married the sister a week later, and went up the aisle on crutches to do it."
Maddocks whistled. "The same guy? This girl's father?"
Cheever nodded. "He made a fortune out of buying up cheap properties with sitting tenants, then sending in his heavies to evict the wretched people in order to flog off the properties with vacant possession. He turned respectable in the sixties, probably about the time his daughter was born." He stared out of his window into the darkness. "All right," he said, "I suggest we tread carefully on this one. You and I, Fraser, are going to visit Sir Anthony Wallader tomorrow morning. We'll leave at eight sharp to be with him between nine and nine-thirty, and I want you to warn Dr. Clarke that we may be bringing him back with us." He turned to Maddocks. "Meanwhile, Gareth, I suggest you split your team in two, half to concentrate on Meg Harris, the other half on Jane Kingsley. I want to know where they met, how long they've known each other, what sort of personalities they are. In particular I want to know about the relationship between Jane Kingsley and her father. Okay? See what you can come up with by the time we get back."
"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 drunk-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 at 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, 25TH JUNE, DOWNTON COURT, NEAR GUILDFORD, SURREY-9:30 A.M.
Sir Anthony Wallader ushered the two somber-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 onto 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. "We are 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 offense if your erstwhile fiancee 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 that 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."