"We really are trying to keep an open mind," he assured her, "but what we find difficult to ignore is the similarity in the method of killing and the fact that the three victims, although separated by ten years, were all known to you. We are not talking about passing acquaintances here, Miss Kingsley, we are talking about the two men who have probably been closest to you during your life and the woman whom your parents described at the time of your accident as your best friend." He smiled ruefully. "Do you see the problem we have? Even to the most impartial observer, your involvement with all three people would appear significant."
She nodded. Jesus wept! Did he think she was a moron? "I understand that. It appears significant to me, too, but for the life of me I can't tell you why. I've gone over it again and again and I keep coming up against the brick wall of Russell's murder." She stubbed out her cigarette to avoid the smoke blowing into his face. "The reason that was never solved is because the London police concentrated on me and my father. We were both ruled out of direct involvement because we both had alibis. I was then ruled out of indirect involvement because there was no obvious reason for me to want Russell dead. My father, on the other hand, had loathed him and made no secret of it, so the police convinced themselves that he'd ordered a contract killing and they abandoned the search for anyone else. But supposing they were wrong? Supposing my father had nothing to do with it, where is the significance then in my knowing all three victims?" She looked earnestly into his face. "Do you understand the point I'm making?"
"I think so. You're saying that if someone else entirely killed Russell, then there may be an unknown link between the murders."
"Yes, and if you make the same mistake the London police made, then that unknown person will get away with it again."
"It's a little hard to accept, Miss Kingsley. We've been sent detailed accounts of the Landy case and there's no hint of a mystery person in the background."
She shook her head vigorously. "There is. I kept telling them about this artist Russell was rude to. He mentioned twice that he'd seen him hanging around the gallery, and he said if he came again he'd report him to the police. Then he was murdered." She spread her hands in a pleading gesture. "I am sure that's the man you should be looking for."
"It was mentioned in the report but the view seems to be that it the man existed at all, he was more likely to be your father's contract killer than a resentful artist. It would be different if you could have supplied the police with a description or a name but, as I understand it, you couldn't give them any information at all."
"Because I didn't know anything. All I could tell them was what Russell told me. An artist came to the gallery with some bad paintings, Russell told him they were bad, the man became abusive, and Russell ordered him out. He never mentioned it at the time, but he did tell me on two occasions later that he'd noticed a man watching the gallery and he thought it was this same artist." She sighed. "I know it's not much but no one was even remotely interested in following it up. They were all so hooked on my father having done it."
"With reason, don't you think?"
She didn't answer.
"He made no secret of his dislike of your husband."
"Oh, I know all the arguments. I listened to them often enough at the time. My father knew the right contacts in the underworld for a contract killing. He's ruthless, he's tough, he began life as a black marketeer, and he's thought to have made millions through dodgy business practices although no one's been able to prove it. He has the credentials of a home-grown Mafia godfather, with the same blind loyalty to family, for whom the death of a hated son-in-law would be a natural way to solve a problem." She smiled bleakly. "I was even shown a psychological assessment of him, based on facts known to the police, in which he was portrayed as a psychopath with a phenomenal sex drive. This, apparently, was why he visited prostitutes, because as I was the real object of his desire, he was unable to satisfy his animal needs properly."
Fraser waited for a moment. "And you don't think any of that's true?" he prompted.
"I don't know," she said honestly, "but I don't see that it matters. The police squeezed that character assessment for all it was worth, but they still couldn't link Adam with Russell's death. Doesn't that mean Adam probably had nothing to do with it?"
Fraser shook his head reluctantly. "It might mean he paid a great deal of money to put distance between himself and the murder." But he, too, found the black saucer eyes in the white face compelling and he tried to soften the blow a little. "That's not to say I've a closed mind on the matter, Miss Kingsley. It was a botched job for a contract killing. Russell was still alive when you found him, so his murderer was damn lucky to get away with it and so was whoever hired him."
Her tongue moistened her dry lips before, abruptly, she pushed herself back into her chair and clapped her hands over her nose and mouth. "I should have thought about this a long time ago," she said in a muffled voice. "God, I've been a fool." She took her hands away. "My father's a perfectionist in everything he does," she said, "and so are the people he employs. None of them would have dared do a botched job. Adam would have skinned them alive."
Fraser eyed her curiously. "Meaning you think he was capable of ordering Russell's murder, but didn't in fact do it."
"Yes." She leaned forward again. "Look, my father was in London that day, so his alibi always had holes in it. He wouldn't pay to distance himself only to end up being compromised. Plus, as you said, Russell was still alive when I found him and might have survived if I'd got there earlier, but Adam would never employ anyone who was so incompetent that the victim was still conscious an hour after he'd been attacked."
"Perhaps the killer was interrupted?"
"No," she said in excitement. "Don't you see? If Adam had ordered the killing, he would have given instructions for Russell to be killed anywhere but the gallery. He knew I had the only other key, so knew I was the most likely person to find the body, unless somebody happened to go round the back and saw the stockroom window had been smashed." She saw his skepticism. "Oh, please, Sergeant," she begged him, "hear what I'm saying. The police said Adam was so besotted with me that he became pathologically jealous of Russell. But if that were true, he'd have had Russell killed as far away from me as possible, certainly not left alive and bleeding to death where I would probably be the one to find him. The last thing he'd have wanted was for me to have a nervous breakdown and retreat into my shell. Don't you think?"
Fraser was impressed with this argument. "Did you make that point to the London police?"
"How could I? I've only just thought of it. Look," she said again, "I know it seems odd, but when something that awful happens to you, you block it out as soon as you can or you go mad. Before my breakdown I never had time to think it through properly, there was the police, the funeral, the miscarriage-" She faltered slightly. "And then when I came out of hospital, I made up my mind to shut it away and never, never get it out again. It's only since my accident that it's started to come back. The nightmares, seeing Russell on the floor, the blood-" She faltered again but this time didn't go on.
Maddocks had listened to the exchange with growing skepticism but he spoke gently enough. "The police weren't wedded to a contract killer, Miss Kingsley. They always recognized that your father might have wielded the sledgehammer himself. Let's say he went to the gallery, and he and Russell had a row. Do you think he'd care then whether you found the body or not? He'd be saving his own skin, and hightailing it out as fast as he could."