He believed her. If Adam Kingsley was anything like she described him, he was a man who compartmentalized every aspect of his life. Rather like his daughter. It would be interesting to discover whether he, too, closed doors on dark rooms and threw away the keys. The chances were high that he did. "As far as Adam was concerned, Russell didn't exist," Jinx had said.
"What happened to his mother?" Protheroe asked now.
"I don't know. He didn't have much to do with her after he married my mother. As far as I can make out, neither family approved of the marriage."
"And the brother and sister? What happened to them?"
"They went back to London after the war, presumably to live with their mother. The only thing Adam has ever said on the subject is that he's always regarded them as strangers because he and they grew up apart."
"Does he still feel like that?"
She slipped down into the chair and laid her head against the back of it. "He hasn't spoken to either of them for over thirty years. Uncle Jo emigrated to Australia and hasn't been heard of since, and Aunt Lucy married a black man. My father severed all his ties with her the day she walked up the aisle."
"Because her husband was black?"
"Of course. He's a racist. Betty used to know Lucy quite well when they were all younger. She told me once that Adam tried to stop the wedding."
"How?"
With shaking fingers, she lit a cigarette. "Betty was very drunk. I'm not sure she was telling the truth."
"What did she say?''
She took quick pulls on the cigarette, considering her answer. "That Adam tried to scare Lucy's fiance off with a beating," she said in a rush, "but that Lucy went ahead and married him anyway. It might be true. He really does hate black people."
Alan watched her for a moment. "How do you feel about that?"
"Ashamed."
He waited. "Because your father's a bully?" he suggested.
She could taste hot, sweet bile in her mouth and drew in a lungful of smoke to mask it. "Yes-no. Mostly because I should have sought Lucy and her family out years ago and made a stand-but I never did."
Veronica Gordon was right about the eyes, he was thinking. What the hell was going on inside her head, that she could look so frightened and sound so composed. "Why not?"
She turned her face to the ceiling. "Because I was afraid the whipping boys would be punished if I did."
"Meaning your brothers."
"Not necessarily. Any whipping boy will do," she said flatly. "If I'd sought out my aunt, then Betty would have been taken to task because she knew Lucy as a child and would have been accused of being the instigator. But it's more often the boys than not."
"Are we talking literally or metaphorically? Does your father physically beat your brothers?"
"Yes."
"So was Russell another whipping boy, do you think?" he asked mildly.
He caught her unawares and she stared at him in shock. "My father didn't kill him," she said, her voice rising. "The police ruled him out very early on."
"I was talking metaphorically, Jinx."
She didn't answer immediately. "I don't think you were," she said, lowering her gaze, "but it doesn't make any difference anyway. Russell was never punished for my shortcomings."
"No," he agreed. "I suspect you were punished for his." He toyed with his pen. "How much do you know about your mother? Why did both families disapprove of the match, for example?"
"Her people were middle-class and my father's were working-class. I presume it was straightforward snobbery on her side and inverted snobbery on his, and I don't suppose it helped that he made money out of black marketeering." She was silent for a moment. "I know he adored her."
"Did he tell you that?"
"No, he never talks about her."
"Then how do you know?"
"Because Betty told me. Her name was Imogen Jane Nicholls, she was the only child of a doctor, privately educated, and very much a lady, and he has photographs of her all over his office walls."
He thought of the name on Jinx's file cover. Jane Imogen Nicola Kingsley. "Do you look like her as well?"
"Of course I do," she said with a kind of desperation. "Adam set out to re-create her."
He couldn't fault the desperation-it was there in her voice-but he doubted it had anything to do with her mother. "Even your father can't perform miracles, Jinx," he said with a touch of irony, as he watched the ash on her cigarette lengthen and curl. "I suspect that little scenario is more in your stepmother's mind than his. We all need ways of coming to terms with a partner's indifference. None of us is immune from pride." He nudged the wastepaper basket towards her with his toe. "You should know that."
THE VICARAGE, LITTLETON MARY-1:15 P.M.
Fraser watched Cheever's courteous and sympathetic handling of this devastated family with a far more willing admiration than he had felt for Maddocks yesterday. The Superintendent knew as well as he did that there were some strange undercurrents at work, but never for one moment did he pressure either of the Harris parents into saying what they were.
They drove in convoy back to Littleton Mary, with Mrs. Harris and a motherly WPC in the leading one, and himself, Cheever, and Mr. Harris in the car behind. There was little conversation. The vicar clearly found talking difficult, and the Superintendent was content to leave him to his thoughts. Where "initiative" was Maddocks's watchword, "patience" was Cheever's.
In retrospect, of course, Fraser had to ask himself whether Maddocks's insensitive approach wouldn't have been more appropriate, for it was Cheever's willingness to take his time that gave rise to the events that followed. Maddocks would have squeezed every last drop of information out of them, irrespective of the trauma they were suffering, and Charles could not have conspired with Simon to keep the information about Meg and Russell's affair to themselves. But would justice have been better served, Fraser always wondered, if they'd known about it then instead of later?
As they drew up behind the other car in the vicarage driveway, Charles Harris touched a hand to his dog collar as if seeking reassurance. "Could I suggest that I have a quick word with Simon first," he said rapidly, "just to explain why you're here, and then perhaps you could talk to him outside away from his mother? It's important you get a clear picture of Meg, and I'm afraid you won't get that if Caroline is listening."
The Superintendent nodded. "I'll ask WPC Graham to take Mrs. Harris inside. Sergeant Fraser and I will wait here."
It was five minutes before Simon emerged, his thin face looking very drawn. He ushered them round the corner of the house to some chairs grouped about a table on the lawn. "Dad's asked me to tell you about Meg,'' he said, sitting down, "but I'm not sure-'' He took off his glasses abruptly to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry," he said, struggling for composure. "It's all been a bit of a shock." He breathed deeply over the tears that were crowding his throat. "I'm sorry," he said again.
"That's all right, sir," said Frank. "Would it be easier if we asked you questions?"
Simon nodded.
"Your father says you worked in London for several years and saw more of Meg than they did. Perhaps you could tell us something about her lifestyle. Did she have many friends, for example? Did she go out a lot? Did she enjoy discos, pubs, things of that sort?"
"Yes," said Simon, "all of those. She loved life, Superintendent." He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, then put his glasses back on. "She had a very happy personality, people always enjoyed being with her."
Frank twisted his chair against the sunlight. "That's how your mother described her," he said, "but your father seemed to have reservations. Why is that, do you think? Did he and Meg not get on?"