"So she goes apeshit and kills for a second time." said Maddocks.
"You still haven't explained why they didn't leave on the fourth," Cheever reminded him wearily.
"Because they couldn't go until the eleventh, sir. Meg had a business to keep afloat and Leo had investments to look after. The eleventh was the earliest day they could leave."
"You're guessing again."
"Yes, but it makes sense. Look, Jane is privately convinced her father had her husband killed, probably because the police profile persuaded her. She may even suspect he knew about the affair with Meg, which would have given him a motive. But when she tries to convince Meg and Leo, they're highly skeptical. However, they feel guilty enough about their own affair to humor her. They agree to keep the whole thing under wraps until they can leave for France-and that probably suits them anyway, because they know they'll be castigated when the news leaks out. Meanwhile Jane has to face the week in Hampshire with her family. If she doesn't go, questions will be asked. If she does, she has to pretend the wedding's still on. So she pretends. She returns to London on the Friday for the mythical row when Leo tells her he's going to marry Meg, all three make their phone calls on the Saturday morning, and Meg and Leo scarper." He paused. "That was the plan anyway."
"Then Josh Hennessey persuades Meg she's being a first-class bitch and they delay their departure till the Monday," Frank said, driving another arrow through his cupid's heart. "Which brings Jane scurrying round on the Saturday night, asking them why the hell they're still there."
"It's as plausible as the Gov's scenario, sir."
"What about the business in her garage on Sunday?" demanded Maddocks. "How does that fit in?"
"How does it fit in with your scenario?" countered Fraser.
"It was a fake, like the second one. The more attempts she made, the more protective her father would become."
"With respect, Gov, that's bullshit," snapped Fraser. "Like Colonel Clancey said, if she wanted people to believe it was suicide, then she'd have wept all over him and his wife. Plus, she's done her damnedest to persuade us since that she's not the suicidal type. It doesn't add up. And another thing. You keep harping on about this protection her father's supposed to be giving her. Well, where the hell is it? He's not been near her. He's far more interested in salvaging his precious business."
''He's paying four hundred quid a day to a corrupt quack to let her pretend she's an amnesiac. I tell you, if we could get her in here for questioning, she'd spew the lot before you could say Jack Robinson."
Frank listened to this heated exchange with ill temper. "I'm going home," he said abruptly. "We'll pack it in and sleep on it." He started to lift his jacket off the back of his chair, then paused. "Why did she tell Fordingbridge that the last thing she remembered was saying good-bye to Leo on the fourth of June if he wasn't even in her house?" he demanded of Fraser. "And don't tell me she was manipulating events when she was semiconscious, because I'll hit you from here to Salisbury and back if you even try."
"No sir, I'm not." He glared at Maddocks, who was smirking. "Look, there's no question she was concussed and there's no question, either, that she thought the accident happened on the fourth. I'm sure, to that extent, her amnesia was genuine. It may still be, for all I know. But I've done a bit of reading, and I'm guessing that story's what's called confabulation. In other words, she made it up. It was the story she was going to tell her father when she saw him on the fourth, the one she probably rehearsed all the way down in the car and then delivered convincingly. Leo's fine. I kissed him good-bye over breakfast. He sends his regards. The fact that it wasn't true is neither here nor there. It remained in her memory as something that happened, because she knew that's what she had to say to her father when she saw him."
"So her father's our murderer?"
"I'd say it's a probability, sir."
Frank stood up, thrusting his arms into his jacket sleeves. "You're right about one thing, Sergeant," he said acidly. "This is a carbon-copy of the Landy case. We have the same two suspects, and no likelihood of bringing a prosecution against either of them unless someone finds me some evidence."
THURSDAY, 30TH JUNE, THE HAWTREE ESTATE, WINCHESTER-3:30 A.M.
The child's screams rent the air as they had done every night for the last two weeks. In the kitchen, Rex started barking. "CINDY!" yelled her mother, thrusting her arms into her dressing gown and storming across the landing to throw open her daughter's bedroom door. "I've had enough." She seized the child and shook her furiously. "Either you tell me what this is all about or I'm taking you to the doctor. Do you hear me? DO- YOU-HEAR-ME? I can't stand it any longer."
THE NIGHTINGALE CLINIC, SALISBURY-6:30 A.M.
Alan Protheroe slept badly that night. At six o'clock he finally gave up the struggle, rolled out of bed with a groan, dressed, and went for a jog in the grounds of the clinic. It had rained during the night and the grass was sodden under his feet. Water oozed through the fabric of his running shoes, his cheek hurt where the shards of glass had cut the skin, and his shoulder ached with every step he took. What the hell was he doing? Jogging was for masochists, not for cynical middle-aged doctors who knew that death was as random and unfair as government health policies.
With a sense of relief at a decision made, he hobbled to a bench on the terrace and sat down to view the misty landscape. Far away beyond the clinic boundaries, low hills rose purple against a pale summer sky. Closer in, the majestic spire of Salisbury's beautiful cathedral showed above the myriad greens of the treetops. He viewed it, as ever, with weary pessimism. Perhaps it could survive the terrible encroachment of man and man's devices, but he doubted it.
"You look very thoughtful," said Jinx, slipping onto the seat beside him.
She was dressed in black with a dark woolen hat pulled low over her forehead. He studied her wet shoes for a moment before nodding towards the spire. "I was pondering man's destruction," he said, "and whether when it comes to it, as it surely will, he will destroy himself or his artifacts first."
"I don't suppose it matters much," she said, following his gaze. "Nature will overrun whatever we leave behind, so our artifacts will cease to exist whether we destroy them or not."
"It's rather depressing, isn't it?"
She laughed. "It won't happen if man learns to live within his means, and if he can't learn, then he doesn't deserve his place on the planet. I have no sentimental attachment to mankind as a species. On the whole, I'd say we're one of the nastier byproducts of natural selection." She pointed to the trees around the boundaries. "They do nothing but good. We do nothing but harm."
"They have no choice," said Alan.
"Yes," she said slowly. "Free will is a bugger, isn't it?"
They sat in silence for a while.
"Nice hat," said Protheroe finally.
"Matthew lent it to me to keep my head warm."
He decided not to ask her if she had had it on Monday night. "Where have you been?" he said instead.
"Walking."
"You're very brave. According to Matthew, the place is crawling with would-be killers. I can't believe he hasn't alerted you to that threat when he took so much trouble to alert me."
She nodded. "Has he also told you about the fox in the trap, the one that was biting its own leg off to try and escape?"
"No."
"It died of fright. I don't want to die of fright."
"So you went for a walk to prove you're not afraid."
"Yes." She flicked him a quick glance, then resumed her study of the cathedral spire. "But I couldn't sleep anyway. Matthew's bath wasn't very comfortable."
"They rarely are," he murmured. "Is there a particular reason why you were trying to sleep in Matthew's bath?"