ALAN PROTHEROE WIPED a weary hand across his face, then pushed himself out of his chair and wandered restlessly towards the window. Could he, hand on heart, say he believed anything Jinx told him? When what she claimed to remember could be as fantastic as she chose because there was no one left to contradict her. There were three dead people, and all three were intimately connected with this one woman. Logic dictated that she must know something about their deaths. Logic also dictated that her father knew something, or why had he put her in here with such very precise instructions concerning her care? Adam was as anxious as she was, it seemed, that her memories lie dormant. ‘I’m not sure I can believe that,’ he said with his back to her. ‘You described Russell to me only a couple of days ago as possessive and jealous. You said your marriage was stifling. Now you tell me he and your best friend were having an affair. That doesn’t quite square, does it?’ ‘Russell believed in double standards,’ Jinx said reasonably.
