"Tell me about the daughter," prompted Frank. "What was she like?"
"I rather took to her, as a matter of fact. She was a good kid, deeply shocked of course, and suffered a nervous breakdown afterwards. She kept saying it was all her fault but we never believed she had anything to do with it. Meredith put it to her that she was afraid her father was responsible, but she said no. A day or two later she lost her baby."
"Did she ever suggest who might have done it?"
"An unknown artist whose work Landy had rejected. She said he could be very cruel in what he said, and she was insistent that he'd told her a few days before the murder that he was being watched by some creep who'd come to the gallery. She didn't think anything of it at the time, because he treated it as a joke, but it certainly preyed on her mind afterwards. We checked it out, but there was no substance to it and we took the view that if the watcher existed at all, it was as likely to be Kingsley's contract killer as an embittered artist."
Cheever pondered for a moment. "Still, it's something of a minefield. The only contact I've had with Kingsley was years ago when he beat his future brother-in-law to a pulp to warn him off the wedding. Now you're telling me he pulped his son-in-law afterwards. Why didn't he do it before?"
"That was his daughter's argument. She claimed Kingsley had done his best to get rid of Landy three years previously by having him sacked from his job, but had long since accepted defeat on the matter. Our view was that the pregnancy changed things. She admitted that she and Landy had been going through a rocky patch but said the baby had brought them together again, and we didn't think it was coincidence that the wretched man was murdered a week after she told her parents she was expecting. We guessed Kingsley was relying on the marriage failing and when he was presented with evidence that it wasn't, he signed Landy's death warrant."
Cheever tapped one of the pieces of paper in front of him. "According to the memo you faxed through, you and Meredith believed Kingsley adored his daughter. But we're talking about something much sicker than adoration, surely? I could understand it if Landy had been treating her badly and Kingsley wanted him punished, but from what you've said, he acted out of jealous rage. There'd have to be a pretty powerful sexual motive behind actions like that."
"In a nutshell, that's what we thought it was all about. Look, the man was very highly sexed, he was visiting the Shepherd's Market prostitute every week. The second marriage was a disaster because the poor creature he settled on wasn't a patch on the first wife and took to the bottle within a couple of years. Her sons never matched up to the first wife's daughter, who, to make matters worse, is the spitting image of her dead mother. There's no evidence that Kingsley abused the child, but they lived alone together for five years before he married again, and we estimated the chances were high that he did. We had his psychological profile drawn up based on what was known of him, and it was very revealing. There was a heavy emphasis on his need to control through ruthless manipulation of people and events, and it was thought very unlikely that his daughter could have escaped unscathed."
"Did you suggest it to her?"
"Yes"-a hesitation-"more's the pity. We gave her the profile to read, and the next thing we knew, she was under the care of a psychiatrist with severe anorexia and suicidal depression. We felt rather badly about it, to be honest."
"Mind you," murmured Frank thoughtfully, "it's a typical reaction of an abused child who's suddenly forced to come to terms with a buried past."
43A SHOEBURY TERRACE, HAMMERSMITH, LONDON-3:30 P.M.
Later that afternoon, Maddocks and Fraser entered Meg Harris's flat in Hammersmith. They were met at the door by two Metropolitan policemen and a locksmith, but dispensed with the services of the latter in favor of the spare key which a stout, middle-aged neighbor produced when she saw the congregation through her window and issued forth to quiz them about what they were doing. "But Meg's in France," she said, countering their sympathetic assertion that they had reason to believe Miss Harris was dead. "I saw her off." She wrung her hands in distress. "I've been looking after her cat."
The men nodded gravely. "Can you remember when she left?" asked Maddocks.
"Oh, Lord, now you're asking me. Two weeks ago or thereabouts. The Monday, maybe."
Fraser consulted his diary. "Monday, June the thirteenth?" he asked her.
"That sounds about right, but I couldn't say for certain."
"Have you heard from her since?"
"No," she admitted, "but I wouldn't expect to." She looked put out. "I can't believe she's dead. Was it a car accident?"
DI Maddocks avoided a direct answer. "We've very few details at the moment, Mrs ... er..."
"Helms," said the woman helpfully.
"Mrs. Helms. Do you know anything about Miss Harris's boyfriend?"
"You mean Leo. He's hardly a boyfriend, too old to be a boyfriend, Meg said. She always called him her partner."
"Did he live here?"
"On and off. I think he's married and only comes to Meg when his wife's away." She caught up with Maddocks's use of the past tense. "Did?" she asked him. "Is Leo dead too?"
He nodded. "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Helms. Would you have a contact address or telephone number for Miss Harris's parents by any chance? We'd very much like to talk to them."
She shook her head. "She gave me the vet's number last year in case the cat fell ill, but that's all. As far as I remember, her family lives in Wiltshire somewhere. She used to go down there two or three times a year for a long weekend. But how awful!" She looked shocked. "You mean she's dead and her parents don't even know?"
"I'm sure we'll find something in the flat to help us." Maddocks thanked her for the key and led the way down the stone steps to the basement flat, which was marked 43A and had terracotta pots, alive with Busy Lizzies, cluttered about the doorway. He inserted the key into the lock and pondered the elusive nature of Meg's family. Even Sir Anthony Wallader, who claimed to know something about the Harrises, had no idea which part of Wiltshire they came from or what Meg's father did by way of a job. "You'll have to ask Jinx Kingsley," he told them. "She's the only one left who knows."
But, in the circumstances, the Hampshire police preferred the more tortuous route of arriving at Wiltshire via Hammersmith.
A tortoiseshell cat greeted them with undisguised pleasure as they let themselves into the narrow hallway, rubbing its sleek head and ears against their legs, purring ecstatically at the thought of food. Fraser nudged it gently with the toe of his shoe. "I hate to be the one to tell you, old son, but you're an orphan now. Mummy's dead."
"Jesus, Fraser," said Maddocks crossly, "it's a cat, for Christ's sake." He opened the door into what was obviously the living room and took stock of the off-white Chinese rug, with its embroidered floral pattern of pale blues and pinks, which covered the varnished floorboards in front of the fireplace. "A cat and an off-white rug," he murmured. "The boffins will be even more unbearable after this." He went inside, took a pen from his jacket pocket, and manipulated the buttons on the answering machine.
Hello, darling, said a light female voice. I presume you're going to phone in for your messages, so ring me as soon as you can. I read in the newspaper today that Jinx was in a car accident. I'm very worried about what to do. Should I try and phone her? I'd like to. You were such friends after all, and it seems churlish to ignore her just because ... well ... well, enough said ... no more rows, we promised. Ring me the minute you get this message and we 'II talk about it. Good-bye, darling.