Hi, Meg, where the hell are you? A man's belligerent voice. You swore on your honor you'd come into the office before you left. Damn it, it's Wednesday, there's a mound of sodding messages here and I can't make head or tail of them. Who the fuck's Bill Riley? Most of them are from him. Ring me before you ring anyone else. This is urgent.
Meg. The same man's voice. Ring me. Immediately. Damn it, I'm so angry I feel like belting you one. Do you realize Jinx has tried to kill herself? I've had your wretched parents on the phone every day asking for news. They feel bloody about this and so do I. Phone, for Christ's sake. It's Friday, seventeenth June, eight-sodding-thirty, no breakfast and I haven't slept a wink. I knew Wallader would be nothing but trouble.
It's Simon. A different, cooler man's voice. Look, Mum and Dad are going spare. You can't just bury your head in the sand and pretend nothing's wrong. I'm sure you know Jinx has tried to kill herself. It's been in all the newspapers. Mum says you're refusing to answer your messages, but at least ring me if you won't ring her. I'm going to visit Jinx, see how she's coping. One of us ought to show some interest.
Darling, it's Mummy again. Please, please ring. I really am awfully concerned about Jinx. They say she tried to commit suicide. I can't bear to think of her being so unhappy because of you and Leo. Someone should talk to her. Don't forget how ill she was after Russell was killed. Please ring. I'm so worried. I do hope you're all right. You 're usually so good about phoning.
For your information, Bill Riley is now planning to sue us. He claims we're in breach of contract. Why the hell did you agree to work with him if you weren't prepared to see it through. Message timed at nine-thirty p.m., Thursday, June twenty-third. If I don't hear from you in the next twenty-four hours, consider our partnership terminated. I'm pissed off with this, Meg, I really am.
Hello, Meg. A deeper woman's voice. It's Jinx. Look, I know this is probably politically incorrect-a low laugh-I ought to be ripping your first editions to pieces or something. But I really would like to talk to you. Things are a bit complicated this end-well, you've probably heard about it ... A pause. They say I drove my car at a concrete post-deliberately. Can you believe that? The bugger is, I've lost my memory, can't remember anything since Saturday the fourth, so everyone's jumping to the conclusion that I was upset about you and Leo. Another laugh, rather more forced this time. It's the pits, old thing, which is why I need to talk to you both. You may not believe me, but I swear to God I am not harboring grudges, so if you can bear the embarrassment, ring me on Salisbury two-two-one-four-two-zero. It's a nutters' hospital and I'm shit-scared of going round the bend here. Please ring.
The rest of the tape was blank.
Maddocks raised an eyebrow at Fraser. "Genuine?'' he asked. "Or planted for the police to hear after they found the bodies?"
"You mean hers?" Fraser shrugged. "I'd guess genuine. The pissed-off partner made his last call two days ago, so hers must have been pretty recent."
"How does that make it genuine?"
"Because she couldn't know when the bodies would be found. If it was a bluff, she'd have phoned sooner to make sure we got the message."
Maddocks was more skeptical. "Unless she's been following the newspapers." He turned to a bookcase along the wall and plucked a book at random from the shelves. "The reference to first editions was genuine. Look at this. A signed Graham Greene." He ran his finger along the spines. "Daphne du Maurier, Dorothy L. Sayers, Ruth Rendell, Colin Dexter, P. D. James, John le Carre. She's even got an Ian Fleming. I wonder who she's left them to."
"Probably her friend Jane Kingsley," said Fraser, opening a door to the right of the fireplace and disclosing a neat white kitchen with slate-gray worktops and pale gray units. He turned to the two London policemen. "Do you fancy tackling this? Chances are there'll be papers in some of these drawers. I'll take her bedroom."
He moved across the hallway to a door on the other side, clicked it open and surveyed the room. Like the rest of the flat, it was clean and meticulously tidy-so tidy, in fact, that he decided it was a spare bedroom and went to the only door he hadn't yet opened and found the bathroom. Apart from a pair of fluffy white towels that were folded with measured precision over the rail, there was nothing to indicate that the room had ever been used-no sponge, no soap, no toothpaste. He lifted the latch on the cabinet above the basin and stared thoughtfully at the meager contents. A bottle of disinfectant, a packet of Disprin, and a clean toothmug. Meg Harris was unreal, he thought. No one was this tidy, not even when they went away on holiday. And where was Leo's presence? Surely something should remain to show a man had lived there on and off. He lifted the lid of the laundry basket, but it was empty. He retreated into the hall again, where he noticed the cat's bed beneath a small radiator and wondered why Meg had bothered to keep a companion when she was clearly so house-proud that its movements had to be thoroughly restricted whenever she was absent. Tidiness appeared to be an obsession with her. Back in the bedroom, he opened the wardrobe and sorted through the few clothes hanging there. Only women's, he noted, no men's. The same was true of all the drawers. He searched for anything that might give a clue to the woman's personality, but it was like searching a hotel bedroom where a guest was staying one night. Her clothes were neatly folded away, some odds and ends of costume jewelry and makeup lay in ordered rows in her dressing table drawer, a small bowl of potpourri on the bedside table gave off a faint scent. But if there had ever been anything of a personal nature in that room, she had taken it with her.
Maddocks looked up from a book as Fraser rejoined him. "Last year's diary," he said, "but there's not a single phone number or address in it. Any luck your end?"
Fraser shook his head. "Nothing. Just a few clothes. It looks as if she took everything that mattered to her, which is odd if she was only going away for a couple of weeks. I couldn't find any suitcases."
Maddocks abandoned the diary and stared about the living room with a frown. "I don't get it. It's so damn clinical. Have you noticed there aren't any photographs about? I've been looking for an album but I can't find one. You'd think there'd be at least one photograph of her family, wouldn't you?''
"What about papers?" suggested Fraser. "House insurance, mortgage details, a will? Where are they?"
Maddocks jerked his head towards a pine bureau in the corner. "In there for what it's worth, but there's no will, just one folder with 'House Insurance' written across the front. There aren't even any letters, no indication at all who her friends were or what the family address is. It's bizarre. Most people have a few letters littered about the place." He moved across to the kitchen door. "What about you two? Have you found anything?"
The older of the two London policemen shook his head. "Tell you what, sir, it reminds me of those cottages you rent in the summer. There's cutlery and crockery here and it's all clean, but there's no food anywhere, the fridge is empty, dishwasher's empty, new plastic bag in the garbage can. Either she rented it and was about to move out or she was planning to move out and let it to somebody else." He gestured towards a pegboard on the wall. "Even her notice board's empty, but you don't do that when you're off on holiday. I'd say she's got another place somewhere."